Murder in Greenwich Village

by Lee Harris

  “Not likely she’s hiding Defino there.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Maybe we should just get the guys in the conference room to start canvassing from that point outward. It’s too much for two people.”

  It was. She went to talk to McElroy.

  “I’ll OK it,” he said, standing up. As Jane returned to her office, he went to the conference room.

  Ten years before, when the first canvass had been performed, the purpose was to find witnesses to the killing, people who might have seen or heard the shots, glimpsed the car or any of its occupants. Even a partial license plate number might have helped to locate the car. Nothing had surfaced.

  Because it had been assumed at the time that the location of the shooting was accidental, as Jane thought originally, the canvassers were seeking witnesses. Under the new theory, the killers were on their way to a specific apartment in the Village, an apartment connected to the killers. If they had reached their destination when Micah Anthony flew out of the car, then the connection was on that block. If the destination was around the corner or in the next block, a wider canvass might turn up the link. And Defino. They had to find Defino. Five days would have elapsed by that afternoon.

  As she contemplated her next move, MacHovec tossed some papers onto the desk. “Blue vans,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  She started reading the information written in MacHovec’s clear, almost schoolboy print. All three vans were registered in Manhattan, two of them to what appeared to be small businesses, one to a man in his sixties.

  “Probably not the one owned by the old guy,” MacHovec said, reflecting her thoughts.

  “But worth checking out. He might have a son or a nephew or a younger brother.”

  “I like the one registered to the video place. Anything could be going on in the back room.”

  “And probably is.” She took her bag out of her drawer.

  “You got your cell phone in case I come up with something else?”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I plugged it in somewhere. There it is.”

  “And do me a favor, Jane. Don’t go alone.”

  This new, gentler MacHovec still surprised her. She smiled. “Good idea. I’ll grab someone in the conference room, if anyone’s left.”

  Warren Smithson was left. They stopped at McElroy’s office on their way out, McElroy happy that someone had something new to look at.

  The video store was north of Fourteenth Street, the unofficial boundary between the Village and Chelsea. They took the subway to Twenty-third Street and walked from there. Smithson seemed happy to be out in the fresh air.

  “So we’re looking for the van that picked up your partner.”

  “The sector cops remembered an old blue van, nothing else. They could be holding him in the back room.”

  “Then you’ve given up on finding him in the subway.”

  “For now.”

  They turned a corner and found it. It was a good-size store, twice the width of most of the stores on the street. They walked in like a couple, Jane’s hand through Smithson’s arm. Several customers were at the counter and searching the shelves. A clerk was just coming out of the back room, carrying a couple of videotapes, perhaps porn, she thought. She nudged Smithson, who grunted, “Yeah,” under his breath. He walked to the break in the long counter where clerks could pass through. Jane followed, holding her shield high.

  “Hey,” one of the young men behind the counter shouted.

  “Hey, yourself,” Smithson said, turning the knob on the door to the back room.

  “You can’t go in there.” The voice was anxious.

  “Sure I can.”

  Jane followed him into a room with a number of machines making copies of tapes.

  “Where’s your van?” Smithson asked the man who raced in behind them.

  “What van?”

  “The one registered to the store. You want me to read off the plate number?”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  Jane turned to face him. “Take us to the guy who does know.”

  “He’s not here.”

  She pulled out her notebook and a pen. “Looks like a Title Seventeen violation here. There’s a U.S. code against copyright law violation. Big fines involved. Put your boss out of business.”

  “Gimme a break. There’s a First Amendment.”

  “Not for reproducing and selling copyrighted material.”

  Smithson was pushing open the back door. “Not here,” he said.

  “The owner takes it home with him,” the clerk said. He was young, possibly into his thirties, with thick, dark hair that moved as he tossed his head.

  “Give me an address.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Well, find it,” Smithson ordered.

  They followed him back to the store, where he had a frantic conversation with an older man. Thick Hair came back with an address on a slip of paper.

