Murder in Greenwich Village

by Lee Harris

  They got out and walked half a block to a redbrick six-story building. An elderly tenant was leaving, and they got in without ringing the Farrars’ bell. The elevator was new, indicating that the old one had died a permanent death. No landlord of a rent-controlled building would spring for a new elevator if not pressed to the wall.

  A smell of cooking permeated the fifth-floor hallway, which was dark in spite of several bare ceiling lights.

  “Pee-yew,” Smithson said, stressing the second syllable. “Glad I’m not married to her.”

  Jane smiled. They stopped at 5D and Smithson pressed the bell. A sharp ring sounded inside.

  “Who’s there?” a woman called.

  “We need to talk to Charley,” Jane called.

  The door opened. A woman of about fifty looked at them. She was dressed in jeans and a gray shirt, no jewelry except for a gold ring on her left hand. “Who are you?”

  They showed their shields. “Detectives Smithson and Bauer, Mrs. Farrar. May we come in?”

  She backed up. “What’s wrong? Is Charley hurt?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jane said quickly. “We need to talk to him.”

  “He left. I don’t know where he is. You sure nothing’s wrong?”

  They walked into the living room, where a vacuum cleaner stood in front of the sofa. Mrs. Farrar moved it and sat.

  “He’s fine,” Smithson said. “We’re just looking for him. When did he leave?”

  “I don’t remember. He got up, had breakfast, and said he had to go somewheres before he goes to work. He’s working this afternoon at four.”

  “Does he have a car?”

  “Not anymore. We got rid of it a couple of years ago. If he has to drive somewhere, he borrows one from a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “There’s a gas station the other side of Kings Highway. Charley knows the owner—what’s his name?” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Dante something. The place is called Dante’s.”

  “Did your husband borrow the car last week?” Jane asked.

  She thought about it. “He didn’t mention it, but he had a couple of days off, Thursday and Friday, I think. I didn’t see him all day Thursday, and then on Friday he got a call and he went out with a friend. I don’t think Charley had the car that day.”

  “You know the friend’s name?” Smithson asked.

  “Charley has a lot of friends. He knows them from the TA. They’re always going somewhere on a day off, having a beer. I couldn’t tell you who it was. Why are you asking me?”

  “We have some information we need to confirm,” Jane said. “You think Charley may have borrowed Dante’s car on Thursday?”

  “I think it was Thursday.”

  That would fit. Jane and Defino had seen Carl Randolph on Wednesday morning, meaning that Charley Farrar had gotten the message from Rikers the night before or possibly even Wednesday afternoon, giving him time to get into the Second Avenue subway tunnel and retrieve the Beretta. After leaving the gun in Riverside Park and making certain it was found, Charley could then have borrowed the car and driven to the Catskills to tell Manelli what was happening. Manelli would have told Farrar as a matter of course where he would be that week. They kept in touch.

  “Did Charley get a phone call Wednesday afternoon or night?”

  “A phone call? Charley gets phone calls all the time. I told you. He has a lot of friends.”

  “After the phone call, he would have left the house.”

  “I’m not sure,” Mrs. Farrar said, her voice less certain. “He works odd hours and he could have been going to work.”

  “Does your husband have a cell phone?” Smithson asked.

  “He hates them. He had one once for a month and he got rid of it. This is his only phone.”

  That squared with what Testa had said.

  Jane glanced at Smithson, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Farrar.”

  “What should I tell Charley?”

  “I wouldn’t tell him anything if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “You want him to come home tonight? Keep quiet about our visit.”

  They went down to the car. The next chance to find Farrar would be when he showed up for work, several hours later.

  “So what’s next?” Smithson said.

  “Let’s go back to Manhattan. Maybe we can find Manelli’s girlfriend and have a heart-to-heart. She has to know that she’s never seeing Manelli again outside of prison. If she knows something, she can help herself.”

  “Your call. Where do we go?”

  “Let me try Macy’s and see when she’s working.” She managed to get the information without talking to anyone in the handbag department who might tip Judy Franklin off. Judy was working all day today.

  “We’ll have to get rid of the car,” Jane said as Smithson took off. “I wouldn’t try to park near Macy’s if you want to see your car in one piece again.”

  “I know a place.”

  She smiled. There were cops who always knew a place.

  Back in Manhattan, Smithson drove up the West Side on the highway that wasn’t, the old West Side Highway having almost fallen down when Jane was a child. The elevated structure had been removed from the Battery Tunnel up to Fifty-ninth Street and replaced with a street-level low-speed substitute with traffic lights. He turned right in the Thirties and parked in a garage where he got a hearty welcome, probably, Jane thought, because of favors he had given in the past. From there they walked to the western end of Macy’s and worked their way to the handbag department.

  Jane let him go ahead, as Judy Franklin had never seen him and would not be anticipating trouble. From a distance, Jane watched as he smiled and talked his way over to her, then let her know who he was. Jane could see her face collapse as she realized she’d been had.

  Smithson walked her over to Jane.

  “What do you want from me?” Judy said. “My lawyer doesn’t want me to talk to you. I haven’t seen Sal. I don’t know where he is. I’m working and I can’t take time off.”

