Murder in the Manuscript Room

by Con Lehane

  Cosgrove sipped his coffee and waited. The coffee was good, like you get in the yuppie coffee places. “So what do you want from me? I don’t have anything. I don’t know what they found at the murder scene. I haven’t interviewed the suspect.”

  “You interviewed a woman at the library.” Campbell’s expression hardened. “You talk to the wise guy librarian, Ambler.”

  Cosgrove absorbed the rebuke. “The woman I interviewed, Adele Morgan, had no idea what the murdered woman was up to in the library.” He met Campbell’s gaze. “Ray Ambler made her, though.”

  Only the slightest flutter of an eyelash indicated Campbell’s irritation. “Leila’s body was found in his office. He seems to be pals with the suspect. He’s got a radical history, you know.”

  Cosgrove placed his coffee cup on the glass table in front of him. “You think he had something to do with the murder?”

  “He arranged a lawyer for the suspect. A Commie lawyer. I assume you wouldn’t discuss the case with him.” Campbell raised his eyebrows, a kind of emphasis.

  Cosgrove caught himself before he exploded. He picked up his cup and tried to take a sip, but his hand was shaking so he put it down. “You brought me in here to tell me who to talk to? Tell me over the fucking phone.” He tried again to hold back, couldn’t. He stood. “First, I know how to do my job. Second, Ray didn’t murder anyone and if he did wouldn’t leave the body in his office. Finally, it doesn’t make any difference if I talk to him because I don’t know a fucking thing about the case.”

  Campbell sat with his long legs crossed smoking a cigarette.

  Cosgrove braced himself, feet apart, next to the glass coffee table. “You’re not a deputy chief anymore. You’re not my boss. I’ll talk to whoever the fuck I want.” He headed toward the door. “You got a complaint take it to the Civilian Review Board.”

  When he got to the doorway, he stopped and turned. “Where’s Paul Higgins?”

  Campbell’s eyes widened. He paused, the cigarette on its way to his lips. “What do you mean?” He lost his edge. Like you’d been punching at him and nothing registered; he was impervious. Then you threw a shot, and you see it. A flinch. You’d landed. He was hit, hurt.

  “I can’t find him, thought he might be doing something with you.”

  Campbell stared. “You can’t find Paul? How long? You know where to look?”

  Cosgrove rolled his eyes. “I guess not, since I haven’t found him. If you happen to run into him, ask him to give me a call.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Campbell was off in his own world, no more aware of Cosgrove than he had been of the receptionist delivering coffee.

  Chapter 13

  Ambler visited his son at the prison in Shawangunk every month, often twice a month, and had since John was sentenced. Each visit was heart wrenching, arriving was bad, leaving worse. The expression in his son’s eyes each time he left—a kind of helplessness and at the same time expectation—was an accusation, no attempt to relieve Ambler of the guilt he felt for his part in creating the boy’s chaotic, destructive childhood.

  John had earned tickets to the honor room, where visiting was less awkward than in the main room. Seated across from one another at a small cafeteria table, they talked for a few minutes about day-to-day life in prison, John flip and nonchalant, implying he could handle it, while Ambler and most people probably couldn’t. And perhaps he was right.

  Ambler told him what Johnny had been up to, how he did in school. “He doesn’t read as much as I’d like,” Ambler said.

  “Neither did I.” John smiled.

  “He does like music.” Ambler didn’t want to bring up again that the boy was desperate to see his father, so he said, “You didn’t want to talk about Devon on the phone.”

  “The phones are bugged. What I didn’t say…” He looked over his shoulder at the guard behind him who stood like one of the carriage horses along Central Park West; you couldn’t tell if it was asleep standing up or awake and dumbly awaiting its next job. “I heard someone took out a hit on Devon.”

  “A hit?”

  “Someone from the outside hired someone inside to kill him.”

  “Heard from where?”

  John shook his head. “It’s what I heard. No reason for anyone in here to kill Devon. He was the grand old man of the joint. Out of nowhere, this guy has a beef with him?”

