PART 35 (9 page)

“Are those fingerprints yours, Luis?”

“I told you they can't be mine cause I wasn't there.”

“I know I repeat a lot of these questions, and I know you give me the answers, but I want you to understand that I must have the absolute truth. Do you understand? If your fingerprints are there, we're in tough shape, and I want to know what shape we're in before we walk into court.”

“I know that. But you can believe me. Those are not my fingerprints there.”

“All right.”

“Listen, did you check who was the womans who look at me through the glass at the police station?”

“I told you we got some information, but no names yet. I have the fellow whose apartment was burglarized finding out for us. You have no idea what any of the women looked like? Or if they identified you?”

“No. I know some witnesses came, cause they had me standing in this room, you know. And there was two police, and there was a door between them with a mirror like. And they made me stand on one side, and I had to bend down and twist around this way and up and down. I know it was womans. I could hear. I think they was Puerto Rican, on the other side, but I don't know who.”

“Can you describe any of them?” Sandro pressed.

“I don't know cause I couldn't see through the mirror. But Hernandez's wife was downstairs. I saw her downstairs. Maybe she saw this woman come in, and then you could find out from her.”

Sandro made a note. “Did you know Hernandez before this?”

“Well, I use to see him around Delancey around Essex Street, Rivington Street. He use to hang around there. And I would see him from time to time, you know, with a bag or something, but I never hang around with him.”

“Where does Jorge, this superintendent, live?”

“In the same building where I live. Sixty-four South Ninth Street.”

“Have any visitors come to see you here?”

“No, nobody. Not yet.”

“Do you have any relatives in New York?”

“I have a brother. But he don't come. I have a mother, too, in Puerto Rico, but she's very sick. I have my wife and kids.”

“Is this the woman you married in church?”

Alvarado looked at Sandro and shrugged slightly. “No, this is another one. This is the woman I really love, Tina. But she's away now.”

“Away?”

“Yeah, she's with the authorities for a while, but I wrote to her, and she is going to write to me.”

Sandro shrugged slightly.

“This is a very tough case, Luis. I don't want you to think any other thing while you're here. I don't know what's going to happen, and I can't promise anything. I'll fight to the last drop of blood, if necessary, if you're right. But remember, if you are lying, it is you and not me who is going to suffer. You understand?”

“I understand, believe me. And believe me, I didn't do this thing.”

“Okay. Keep thinking, and write down anything new you remember.”

CHAPTER VIII

Sandro walked up the stone steps and entered the Seventh Precinct station house. Just inside, to the left, was a long counter and desk. A sergeant sat behind it, writing. A shortwave radio squawked somewhere. A patrolman, routing calls, manned a switchboard to the side of the sergeant. The noises of a typewriter clacking and a large fan moving the warm air around filled the background. Everything was painted light green—old, dusty, light green. Paint peels clung to the walls. There were many posters and announcements. The wooden floor was similar to hundreds of wooden floors in New York's old public schools, the cracks between the old boards routed with age, the nails shiny from being polished by generations of feet. The only difference was that in the schools you could always dig your pencil into the cracks and come up with some old lead points, broken in action long before, to throw at your classmates. Here, everything was business. Patrolmen walked about in their uniform trousers and short-sleeved, dark-blue shirts, no ties. Some had sodas or snacks. Some were reading bulletins on the walls.

“Can I help you?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I wanted to go up to the squad.”

The sergeant nodded, jerking his thumb over his left shoulder.

The squad was the designation for the detectives, to distinguish them from the uniformed force. Without variation, the squad office was at the top of the first flight of steps in the old station houses. Sandro made his way to the end of the long counter and saw the stairs, with their polished brass handrails. Just to the rear of the stairs, a number of patrolmen sat in a large room skylarking, sipping coffee or Cokes.

At the top of the first flight he saw a sign with a hand pointing to a doorway—
SQUAD OFFICE.
AS he entered, he came up to a waist-high rail that kept visitors at bay. Within the large room, many desks, some with typewriters, some with phones, all with papers and files atop, stood vigil, a long vigil from the looks of them, having been manned constantly for more than thirty or forty years, twenty-four hours a day, having the histories of pain, anguish, and joy, too, thrust upon and into them, handled and abused by hundreds of men in that time, all wearing badges, all carrying guns, listening to bizarre accusations, justifications, confessions. To the side of the large rooms, two small offices, with doors ajar, housed the squad commander, usually a lieutenant, and the squad clerical office. Between them was a two-way mirror for witnesses to observe suspects without fear that the suspects could see their accusers and perhaps retaliate. These offices were also painted light green; they were drab, old, dusty, with the same wooden floors. In one corner was a cage, called a detention cell. A man was lying quietly on the floor there, his back to Sandro. On one wall was a fingerprint board.

“Can I help you?” asked one of the detectives. He was in shirtsleeves. A Chief Special .38 was strapped to his belt on the right side.

“Tom Mullaly?” Sandro inquired. He had checked, and learned that Lieutenant Garcia was the commander of the Seventh Squad detectives and that Detective Mullaly was in charge of the Alvarado case.

“Mullaly,” the detective called out.

A tall, powerfully built man with thinning red hair looked up from typing. His face was smooth, wide, his lips thin.

“Yeah?” He rose and walked over to where Sandro stood. He was about six feet three inches. Sandro gauged him for 225 pounds. There was a .38 on his hip. He looked like a cop—like the cop Alvarado had described. Whether men who look like Mullaly are more attracted to the job, or whether the job, with its daily crises and dangers, carves its own inimitable visage on the men who hold it, is hard to know. Mullaly looked at Sandro, somewhat hostile, skeptical.

“My name is Luca, Alessandro Luca. I'm one of the lawyers in that Alvarado case you're carrying.”

