“The outfit that does maintenance for the building was there yesterday,” Foley said, “and they cleaned the service stairway as well as the main entry and the elevators. I asked ’em what they’d do if they found a cheap plastic billfold calendar, and they said they’d toss it.”
“What time were they there?” Marian asked.
“Late afternoon. So that calendar was dropped either last night or earlier today. What about Markham’s Pharmacy—did you talk to ’em? Any deliveries?”
“Not within the past two weeks. They do deliver regularly to the building, though, to the Nakamotos and to the family living on the fourth floor. Markham is the pharmacist and owner, and he told me they put some sort of promotional material in every package they deliver—this month it happens to be billfold calendars. But get this, Foley. Every package is sealed with tape before it leaves the pharmacy so nothing will get lost. There’s no way the plastic calendar could have fallen out of a package, even if there had been a delivery this morning.”
“Hah. So chances are good it did belong to the killer. Maybe he tried to use it to force the lock.”
“It wouldn’t have worked. Too much overlap by the door frame.”
“I know it wouldn’t have worked, Larch,” Foley said irritably. “I said maybe he tried to use it. This is a fuckin’ amateur we’re dealing with, remember?”
“All right, all right. But I did get something from Markham. I asked him if his delivery boy was thin, brown-haired, scruffy-looking, and he said no, he was plump and had curly red hair. But then he said the description did fit his former delivery boy, whom he’d had to let go just a couple of weeks ago. Seems the kid was good on the job but he had a way of not showing up for work a lot, and Markham needed someone he could rely on.”
Foley grinned. “Name and address?”
“Derek Brown. He lives in the projects. So what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Foley said, getting up and putting on his coat. “It’s five after four—we’re off duty.”
Marian made a noise of exasperation. “Foley, sometimes I don’t believe you! Here we have the name and address of a probable killer, and you want to let it ride because we’re off duty?”
“Better say that a little louder, Larch,” Foley scoffed. “I’m not sure the captain heard you.” And with that he was gone.
Marian slapped at her desk in frustration. Then she too got up and put on her coat; she could no more let her curiosity about Derek Brown go until next morning than she could do without food for a month. She left her car in the lot across the street from the stationhouse on East Fifth and walked the two blocks to the Lillian Wald project houses between Columbia Street and FDR Drive.
Derek Brown lived on the third floor of his building; Marian took the stairs rather than risk the elevator. The smell of spicy cooking mingled with the odor of urine and stale marijuana; the din from televisions and boom boxes was formidable. A more different atmosphere from the one in the Nakamoto apartment Marian couldn’t imagine. The dirty walls were covered with graffiti; gang signs adorned most of the doors. Two black boys of about eleven or twelve raced noisily down the hall, banging on doors as they passed. One of them tried to give Marian’s backside a squeeze, but she stiff-armed the kid and sent him on his way.
She came to the door she was searching for and knocked. After a moment it opened the width of its restraining chain and the suspicious face of a little girl peered up at her. Someone was coughing in the room behind the child. “Hi, I’m here to see Derek,” Marian said. “Is he home?”
The girl disappeared without a word and her place at the barely opened door was taken by a thin-faced young man with deep shadows under his eyes. “You want to see me?”
Marian held up her badge. “Derek Brown? I need to ask you some questions. May I come in?”
“Look, I’m not feeling so hot. Could you come back another time?”
“It won’t take long. Let me in.”
He did, reluctantly, turning his head aside to cough. Marian stepped into a dark room that held only a few pieces of shabby furniture; except for a pillow and a rumpled blanket on the sofa, the place was as neat as the people living in such a dump could make it. Marian turned and faced Derek Brown; he fit the neighbor’s description of the killer exactly, even to the scruffy-looking part. Brown looked about thirty, maybe a little older. And it was clear he felt rotten.
He sank down on the sofa and pointed to an aluminum kitchen chair against the wall. Marian sat down and introduced herself; she asked the girl her name. The child didn’t want to answer at first, but Brown murmured something and she said, defiantly, “My name is Alison—all right?” A big chip on that small shoulder.
“Your daughter?” Marian asked Brown.
He managed a laugh that turned into a cough. “Alison is ten. I’m nineteen. Even if it were possible, at nine I hated girls. No, Alison’s my sister.”
Nineteen. She’d thought he was thirty. Before Marian could start on her questions, a woman’s voice called out from the apartment’s only other room. “Derek? Who is it?”
“Police, Mom.”
A woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way through the doorway separating the two rooms. Late forties, heavy arms and shoulders, shriveled legs. Bifocals, fading brown hair. She looked straight at Marian and said, “If it’s about that Hernandez boy, we didn’t see anything.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not here about that.” Marian would have preferred to interrogate Brown alone; but the apartment was so small that even if she did ask the other two to go into the bedroom, they still would have heard every word that was said. “Where’s Mr. Brown?” she asked the woman in the wheelchair.
“Gone.” She added no explanation.
Marian turned back to the young man on the sofa. “You used to work at Markham’s Pharmacy?”
