“Big guy? Black jacket? hoodie?”
“You know him?”
“I saw somebody leaving the building while I was waiting for you—he was Russian? I figured he was black,” I said. “I couldn’t see his face.”
“Fuck,” said Wagner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Everything’s timing.” He groaned. “But, I still don’t think it was him. We grilled him good, he was polite, he talked excellent English, he had a green card, a job downtown in a bank, so not your usual creepola.”
“He had a name?”
Wagner snorted. “Ivan Ivanov. You fucking believe it? But there it was on his driver’s license, social security, the green card, all of it, plus I called his home number and a nice lady answered and said she was his mother. Out in Queens.”
“Right.”
“I mean, so what could I hold him on, Artie? He had a few tats, but I couldn’t hold a guy for some body ink, could I? He didn’t have no dirt on his shoes that matched the cemetery where we found the victim.”
“You got good people working homicide here, Jimmy?”
“Yeah. One of the best there is. Let me see if he’s around.” He left the office. I figured he’d reappear with Radcliff. Instead, Wagner returned and said to me, “Dawes is coming in to say hi.”
“Anybody I ever met?”
“I doubt it. He’s good. Julius Dawes, straight up by the book. Too methodical for some of the younger guys. You know, they watch TV, they want to solve a crime in an hour, not including commercials, so they take stupid chances and then we can’t indict.”
The cop in uniform who had brought me in passed, and Wagner bellowed out, “You got smokes?”
The uniform nodded, went away and returned with a crumpled pack and Jimmy lit up, coughed until I thought he was going to puke his lungs out, then leaned back and took another drag on his cigarette.
“I hate this fucking weather,” he said. “If the snow gets worse, it’ll be bad. We don’t have enough guys, we already got a pileup over on the West Side Highway. No money in the city, more homeless.”
“Listen, Jimmy, I hate to bother you, with everything you got going on, but I was wondering if you knew anything about a building called the Louis Armstrong Apartments. Friend of mine looking at a place there.” It was an easy lie.
“Sure,” said Wagner, then stopped and looked at his office door. “Hey, Dawes, come meet my pal, Artie Cohen,” he said to the middle-aged black detective. Wagner told Dawes I’d done the translation. We shook hands.
“Artie’s been asking about the Armstrong.”
“I can’t stop long,” said Dawes. “Got to get over to my daughter’s place in Riverdale. But what’s your interest in the Armstrong?” he said, putting on his overcoat. Medium height, compact, about fifty, Dawes wore his gray hair short and had a small, trim beard.
“I have a friend who’s thinking of getting a place there.”
“I didn’t think they ever sold those apartments at the Armstrong, unless somebody dies,” said Dawes. “My aunt lived over there for quite a while. Who’s your friend, then, detective?” He was polite but distant. I got the feeling he knew I was lying, or maybe he was just in a hurry.
“Just someone I know,” I said. “Looks like you’re busy.”
“I have to get going now,” Dawes said. “But if I can help you out, Detective Cohen, please be in touch. Tell your friend if they’re thinking of moving in to the Armstrong, make sure they know what they’re doing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Great building. Definitively one of the finest. Built to show off Sugar Hill. But a lot of tension over there, old folks wanting to keep it like it is, younger people wanting to fix it up, raise the maintenance, don’t care about who gets turned out on the street. No reason not to take it if your friend can get in, but just make sure the contract’s solid,” he said. “So, if I can help, you can get my number from Captain Wagner. That your red Caddy outside, by the way?”
“Yes.”
“Nice paint job,” he said, and I suddenly knew Dawes had intended to ask me about the car from the moment he saw me.
“Thanks,” I said, as Dawes took a green peppermint out of the bowl on Wagner’s desk and left the office.
“Man, I wish he wasn’t taking off right now,” said Wagner. “He’s the best I got, but he planned this break with his family for almost nine months, ever since his oldest girl got pregnant.”
“He’s been here a while?”
“Long time. Before me. What’s with this Armstrong business?”