  “We want to tell you something,” Jane said quietly.

  “Not here where people can see. I’ll lose my job if they find out about you.”

  “We can go outside.”

  They made their way to the Herald Square exit, stood in front of a display window, and Smithson lit up. Judy said nothing.

  “Your boyfriend’s in big trouble,” Jane said.

  “I told you. I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Really big trouble. Kidnapping a cop is not the way to go when you report to a parole officer.”

  Judy remained silent but her eyes misted.

  “You are never going to see Sal again outside of prison.”

  “He didn’t do anything,” Judy wailed.

  “He kidnapped a cop.”

  “They found him, right? The cop? I watched the news last night.”

  “No thanks to Sal. If you know where Sal is and you tell us, things’ll go a lot better for you.”

  “I didn’t do anything. You know I didn’t. I was with you, for God’s sake. You know that. They were gone when we got back to the apartment.”

  “Judy, when we find him, we are going to prosecute him for the kidnapping and assault of a policeman. That’s not eighteen months like his last bit.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Judy said in a low voice. “You have to believe me. Sal hasn’t called since that day. Nobody’s called. If I knew where he was . . .” She looked distraught, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I want names and addresses of his friends.”

  Judy shook her head. “I don’t know them. He talks on the phone to people, but I don’t know who they are. Sal’s a real family man. He likes to have a hot meal and sit with his feet up. We go to a movie sometimes. We don’t go out with his friends.”

  “We heard he had a friend named Charley,” Smithson interjected.

  “Charley. Maybe I’ve heard him on the phone with a Charl
ey, but I’ve never met him.”

  “Who comes to the apartment?” Jane asked.

  “Now and then some guy.”

  “What guy?” Smithson said, sounding annoyed.

  Judy shrugged. “They come to the door, Sal goes out with them. They don’t hang around the apartment. It’s not a cocktails-and-snacks visit.”

  “Sal know anybody who works for the Transit Authority?” Jane said, her final question.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Think about it. Think hard.” Jane handed her her card.

  “I have one of those.”

  “Here’s another one. Put it where you’ll see it. It may remind you of what you have to do.” Jane turned and walked away, Smithson just behind her.

  “What do you think? She holding back?”

  “I don’t know. I hope we can break Charley Farrar.”

  They went back and got the car—“No charge, Detective. Come back and see us soon.”—and drove to Centre Street for lunch and a few hours of waiting before going down to where Charley worked.

  “Preliminary report from the crime scene guys,” MacHovec said when they got back after lunch. “They got nothing. That is, they got a lot but it doesn’t mean much. That van’s been used to transport so many things, the list’s half a mile long. Fur—”

  “The furrier Testa worked for borrowed it last Friday. He may have had some coats moved,” Jane said.

  “Sounds like good stuff, mink and maybe sable. But no blood. Van looked like it had been washed down before it was left on the street. But they’re still looking. Something may turn up, you know, Locard’s Exchange Principle.” He was referring to the French criminologist Émile Locard, who said that any person passing through a space will unknowingly leave something there and take something away, essentially the basis of crime scene work.

  “We’ve got Defino. He knows he was in the van.”

  “I guess you didn’t bump into Farrar.”

  “His wife said he went out this morning,” Smithson said. “We’ll head over to the TA this afternoon, see if he shows up for his shift.”

  “Not if his wife tells him we were there,” Jane said.

  “He doesn’t sound like the kind of guy that rings his wife every time he’s got a free minute.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Defino had called in the morning and Jane called him back. He was itching to leave the hospital—no surprise there. The broken rib hurt him and affected his ability to walk. But he was feeling much better and wanted to hear about the case. Jane briefed him.

  “This guy we’re hoping to get hold of this afternoon works for the TA,” she told Defino.

  “So you could close this soon,” Defino said with a hint of regret.

  “Nothing goes smoothly, Gordon.”

  “They find anything in that van?”

  “Fur and a lot of other things, but nothing important so far. Hold on.” She turned to MacHovec, who was butting in. “What’s up?”

  “We got it, the phone call from Rikers. Look at this.” He underlined something in red and passed the paper over.

  “Is that Farrar’s number?”

  “You bet.”

  “Gordon, listen to this.”

  It was good news, even though they couldn’t prove that Randolph was involved in the phone call. Charley Farrar had received a call from Rikers the day Jane and Defino had talked to Randolph. She let Defino know, feeling good. Their theory was right. Farrar had been a key person in the Micah Anthony killing and had avoided being in the crib that night, by plan or by lucky accident. This time they would get him. This time they would make him talk.

  26

  THEY ARRIVED AT Farrar’s station, Canal Street on the A line, at three. Smithson hung around the area where the workers punched in. Jane made herself scarce, not wanting to stand out as a woman in a crowd of men. They had no photos of Farrar, but they snagged a TA supervisor to identify him when he walked in. He would change his clothes before beginning his tour and change them back afterward. After Jane’s two hikes into the underworld, she understood why. Remembering those walks on the tracks gave her a chill.

