“Alma, the day the policeman was killed, you were still in the apartment when Robert went to work, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I was there until I went out about eleven thirty. I went to my mother’s.” She watched Sandro intently.
“When you went out, did you lock the windows?”
She nodded. “I always lock the windows before I go out.”
“And the safety locks, were they screwed tight?”
“Always. Before I go out, I make sure all the locks on the windows are locked. There are a lot of robberies in the building, you know? So I make sure I lock all the windows.”
“And you’re sure they were locked before you went out that day?”
“Positive. When I finally got back in at night, you know, about eight o’clock the cops let us back in, the locks were open and the gates were still shut. But I know the locks were shut tight too before I went out.”
“Okay,” Sandro said, slightly puzzled but going on. “You went to the police station that night, didn’t you, Alma?”
“Yes. I met Robert there, me and my mother.”
“Robert was there before you, right?”
“Yes. I didn’t want my mother to worry. So I went to her house first. Robert went ahead.”
“Did your mother see or have anything to do with this?”
“No. She just came with me, you know. I was scared.”
“You speak English well. Do you read English?” Sandro wanted to know if her statement would have to be taken in English or Spanish.
“Living with Robert you have to know English. I don’t think in all the time I know him, he said two words to me or my mother in Spanish. He won’t even let me speak Spanish to the children. English. They have to learn English.”
Soto smiled. Mike studied him, as if trying to figure Soto out.
“Did you see anyone else there, at the police station? Did you see Asunta there?”
“She was leavin’ the station house when I was goin’ in,” Mrs. Soto announced. “Her and the girl from downstairs in our old building.”
“Which girl from downstairs?” Sandro asked.
“You know, that guy’s wife who’s collectin’ guns,” Soto added. “They musta had everybody from the block down there that night.”
“Have you talked to that fellow any more?” Sandro asked Soto.
“No. I’ve been careful, like you told me, keeping away from him.”
Sandro returned to Mrs. Soto.
“Have you spoken to Asunta since then?”
“About this case?” she asked. She shook her head.
“How about the woman who lives across the yard?” Sandro asked. “Was she at the station house when you were there?”
“Yes, I was sitting next to her.”
“Did you speak to her while you were there?” Sandro asked.
“Sure. You know we were all talking about it, about what happened. And I was talking to her. And me and Robert talked about her.”
“At the station house?”
“No. Since then we talk about her.”
“Did she tell you what she saw that day.”
“She said she saw a colored guy on the fire escape. She was sitting sewing, and she looked up and saw this guy.”
“Did she say it was Alvarado, the man I represent? The man who was at the station house?”
“I didn’t ask her that. I don’t know. Let’s see. I think she was just saying that she saw this colored guy lookin’ out. I don’t know if she knows it was that guy or not.”
“Looking out?”
“Looking out the window. Didn’t she say that, Robert, or did you tell me that?”
“She said that,” Soto agreed.
“And later,” Mrs. Soto went on, “she saw him come down the fire escape, and she didn’t think nothing of it, you know. She thought it was the person who lived in the apartment. Then she seen him try to open the window, but he couldn’t get it open, so he went back to the roof.”
“Did she identify Alvarado?”
“I don’t know. We looked separate through the window at the police station.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
Mrs. Soto thought a moment, then shook her head.
“Do you remember seeing a car double-parked in the street that day?”
“When I came home and I couldn’t get into the house because of the police, I saw a car double-parked across the street, over by One sixty, down from the factory.”
“Alma, for my records, Mike will write down what you said, so I’ll have it and I won’t have to bother you for it. Okay?”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
Mike wrote the statement. Mrs. Soto signed the pages. Mike and Sandro bid the Sotos good-bye and left their apartment.
“Let’s get going. I’ve got something to do this afternoon, for my wife,” said Mike as they walked down the stairs. “Saturday is her day.”
“Let’s just walk over to the factory. I want to see where these women were who saw the man running along the roof.”
They walked to the front of 153 Stanton Street. Across from it was a three-story building with large doors and platforms at the street level for trucks to back into.
“You see what I see?” asked Sandro.
“The factory, you mean?”
“Yes, but look at how many floors in that factory building!”
“One, two, three. How many on this building?” Mike turned and looked up at the facade of the building where Lauria had been killed. “This one has five.”
“I know.” Sandro smiled.
“How the hell could they see someone running on the back of a roof two stories above them?”
“That I don’t know! I don’t think they could. And look at the windows on the factory. All of them are frosted, except for some where there are air-conditioners. Some windows aren’t frosted but have steel screens across them. That means even if someone was standing at those windows, they couldn’t put their head out far enough to see a car double-parked down near One sixty. That’d be down there,” said Sandro, pointing.
“That’s about a hundred feet from the factory,” Mike gauged.
“About. And on the day of the murder, it was raining heavily. Therefore, most of the windows must have been closed. Now all we have to worry about is if the women could see someone running on the roof. Come on,” said Sandro, crossing the street. They stopped at the factory and looked back and upward.
