by Lee Harris
They went up to the street level and found a place to sit and talk over coffee.
“I don’t like him,” Smithson said. “He’s too sure of himself, maybe too rehearsed.”
“I agree. And if he was going to be involved in that heist, he wouldn’t have a girlfriend over.”
“So we keep him on the list. Who’s next?”
Jane pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag. “That was Crawford. The one MacHovec liked for this was Terence Garland. He’s working out of the Seventy-second Street station on the West Side.”
“He in today?”
“Looks like it.”
Smithson finished his coffee, dropped some bills on the table, and picked up the check.
“I’ll call him, but I don’t know how fast he can get here.
He’s working down the track. What do you need him for?” The TA supervisor’s reaction to the two shields was an instant lack of cooperation.
“We want to talk to him,” Smithson said.
“About what?”
“About the weather down there. You his private secretary?”
The supervisor scowled and picked up a phone. The message had to be relayed, and the supervisor’s temper grew shorter with each exchange of words. Finally, he hung up with a bang. “He’ll be here when he gets here. You want a place to sit, you’ll have to stay put. We’re short of space.”
Jane walked out of the office and called Annie, letting her know where they were. There were no messages. “We’ll be back after lunch. This may take some time.”
Terence Garland showed up in his work clothes, having surfaced from the rat-infested tracks. “You wanted to see me?” He eyed the detectives as though they were the enemy.
“You want privacy?” the supervisor said, standing. “You can talk to him here. I’m leaving.” He shut the door behind him.
“What’s this about?” Garland asked, looking for a place to sit.
Smithson sat behind the desk, leaving his chair free. Garland took it.
“We want to talk to you about a theft that occurred about eight years ago, while you were working on a renovation.”
“They talked to me about it. I didn’t steal anything.”
“You know anyone who did?”
“No.” He fidgeted. “I thought that case was over.”
“It isn’t,” Jane said. “It’s just beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re starting from scratch. We want the guys who stole that equipment.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“Where were you that night?”
“I told the cops the first time around. I was home with my family. I never left my house.”
“Your wife vouch for you?” Smithson asked.
“Yeah, my wife vouched for me. I was there the whole time. I watched TV, I ate some fruit, I drank a beer, and I went to bed early.”
“What are you so nervous about, Terry?” Jane asked.
“I’m not nervous. I got a job to do. I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions. I wasn’t involved in that and I don’t know anyone who was.”
“You have a friend named Charley Farrar?”
Garland looked her in the eye. “Never heard of the guy. Should I of?”
“Not if you don’t know him.”
“You know any Transit cops?” Smithson asked.
Garland shrugged. “I seen ’em. I don’t know ’em. This some kind of guessing game?”
“Yeah,” Smithson said. “Get the right answer and we let you go.”
Garland said nothing. He glanced over at Jane, who avoided his gaze, then looked down at the desk in front of him. “What is it you want to know?” he asked Smithson.
“We want to know who was involved in the theft.”
“Not me.”
“Then who? You got a name? A couple of names?”
“Look, Detective, I wasn’t there, I didn’t do it, nobody told me who did. I came to work the next morning, the place was crazy. There was cops all over the place. They hauled us in and talked to us for hours.”
“Transit cops?” Jane asked.
“Yeah. Detectives like you. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Nobody called you and told you what was going down?”
“Nobody called me. Nobody told me nothin’.” He took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. Then he said, “Who’s this Charley guy you asked about?”
“We’re asking the questions, Terry. You remember him?”
“I told you, I never heard of him.”
“How ’bout Curtis Morgan?”
“Who’s he?”
“You tell me.”
“Curtis Morgan.” He said it softly. “I could’ve heard the name.”
Smithson jumped on him. “Where? What’s the connection?”
“Just a name. You hear a name sometimes, it sticks with you. He work for the TA?”
“He’s a track man,” Smithson said. “Just like you.”
Garland considered it. “If I ever met him, it wasn’t in the last couple of years.”
Smithson handed him a card. “If you remember anything about him, you call that number.”
“Sure.”
“You ever know a Transit cop named Beasely?”
“I never knew no Transit cops. I told you that already. And I don’t know no city cops neither.”
“Just asking, in case it comes back to you.”
“I told you what I know.”
Smithson glanced at Jane. She turned to Garland. “You ever work on the Second Avenue subway?”
“Nah. I hear they’re gonna give that another try. Throw another billion bucks down the drain.”
“OK, Terry. Go back to work.”
They went back to Centre Street and had lunch. In the office, Annie had left each of them a note to see McElroy. MacHovec joined them. McElroy began by talking about his interview of Lieutenant Beasely. Then he asked Jane and Smithson to report.
“Zip,” Jane said. “One guy’s smooth and relaxed and the other’s a bundle of nerves; thought maybe he’d heard of Curtis Morgan but backed off. Which probably means he’s never heard of him. If you asked me to pick one of them, I’d flip a coin.”
“You got more names?” McElroy asked.
“I gave them all the suspects the Transit detectives picked,” MacHovec said. “These two were the most likely and the least likely.”
