“All right,” Benny said mildly, “you don’t have to answer any more questions. I just thought you’d want to help us find out who killed Doctor Simon.”
Kane was silent.
“Hey,” the detective said, “I’m getting hungry. How about you? There’s a fast-food joint on the corner. How’s about I pick up a couple of burgers and coffee for us and bring them back here?”
“Okay,” Isaac Kane said.
Calazo brought the food and they had lunch together. An old lady wheeled up her chair and stared at the detective with ravenous eyes. He gave her his slice of dill pickle. He didn’t mention Ellerbee again, but got Kane talking about his pastels and why he did only landscapes.
“They’re pretty landscapes,” Isaac explained “Not like around here. Everything is clean and peaceful.”
“Sure it is,” the detective said. “But I notice you don’t put in any people.”
“No,” Kane said, shaking his head. “No people. Those places belong to me.”
Calazo checked with Mrs. Freylinghausen. She confirmed that Isaac Kane came in every day and stayed until the Community Center closed at nine o’clock. The detective thanked her and walked around the corner to Kane’s home, timing himself. Even at a slow stroll it took less than two minutes.
Kane lived with his mother in the basement apartment of a dilapidated brownstone on West 78th Street. It was next to an ugly furniture warehouse with rusty steel doors for trucks and sooty windows on the upper floors. Both buildings were marred with graffiti and had black plastic bags of garbage stacked in front. Some of the bags had burst or had been slashed open.
Benjamin Calazo could understand why Isaac Kane wanted to draw only pretty places, clean and peaceful.
He walked cautiously down three crumbling steps to a littered doorway. The name over the bell was barely legible. He rang, and waited. Nothing. Rang again—a good long one this time. A tattered lace curtain was yanked aside from a streaky window; a gargoyle glared at him.
Calazo held his ID close to the window. The woman tried to focus, then she disappeared. He waited hopefully. In a moment he heard the sounds of locks opening, a chain lifted. The door opened.
“Mrs. Kane?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said in a whiskey-blurred voice. “What the hell do you want?”
A boozer, he thought immediately. That’s all I need.
“Detective Benjamin Calazo, NYPD,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you about your son.”
“He ain’t here.”
“I know he’s not here,” Calazo said patiently. “I just left him at the Center. I want to talk to you about him.”
“What’s he done now?” she demanded.
“Nothing, as far as I know.”
“He’s not right in the head. He’s not responsible for anything.”
“Look,” the detective said. “Be nice. Don’t keep me standing out here in the cold. How’s about letting me in for a few questions? It won’t take long.”
She stood aside grudgingly. He stepped in, closed the door, took off his hat. The place smelled like a subway urinal—only the piss was eighty proof. The half-empty whiskey bottle was on the floor, a stack of paper cups beside it.
She saw him looking. “I got a cold,” she said. “I been sick.”
“Yeah.”
She tried a smile. Her face looked like a punched pillow. “Want a belt?” she asked.
“No, thanks. But you go ahead.”
She sat on the lumpy couch, poured herself a drink, slugged it down. She crumpled the cup in her fist, threw it negligently toward a splintered wicker wastebasket. Bull’s-eye.
“Nice shot,” Calazo said.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she said, showing a mouthful of tarnished teeth.
“Is Mr. Kane around?” the detective asked. “Your husband?”
“Yeah, he’s around. Around the world. Probably in Hong Kong by now, the son of a bitch. Good riddance.”
“Then you and your son live alone?”
“So what?”
“You on welfare?”
“Financial assistance,” she said haughtily. “We’re entitled. I’m disabled and Isaac can’t hold a job. You an investigator?”
“Not for welfare,” Calazo said. “Your son goes to the Community Center every day?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t you know?”
“He’s of age; he can go anywhere he likes.”
“What time does he leave for the Center?”
“I don’t know; I sleep late. When I wake up, he’s gone. What the hell is all this about?”
“You’re not asleep when he gets home from the Center, are you? What time does he get here?”