  “I don’t know if he’s there, but that’s where he lives.”

  “Thanks,” Smithson said in a surly tone, and Thick Hair backed away from him.

  The address was in the West Village, which was good news, Jane thought.

  “That’s in the perimeter,” Smithson said. “I can’t believe we could’ve gotten the right one the first time out. It’d be a first for me.”

  “Let’s go.”

  On the sidewalk, Smithson put up his hand to hail a cab that was driving south. They hustled inside and he gave the address, pulling out bills a few minutes later as the cab slowed.

  The building was on Bank Street, a structure ripe for gentrification. A cursory look around the block turned up no blue van. The name of the owner of the video store was Peter Montana, and next to one of the bells in the entry were the initials PM, an apartment on the second floor.

  They pressed bells till someone buzzed them in. Then they ran up the stairs, found the door, and listened. A voice inside might have been someone talking on the phone or an afternoon TV show. Smithson pushed the bell.

  “Yeah?” A man’s voice.

  “Mr. Montana, please open the door,” Smithson said in a polite, calm voice.

  The door opened. “Who’re you?”

  “Police detectives,” Smithson said. Both of them had their shields visible.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Watch your language. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  “What for? What do you want?” Montana, a husky man in his fifties, backed into the living room, a good-size room furnished with leather and fabric, pictures on the walls, and what might have been an Oriental carpet on the floor.

  “You own a blue van?” Smithson read off the plate number.

  “My business owns it. What about it?”

  “We’re looking for it. Where is it?”

  “I parked it a coupla blocks from here. You can’t get a spot nearby.”

  “Come with us and show us.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Get your keys,” Jane said. “We’re in a hurry.” Montana looked from one to the other. Then he said, “I forgot. I don’t have it today. I lent it to a friend.”

  “You forgot you lent it to a friend?”

  “I’m sorry. You pushed in here and shook me up.”

  “Who’s the friend?” Smithson asked.

  “Just a guy. He needed to haul some stuff; he asked me for the van.”

  “When did you give it to him?”

  “Uh, let’s see. What day is today? Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday,” Jane said, wondering if he were playing for time.

  “Could’ve been last Friday he took it. He came in the store for the keys and that’s the last I saw of him. Or the van.”

  “What’s his name?” Jane said, her notebook in her hand.

  “Jack Spiegel.”

  “Address?”

  “Gee, I’m not sure.”

  “You’d better get sure, Mr. Montana. What’s his phone number?�
�

  “I gotta look for it.” He started for a back room, and Smithson and Jane followed.

  The room was a home office, a cluttered counterpart to the neat living room. A computer with all its accompaniments sat on a table. Stacks of videos, boxes, papers, and files lay on the floor. A file cabinet was open, one folder standing vertically to mark a place.

  Montana sat in front of the computer and pulled over a Rolodex, flipped through it, and removed a card. He passed it to Jane.

  She copied the information and gave the card back. “Come with us, Mr. Montana.”

  “What for? I’m cooperating. What do you need me for?”

  “To make sure you don’t tell your friend Jack we’re on our way.” She called the Six and asked for a car to pick up Montana on Bank Street and hold him at the house for a couple of hours.

  He was fuming when the car arrived.

  “No calls till we get there,” Jane said. “Check him for a cell phone.” Then she and Smithson took a cab to the garage where his car was parked. They ran up the steps and slid into their respective seats in seconds. Her heartbeat was up and her spirits along with it. They drove south to an area of old buildings being converted into new, expensive lofts in the typical cycle of the city: When it gets too delapidated to be of use, renovate it and charge a fortune.

  As they drove, Jane said, “We need backup, Warren.”

  “Call for it.” When they got there, he parked in a no-parking zone and stuck his plate in the front window.

  Two sector cars arrived seconds after they did. They briefed the uniforms, one of whom went around the back of the building.

  “There’s an easy way out back there, also fire escapes. I’ll watch the rear,” he said when he came back.