Mullaly's face was blank and didn't change. He was, however, quickly assessing his adversary.

“What can I do for you, Counselor?” Mullaly's words slipped out between motionless lips. He had sized up Sandro and apparently decided he was a pushover kid. He seemed to like that idea.

“Since you're carrying the case, I thought I might come over and chat with you,” said Sandro. “See if there's anything I could pick up to expedite the case, you know.”

“There's not much to
chat
about,” Mullaly said. He obviously thought the word
chat
was just grand. “You appointed counsel?”

“Right.”

“They stiffed you this time. A real loser.”

“How's that? What's it look like? I don't want your investigation, just maybe some of the official entries, you know, arrest record, blotter.

“Hey, Counselor. You think I was made with a finger last night? You can't get those things, and you know it. If you don't, you better go back to law school.” Sandro hadn't really expected to get the records, but it was worth a try, particularly because he also wanted to make sure of the physical layout of the station house.

“It'd save time if I got some of them now.”

“Maybe your time, not mine. Draw yourself a subpoena when we go to court.”

“Yes, I know the procedure.”

“It doesn't sound like it. Get the records? These punks are vicious. They shot five holes in a cop. They're gonna burn, Counselor, burn. You got it. There's only two ways to get the chair these days, and one is a cop-killer, and that's what we got here.”

“You in on the investigation?”

“Hey, Counselor, don't be too cute, you know. I'm not going to get sucked into a conversation. I was here from beginning to end. I got the call Lauria was shot right here, on that phone. I was right here when these punks confessed, both of them. And I'll be there when they burn. Anything else, talk to the D.A.”

“They actually confessed?”

“You can read the newspapers, can't you, Counselor? They're still requiring reading for law school, aren't they?”

“I think you may have the wrong man,” Sandro said calmly.

“Yeah, that's great. You keep thinking that.” But Mullaly's eyes showed interest. “I suppose you got it all figured already. It was the butler.” He laughed, looking over his shoulder. The other detectives were listening.

“I'm not sure yet. But I've got some good leads.”

“For instance?”

“I wasn't made with a finger either, Detective. But I'll tell you this from what I know so far, some of the investigation in this case doesn't add up.”

“What doesn't add up?” Mullaly's voice was streaked with impatient sarcasm.

“I think I'll save that for the jury.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see you in court, Counselor. I'm awful busy. Okay? See you around.”

“Thanks.” Sandro turned and left the squad office. He stood outside, looking up the stairs to the third floor where Alvarado said the
lockers
room was supposed to be. Perhaps he could just walk up there quickly to get a look around. He hesitated….

“Anything else, Counselor?” Mullaly was at the door of the squad room. The other detectives were watching.

“No, I was just thinking if there was anything else.”

“To
chat
about?” He really liked that word.

“No, nothing. Thanks.” Sandro started down the stairs.

Mullaly stood at the top. Sandro could almost feel the sneer that followed him.

CHAPTER IX

“Hello, Mr. Luca?” Robert Soto said into the phone diffidently.

“Yes, hello. I hope you're calling with good news for me.”

“Well, I've been doing what you asked me. I been talkin' around to a lot of people, and I have some information you might want.”

“That's great, Robert. When can we meet you?”

“Whenever you're ready. I got the information whenever you're ready.”

“I'd better do it this week. This weekend is Labor Day, and I'll be away for four days. How about tonight?”

“Sure, okay. Where'll we meet?”

“I'll come over to your place. About eight thirty?”

“Okay. So long now.” Soto hung up. Sandro was already dialing Mike Rivera.

“Mike, can you pick me up at the office at about six thirty? We'll grab a bite to eat and then go over to Soto's apartment. He's got something for us.”

“Do I have to wear my chauffeur's cap?”

“No, just a fake beard. Which reminds me—did you ever snoop out that story about the super's wife and the hospital?”

“Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you. I found her on the book at Gouverneur Hospital. She used the visitors' pass on July third from two to four.”

“Okay, we can scratch her as a witness.”

“Right. See you later.”

The skies were filled with the maximum number of stars visible through New York's polluted air on a cloudless night, as the three men walked onto the roof. They walked toward the street end and leaned against the wall on the left.

“Well, what have you been able to dig up?” Mike asked.

“I found out about that woman, Asunta,” said Soto. “She was the one who told the police that the guy who owned the double-parked car was a junky who lived upstairs in one sixty-three. I think also that she saw the dark guy, your guy, coming out of the building afterward. That was after the cops were there and everything, you know.”

“She tell you this?” Sandro asked.

“No, but I've been talking around to a lot of people like you told me and checking things out.”

“And what else have you found out. Did anybody else say they saw Alvarado?”

“I found out a lot, Mr. Luca, a lot. You know, these guys are real losers. Especially your guy, the dark guy.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Mike.

“Just from the things I heard, that's all.”

“You want to start at the beginning and tell me what you know, what you heard about what happened that day,” Sandro suggested.

“Okay. It was raining, you know, like all day. I went to work early. My wife went out about eleven thirty to go to her mother's house. About one thirty this car comes into the block, and there are these two guys in there. The guy who lives down the street and a dark guy. Then the guy who lives down the street gets out of the car. The car is double-parked across the street, down from the factory. And the guy who lives down the street goes over to his own house, a few houses over on the same side as we are, and he goes to the roof of One sixty-three and crosses over to here. The other guy, the dark guy, he's sitting there.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, then this guy in the car, the dark guy, gets out, you know, and goes around to the back here and up the fire escape. He's checking apartments to see if anyone's home, you know. Then they come down from the roof, and they jimmy open my door. And then they take my television, my radio, all the other stuff to the roof.”

Mike wrote in his notebook as Soto spoke. He wanted a rough outline of people to be interrogated and places to be investigated.