Murder in Alphabet City (22 page)

31

I
T WAS THE
second day in a row that she got up before the sun. They had to be at the range by seven forty-five and Marty had promised to pick her up at six-thirty.

She walked out on the street, laden with her gear, just as he came to a stop at the curb. He got out and gave her a hug. It had been a while and much had happened since their last meeting.

“You're lookin' good, babe. Got everything?”

“I counted it twice. Let's get going.”

“Both your handguns, belt, service weapon holster, ammo pouches, memo—”

“
Marty!
Shut up and get in the car. Who made you my mother?”

“Just a friendly reminder. Those range officers can be pretty sticky about the stuff. Got all your guns on your ten card?”

“Got it, got it.” The ten card listed all the handguns bought or sold during a cop's time on the job.

That said, Marty headed across town to the FDR and took it north to the Triboro Bridge where he picked up the Bruckner Expressway. That led to the Cross Bronx, then the Hutch, the common name for the Hutchinson River Parkway, and finally to Pelham Parkway, well east in the Bronx. Finally, they reached City Island Avenue and drove over the bridge onto City Island itself, a small, peaceful anomalous refuge in a borough that had few. An almost defiant group of stalwart citizens lived there as though in a suburb of the big city, dining on fresh fish in one of the many good restaurants, even swimming in the sound.

At the range entrance, a uniformed police officer, who asked to see both their shields and photo ID cards, checked them in at the gate. Besides doing everything Marty had annoyingly reminded her about at the start of their trip, Jane also had her Mace canister for inspection, her bulletproof vest, her helmet, and her nightstick, a ton of equipment. From the parking lot they walked back along the path to the mess hall, carrying their gear. Along with the other cops, they were grouped according to class first or the shooting cycle first. Both she and Marty got the class first, which Jane had wanted to get out of the way.

The Rodman's Neck Firearms Range was a large open facility dotted with small utility buildings, bleachers, and various types of mechanized and static ranges. Owned by the city, the land jutted out into Long Island Sound and was surrounded by open water and marshes. It was used year-round by all New York City police for firearms training, essentially the shooting cycle. The ranges were varied and could handle all types of small arms; handguns of all caliber; shoulder weapons like shotguns, machine pistols, and machine guns; assault and sniper rifles. The grounds included an armory and range officers trained to inspect and repair all types of weapons.

The range officers of all ranks wore a unique uniform and insignia: tan slacks and shirts and green utility jackets. Their patches were green and gold and their collar brass the insignia of the military police, two crossed pistols. Some wore the old-style crossed dueling pistols and some the new revolver. Their hats were green or tan baseball-type hats with their rank pins affixed: three stripes for a sergeant, a gold bar for a lieutenant. Most of them wore boots rather than shoes.

The morning part consisted of the classroom training, weapons inspection, weapons and tactics instruction, the explanation of new regulations and laws, and films and slides demonstrating safety procedures. Every gun was inspected and if a defect was discovered, it was repaired on site. The same was true of the ammo the cops brought. It was cleaned and examined for faults. In the afternoon, they would shoot their old ammo first and pick up all fresh ammo to take home and hope to God it grew old in a drawer.

Jane got through the classroom stuff without falling asleep during the slide show. At lunchtime she found Marty and they headed for the mess hall. She remembered a potato and egg hero from her last trip but thought she'd lay off the potatoes and look for something lighter on the starch side. They found a table and Marty pulled a bag out of his duffle and put it on the table.

“Oh you lucky married guys,” Jane said as he placed sandwiches and salads on the table. “I'm getting a hero. Want anything?”

“Sit down. Beth packed stuff for you too.”

“You guys,” she said, patting his shoulder. “You are so good to me.”

“She's still happy you never came on to me when we were partners, like the one I rode with when I was still in the bag. I practically had to punch her to get her off me.”

Jane had heard the story before. “I told you, Marty, you're cute, but you're too young. I like 'em old and experienced. And not married.”

He pushed the packages of food to the middle of the table. “Take your choice.”

She picked chicken salad on rye and a bunch of raw vegetables and salad with dressing on the side. Cookies and fudge were wrapped in plastic. Beth had even packed cans of tomato juice and a bunch of straws. “I could never compete with this anyway. If you lived with me, you'd starve.”

They talked about old times while they ate, then about Jane's new case. He listened, as he always did, with interest, especially curious about the questionable suicide.