  “Who on the outside?”

  John’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I thought you’d know. Devon told me you were going to get him out of here.”

  Ambler looked steadily at his son. “He said he didn’t commit the murder he went to prison for. I haven’t found anything that would help. And now it’s too late.” He told John about the murder at the library, the Paul Higgins collection, and Higgins’s possible connection to Devon.

  “Paul Higgins was a narc?”

  “He was what they call a handler; he worked with the informers—confidential informants; they reported to him. Sometimes they infiltrated the mob, sometimes drug dealers, in some cases political groups. The woman murdered in the library was monitoring Muslims doing research. I don’t know if she had ever worked with Paul Higgins. Higgins denied knowing anything about Devon. I didn’t necessarily believe him.”

  After a moment, John said, “You think your guy Higgins killed the woman? Took out a contract on Devon?”

  “I have no reason to think either of those things.” He told John about Gobi Tabriz’s arrest.

  “You don’t think he killed her?”

  Ambler shrugged. “He might have. She was spying on him. So far, there’s no evidence he killed her. I started looking into the killing Devon was in prison for, barely got started, and Devon is murdered. Quite a coincidence, even before you told me it was a contract killing. Tell me about the man who killed him?”

  “Hector Perez.” John shook his head. “He’s with the Muslims.”

  “Perez? A Muslim?”

  “A convert. It happens a lot in here. Muslims are good to be in with, protection.”

  Ambler let that sink in. Muslim? Could Gobi have ordered Devon killed?

  “Are you still here?”

  John’s question startled him out of his thoughts. “Sorry. I’m trying to figure something out. Do you know how it happened, Devon’s murder?”

  John shook his head.

  “No one saw what happened?”

  John smiled. “In here, you don’t see what happens, especially not a killing.”

  “I wish I knew for sure the order to kill Devon came from the outside.”

  A guard came toward them and John stood. “I’ll find out more. It shouldn’t have happened that way with Devon. Perez needs to watch someone doesn’t take him out.” John stopped and turned as the guard approached him. “Tell the kid I’m thinking of him. Tell him I want him to do good.”

  Chapter 14

  Adele was nervous—and excited. She’d convinced Raymond she should be the one to visit Gobi. Now she wasn’t sure why she did. Was she kidding herself? Was it an attraction to Gobi she didn’t want to admit to feeling? He was intriguing. But this wasn’t important now. It was a silly thought anyway. The important thing was to help him get out of jail.

  The Metropolitan Correction Center on Park Row in lower Manhattan looked like an armed fortress—bleak and gray—drab gray walls, gray metal or plastic furniture, everything dull, dehumanizing, and depressing, no color, no comfort, everything impersonal, and hard, unfeeling, uncaring. It took longer to go through the processing than she expected. Rude, bored clerks acted like something was wrong with her if she had to visit someone in jail. Everything about the place and the process was menacing, disturbing.

  When she finally got to speak with Gobi, she saw the strain of what he was going through had beaten him down. The confident, bemused, fearsome look was gone. His shoulders were slumped, head bowed, circles under his eyes. He wore an orange jump suit that seemed to take away his personality. He looked dispirited, fragile, scared.

  “I�
��m so sorry this is happening to you.” Adele said. “It’s awful and unfair. Have you contacted your embassy?”

  “I want to thank you and Mr. Ambler for arranging the lawyer,” he said. “I dared not hope for such kindness. Mr. Levinson asked about the embassy as well. I wasn’t sure. The political situation is complicated.”

  “Are you okay? You’re not mistreated, are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you know what you’re charged with?”

  Silence and then, “Something political, I think.”

  “Do you need anything? Can I help in any way?”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  She wasn’t getting through to him. His tone was reserved, polite, formal, as if he were speaking to an official. And why shouldn’t he be careful? She was a stranger. Why had she thought otherwise? She should have let Raymond handle this. He knew about people in prison and what to do. What did she know?

  “You don’t have to answer questions.” She paused. “I guess it’s the lawyer’s job to tell you about that.” Gobi gave no indication he had anything to say, so she kept talking. “Is there anyone I can contact for you?”