  Inside, real elevators had replaced the old ones that had been used to haul whatever product had been made in the building’s former life. They grabbed the super, who came upstairs with them with a key to the Spiegel loft.

  “I’m not supposed to do this,” he said.

  “But we’re cops,” Jane said, “and we’ll cover your ass.”

  They moved quietly from the elevator to the door of Spiegel’s loft. The uniform rang the bell and a tune played in chimes. No response came from inside. A second ring elicited nothing.

  The super looked at Smithson, who nodded. Two keys were needed to open the door. Inside they stepped onto a beautiful hardwood floor into a huge living room with contemporary furniture, murals painted on the walls, and a complex set of switches that probably dimmed and raised the lights besides turning them on and off.

  Smithson and the uniform disappeared down a hall to check out the entire apartment while Jane surveyed the living room for signs of life. A TV monitor as big as her fireplace hung on the wall, and a couple of pornographic magazines lay on a sofa. Otherwise, the room was empty. She moved into a huge kitchen filled with stainless-steel appliances, an island in the center. This is what a hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen looks like, she thought, opening drawers and cabinets, not sure what she was looking for— anything to tie Spiegel or his loft to Defino’s disappearance.

  She knew if she found something not in plain sight it could be challenged in court, but locating Defino was life-and-death, so she decided to chance it. From the other end of the loft she could hear Smithson and the uniform talking intermittently, nothing they said intelligible. Then, as she was opening a drawer, she heard a sound at the front door. Shit. Spiegel was coming back.

  She took out her Glock and walked back to the foyer, watching the doorknob turn. Holding the gun at approximately the height of a man’s chest, she waited.

  The door opened and a woman screamed.

  “Keep quiet,” Jane ordered. “Get inside and close the door.” She held her shield up in her left hand. “I’m Det. Jane Bauer, NYPD.”

  The woman was about Jane’s age, well dressed and carrying a shopping bag from Bergdorf Goodman. She followed Jane’s instructions, backing against the door to close it.

  “Put the bag down.”

  The woman obeyed, clearly terrified.

  “Who are you?”

  “Renée Spiegel.”

  “Jack Spiegel’s wife?”

  “Yes. What are you doing here? Where’s my husband?”

  “We’re here on business. Walk away from the door.”

  The woman came a few steps closer.

  “What’s up?” Smithson said. Then, “Oh. We have company.”

  “Mrs. Spiegel,” Jane said. “She wants to know where her husband is.”

  “Funny, so do we.”

  “He left after breakfast. I haven’t seen him since. What is this about?”

  “How do we reach him?” Smithson asked.

  She gave a cell phone number.

  “Is he usually at work?” Jane asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “What’s his business?”

  “He’s a furrier. Spiegel Furs.”

  “Address?”

  She gave a downtown location. Jane had been to one of those places years ago—on police business—and she knew what it would be like: a showroom in the front and workrooms in the rear. The one she had visited had had something more than workrooms in the back, and she had made an arrest.

  She turned to the uniform. “Stay with her till we call you. No calls in or out. You got a number where we can reach you?”

  He wrote it down, and Jane and Smithson left, stopping to tell the second cop to go upstairs and keep his partner company.

  21

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Spiegel’s address, they circled the block, pushing the perimeter search to three blocks on each side, looking for the blue van. It wasn’t there. Then they went into the building. The furrier was just what Jane expected. In the showroom, a young, good-looking woman sat beside a handsome, much older man while a model pirouetted in front of them, wearing a fabulous fur that probably cost half of Jane’s annual income. The three were startled by the intrusion, but Jane and Smithson moved quickly to the back of the business, a woman chasing them, calling for them to stop.

  Before reaching the work area, they came to a tiny, cluttered office where a man sat at a desk, talking on the phone.

  “Jack Spiegel?” Smithson said.

  He dropped the phone. “What is this?”