“You working on Transit sergeants from ten years ago, Detective?”
“As much as I can.” MacHovec sounded put-upon.
“Keep at it.” McElroy waved them away.
“What’s biting his ass?” Smithson said as they walked back to the office.
“Lack of results,” Jane said.
“You want some sergeants?” MacHovec asked.
“Yeah, give us some sergeants,” Smithson said. “These track guys smell of bug spray. Maybe the sergeants’ll smell better.”
MacHovec printed out a sheet. “I’ve only checked down to here.” He underlined a name. “This one’s dead, these two retired. This one’s a lieutenant.”
“That’s Beasely,” Jane said.
“Oh, yeah. And he’s been cleared. I was thinking. You ask these guys if they knew Farrar or Morgan?”
“Yeah,” Smithson said.
“One of them might try to call them if he doesn’t know they’re dead. Farrar’s murder didn’t get a lot of coverage.”
“They kept his ID out of the news,” Jane said. “The funeral’s probably today or tomorrow. We’d better get that telephone tapped ASAP. One of the guys from this morning could call. I’ll talk to McElroy.”
McElroy took care of it. Jane regretted involving Mrs. Farrar at this time of crisis, but if one of their suspects made a call, they had to know about it. She walked back to the office slowly, thinking about Farrar’s phone. Randolph had gotten a message to Farrar from Rikers Island. If Randolph knew Farrar was dead, he had no one to call now, unless he had the sarge’s number, a
nd he probably didn’t. But Farrar knew Manelli. Farrar had gone to the Catskills to brief Manelli, and Farrar had gone to Manelli’s apartment. Manelli might have Farrar’s phone number.
Jane dialed the number. A young woman answered.
“Mrs. Farrar?”
“This is her daughter. Can I help you?”
“This is Detective Bauer. I’m sorry to bother you but I need to talk to your mother.”
“Just a moment.”
Jane could hear voices in the background.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Farrar, this is—”
“I know who this is. You got my husband killed. I never heard from him after you came here.”
“I’m very sorry about your husband, ma’am. We never saw him. I’m sorry to bother you but I need to know if you’ve gotten any phone calls from your husband’s friends, men friends.”
“A lot of people have called.”
“Did someone named Sal call?”
“Sal, yes, he did. He called after you left last week. He said he was Charley’s friend and he had to talk to him. He said it was urgent.”
“Did you give the message to Charley?”
“I never talked to Charley after you left. The man left a number. I was going to give it to Charley when I saw him that night but . . .” She sobbed.
“I understand.” Jane waited till the woman calmed herself. “Do you have the number?”
“Here it is.” She read off a 718 number, Brooklyn or Queens.
“Did he call back?”
“I don’t think so. If he did, I didn’t answer the phone. Wait a minute. Let me see if there’s a message I didn’t read.” She went through paper, then came back to the phone. “No, it doesn’t look like it. That must have been the only time.”
“When is the funeral, Mrs. Farrar?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.” Jane hung up. “Manelli called Farrar last Thursday, just after we were there. Here’s the number.” She handed it to MacHovec, who grabbed it and started working the keyboard. He would check Cole’s Directory online and get the address.
“She call you?” Smithson asked, coming in with coffee.
“I called her. The funeral’s tomorrow. Manelli called after we left last Thursday, said it was urgent, left a number. She never gave it to Charley because she never talked to him again.”
“Got it,” MacHovec said. He wrote an address on Jane’s slip of paper. “It’s an auto repair place. Looks like Long Island City.”
“Think it’s a pay phone?”
“It’s not. I’ll check my map, but I think it’s near Queens Plaza. Lot of industry. Maybe he’s sleeping on the floor with a lot of boxes.”
“And running out of money, and he can’t call Judy.”
MacHovec pulled a map out of a drawer and opened it on his desk. “Here it is.” He showed it to Jane.
Smithson came over for a look. “You’re right. Queens Plaza, just over the bridge. We can get there in half an hour or so. Forget the sergeants. We get Manelli, we’ve got something.”
They ran it by McElroy, whose spirits rose visibly as he heard the story. “You need backup. I’ll call the One-oh-eight. Hang on till they tell us where to meet them.” He reached for the phone.
36
SMITHSON GOT ON the FDR and drove north. They exited and took the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge over the East River to Queens. Just off Queens Boulevard, they found an unmarked vehicle and a sector car waiting for them a block away from the auto repair shop on Van Dam Street. The sector cops explained that the repair shop had a chunk of land behind the structure, typically inhabited by four dogs and broken-down cars and trucks awaiting repair or destruction. It was bounded by a chain-link fence that was so rusted and loose in the overlapping sections that a man could easily squeeze through. The grease-soaked earth held the skirt and bottom rail of the fence secure enough, but any athletic person could easily vault over the top rail, although he might sacrifice a shirt in the venture.
The sector cops moved to cover the back, and Smithson, Jane, and the two Queens detectives drove to the shop and went to the front door. The Queens detectives remained outside while Jane and Smithson went in, shields raised.
An unhappy man with the name Roger embroidered on his pocket looked at them with distress. “How can I help you?” he asked, his face almost contorted.