“Just looking for enlightenment.”
“Dawes is your guy. He’s like us; he came up through the ranks. He walked a beat down around 125th Street in the worst fucking times, late eighties, crack fucking dealers in every door. He’s good and he’s straight, and even in the bad times at this house I don’t think he ever took so much as a free cup of coffee from anyone. He’s got cast-iron morality stamped on his soul, that guy.”
“Thanks.”
“So that’s what you wanted, this thing about the Armstrong?” Wagner looked at his watch.
I didn’t move.
“Artie?”
“Yeah?”
“You wanna tell me what this is really about?”
CHAPTER 13
I told Wagner a string of little lies, just knit them together the way an old aunt of mine used to knit the hideous brown wool scarves I had to wear as a kid. “I’ve been hearing this area is really good now—they call it the New Harlem,” I said to Wagner.
He shrugged. “Lot of people coming uptown, buying in, before the crash, I mean. Nobody’s buying nothing with this subprime shit, with those bastard fucks downtown on Wall Street. I know a lot of good cops gonna lose their houses. All they care about, those fuckers like Madoff and the others, sharks, you know, bastards, is money. I’d fry them if I could, motherfucking bastards,” he said, echoing the fury of working guys all over town. “They just pocket the bonuses and leave us all swinging in the wind.” Crushing out his smoke, lighting up a fresh one, he leaned back in his chair, told me his guys had been told to give the Armstrong special attention, in case I wanted to tell my friend.
“Who told you?”
“Somebody on the City Council, far as I recall. But the Armstrong residents usually call the firehouse anyway. People don’t like calling cops, you know, Artie, not in Harlem; no love lost, right? I hear people say, ‘Well, the fire guys always show up if you’re stuck in an elevator.’ There’s people around here that still think of us as pigs, you know? I can’t help it if we have other things to take care of, like homicides, instead of getting a cat out of a tree.”
“They got cats in trees in Harlem?”
“Metaphorically, man. I mean, some old lady needs help because she got locked out, you know, Artie?” Wagner was irritated. “Me, I don’t understand if you got the dough and you could buy a house, why would you want an apartment? Everybody stacked up in boxes, one under the other, like those graves where they stick in extra people when they run out of space,” he said. “Manhattan! Well, whatever, maybe I’m just a suburban asshole that likes my privacy. My house on Staten Island is free and clear. It took me thirty years to pay it off,” he said. Wagner’s cell phone rang. He picked it up, turned to me and said, “Excuse me a sec, Artie. I got something to take care of.”
After Wagner left his office, I noticed a picture of the Twin Towers on the back wall of the office. Beside it was one of George W. Bush. Frank Sinatra was up there, the heavyset Sinatra with the rug on his head, and his signature in white. I’d seen it on a lot of walls. Also there was a color picture of Jesus with a bleeding heart, same as I always see on the wall over at Pino’s, the butcher on Sullivan Street. Finally, there was a photograph of a pair of basketball players, signed and framed. In between them stood Jimmy Wagner.
I got up and looked at it closer. The players were Earl Monroe and Amahl Washington. Both black. Both a lot taller than Jimmy.
I was interested in it bec
ause I’d always been a fan of Monroe, at least from what I read, because I never saw him play.
“She white? If you don’t mind my asking,” said Wagner returning to his office.
“Who?”
“Your friend that wants to buy into the Armstrong.”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“She’ll be fine,” Wagner said. “There’s always been white people this part of Harlem, a few now, a few more came in the housing boom, you know, fixing up stuff, designer types, actors, like that.”
“I didn’t really think about color when I asked about the building.”
“No? Well, you should always think about it, man, no matter who we elect president, and don’t get me wrong, I like Obama, OK? But no matter how many brownstones are on the market for a mill, or how many gay guys fix them up, or how many celebrities once lived on Sugar Hill, it is what it is,” he said. “This is Harlem.”