  “My family is in Syria. It’s better for now they not know.”

  “Can I bring you anything? I don’t know what we’re allowed to bring. Do you have anything to read?”

  “There are books in the library. There are Muslim prayers. The first day or two—I’m not sure how many days—were not good. I was alone, moved from place to place, interrogated. I had no idea what would happen. Now it’s better. Thank you for coming. Thank you for your concern.” His eyes met hers, so hard to read what she saw in them, fear, sadness, but something else. Rage?

  “Raymond thinks Leila was spying on you.”

  He nodded.

  “You think so, too?”

  “The interrogators said she monitored my research. They asked many times what she found.” He shrugged.

  “What do they think you were doing?”

  “I told them I’m a scholar.” His expression was pained. “They have information from when I was a student in Syria—organizations I belonged to, activities they said were anti-American.”

  Adele didn’t know how to respond, so she waited through a long silence.

  “The political situation is complicated.” He paused. “I need to tell you something. I hope you’ll understand. You’ll find out soon from my interrogators.”

  He waited for Adele to say something. She knew he waited and felt tongue-tied because she didn’t know what to say. She nodded.

  “My passport is Syrian. I’m Palestinian.” His eyes searched hers. “I’m in the United States as a Syrian, so it’s easier in this country to say I’m Syrian. Palestinians travel on different passports—Jordanian, Egyptian, Syrian. Palestine cannot issue passports. Our country is occupied.”

  Once again here was someone who wasn’t who he seemed to be, deceiving her. “Are you here illegally?”

  “No.” He glanced around uneasily. “I want to ask you for something. The thing I am asking you to do might make me more suspicious in your mind. It’s a great deal to ask, for you to take me into your confidence, as I have done with you.”

  “You can ask,” Adele said. “I guess I feel that you won’t mislead me.” Did she really believe this? After Leila’s betrayal, why wouldn’t she toughen up, become more cynical, distrust until people prove themselves trustworthy? She had more reservations after Gobi made his request. She said yes because she didn’t know how to say no.

  * * *

  The favor was to retrieve something from his apartment in Bay Ridge, a section of Brooklyn, in an Arab neighborhood east of Fifth Avenue. Adele knew Fifth Avenue as a child when it was lined with Scandinavian markets, Italian restaurants, and Irish bars. She went there that evening as Gobi requested, to do what he’d asked her to do. On her way from the subway to the address he’d given her, she walked past Halal meat markets, Mediterranean restaurants, clothing stores selling kaftans, hijabs, and head scarves; on the sidewalk, she passed women in traditional Muslim dress, men speaking what she assumed was Arabic, young girls wearing hijab and niqab.

  The buzz on the street was the same as any neighborhood in the city, everyone in a hurry, bent on their own business. The street felt safe, not friendly exactly but not threatening, so she thought if she needed to she could stop someone to ask directions or advice, like which way to the subway, or is there a drug store near here, which there was.

  The brick apartment building she went to off Fifth Avenue was worn but not rundown, five stories maybe, four apartments per floor, clean, not spiffy and shiny, a rental building that hadn’t been updated; nothing in the neighborhood had been updated, the developers not venturing into Bay Ridge yet. She rang the bell under the mailbox and waited nervously. She should have called. What if his roommate wasn’t home? It was a long trek, almost an hour, and she was leaving the next morning for Texas. The door in front of her buzzed, so she opened it.

  “Who is it, please?” an accented male voice called from a couple of floors up the stairs.

  “A friend of Gobi’s,” Adele said. She looked at the name she’d written and hoped she’d pronounce it correctly. “Are you Aquib Quadir?”

  “Yes. Please come up.”

  “Would you like tea, please?” The man, who was young, slight, and bookish-looking down to his horn-rimmed glasses, ushered her to a seat on the couch. He pulled down a teapot and two small and ornate glass cups without handles from a cabinet. The cups were delicate, patterned in red and trimmed in gold.