“I'm starting to think, with what I've learned in the last couple of days, that she may have been as depressed as that idiot detective who caught the case said she was and maybe she just did it to herself.”

“But you're not sure.”

“I'm not sure of—”

“Detective Bauer.”

She looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. Along with all the bosses of rank, inspector and above, he was in the bag. This let the range officers know who they were so they could be accorded special handling, which allowed them to get placed at once and complete the exercises quickly. If he had come this morning, he would be ready to leave about now.

“Yes, sir,” she said, standing up.

“Inspector Hackett. Glad to meet you. I recognize your face. It was on the cover of the
Daily News
last month.”

She nodded, smiling. He was doing a beautiful job, looking gorgeous in his blues. “This is my former partner, Marty Hoagland. Uh, Inspector Hackett.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective. You ever expect your partner would be a hero?” He shook Marty's hand.

“Every day I worked with her, sir.”

Shit. She hated that word. It had been overused to the point of meaninglessness. “I wasn't a hero,” she said firmly. “I didn't save anyone, including myself. I got myself in trouble and it took half the Five to get me out.”

“You did a good job.” He walked around the table to face her, his back to Marty. He offered his hand, and as they shook, he said in a low voice, “I want to jump your bones.”

She felt her cheeks color and she suppressed the smile, or almost did. “Thank you, sir. Me too.”

He gave her hand a firm squeeze, let go, bade Marty good-bye and walked off to a group of other uniformed bosses.

“I heard he was a hardass,” Marty said when they sat down again.

She shrugged. “I knew a guy in his command in the early nineties who said he'd walk off a roof for him. Pass me the fudge.”

The afternoon was the shooting. It was divided into several parts: timed exercises, live action, and a clever video game that tested judgment as well as marksmanship. The live action took place on a range and required moving from barrier to barrier and using cover and concealment. Cover meant a protected firing position, like a mailbox, and concealment was just that, a hiding place like a tree or a bush, which offered no protection from bullets. Moving around she used a few muscles that hadn't gotten much play lately and knew she would feel them tomorrow. But mostly she concentrated on the targets. This was serious business.

The timed exercises measured how quickly the shooter emptied the chambers or, with the newer weapons, the clip, and still maintained a good degree of accuracy. She and Marty had positions next to each other. Marty was a good shot, another reason she had always been happy to have him cover her. She fired the Glock 9mm, with fifteen rounds in the clip plus one under the hammer, first, then her off-duty Smith & Wesson .38, a five-shot. As she finished, a cute young range officer sidled over.

“Hey, Detective Bauer. You still carrying an antique for backup? You dinosaurs and your wheel guns. Jeez.”

She grinned at him but it was all on the surface. She was ticked. Forty and she was a dinosaur.

“What was that about?” Marty said when he took the sound barrier earmuffs off.

“Just a kid sucking up to a first-grade. I told you, Marty, I don't like 'em young.”

The last thing they did was the cop video game called the FATS machine, Firearm and Tactics System. On the screen, life-sized figures reenact real situations, requiring life-and-death decisions. Is the object in the little girl's hand a hairbrush or a gun handle? Do I shoot, use Mace, back away, or charge? Is the perp really giving up or is he reaching under his jacket for a weapon—or maybe an ID? Is the hostage a hostage or another perp? Is my partner moving into the line of fire?

Whenever a shot is fired, the computer makes a record of it for later analysis. Jane shot twice, once in error. She felt the beginnings of a headache. Someone had died and she was responsible. In a real situation, she would have taken a life. The image of Maria Brusca lying on the floor of her bedroom dying had not faded. If Jane had not gone to see her that night, Maria would be alive. No suspects had turned up and the search for Bill Fletcher had gone nowhere.

“Detective Bauer?”

“Sorry. I'm done.” Just daydreaming, not a good thing to do with a gun in your hand.

She cleaned her weapons under supervision and then found Marty, who was just finishing up too.

“Ready?” he said, looking up from the gear he was stuffing in his bag.

“Ready and tired. I want to go home and sleep.”

“I gotta clean my guns when I get home. This place always puts the fear of God in me. And I think we're going out tonight. Just what I need.”

They drove back the way they had come. Jane told him about Maria and he said all the right things, that it wasn't her fault, that Brusca shouldn't have opened the door the second time, that Jane couldn't have known someone followed her into the building.