She peered at him through narrowed eyes, and he knew she was calculating what lies she could get away with. Not that there was any need to lie, but this woman would never tell the truth to anyone in authority if she could help it.
She stalled for time by taking another shot of the booze, crumpling the paper cup, tossing it toward the wastebasket. This time it fell short.
“No,” she said finally, “I’m not asleep in the evening. He gets home at different times.”
“Like what?”
“After nine o’clock.”
“How much after nine?”
“Different times.”
“Now I’ll tell you what this is about,” the old gumshoe said tonelessly. “This is about a murder, and if you keep jerking me around, I’m going to run your ass down to the drunk tank so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. You can dry out with all those swell people in there until you decide to answer my questions straight. Is that what you want?”
Her face twisted, and she began to cry. “You got no right to talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you any goddamned way I please,” Calazo said coldly. “You don’t mean shit to me.”
He swooped suddenly, grabbed her bottle of whiskey, headed for the stained sink in a kitchenette so malodorous he almost gagged.
She came to her feet with a howl. “What are you doing?” she screamed.
“I’m going to dump your booze,” he said. “Then go through this swamp and break every fucking jug I can find.”
“Please,” she said, “don’t do—I can’t—the check isn’t due for—I’m an old woman. What do you want to hurt an old woman for?”
“You’re an old drunk,” he said. “An old smelly drunk. No wonder your son gets out of the house every day.” He held the whiskey bottle over the sink. “What time does he get home at night?”
“At nine. A few minutes after nine.”
“Every night?”
“Yes, every night.”
He tilted the bottle, spilled a few drops.
She wailed. “Except on Fridays,” she said in a rush. “He’s late on Fridays. Then he comes home at ten, ten-thirty—like that.”
“Why is he late on Fridays? Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. I swear to God I don’t.”
“Haven’t you asked him?”
“I have, honest to God I have, but he won’t tell me.”
He stared at her a long time, then handed her the whiskey bottle. She took it with trembling claws, hugged it to her, cradling it like an infant.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Kane,” Detective Calazo said.
Outside, he walked over to Broadway, breathing deeply, trying to get rid of the stench of that shithouse. It wasn’t the worst stink he had ever smelled in his years on the Force, but it was bad enough.
He found a sidewalk telephone kiosk that worked and called his wife.
“I’m coming home for dinner, hon,” he reported, “but I’ll have to go out again for a while. You want me to pick up anything?”
“We’re having knockwurst,” she said. “There’s a little mustard left, but maybe you better get a new jar. The hot stuff you like.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “See you soon.”
T
hat night, warmed by a good solid meal (knockwurst, baked beans, sauerkraut), Calazo was back at 79th Street and Broadway by 8:30. He drove around, looking for a parking space, and ended up pulling into the driveway of the warehouse next to the Kanes’ brownstone, ignoring a big sign: NO PARKING OR STANDING AT ANY TIME.
He locked up carefully and walked back to the Community Center, taking up his station across the street. He trudged up and down to keep his feet from getting numb, but never took his eyes off the lighted windows of the Center for more than a few seconds.
The Medical Examiner had said that Simon Ellerbee had died at 9:00 P.M. But that was an estimate; it could be off by a half-hour either way. Maybe more.
So if Isaac Kane had left the Community Center at nine o’clock on that Friday night, he could have made it across town to East 84th Street, bashed in Ellerbee’s skull, and been home by 10:00, 10:30. Easily. Benny Calazo didn’t think the boy did it, but he could have.
The lights in the Center began to darken. Calazo leaned against a mailbox, chewing on a cold cigar, and waited. A lot of people came out, one on crutches, two using walkers. Then Isaac appeared.
The detective crossed the street and tailed him. It didn’t take long. Isaac went directly home. Calazo got into his parked car and watched. He sat there until 10:30, freezing his buns. Then he drove home.