  At four she got nervous. At four fifteen she called Farrar’s wife.

  “I haven’t heard from Charley since you were here.”

  “If you’re holding back, Mrs. Farrar, you’ll—”

  “I told you the truth. He left this morning before you came and I haven’t seen him since. Or heard from him. And now you’ve got me scared.”

  They could check the calls to her phone, but that might not yield anything besides a pay phone number if she were lying. Jane made her way to where Smithson and the supervisor were observing incoming workers. She didn’t have to ask.

  “Looks like he got the word,” Smithson said.

  “He’s got a good record for punctuality,” the supervisor said. “And I checked. He didn’t call in. He’s called in for the last few days. Today he was supposed to come back.”

  “You know who his friends are?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t get involved in personal lives. Farrar’s a good worker, a maintainer. He walks the tracks looking for problems. Got a lot of years and a good record. I can’t help you any more than that.”

  “Let’s give it more time,” Jane said.

  They stayed till five. Jane called McElroy and said they were giving up.

  “You think it was the wife?” he asked.

  “Could be. Randolph doesn’t know what we’re doing.

  Manelli’s out of the loop now. I believe Judy Franklin doesn’t know Manelli’s friends. He would keep her out of it. Farrar’s never seen us, so he couldn’t have made Smithson, and I kept out of sight.”

  “OK. You did what you had to. It’s after five. I’ll have Annie sign you out. Go home.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  She sent Smithson on his way and took the subway home, since she was already in a station. In the Village, she picked up dinner at a takeout, not in the mood to cook and clean up. After she had eaten, Flora Hamburg called.

  “How’s your partner?”

  “He’s doing fine. They won’t let him back for a while. That rib has to heal, and he’ll have to go through all the crap I went through in December. But he’s in good spirits.”

  “You did good, Jane.”

  “You know the drill, Flora. We all did good.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Not tired, discouraged. We had a guy in our sights and we lost him. Someone tipped him off, probably his wife. We’ll never find him now. He’s the second guy we’ve lost, and this one was key. He knows something we have to know, and there’s no one else.”

  “What about the guy in Rikers?”

  “I don’t think he knows. I think this guy today was the crucial link. He may even be the one who shot Micah Anthony.”

  “No fooling.” The wily inspector sounded genuinely impressed.

  “But he reported to someone else, and without him, there’s no link.”

  “Listen, I’m close by. You up for company?”

  Why not? “Sure. I’ve already eaten and I’m just lying around thinking about how we could’ve avoided screwing up.”

  “I’ll be there in five. Make coffee.”

  Jane went to the bathroom and removed Hack’s toothbrush, then pushed the hangers with his jeans and shirts to the back of the closet. Not that Flora would conduct a search; she had visited before and looked the apartment over, but just to make sure.

  It was more like ten minutes till the bell rang. Jane flicked on the coffeemaker, buzzed her in, and opened the door to the hallway, listening for the elevator. Flora wouldn’t walk. Hack walked unless the lobby was clear. Flora was of indeterminate age, but not young, overweight, and carried her belongings in a shopping bag. After years of wondering, Jane had finally decided she did it to annoy her colleagues, not because she disliked handbags. Her gun flapped on her hip and never moved from that position.

  The elevator door open
ed, and Flora stepped into the hall and waved. “Good to see you,” she called, a slight echo preceding her. At the door, she gave Jane a motherly hug and they went inside. “I stopped at a bakery.”

  “You’ll be my downfall.”

  “Well, I was instrumental in your rise; now we’ll even things out.”

  “What are you doing in the Village?” They went into the kitchen and Jane poured.

  “Having dinner with an up-and-coming young sergeant.”

  Jane smiled. “She gonna be commissioner someday?”

  “Maybe. I think she’s got what it takes. Except that male appendage that counts for more than brains. Good coffee.”

  “And dessert. How did you know I loved cannoli?”

  “You must have told me. I love them too. Can we talk?”

  “I thought that’s what we were doing.”

  “Seriously. I’m thinking of retiring.”

  The word hit Jane like a blow. “Flora.”

  “I’m not young anymore.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “My knee hurts when I walk. I don’t talk about it but I feel it.”

  “It’ll hurt just as much if you’re home.”

  “Probably more. You mind if I smoke?”

  “I’ll get you an ashtray.”

  “Thanks, Jane.” Flora lit a cigarette and took a couple of drags before continuing. “I didn’t say I was retiring. I just said I was thinking about it.”

  “Your health OK besides the knee?”

  “Pretty good. These things’ll get me someday.” She held up the cigarette before flicking off the ash. “I’m glad you never started.”

  “Flora, when you think about retiring, give a thought to the people on the job who will vote against it. Like the young sergeant you just had dinner with.”

  “I know. You women are my pride and my burden. Well, I didn’t come here to talk about myself.”

  Jane refilled both their cups. “What can I do for you?” “You have twenty years and you’re a first grade. It’s time you took the sergeant’s exam.”

  “We’ve talked about this. I don’t want to study. I’m not an administrator. I want to work. It’s what I do best.”