He nodded. “Up until a couple of weeks ago.”
“Until old man Markham fired him ’cause he got sick,” Alison spoke up belligerently.
“Alison,” Mrs. Brown said firmly. “Keep quiet.”
“Did you ever make a delivery to the Nakamoto apartment on Second Avenue?”
“Yeah, and to the Wyatts too,” Brown said. “Fourth floor, same building.”
“When was the last time you made a delivery to the Nakamotos?”
“Oh, uh, about a month ago, I guess. Why?”
“Mr. Nakamoto was murdered earlier today.”
All three of them reacted differently. Mrs. Brown looked shocked. Alison’s eyes narrowed and she moved to put the sofa between herself and Marian. Brown closed his eyes and turned his head away. After a moment he looked back at her and said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“How well did you know Mr. Nakamoto?”
“I never met him. Mrs. Nakamoto took all the deliveries. Nice lady.”
“Were you in their building today?”
“Me? No!”
Mrs. Brown gripped the arms of her wheelchair. “Are you accusing my son of murder?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just want to know if he had any reason to be in that building today.”
“What reason could he have? He lost his job, you know that. Besides, he hasn’t been anywhere. Look at him! Can’t you tell he’s sick?”
“Mom.” Brown cleared his throat. “I’ve been here all day, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, and we’ll swear to that in court!” Alison piped up.
Funny thing for a ten-year-old to say. “The killer was seen leaving the building,” Marian went on, “and you answer the description.”
“It wasn’t Derek!” Alison screeched. “He was here!”
“Would you be willing to participate in a line-up?” It was a test question; a line-up would be of no use since the neighbor never saw the killer’s face.
Brown passed the test…almost. “Sure, why not? Only not right now. I really don’t feel well, Sergeant.”
“It’s time for you to go,” Mrs. Brown said abruptly. “Go on—leave him alone. Get out.”
Alison left her safe place behind the sofa and ran to open the door. Marian stood up. “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked Brown. He nodded weakly.
“Go away!” Alison commanded.
Marian went away.
* * *
—
At eight o’clock the following morning Marian and Foley were sitting in Captain DiFalco’s office, all three of them wanting another cup of coffee before getting on with the day’s work. “Of course they’d alibi him,” DiFalco growled in response to Marian’s report. “His mother and his sister? You didn’t believe ’em, did you?”
“No,” Marian said. “But it’s a tough situation, Captain. Derek Brown is the sole support of a crippled mother and a ten-year-old sister, and he’s just lost his job. The Browns are a family that’s obviously come down in the world. They’re well-spoken people and still civilized, in spite of living in the projects for god knows how long. The girl’s starting to turn, though. They need money to get out of there, and Brown could be desperate enough to kill for it.”
“Did Mrs. Nakamoto let us know if anything was stolen?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d go talk to her when we finished here.”
“Why bother?” Foley asked. “She don’t know anything.”
“I want to ask her about Derek Brown, for one thing—if she’s seen him in the last couple of days, like that. Besides, she wasn’t very communicative yesterday, understandably. I just want to wrap it up.”
“Okay,” DiFalco said, “but one of you ought to go to Sony—they haven’t been told yet, have they?”
Foley said, “Not unless Mrs. Nakamoto called them. I’ll go. You don’t need two of us to talk to the lady.” So once again the team of Foley and Larch would be able to split up.
“Any reason to treat this as anything other than a straight shoot-and-grab?” the captain asked.
“No,” said Foley.
“Maybe,” said Marian. “What about the faked entry? An ordinary shoot-and-grab wouldn’t try to make it look as if he’d entered one way when in fact he’d come in by another. Why bother? The killer must have had a key—Nakamoto wouldn’t have let a stranger into his home.”
“He was their drugstore’s delivery boy, for Christ’s sake!” Foley snorted. “Nakamoto would let him in.”
“Derek Brown told me he’d made all the deliveries to the wife. The husband wouldn’t have known who he was.”
“If Brown was telling the truth.”
Captain DiFalco was scowling. “Still, it’s a loose end. Foley, nose around a bit while you’re over at Sony. Find out if Nakamoto had any problems, see if he confided in anyone. You know what to look for.”
Foley grunted. “Anything else?”
“Both of you call in when you’re finished. The lab report should come through sometime this morning. And take tape recorders with you—see if you can get some statements.”
* * *
—
Mieko Nakamoto opened the door to Marian’s ring; she was dressed in an American blouse and skirt, and she admitted Marian courteously but with no show of either resentment or welcome. Marian asked if anything had been stolen.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Nakamoto said in her high voice. “Two things. A thirteen-inch television we kept in the kitchen, and a compact disc player.”
“Where was the disc player?”
“It was in the room with the big television.” Mrs. Nakamoto swallowed. “Do you think he takes only what he can carry under each arm?”