“We’re looking for a man who may be staying here, Salvatore Manelli. Ring a bell?”
Roger made sounds under his breath. “He was here, yeah. I don’t know where he is now.”
“How long was he here?”
“In and out for maybe a week. He needed a place to stay, and I like having a guy sleep on the premises. Keeps trouble away.”
“Where is he now?” Jane asked.
“He left this morning. I don’t know where he is.”
“You got a number to reach him?”
“He used to live in the Village. I don’t know where he lives now.”
“He say where he was going?”
“He just said, ‘So long,’ and walked out. He usually comes back at night.”
“He friends with anyone here?”
“He talks to everybody, brings us lunch, plays with the dogs.”
“You pay him to stay here?”
“Pay him? I give him a cot to lie on, a TV in my office, a bathroom. I should pay him too?”
“Just asking,” Jane said.
“You gonna tell me what he did?”
“We just want to talk to him.”
“Hang around. He should be back tonight. You know what? Lemme look at the cot, see if he left his stuff.”
They followed Roger to a storeroom at the back of the building. An unmade cot was pushed against the wall and a few pieces of dirty laundry were stuffed in a corner on the floor.
“Looks like he’s coming back,” Roger said.
“We’ll stick around,” Smithson said. “He get phone calls here?”
“Sometimes. I need to get back to work.”
Jane and Smithson talked to the detectives out front. They agreed to let the sector cops go. One detective would stay near the front, one near the back. In the meantime, Jane and Smithson would interview the men working inside.
Automotive establishments like this one were often casual in their hiring practices, taking on men with records, men who had served time. Jane and Smithson made a list of the names to phone in to MacHovec for checking. One mechanic spoke freely of his background, which included a bit at the military camp at Rikers when he was a teenager. Now twenty-seven, he assured the detectives he was straight, and grateful that Roger had hired him when he needed a job.
All the men had talked to Sal but none knew anything important about him. He had told them he’d had a fight with his girlfriend and had to find a place to stay till he could patch things up. He hadn’t mentioned her name or where he lived, and he didn’t seem to have a job.
Jane called MacHovec and gave him the list of names, although it was too late in the day for all of them to be checked out. Then she gave him the pay phone number, telling him everyone used it along with the phone on the wall.
“I’ll get the list of calls but I won’t look at it till I’ve done these other things. I take it Manelli’s not there.”
She told him the story.
“Let’s hope he comes back tonight.”
“Light a candle.”
The men left at five, and Jane and Smithson sat down with Roger. He had nothing new to contribute about Manelli.
“You have any idea where he spends his days when he’s not here?” Smithson asked.
“He walks out the door and that’s the last I see of him. Could be he hangs around Queens Plaza, but I don’t think so. I think he takes the subway. Maybe he’s trying to make peace with the girlfriend.”
After Roger left, they went into the room with the cot and the dirty laundry, put on rubber gloves, and looked carefully at the bed. They lifted the mattress,
which disclosed nothing except a spring, and started going through some boxes that shared the space. The boxes had auto equipment that matched the outside markings.
Out back, the dogs were on leashes that gave them each about twenty feet of running space. The cop watching the back door remained inside. Roger had said that lights went on at nightfall, both front and back, and inside several lights were left on overnight. If Manelli returned, they would see him approach.
“Heads up,” the cop at the front door called. “This could be him. Guy coming down the street.”
Jane and Smithson backed into the work area, out of sight of the front windows. The street was entirely commercial, not a place where a couple would stroll on a spring evening. Jane had her right hand on her open holster.
“Looks like he’s coming to the building.” A concrete driveway three or four cars wide ran from the sidewalk to the garage doors at the front of the building. To their left was the customer door.
There was no sound. Jane strained to hear a key in the lock. Nothing. Come on, Sal, she implored silently. She looked over at Smithson, who shrugged. Neither of them had any view of the front windows.
“How old a guy is he?” Jane asked.
“Thirty? Thirty-five?”
“It’s not Sal. Sal’s gotta be fifty or near that.”
“He’s feeding the dogs,” the staticky voice said from the nearer detective’s shoulder. “Looks like a wacko, long hair—ah, jeez, he’s feeding the dogs bread. He must think they’re pigeons.”
“Tell him to stay where he is,” Jane cautioned. “The dogs’ll survive.”
The man stayed almost fifteen minutes, talking to the dogs and feeding them. When the bread was gone, he tossed the bag over the fence and wandered off.
“Litterbug,” the detective growled.
They went back to their posts.
Like many a stakeout, it was long and boring. No one had thought to go out for food and everyone was hungry. Finally the detective named Wally called the station house and asked for someone to go out and get dinner for four.
It took forty-five minutes and a check of the street before two pizzas and four Cokes arrived. One Queens detective went out a side door and picked it up while the cop who delivered it, wearing plain clothes, walked back to his car in a circuitous route.
As they ate, the sun went down. Lights went on behind the building and streetlights went on in the front. Stray cats walked by. From a distance two dogs barked and the four in the back joined in the chorus.