“I could have gone with Defino.”

“You think he would've gone up the stairs another flight to see if someone was waiting for you to leave?”

Probably not, she thought. She moved her shoulders, feeling the muscles tighten.

“Answer me.”

She elbowed him. “You got all the answers, partner. You don't need another one from me.”

He laid off then and they talked about people they knew on the job—who had transferred, who had fucked up, who was pulling the pin. At the curb in front of her building they gathered her paraphernalia and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“If I lean over to hug you, I'll fall flat on my face,” she said. “Tell Beth I love her and her cooking.”

“Come and see us.”

“I will.”

An old man she had not seen before rode the elevator with her, eyeing her nightstick and the loaded duffle bag. He seemed glad to get out on the floor below hers.

She walked down the hall and set some of the stuff on the floor. She had forgotten to take her key out. Pushing the door open she smelled food cooking. “Hey,” she called. “Do I have company?”

“Company and dinner. Give me some of that crap.” He came out of the kitchen in jeans and a sweatshirt, took the nightstick and the duffle and dumped them in the bedroom, then came back for a kiss and hug.

“I wasn't expecting you.”

“I got rid of the other guy. How'd it go?”

“Fine. What'd you do with your uniform?”

“It's in the trunk of the car. I found a parking space.”

“Where's—?”

“Visiting. You know I take care of details. Maybe we'll go for a ride tomorrow.”

“You staying overnight?” Her voice was that of a teenager, eager and high-pitched.

“Maybe till Monday morning.”

“That's great, Hack. Now I have someone to bitch to. Can you believe a range officer called me a dinosaur?”

32

H
E STAYED UNTIL
Monday morning. She talked to him about Maria Brusca and Bill Fletcher and what happened to Defino's daughter. At one point he found the memo book he usually kept in his jacket pocket and made some notes. She knew he kept tabs on her cases. His office had a steady flow of information, as accurate and up to date as any in the city. He rarely interfered and then only to protect her.

“What about those baby beads?” he asked.

“Bracelets like that are history. I went to the maternity ward at Bellevue the other night to check. They use plastic bands now that close with Velcro. Nothing you'd want to put away in a memory book.”

“So those beads of yours weren't baby beads.”

“Actually, I think they were. It turns out Rinzler strung her own necklaces. I went up to the store where she bought some of her beads. The woman recognized the beads I had and remembered Rinzler. Rinzler was selling babies, Hack. I think she made the bracelets herself. Sort of a personal touch.”

“You know that for sure, about the baby-selling?”

“Pretty sure. She disappointed two birth mothers that we know about and reneged on most of the fee they expected. It's even possible she was depressed enough to commit suicide, except—”

He waited.

“The remaining bullets in the gun had no prints. Do you clean your bullets or your clip before you use them?”

He shook his head. “Sounds like you've learned a lot.”

“Not enough. I want this guy Fletcher so bad I can taste it.”

“Keep your eye on Defino.”

“I know.” Defino would kill him if he got the chance. Not a big loss, but Gordon's job might be on the line.

They drove to Connecticut on Sunday and ate in a good restaurant. Connecticut was a fairly safe place for them to be seen in public. NYPD cops had to live no farther than a contiguous county and that didn't include out of state.

Monday morning the alarm woke them and Hack reached for her.

“Get your ass out of bed, Hackett. You'll be late.”

“Five minutes.” He had one of those crack of dawn hard-ons and he wasn't going anywhere.

“Hack.”

“Four minutes.”

She made a small sound and relented.

“I remember. You're not a morning person.”

Not with the clock running. Shit. It wasn't going to work.

He licked his index finger and touched her, and for a minute or so, the clock stopped running.

They lay beside each other, holding hands, breathing hard.

“That turns me on,” she said, “when you lick your finger.”

“I'll remember that. Get your ass out of bed, Bauer. It's Monday morning and we're ten minutes late.”

He drank the last of his coffee while Jane cleared the table. He would leave first and she would put her lipstick on and run. She put the shoulder holster on, waiting to say good-bye.

“You know,” he said in a conversational tone that he might have used to tell her what the weather was or that the
Times
had an interesting article on the front page, “if we lived together, we could have fun more than once every week or two.”

She leaned against the sink, facing him. “I'm told people who live together get bored and after a while it's not so good anymore.”

“But we love each other.”