That was on a Wednesday night. The detective spent Thursday morning and afternoon checking out Kane at the clinic where he had met with Dr. Ellerbee. They wouldn’t show him Kane’s file, but Calazo talked to several people who knew him.
They confirmed that Isaac was usually a quiet, peaceable kid, but had occasional fits of uncontrollable violence during which he physically attacked doctors and nurses. Once he had to be forcibly sedated.
On Thursday night, Calazo went through the same drill again: tailing Kane home from the Community Center, then waiting to see if he came out of the brownstone again. Nothing.
He took up his post a little earlier on Friday evening, figuring if anything was going to happen, it would be on that night.
Isaac Kane left the Center a few minutes before nine o’clock. Calazo got a good look at him from across the street. He was all dolled-up, with a tweed cap, clean parka, denim jeans. He was carrying a package under his arm. It looked like one of his pastels wrapped in brown paper.
He turned in the opposite direction, away from his home, and Calazo went after him. He tailed Kane uptown on Broadway to 83rd Street, and west toward the river. Isaac crossed West End Avenue, then went into a neat brownstone halfway down the block.
The detective slowed his pace, then sauntered by the brownstone, noting the address. Kane was not in the vestibule or lobby. Calazo took up his patrol across the street, lighting a cigar, and walking heavily up and down to keep the circulation going. He wondered how many miles he had plodded like this in his lifetime as a cop. Well, in another month it would be all over.
Kane came out of the brownstone about 10:15. He was no longer carrying the package. Calazo tailed him back to his 78th Street home. When Isaac was inside, the detective went home, too.
He was out early the next morning and parked near the neat brownstone on West 83rd Street a few minutes before 8:00 A.M. He figured that most people would be home at that hour on a Saturday. He went into the vestibule and examined the bell plate. There were twelve apartments.
He began ringing, starting at the top and working his way down. Every time the squawk box clicked on and someone said, “Who is it?,” Calazo would say, “I’d like to talk to you about Isaac Kane.” He got answers like “Who?” “Never heard of him.” “Get lost.” “You have the wrong apartment.” And a lot of disconnects.
Finally he pushed the 4-B bell. A woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?,” the detective said, “I’d like to talk to you about Isaac Kane,” and the woman replied anxiously, “Has anything happened to him?” Bingo. The names opposite the bell were Mr. & Mrs. Judson Beele and Evelyn Packard.
“This is Detective Benjamin Calazo of the New York Police Department,” he said slowly and distinctly. “It is important that I speak to you concerning Isaac Kane. Will you let me come up please? I will show you my identification.”
There was a long silence. Calazo waited patiently. He was good at that. Then the door lock buzzed, he pushed his way in, and clumped up the stairs to the fourth floor.
There was a man standing in the hallway outside apartment 4-B. He was wearing a flannel bathrobe and carpet slippers. A Caspar Milquetoast with rimless glasses, a fringe of fluff around his pale scalp, and some hair on his upper lip that yearned to be a mustache and didn’t quite make it. Calazo thought a strong wind would blow the guy away.
He proffered his ID and the man examined the wallet carefully before he handed it back.
“I’m Judson Beele,” he said nervously. “What’s this all about? You mentioned Isaac Kane to my wife.”
“Could I come in for a few minutes?” the detective asked pleasantly. “It shouldn’t take long.”
There were two women in the warm, comfortable living room. Both were in bathrobes and slippers. A hatchet-faced blonde, smoking a cigarette in a long holder, was standing. The other, younger, with softer features, was in a wheelchair. There was an afghan across her lap, concealing her legs.
Beele made the introductions. The blonde was his wife, Teresa. The girl in the wheelchair was his wife’s sister, Evelyn Packard. Calazo bowed to both women, smiling. Like most veteran detectives, he knew when to play Mr. Nasty and when to play Mr. Nice. He reckoned niceness would do for this household. That wife looked like she had a spine.
“I want to apologize for disturbing you at this hour,” he said smoothly. “But it’s a matter of some importance concerning Isaac Kane.”
