Murder in Greenwich Village (18 page)

31

SMITHSON AND MACHOVEC were out of the office at four forty-five, and Jane pushed back from the desk and closed her eyes. It was Friday afternoon and she was exhausted. Considering that they had found Defino alive, it had been a good week.

The phone rang and Hack's voice said, “When did I see you last?”

“Sunday?”

“Feels like a month ago. You OK for tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. I just have to talk to a guy at Sing-Sing at five.”

“I missed lunch today. I'll bring something nourishing.”

She smiled. “I'll be home by six.”

“I'll be there when I get there.”

It was almost five when she hung up. She placed the call to Ossining and reached the officer she had spoken to earlier. Timothy Morgan was in a private room, awaiting her call.

“Mr. Morgan,” she said when he answered, “are you alone?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I have a question about something we discussed the other day.”

“OK.”

“Your brother told you there was a Transit cop involved in the gun deal.”

“That's what he said.”

“Do you know what rank the cop was?”

“Jeez,” he muttered. “Yeah, he did say. Gimme a minute. I think . . . He used to say, ‘The sarge says.' Yeah. I think it was a sergeant.”

“Did he know him well? Were they friends or just partners in the deal?”

“I couldn't tell you. But I don't think they were friends. I don't know if they ever met.”

“Did he mention if the cop was black or white?”

“Nah. He just said ‘the sarge.' ”

“Would he have mentioned it if the sarge was black?”

“He might've. He might not've. Those things didn't make a lot of difference to Curt. He had his gripes against this one and that one, but it wasn't a big deal with him. Like I said, I don't know if they met.”

“Do you know anything else about this cop? His age. Where he lived. What district he worked out of.”

“I wish I could help you.” The tone of his voice told her he believed more information would yield greater benefits to him. “It was just some talk between us. The sarge said this, the sarge said that.”

“Did your brother ever mention a Charley Farrar?” She had learned about Farrar the day after her trip to the prison.

“Farrar.” He was silent. “Charley. Charley Farrar. Yeah, maybe. But I'm not sure, Detective. Charley's a pretty common name. I've known a few myself.”

So had Jane. “Think about it. I could call you back.”

“I don't think so. It's so long ago, I don't think I can dig it up.”

She decided to give up. If she pushed him, he would start to believe his brother had mentioned the name. If he wasn't sure, he wouldn't be able to tell her anything useful about Farrar anyway.

It was the end of the day, the end of the week. The man she loved was coming over with stuff to nourish her body and her soul, to give her what she needed to keep going on a case that was teetering between hopelessness and a strand of hope. For a while, she would stop thinking and give it some rest.

She showered and changed into clean clothes, touched her skin with cologne he had bought her in Paris, a delicious scent she used only when she was with him. Hurrying, she neatened the apartment, which usually got cleaned only between cases or when she was so dizzy with facts and theories that she needed to do something mindless. As she gathered up papers and magazines, and ran a cloth over the coffee table and a wet rag over the kitchen table, she thought about Warren Smithson and Gordon Defino. The partner relationship was key to good police work, but it was often uneasy, sometimes failing completely. Jane had never partnered with another woman. In the last twenty years, there had been several men, the best of them Marty Hoagland, her longtime partner in the Six. Over the years she had become friends with Marty, and also with his wife, which pleased Jane. Marty had briefly had a female partner who was so sexually aggressive, he eventually asked for a new one.

Defino, with whom she had worked since the previous fall when the cold case squad was organized, was a good detective and a good family man. She liked and respected him, and they got along well. She sensed she would never feel about Smithson the way she felt about Gordon. Smithson was more guarded, less a partner than someone working on the same case. MacHovec was another matter. Badly dressed, unwilling to leave the office except for an occasional trip to an inanimate source of information, he was largely an unknown. He occasionally drank during work hours and had made the worst possible impression on Defino. Their relationship had eased somewhat since MacHovec's involvement in a shooting in the winter, when they were all working on a homicide that had taken place in Alphabet City a number of years earlier. Jane could see that Smithson couldn't quite make out what kind of a man MacHovec was, and she had not discussed either man with the other. She knew she would feel more comfortable when Defino returned, but she assumed that it would not happen until the Micah Anthony case was cleared or abandoned.