“Either that,” Marian said, “or that’s what we’re supposed to think. Why didn’t he take the computer? That’s worth more than the TV. And the watch your husband was wearing was worth more than both of them together. There was cash in the apartment—four hundred dollars in your husband’s billfold. But the killer didn’t touch that.” Marian looked around her. “As far as that goes, there are any number of things he could have taken from right here in the living room. But instead he goes into the kitchen for a small TV set and into a different room for a CD player. Why the kitchen at all? Doesn’t make sense.”
Mrs. Nakamoto started to say something, but then pressed her lips together and kept quiet.
Marian took a deep breath and said, “Mrs. Nakamoto, I want you to let me take a look at your husband’s papers—bank statements, that sort of thing. I can get a warrant, but you’d save me time if you just give your permission.”
The Japanese woman’s face was blank. “But what do bank statements have to do with the burglar?”
“Maybe he wasn’t an ordinary burglar. Please, Mrs. Nakamoto—it’s better if you give permission.”
She assented, although it was clear the request disturbed her. She led the way into her husband’s home office, where Marian was surprised to find the bank statements already spread out on the desk. “I was trying to understand my financial situation,” Mrs. Nakamoto explained.
Marian nodded and sat down at the desk, determined to make it fast; the woman obviously felt invaded. The bank records proved what Marian had suspected. The various accounts were all in Tatsuya Nakamoto’s name. There were health, auto, and home protection insurance policies, but no life insurance. Nakamoto had accumulated extensive stock holdings, also in his name alone. Mieko didn’t have a cent of her own.
Mrs. Nakamoto’s face finally showed some expression when Marian left; it was relief. Down on the street, Marian found a phone and called in, as instructed. She told Captain DiFalco what she’d learned.
“Uh-huh. This one’s sounding phonier by the minute,” he said. “He passed up that roomful of electronic equipment except for one CD player, but he checked out the kitchen before he left? Something going on there, but for now just bring Derek Brown in—I’ve already asked for a warrant. I got the lab report, and his prints are on that plastic calendar you found, clear as daylight. He was there, all right.”
“Hm. How’d we happen to have his prints?”
“He once tried to hold up a liquor store—get this—with a baseball bat. But the owner had a gun. Chased him off with no trouble at all. The charges were eventually dropped because the owner didn’t want to close the store long enough to come in and testify.”
“Good god.”
“Yeah. Foley hasn’t called in yet. Stay where you are, and I’ll send you a couple of uniforms for back-up.”
“Not necessary, Captain. Derek Brown is sick, and he’s stick-thin anyway. I could pick him up and carry him in.”
“And so he’s not dangerous? For god’s sake, Larch, the guy’s a killer! You know better than that.”
Marian sighed. “Yes, sir.” She told him where she was and waited.
In less than five minutes a Radio Motor Patrol car pulled up to the curb. Marian climbed into the backseat and learned the two uniformed officers sent to back her up were called Washington and Esposito. She explained that she was to arrest a sick nineteen-year-old, and that their main function was to stand there and look authoritative. Washington and Esposito allowed as how they could handle that, and Esposito headed the RMP back toward the project houses.
Esposito found an unused fire hydrant to park by, and the three headed inside, automatically bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs. Marian knocked politely on the Browns’ door, and then less politely, and finally ended up pounding with both fists and yelling “Police!” At last the door opened a crack and Mrs. Brown looked up at her from her wheelchair.
“Mrs. Brown, I’m Sergeant Larch. I was here yesterday.”
“I remember you.” She didn’t sound happy about it.
Marian didn’t blame her. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m here to arrest D
erek. Please open the door.”
“You can’t arrest him! He hasn’t done anything!”
“Open the door, Mrs. Brown. We have to come in.”
“Derek isn’t here!”
“Let us come in and see for ourselves.”
“He isn’t here! Go away!”
Marian turned to the two officers, none too fond of this part of her job. “Break it down,” she said.
“No! Wait, wait!” Mrs. Brown closed the door long enough to slip off the chain and then let them in. Washington and Esposito immediately searched the two-room apartment, a task that took all of ten seconds. “Nobody here,” Washington said.
“Where is he, Mrs. Brown?” Marian asked.
The woman in the wheelchair started crying, making Marian feel even worse than she already felt. The two uniformed officers shifted their weight uncomfortably and exchanged a look; suddenly they were the heavies.
“Mrs. Brown?” Marian nudged gently. “Where’s Derek?”
The older woman took several deep gulps of air and blurted, “He’s in the hospital! Now will you leave him alone?”
Marian knelt down by the wheelchair so her face was level with the other woman’s. “Mrs. Brown,” she said softly, “your son has AIDS, hasn’t he?”
All the fight seemed to go out of the crippled woman. She dropped her face into her hands and her whole body began to shake with great wracking sobs. She didn’t make a sound, but the three cops in the room heard every cry.
* * *
—
They were able to track down the overworked doctor at Bellevue who’d seen Derek Brown when he was admitted. The doctor told them bluntly that Brown wouldn’t be leaving the hospital, ever. It was a matter of days, perhaps hours. He should have been in the hospital long ago, the doctor complained; they could have at least made him more comfortable. No more than one visitor at a time, please. The doctor hurried away without a backward glance.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 155