I knew that some of Wagner’s views had been formed by his time in Crown Heights, back when the Hassidic Jews and local blacks decided to try and kill each other. Back in the day, back in Brooklyn.
“You manage OK here, even with those young guys you mentioned, the kind that want to solve a homicide in a TV hour?”
“Yeah, sure, and I got at least one that’s smart as hell.” Wagner looked at me. He had an old cop’s instincts. “Maybe you know him.”
“What?
“Yeah, well, I mentioned you to him, in fact, when was it, yesterday, I was trying to get hold of you to translate that Russian thing, and he said he met you once. Name’s Radcliff. Virgil. Black guy. Very educated. It rings a bell, Artie?”
I paused, pretending to try to place Radcliff. “I don’t know, maybe I met him over at John Jay when I gave some lecture.”
“He partnered with Dawes for a while. It didn’t work out. Dawes said he wanted to work solo.”
“How come?”
“You’d have to ask him. He just said he didn’t want to work with Radcliff, and I let it lay because Dawes earned a right to what he wants.” Wagner was clearly itching to get back to work now. I asked for a cigarette. I stalled.
“So go on,” I said.
Jimmy looked at me as he tossed over a pack of smokes and I lit up. “Listen, Radcliff, he’s a good cop that joined up right after 9/11, worked like a dog, walked the beat. Dawes just doesn’t think Radcliff will stick around long. Probably go to law school or become DA. No sense of humor,” said Wagner whose phone rang again. He picked it up, listened, grunted, set it down.
“How’s that?”
“First time I met him, he tells me his name is Virgil and I say, ‘So what do they call you, do they call you Mr. Tibbs?’ From that movie. He just looks at me like I’m some weird racist motherfucker or something and says, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ In that real nice voice, no acrimony, but I got the picture. I was just kidding around, no disrespect, you know? Gives you an idea how things go up here.”
“So, if you’re white, people figure you for a racist?”
“What do you think, Artie?” said Wagner, looking toward his half-open door, where a Latino detective in a suit was waiting. “I have to go.”
I got up.
“Anything else you need, Art, you know, just let me know,” Wagner said.
“Thanks. By the way, I was looking at that picture on your wall. You know, I used to read about Earl Monroe. You knew him?”
“I was a big fan when I was younger—I mean huge. I’m telling you, I never saw anything like him. Earl the Pearl, they used to call him, or Black Magic. The crowds would just go silent, and you could hear them gasp when he was on the court.
“Who’s the other one?”
Was there a slight pause?
“Amahl Washington, played on the same team as Earl. Amahl—it was his real name. He was a gent. Matter of fact, he lived over at the Armstrong.”
“Lived?”
“He passed.”
I was interested now. “When?”
“Six months, seven.”
“What did he die of?”
“Lungs. Then liver. Cancer spread everywhere, but I never knew how sick he was. I felt really bad. But you know how us cops are, crybabies about stuff when we care. You know that, Artie. ‘You cops are such bleeding-heart liberals some of the time,’ Well, anyhow, Jesus, I hope they just give me a shot and put me out of my misery when the time comes. Poor Amahl. I really loved that guy. What a fucking talent!”
“So it seemed sudden?”
“I don’t know, these things go real fast some of the time.”
“Can you get me the name of Washington’s doctor?”
Wagner looked surprised. “Sure,” he said. “I sent some money for us over to the hospital when they set up a fund, so yeah, I got it some place. I’ll call you. What’s this about, man?”
“I’ll let you know.”
I stood out by the front door of the station house and tried to get my bearings. My car was parked at the curb. Again, I wondered vaguely why Julius Dawes had taken an interest in it, but I had something else on my mind.
Amahl Washington had died in the Armstrong from lung disease. Jimmy Wagner had been surprised he went so fast. Lily had already been in the building when it happened. She had never mentioned it. I was zipping my jacket when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped.