  “Gobi asked me to get some things of his from your apartment,” Adele said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Aquib busily arranged the cups and their accoutrements. “A very disturbing situation.” He fussed with the cups and didn’t look at her. “I don’t know what to do. Gobi and I share the apartment. I don’t know him well. I hope this is a misunderstanding.”

  He placed a small, glass cup on a small table in front of the couch she sat on, another cup at the far side of the table along with a bowl of sugar and a bowl of mint leaves. Engrossed in the ritual, he seemed to find in it peace in turbulent times. He asked if he might prepare the tea for her. She said yes, regretting it as she watched him dump a shovelful of sugar into the cups. He tasted his and seemed satisfied, so she took a small sip of hers. It tasted like sugar syrup.

  She was tempted to ask him about Gobi, until she had second thoughts. Aquib was younger, more innocent seeming than Gobi, with close-cropped black hair, black eyes, a trimmed and shaped black beard. He spoke softly, carried himself gently, politely, on the border of obsequiousness. She decided to ask about him.

  He was Syrian; he told her—not Palestinian, Syrian, he said when she asked—studying engineering at Brooklyn College. His family had lived in lower Manhattan and then Bay Ridge for generations.

  “Gobi asked that I get some files from his room and that I keep his laptop for him.” She tried to sound confident to ward off the misgivings she expected Aquib to have about the request.

  He surprised her by getting up and walking to one of the bedrooms off the living room. He opened the door. “This is his room. I don’t go in. I don’t know what’s there. You can find what you’re looking for.”

  Gobi’s room was spare and neat, a double bed, made-up, an armchair, a desk with a laptop, a stack of file folders, some loose papers. A bookcase leaned against one wall, half-filled with books, stacks of papers on some of the shelves. Gobi told her the papers he wanted and the laptop would be on the desk.

  A window overlooked the street. On the other wall was a closet. Gobi told her that in the closet she’d find a leather bag she could use to carry the papers and computer. She pushed through some sports jackets, slacks, and dress shirts on hangers.

  The jackets were of a heavier material than American jackets, the cloth of the coats she associated with Europe, Eastern Europe. The one strange garment was a military jacket of some kind of thick
, stiff, dark green material, brass buttons, and some insignias she didn’t recognize. The closet smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and a pleasant incense.

  On the floor of the closet, she found a worn, lopsided, brown leather bag, shaped like a gym bag and like the suit coats it had the flavor of Eastern Europe or old Europe, the kind of valise you saw on trains in spy movies about World War II. She took it out of the closet and opened it on the bed. Some shirts were bundled up in the bottom of the bag. She began to take the bundle out before she put the papers and computer in, thinking it incongruous that the papers and computer and the clothing be in the same bag.

  She stopped when she felt something wrapped in the clothing—something heavy for its size. She unfolded everything enough to recognize the barrel of a handgun. Her heart skipped. She crumpled the clothes into a lump, pushed them back into the bag, and stuffed the files and the computer in on top of them. Halfway finished, she whipped around to make sure Aquib hadn’t seen anything, took a few deep breaths to calm down, brushed her hair back from her eyes, took a quick glance at herself in a mirror over the bureau and thought she looked a fright.

  On the slow and jerky R train back to Manhattan, she tried to understand what was happening. It was surprising the FBI, the police, or whoever they were hadn’t searched Gobi’s apartment. Yet his arrest was so strange, it might be they didn’t want to push their luck and search without a warrant.

  A good citizen, she supposed, would turn over what she found, especially the gun, to the police. She was a good citizen, law-abiding and all that, wasn’t she? Well, almost all the time. Pretty much, she sealed her fate when she agreed to take things from the apartment for Gobi. You’d have to think he asked her to do this to keep the police from finding something, including the gun.

  Certainly, she’d taken on more than she’d bargained for. If it had been Raymond who visited Gobi, he wouldn’t be smuggling papers and guns from under the nose of the police. She didn’t know if she should tell him. This was her problem, not his. She hadn’t asked for his advice and he hadn’t given it. Still, he had more experience with situations like this.