“Is Isaac all right?” a jittery Evelyn Packard said. “He hasn’t been in an accident, has he?”
“Oh, no,” Calazo said, “nothing like that. He’s fine, as far as I know. Could I sit down for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” the wife said. “Let me have your hat and coat. We were just having coffee. Would you care for a cup?”
“That would be fine. Black, please.”
“Judson,” she said, “bring the coffee.”
Calazo made a few comments about the weather and what an attractive home they had. Meanwhile he was taking them in, trying to figure the tensions there, and also eyeballing the apartment. The first things he noted were five of Isaac’s pastels on the walls. Someone had done a nice job framing them.
“Good coffee,” he said. “Thank you. Well, about Isaac Kane … I notice you have some of his drawings here. Pretty things, aren’t they?”
“They’re beautiful!” Evelyn burst out. “Isaac is a genius.”
Her sister laughed lightly. “Picasso he ain’t, dear,” she advised. “They’re really quite commercial. But remarkable, I admit, considering his—his background.”
“I’ve been thinking of buying one of his things,” the detective said. “Would you mind if I asked how much you paid for these? Without the frames.”
“Oh, we didn’t buy them,” Teresa Beele said. “They were gifts to Evelyn. Isaac is madly in love with her.”
“Teresa!” her sister said, blushing. “You know that’s not so.”
“It is so. I see how he looks at you.”
“Isaac is a lonely boy,” Judson Beele said in a troubled voice. “I don’t think he has many friends. Evelyn is …” He didn’t finish.
Calazo turned to the young woman in the wheelchair. “How did you meet him, Miss Packard?”
“At the Center. Teresa took me there once, and I never want to go again; it’s so depressing. But I met Isaac, and he asked if he could come visit me.”
“A perfect match,” her sister murmured, fitting another cigarette into the long holder.
Bitch, Calazo thought. “And how long have you known him, Miss Packard?”
“Oh, it’s been about six months now. Hasn’t it, Judson?”
“
About,” her brother-in-law said, nodding. Then to Calazo: “Can you tell us what this is all about?”
“In a minute,” the detective said. “Does he come to visit you every Friday night, Miss Packard?”
“He comes a-courting,” Teresa said blithely, and Calazo realized he could learn to hate that woman with very little effort.
“Yes,” the girl in the wheelchair said, lifting her chin. “He visits on Friday night.”
“Every Friday night? Hasn’t he ever missed? Come to see you some other night?”
She shook her head. “No. Always on Friday night.” She looked at the other two. “Isn’t that right?”
They agreed. Isaac Kane visited only on Friday nights. Every Friday night. For almost six months.
“You’re always here when he comes?” Calazo asked the Beeles. “You’re never out—to a movie or somewhere else?”
“We’re here,” the wife said grimly. “I wouldn’t leave Evelyn alone with that person. Considering his mental condition, I think it best that we be present.”
“Teresa!” her sister said angrily. “Isaac has always been perfectly well behaved.”
“Still, you never know with people like that.”
“Look,” Calazo said. “There was a very minor robbery in the brownstone where Kane lives. It doesn’t amount to much, but it’s my job to check the whereabouts of everyone in the building at the time it happened. It was four weeks ago, at about nine-thirty on a Friday night.”
“He was here,” Evelyn said, promptly and firmly. “He couldn’t have done it because he was here. Besides, Isaac wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“All of you would swear that he was here?” the detective said, looking from one to another.
They nodded.
It wasn’t complete. It wasn’t absolutely perfect. But it never was. There were always possibilities: forgetfulness, deliberate lying, unknown motives. But it would take a hundred years to track down everything, and even then there might be blanks, questions, doubts.
Calazo couldn’t recall ever clearing a case where every goddamned thing was tied up neatly. You went so far and then decided on the preponderance of evidence and your own instinct. There came a time when more investigation and more and more was just gunning an engine with no forward motion: a waste of time.
Fourth Deadly Sin Page 21