Tears stung. Five words and he could get to her. She swallowed and walked toward him. The tears embarrassed her. She saw herself as the person who shouted at that prick Larry Vale, almost kneed him in her anger. This was the other Jane, the one no one knew but hard-assed Inspector Hackett.

She sat on his lap and put her arms around him. Her Glock pressed against his chest, his against her breast. “You cut to the quick, don't you?”

“I have to with you. You're that important to me.”

“When will I see you again?”

“In something, lightning and rain,” he said, misquoting Shakespeare.

“You'd better go.” She got up, brushed at her eyes. She felt tender where the gun had been.

“Put that in your coat pocket till you get to work,” he warned. He put on his jacket. “I was thinking we might try for a long weekend in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“It's better than Connecticut.” He kissed her, buttoned his jacket, picked up his briefcase, and went to the door. “Get a passport.”

They had a long meeting with Graves and McElroy at nine-fifteen. The captain was bothered that nothing had come of the search for both Fletcher and the killer of Maria Brusca. Nothing concrete linked Fletcher to the killing.

“Anything going on with the Chinese laundry?”

“I'm going to call Rose, the daughter, today,” Jane said, “find out if she ever heard a baby crying there.”

“You think that was a transfer point. Give it a try.”

She told him about her conversation with Judy Weissman, how she knew the spiral notebook needed to be hidden.

“Lucky for us she didn't burn it.” Graves turned pages. “The baby beads didn't check out.”

She explained about the bead store and Rinzler's hobby.

“So it's still viable. My aunt used to string beads. She did nice work.” He went back to the paper in front of him. “We'll have that pound of paper,” he said. “It just won't be in the Stratton file. Anybody want to add anything?”

No one did.

“Keep after those welfare mothers. One of them may tell you something conclusive.”

They went back to the office. Crossing the briefing area, MacHovec said, “You're lookin' good this morning. Must have had a helluva weekend.”

Shit. “I did. Polished up my shooting at Rodman's Neck. Used a few muscles. Felt good.”

He grinned and dropped it. Working with men had changed over the last twenty years, but not enough.

At her desk, she dialed Rose's number and left a message. Then she turned to Defino. “I want to know more from Jackie Warren.”

“She already told us she was cheating the system. What do you think she has left?”

“We talked to her before we knew Rinzler was selling babies. I want to know if she got her five thou or if Rinzler gave her the same song and dance and kept the money. Jackie's in the right place on the time line.”

“Let's do it.”

Jackie Warren dropped her head theatrically as she saw the two detectives at her door. “Don't tell me you got more questions. I already told you everything I know.”

“Just a few,” Jane said. “May we come in?”

“Sure, why not? Bring the whole force if you want.”

Seated in the living room, Jane said, “You told us you gave your baby up for adoption but you didn't tell Social Services.”

“And that's still true, OK? Everything I told you was true.”

“Fine with me. Who arranged the adoption?”

Jackie Warren twisted her face. “Some lawyer or other.”

“Got a name?” Defino asked.

“I can't remember.”

“Think,” Jane said. “Was it a man or a woman?”

“Man, I think. Look, I'll never remember. It was a long time ago and I moved on, OK?”

“How much were you paid for the baby?”

“Uh—”

“We need a number, Jackie.”

“Five thousand.”

“How was it paid, one lump sum or installments?”

Jackie had started to look uncomfortable. “Installments.”

“How much each time?”

“I think . . . something like five hundred before I gave birth, then the rest.”

“Who delivered the money?”

“Miss Rinzler did. I mean—”

“Miss Rinzler handled the adoption, didn't she?”

“Yeah, OK, she did.”

“There wasn't any lawyer, was there?”

“Not that I ever met.”

“Now that we understand each other, let's go back. Who arranged the adoption?”

“She did.”

“Rinzler.”

“Yeah.”

“And how much did she give you?”

“Five thousand. Am I gonna get in trouble over this? It was a long time ago.”

“You're not in trouble. We're investigating Rinzler. How did she pay you?”

“Five hundred when I was in my last month. Then forty-five hundred after I came home from the hospital.”

Jane looked down at the time line. “You got the forty-five hundred from her?”

Jackie blew air through her lips. “I hadda fight for it.”

“What happened?”

“Something went wrong, I don't know what. She gave me the five hundred, then I went into labor. She saw me in the hospital. It was a boy. He weighed almost eight pounds and the doctor said he was very healthy. She brought blankets and everything to wrap him in when I left the hospital and she took him from me outside after I checked out. I went home and she called to see how I was. Then she came to my apartment and said there was a problem and she couldn't get the money right away.”