Hack arrived at seven, carrying with him two enormous steaks and some accompaniments.

“Haven't had any red meat for days,” he said. “Mind sticking these under the broiler for a few seconds on each side?”

She laughed and set the timer for five minutes. She came from a family where food was cooked to death—so did Hack, he had told her—and it had been a long metamorphosis to enjoying meat that was not dark brown and dry in the middle, and vegetables that were not falling apart, most of their taste left in the water they had cooked in. Hack's turnaround had been rapid, initiated when he moved out of his parents' home and sampled a world that was not Irish and insulated from the devils outside.

“The body in the subway,” Hack said when they were eating, “that's your guy, right?”

“Right. We put out an alarm after he didn't show up for work yesterday, and by the time it got to the detectives who questioned the homeless guy who found the body, they'd released him. We found him in Brooklyn. He changed his story for us. He saw two guys walk past where he sleeps in a little alcove off the tracks. Their backs were to him but he saw the guy in back holding a gun on the guy in front. And he probably heard the shot.”

“But the shooter never came back.”

“He must've gone on to the next station. The meat is great.”

“Don't leave any over.”

She would hand over a piece of hers in a few minutes. For a man with a flat stomach, he had an enormous appetite. “It's a great meal.”

“So you think the Transit cop who ordered the killing of Micah Anthony killed this guy Farrar.”

“I'm sure of it. He got rid of the only link between himself and the three guys who were tried ten years ago.”

“And now he's home free.”

“And we're out in the cold. I got one scrap of information from the guy in Sing-Sing. His brother referred to the cop as ‘the sarge.' On Monday I'll tell MacHovec to start looking at all the Transit cops who were sergeants at the time Anthony was shot.”

“Some job.”

“That's what he does, Hack, sits at the computer and phone and pulls out facts. He's also good at charming the women at Motor Vehicles.”

“They're uncharmable.”

“Guess you just don't have what it takes, buddy.” She grinned at him across the table. “And he's good at Social Services—at least better than I would be—and all those other hellholes. We'll check Farrar's incoming phone calls, but this sarge guy is too smart to call from his desk.”

“Or from a phone booth in his district. Maybe he uses phone cards, the way we do.”

“There is one more thing.” She told him about Micah Anthony's old friend John Beasely. “Mrs. Anthony—uh, Appleby—thinks he was a sergeant when Anthony was killed.”

“I like that.”

“But the homeless guy said it was two white guys who passed him. Beasely's black.”

“It's dark down there.”

“True.” She passed a third of her steak over to his plate.

“Ah. You're a generous woman.”

She smiled, happy, comfortable, and well fed, dessert still to come.

She awoke after one, half the bed empty. Tying her terry-cloth robe, she went out to the living room. “Hack?”

“I'm here. Don't turn the light on.”

She could see his silhouette on the sofa. He was wearing the terry robe he left in her apartment. “You OK?”

“Just couldn't sleep. I fell off right away, but I woke up an hour later and couldn't get back. Too much going on in my head. Sit down, baby.”

She sat beside him. “What's going on?”

“Just a lot of things. We'll talk about it, but not tonight. You smell good.”

“It's Paris.”

“Does it bother you that I call you baby?”

“Why should it? I like it.”

“I heard a woman with attitude on the radio complain that her husband called her that, and she told him not to. I thought maybe I'd missed something important in human relations.”

She smiled. “There's not much you miss.”

“Jane.”

“What, baby?”

He chuckled. “I'm going to be busy for the next week or a few weeks. I may not be able to see you.”

“Should I worry?”

“Nothing to worry about. That's why I'm telling you. And I'll see you in June on Medal Day, if not before. I'm giving out the medals, remember?”

He had arranged that early in the year when he was still working for the chief of D's at One PP, before his promotion to deputy chief.

“I remember. My father's coming.”