“You OK, man?” said Wagner, and I turned. He had a piece of paper in his hand. “I got it for you, Artie. To tell the truth, the whole thing with Amahl, it all stuck in my craw. I didn’t fucking like it, the way he went so fast. It gave me pause, you could say,” Wagner added. “Still, there was no evidence of nothing, not so far as I could see.”
“But it bugged you?”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it, end of an era.”
“So it was the cancer that finally killed him?”
“They said it was his heart gave out; he couldn’t breathe.”
“But there was something else?”
“I saw him one day, it’s a Sunday when I go over, and he’s OK. I mean, he’s sick, but he’s walking and talking, and the next day, that Monday, I get a call that Amahl passed. Fuck. You get older, it happens,” he said. “You wanted the doc’s name, I found a thank-you letter she sent us when we gave some money in Amahl’s name.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Name’s Lucille Bernard. Dr. Bernard. That help you out, Artie? That works for you?”
CHAPTER 14
In my hand was a hot pretzel with yellow mustard I bought from a guy on the corner near the hospital. I was hungry as hell. I hadn’t eaten all day. I sat in my car and ate, and tried to process what Jimmy Wagner had told me. The pretzel tasted fantastic. I washed it down with a Coke.
Lucille Bernard was Marianna Simonova’s doctor. She had treated Amahl Washington. Both of them died at the Armstrong.
As soon as I’d left the precinct, I’d tried to call Lily, see if Dr Bernard had been over to sign the death certificate. No answer. Bernard didn’t answer her phone, either. I finished the pretzel, wiped my hands on a Kleenex, and got out of my car.
Two patients stood outside the main door at Presbyterian, leaning on walkers, coats over their hospital gowns, smoking. The overhang of the roof kept the snow off them. Out for a smoke. One of them, a young woman with red hair, waved a hand at me as she saw me looking. I waved back.
Who could blame them? What else did you have by the time you were in the hospital for Christmas and needed a walker to get around? By the time you were falling apart, all you had were cigarettes. Maybe music.
Lucille Bernard’s office in the hospital was empty except for a distracted woman in jeans who told me she was gone for the day. It took me a while to find somebody else, an Indian doctor, who said Dr. Bernard was in a conference in the other building, where I went, only to discover nobody knew anything about a conference. I called Bernard again. I left another message. I got hold of a secretary and told her it was urgent. She gave me directions.
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I had to double back twice, had to cross a bridge between two buildings. Everything looked the same, everyone was in a hurry, doctors, nurses, visitors. The elevators were packed, the halls blocked by people pushing the sick on gurneys. Only the patients were still, staring at the ceiling as somebody pushed them, like trays of meat, to another part of the hospital, to surgery, or who knew where, maybe to die.
Come on!
Finally, back at Bernard’s office, I bullied a young guy, an intern, maybe, into getting her home address for me. Either my badge impressed him, or he didn’t care, and he simply walked into her office and looked in her Rolodex, and as he came out, I noticed a woman with little piggy eyes and a pinched mouth watching us. I didn’t care. At least I got a smile and a cookie in the shape of a Christmas tree from a small, sexy nurse. I ate the cookie. It had red sugar on it.
When I got into my car and looked in the rear view, I saw red sprinkles all over my mouth and I laughed at myself, first time that day, then wiped it off with a Kleenex I found in the glove compartment, put a CD into the slot, and listened to Louis Armstrong. “West End Blues” cheered me up even more than the cookie.
Twenty minutes later, I was on 139th Street in front of Dr. Bernard’s house. The traffic was jammed up because of the weather and hard pellets of ice hit my windshield.
“Yes?” Her voice through the door was pitched low. I knew she was looking at me through a peephole. I gave her my name and waited, looking at the beautiful brass knocker and knob, polished up to shine. The door opened a crack.
“Yes?”
I showed her my badge, and she opened the door wider to let me in. She was a tall, handsome woman of about forty. She didn’t like me the minute she saw me.
Wearing a gray suit, her hair caught back with a velvet headband, she had an impatient face.
“You better come inside,” she said, looking at the wet snow on my jacket.
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