“What was the date of birth again?” Defino asked.

“October twentieth.”

That made two on the same date. “What kind of problem?” Jane said.

“She said the baby got sick and the new parents decided they didn't want him so they didn't pay her anything.”

“What did you do?”

“I said you fucking well better give me that money.”

“And she did?”

“Not exactly. We had a big fight about it. She said she didn't have any money because they hadn't paid her and I said she better get it because if I didn't get the whole five thousand, I was going to the police.”

“Sounds good,” Defino said.

“Well, I figured I had nothing to lose. I gave her a healthy baby and my mother was the witness. That was a cute baby too, I can tell you. Looked like his asshole father. She wasn't gonna leave me with five hundred bucks after all I went through.”

“Did she come up with the money?”

“Yeah, eventually. It took maybe a week and she never told me if the baby got well or if they took him or what. But she came to the apartment with a lot of hundred-dollar bills and my mother counted them twice.”

“Was that it?” Jane asked.

“There was something else. Now you ask, it comes back to me. A coupla days later, after she came with the money, a guy came to the apartment, a young guy, hunky. He said if I ever went to the police I was dead. That was it. He said you got your money, now just forget what happened.”

“Could you sit with a police artist and do a sketch of him?” Defino asked.

“It was so long ago, I don't think so. He was tall and good-looking, lots of hair, dark, and dark eyes.”

Defino pulled out the folded sketch of Bill Fletcher and opened it in front of Jackie Warren.

“That could be him,” she said. “Yeah. He was younger than that and his hair was longer. Here he looks like he's more uptight, more establishment. Know what I mean?”

Defino folded the paper. “Tell us again what he said to you.”

“He threatened me. He said I'd be killed if I went to the police. I never said a word about it till you came last week. Rinzler never came again—no one came for a couple of weeks—and then when the new caseworker came, I borrowed a baby for her to see. And I been doing that for eight years.”

Jane looked at Defino and he shook his head. She thanked Jackie for her story. As they walked to the door, Defino said under his breath, “Get a life.”

Rose had left a message while they were out and Jane called her back.

“Hi, Detective Bauer.” Her voice was upbeat, a happy girl.

“Rose, I want to ask you a funny question. During that time when you were delivering Mr. Stratton's shirts, was there ever a baby in the laundry?”

“Uh, sure, sometimes. Once in a while a neighbor would leave a baby so she could go shopping. My mother would watch it or my grandmother.”

“Did that happen very often?”

“No, just now and then. There was a little folding crib in the back and the baby would sleep there. My mother kept me away from them so they wouldn't wake up.”

“Thanks, Rose.” She turned toward Defino.

“Babies in the laundry?”

“Now and then. They had a folding crib they used.”

Graves liked it. “Quite a business she was running. The Chinese folks must have gotten a cut, a few bucks for every baby, off the books. Helped put the girl through college eventually. This guy Fletcher must have kept a very low profile for a very long time. But at least we're getting confirmation that Rinzler was selling babies. She must have kept a list of adoptive parents.”

“They're not in the spiral notebook,” Defino said.

“What else have you got?”

“Her address book, but that looks personal.”

“Maybe it was a combination. Call every number till you find something.”

“I love police work,” Defino said under his breath and Jane laughed.

“I'll go through the address book again,” MacHovec said when Graves had left. “Let's divide it up. It's loose-leaf so it'll be easy.”

“And it would have been easy for Rinzler to put the adoptive parents on separate pages and pull them out when she was finished with them,” Jane said. “I'd like to talk to just one of them.” She sat at her desk with her forehead resting on one hand. Judy Weissman could have tossed those pages or Rinzler could have put them out with the garbage. They had gone through so much paper and not found anything that looked meaningful.

“Gordon.” She pushed back from her desk. “Where's the carton Judy Weissman gave me and the rest of the stuff from the storage place?”

He got up and pulled the carton out from under the wing of the typewriter table. “It's just shit,” he said. “I've gone over every piece of paper. There's tax returns, notes for her taxes, internal memos from Social Services, the kind of crap we get.”

“What about the stuff we picked up in Queens?”

“Same kind of thing. Have a look. Maybe you'll find something. I'm calling the
A
's.”