“Armed with a camera, I bet. I've got someone to take pictures for me. I want one of the two of us I can hang in my office.”

“Make me a copy.” It would be her first picture of him. “Hack.”

“Hmm?” He sounded tired.

“This problem of yours that's going to keep you busy for a couple of weeks. If there's another woman in your life, I'll find her and kill her.”

The startled look on his face softened a second later, changing to an almost smile. “Is that a promise?”

She didn't answer. She put her arm around him and drew him down to rest against her, encircling him with the other arm. It was a sweet reversal of what had happened several times over the last ten years, nights when she was too upset or keyed up to sleep and he had come over to be with her and comfort her.

He nestled himself against her body. In two minutes, he was asleep.

32

SHE TOOK THE weekend off. From the stillness of her phone, she knew everyone else had done the same. Only Defino called. He was going stir-crazy and was driving Toni out of her mind.

“I'll come and visit you,” Jane said.

“The trip'll kill you,” Defino said glumly.

“It hasn't killed
you
yet. There have been developments we could talk about.”

“If you have the time, you know I'd like to see you and talk.”

“I'll give you a heads-up.”

Hack stayed through Sunday breakfast, then drove her partway to Defino's house in a distant part of Queens. Toni wrapped her arms around Jane and cried while Defino paced.

“Have you had lunch?” Toni asked. “I could make you—”

“I've had plenty to eat. I just want to talk to Gordon for a while.”

“I'll leave you alone. If there's anything—”

“Honey, we're fine. Don't hover.”

“You're looking good,” Jane said when Toni had left them.

“I feel fine. Just this damned ache in my chest. One rib's fractured; a couple are bruised. The doc said it could take six weeks till the fracture heals. I'm working on five.”

“You'll make it. Let me tell you where we are.”

She gave him the whole story. McElroy had said it was OK to tell him about the guns. He was impressed, not just with the find but that Jane had disobeyed the whip.

“You've got guts,” he said.

“I was desperate to find you. You give anyone a statement yet?”

“Yeah, but it happened so fast in Manelli's apartment, I hardly saw the faces of the two guys at the door. They drove me around for a while arguing about what to do with me. They never used a name I could hear, and I was covered up in the back of the van, so I couldn't tell where we were going. With all the turning and braking, I started feeling sick to my stomach. I figure if you found me, you followed a trail and you know more than I do.”

“We do. Let's start talking and see if we can come up with something.”

“You said Anthony had a friend in the Transit Police.”

“John Beasely. He was a sergeant ten years ago. MacHovec's going to find every Transit Police sergeant and check him out. One of them could have lived in the Village.”

“Or had a friend there,” Defino said. “That's a dead end. You think Randolph knows who this cop is?”

“No. Farrar was the link between Randolph's group and the sergeant, and Farrar's dead. Beasely's the only name we've got and it's a long shot. The homeless guy said the shooter and the victim were both white men.”

“Tell MacHovec to check out Anthony's class at the academy. See how many of those guys made sergeant by the time Anthony was killed.”

“Good idea.” She smiled. “Your brain's working, Gordon. Better than mine is.”

“Some cop could have intervened in Randolph's cases. Maybe MacHovec can come up with a name.”

“OK.” She was making notes.

“The night of the killing: When the cops got to Randolph's crib, all three of those guys were there, right?”

“Right.”

“That's gotta mean none of them shot Anthony. They couldn't have been that stupid, to kill him and go back.”

“Maybe Charley Farrar picked up Anthony and—”

“Does Anthony know him? Why does Anthony go with him?”

She thought about it. “He has some ID with him. He's driving with a Transit cop.”

“OK. It could even be an official car.”

“Right. With or without Farrar. Gordon, did those guys talk about the Anthony killing?”

“Not once. At least, not that I could hear. When I was in that apartment—”

“Testa's apartment.”

“Whoever. They kept the door shut. They talked so all I could hear was a mumble. Their problem was what to do with me.”

“None of those three guys owned a car, Gordon. I'm talking about ten years ago.”