  “Detectives Smithson and Bauer. Stand up and let me see your hands.”

  “What the—” But he pushed his chair back and stood, showing his empty hands.

  Jane walked around the desk and patted him down. “Where do you keep your gun?”

  “What gun?”

  “The gun you use for protection. Don’t move your hands.”

  “It’s in the bottom drawer on the right side.” He nodded in that direction.

  Jane had her gun out. “Move out from behind the desk. Slowly.” Satisfied that Smithson had Spiegel under control, she opened the drawer and removed the pistol. Using her cell phone, she called MacHovec and asked him to check for a license.

  “It’s registered, for Christ’s sake,” Spiegel said. “You think I keep an illegal weapon here?”

  No one answered him. “Where’s the van you borrowed from Peter Montana?”

  “I’d like to know that myself.”

  “Don’t give us a runaround,” Smithson said. “Montana says he gave it to you last week. Where the fuck is it?”

  “Look, I’m telling you the truth. I needed a van for a delivery. I called Pete and he said I could have his. I’ve borrowed it before; it’s no big deal. We’re old friends and we do favors for each other. I sent one of my men to pick it up Friday morning. He made the delivery and never returned the van. I don’t know where in hell it is, and if you find it, I want it back.”

  “You report it stolen?”

  “Not yet.”

  “This employee of yours, he do this as a regular thing?”

  “He never did it before.”

  “You call and ask him what’s going on?”

  “I haven’t been a
ble to reach him. Not for lack of trying.”

  Jane’s phone rang. “Bauer.”

  “It’s legal,” MacHovec’s voice said. “He has a permit to carry.”

  “Thanks, Sean.” She snapped the phone shut. “The gun’s legal.”

  “What did I tell you? I’m not a criminal. I’m an honest businessman.”

  “Whose employee steals vans. What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Gregory Testa. He’s worked for me for years. He wouldn’t do something like this on his own.”

  “We need an address and phone number.”

  Spiegel looked at them. “May I check my Rolodex?”

  “Just keep your hands where we can see them,” Smithson said.

  Spiegel leaned over the desk and flipped through the cards. He read off an address, also in Manhattan, and a phone number. “He doesn’t have a cell. If he’s not home, I don’t know where to reach him.”

  “And he hasn’t shown up for work since last Friday?”

  “I saw him Friday morning. That’s when I told him where to pick up the van. That’s all I can tell you. You find him, you tell him he’s fired.”

  “We find him, we’ll do more than that.” Smithson looked at Jane.

  “I’ll call the uniforms.”

  They let the sector cops go, and Jane told the uniforms at the Spiegel loft that they could leave. As they drove, she called MacHovec and asked him to put the van in the alarms as a possible vehicle in an armed robbery. This would put the uniforms on guard without broadcasting the real reason for the stop. If the van was spotted, it would be taken in for examination. Then she called the Fifth Precinct for backup. Smithson zigged and zagged toward the Mercer Street address, a block west of Broadway between Broome and Grand Streets, an area where gentrification had made its mark. But many buildings were still almost uninhabitable, just waiting for an enterprising builder with bucks to move in and do the kind of job that had been done on Spiegel’s residence. Eventually, Jane feared, all but landmarks would succumb to the real estate industry, gutting the rich historic past out of the city, enriching the rich and pushing the poor into ever poorer circumstances.

  Smithson came to a hard stop, jolting both of them. He shoved the plate back in the window and jumped out of the car.

  Testa’s address was an old law tenement, a building that dated to the turn of the century or earlier. As Jane reached the curb, a radio car squealed to a stop and double-parked on the far side of the hydrant in front of Smithson’s car. Two uniforms leaped out and Smithson quickly advised them of the situation. One uniform took off for the rear of the building and the three of them went inside, finding the name Testa on the fourth floor. They got someone to buzz them into the lobby. A knock on the super’s door produced only silence. They went up the stairs quietly and rang the bell, which sounded loudly inside.