“So it's unlikely any of them did the killing. Randolph must have left the apartment and called Farrar or the Transit cop from a pay phone.”

“Wait a minute. Maybe Farrar was in the crib the whole time, hiding in a bedroom. He stays hidden from Anthony because he's the link to the cop. He could be the one who followed Anthony out of the apartment. He motions to the cop who's parked down the block and they follow Anthony.”

“This is sounding good,” Defino said. “Farrar briefs the cop and they pick up Anthony when he's done making his calls. Randolph and the others don't know what's going on. That's why they're not in a hurry to leave. When Anthony's killed, the crib is the only address anyone has for them. You know, they ran this like a communist cell from the old days. Only one person in a cell is connected to one person in another cell.”

“Gordon, this is the most investigated case in the last decade. Why didn't anyone see this before?”

“Because those three mutts were well trained. They knew one thing: Keep quiet and stick to your story. As long as they maintained that they were three guys doing business with Anthony, whose real name they didn't know, nobody could break them.”

“But they had three guns that were traced to an armory.”

“What I remember from that trial is that Randolph said that Anthony was trying to sell them guns. Those were samples he dropped off. Manelli and Morgan played dumb. They didn't know anything. Randolph said the guns were Anthony's. They put Randolph away for possession. None of them were ever charged with the murder. There wasn't enough evidence.”

“So Farrar was the only one who knew who the cop was. And he stayed the only one up until his murder. That's why Randolph called Farrar after our visit.”

“And Farrar called the cop, who told him to go down to the stash and dig out a Beretta, and drop it where it would be seen in Riverside Park. And now Farrar's dead, and we have no trail to the cop.”

“MacHovec'll dig something up,” Jane said. “That cop thinks he's home free now. Nobody alive knows who he is. What a sweet operation.”

“If I thought Randolph knew more than he let on . . .”

“You said it yourself, Gordon. He's well trained. Those guys, including Farrar, kept everything to themselves for ten years. They went through a trial and nobody broke them. That prosecutor did his damnedest and didn't get anywhere.”

“So even if we got Manelli back, he doesn't know anything.”

“And all Randolph has is a phone number to a dead man's apartment.”

Defino got up and walked around, as though he needed to stretch his legs.

“It's a good scenario, Gordon, the car waiting a block away, Farrar going to meet them to report. You think Anthony said something that night that got him killed?”

“Anthony was too smart to say anything. Bottom line, someone followed him to the pay phone and saw him make his call. Anthony didn't see him. They may not even have heard what he said, just that he made a call, which meant he had a connection he hadn't told them about.”

“So they may not even have made him.”

“Yeah.”

“And the cop in the car was watching.”

Sometimes the inevitability of the tragedy became too much to bear. Had Anthony walked a few blocks to another pay phone, he might have survived the night. Had he hailed a cab as he hung up from calling his wife, he might still be alive.

“Gets to you, doesn't it?” Defino said.

Jane nodded. “Maybe we can get him out in the open with the guns.”

“You thinking of going undercover?”

She could hear that he wasn't serious. She smiled. “I'm forty-one and white.”

“Hey, the squad's equal opportunity, or hadn't you heard?”

“Thanks, partner.” It was time to go. “Maybe we can use the guns for bait. This Transit cop doesn't know we know where they are. Farrar didn't know I was there. Nobody's been there since Graves put that detail at the site.”

“Talk to Graves. You leaving?”

“It's time.”

“We'll drive you to the subway. I don't want you waiting for that bus on a Sunday.”

“How's your daughter?”

“She's doing fine. She thinks the world of you, Jane.”

It was something that had happened in the winter months, a frightening experience none of them would ever forget. “Tell her I feel the same way about her.”

She thought about the case on the subway home, a long ride back to Manhattan, and then sitting across from the dark fireplace in her living room, the reason she had taken the apartment in spite of its cost. It was warm enough that she opened a window and let the fresh air in.

Farrar and the sarge hadn't needed a phone call; they were right there. Maybe they were there every time Anthony visited the crib. Something had happened that night to evoke a flicker of distrust in the sarge, making him feel that the gun deal was a set-up or had become dangerous for some other reason. They would never find out what it was. Defino was right: The men had been trained well. Only Curtis Morgan had broken ranks by talking to his brother, and that was after he had been tried and acquitted. Morgan had not killed anyone. Manelli had not killed anyone. Timothy Morgan had been right: The group had retained Manelli after his deal fell through to keep him from talking, even though the proceeds would be smaller. They had the rigor of a military group and it had kept most of them out of jail, two of them unidentified until this week. Randolph had taken the fall, but not for as long as accessory to murder would have given him.

The one breach that Jane could detect was that Morgan knew about the sergeant. Farrar must have talked about the sarge, which meant that the breach was Farrar's fault, not Morgan's.

Now that Farrar was dead, Jane wondered whether Randolph had been given a new contact number. It wouldn't be easy to get it to him while he was in Rikers; the Transit cop would be crazy to chance a visit. So what would Randolph do if he got another visit from the police? Probably nothing, she thought. For him, the Anthony case was finally over. He didn't know who had killed Anthony and he didn't care. He hadn't, and no one could prove that he had. He didn't know where the guns were stashed and probably didn't know that one of them had been left in Riverside Park. And there was no proof that he had made a phone call to Charley Farrar a couple of Wednesdays before. Except for the current charge that had put him in Rikers, Carl Randolph was a free man.

As Jane ran the known and presumed facts through her mind, something leaped out at her. Why had Morgan, Manelli, and Randolph kept quiet during their questioning and the trial that followed? At least one of them, and probably all of them, knew Farrar, yet his name never surfaced. At least one of them knew there was a Transit cop involved, yet he remained a secret.

How had the cop managed to keep them quiet? Money was the only viable answer. Where would the sarge get enough money to pay off the four men in the crib?

It struck her that those questions were key, that no one had asked them ten years before because it was assumed that only the three men caught in the crib were involved in the sale of the guns. Had they been the only people involved, there would be no money if they failed. But if they reported to a superior, that person could be pressured for money to keep them quiet. After all, if they turned in Farrar, that information could be used to cut a deal.

OK, she thought, these three mutts get arrested and the sarge is scared. At least one of them can rat out Farrar. The sarge has to pay them to keep quiet, or promise to pay them as soon as he comes up with the money. But how does a police sergeant put his hands on enough money to pay off three men—four, actually—so they won't tell what they know?

Jane could feel her adrenaline pumping. She was onto something. The gun deal was either not the first or not the last operation that the sarge was involved in. He had done something before or after the murder of Micah Anthony that had given him enough money to pay off the men in the crib. Were there other stolen assets he had managed to sell in deals unknown to the FBI and the NYPD? Maybe he had retired a wealthy man and moved out of the city, even out of the country.

At eight, Jane called Ron Delancey.

“Hi, there,” he said buoyantly. “I see you found your guy. Good work. You inviting me on another trip down below?”

“Hardly. I've had my fill of rats and roaches, and my boss wants a piece of me for disobeying a direct order.”

“He'll get over it. It may cost you some lost time.”

“That's what I think. Ron, are you aware of any large losses in the TA through theft in the last ten years?”

“Pilferage is always a problem on work sites.”

“I mean something bigger than what you'd call pilferage. Maybe a cash haul or a theft of equipment worth tens of thousand of dollars.”

“That has happened.”

“You find out who did it?”

“In one case they practically left their calling card for us and they're doing time upstate.”

“And the other cases?”

“One is still open. A big one. I can check on it for you.”

“When did it happen and what was the value of the loot?”

“Five to ten years ago. I was still on the job. The street value was probably close to a million dollars.”

“That's what I'm looking for. Any suspects?”

“There are always suspects, but in that case they led nowhere. The TA was able to keep it out of the news but it was common knowledge.”

“It didn't happen to be in the Second Avenue subway, did it?”

Delancey laughed. “You're hooked on that, aren't you? No, I don't think so. It was four other work sites in the system. I'll look into it tomorrow and get back to you. Can I call you at work?”