“Anybody who could see anything on that roof’d have to have eyeballs two stories high,” said Mike.
“Or an imagination the same height. Let’s go up to the roof for a minute.” They crossed again, entered 153, and walked up to the roof.
“Look at that front coping,” said Sandro. “Anything that went on on this roof happened behind that front wall. A person in the factory couldn’t see a thing up here because this is two stories higher, and there’s a seven-foot wall between. Mike, damn it, I have to hand it to you. You did it.”
“Yeah, terrific, hanh?” Mike smiled widely.
“Now we’ve eliminated the factory as a possible haven for witnesses—and also eliminated the necessity for a canvass. We’re going to need some pictures of all this, just in case those women show up in court.”
“Okay.” They started down. “But why would these women say they saw things that they couldn’t have?”
“There are lots of people who talk a lot about things after everything is over. Maybe someone from the factory was just running off at the mouth,” Sandro replied.
“Maybe Soto is giving us a snow job.”
“He’s not that bright,” Sandro replied. “He’s just a silly guy who’s trying hard to be helpful.”
“How come we took his wife’s statement and not his?” asked Mike.
“He doesn’t know anything firsthand,” Sandro replied. “He was at work, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So what he tells us gives us leads, but he can’t give any evidence
. His information is all hearsay. His wife can testify about being locked from the inside when she went out may be very valuable.”
“How do you mean?”
“Remember that she said the Italian woman across the yard told her that the man on the fire escape was in the apartment first? Then, later, he couldn’t open the windows when he was on the fire escape?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if she’s going to testify to that, we can create a lot of doubt with Mrs. Soto’s statement about the locks. If the guy had been inside first he’d know whether he had opened the locks or not. He wouldn’t have to wait until he came down the fire escape to find out. It just wouldn’t make any sense.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed as he studied Sandro. “But then how come the locks were open when Mrs. Soto came home?”
“That’s easy, Sam Spade. What time did she get home?”
“She said about eight o’clock. And there were cops all over, in and out of there after the murder, right?” Mike figured out for himself.
“Exactly. The cops must have opened and closed those windows a million times for fingerprints, pictures, all kinds of things.”
“Where to now?”
“Me, I’m going to my apartment, a nice warm bath, a warm drink, and who knows what else warm.”
“That’s a nice way for a nice Italian boy to talk. Santa Claus won’t come down your chimney.”
“Did you know that Santa Claus was Italian?” Sandro asked.
“Come on,” Mike scoffed. “He was Puerto Rican, from Ponce, I knew his sister.”
CHAPTER XXI
Santa Claus had come and gone, and Alvarado had been in the Tombs just half a year. Sandro drew his overcoat about him more snugly as he walked up the few steps to the Criminal Courts Building. The sky was overcast, and it looked as if the first snow of the new year would be coming soon. As Sandro walked the long entranceway to the front doors, he saw a swarthy man with dark glasses and a beard standing just within. He was dressed like someone who hung out on corners pushing junk.
“Hello, Charlie,” Sandro said to him.
“Hey, Sandro. How’s it going? I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been pretty tied up with some cases. I’m glad you could get over here. Where are you assigned now?”
“Over in the Delancey area. Been there for about six months.” Out of costume and role, Charlie D’Andrea was a New York City policeman. He was assigned to the narcotics squad and was one of the undercover agents who patrol the high-density drug areas, making friends of junkies, learning their buying and selling habits, ultimately arresting drug users and pushers, and all the rest of the procurers, prostitutes, and thieves on the edges of their world. These undercover agents look like, talk like, dress like rundown junkies.
“That’s exactly the section I wanted to talk to you about,” Sandro said. “But first I have to adjourn a case in One-D. You going up?”
“No, I just finished. I’ll meet you over in Happy’s,” D’Andrea suggested. Happy’s is a bar behind the courthouse frequented by policemen, D.A.’s, and lawyers on recess from the court.
When Sandro entered Happy’s, he saw Charlie D’Andrea sitting on a stool at the bar talking to one of the detectives on the D.A.’s squad. He walked over.
“Hi, Sandro,” said the other detective.
“Hello, Frank, how are you?”
“Keeping busy, what else?”
“I’ll have some cognac, Louie,” Sandro said. “See what Frank and Charlie want.” Louie poured drinks all around. “Cheers,” said D’Andrea, raising his glass. They all raised their glasses and drank.
“What’s up, Sandro?” D’Andrea now asked.
“Since you’ve been in Delancey, have you come across a junky by the name of Salerno from Stanton Street?” Sandro inquired.
“Salerno, Salerno. That sounds familiar. Where on Stanton does he live?”
“Stanton near Suffolk.”
“Yeah, I know that guy. He’s sort of a nut. Not really a nut, just a dumb kid. He’s really like a kid. What do you need?”
“Whatever you can tell me about him,” Sandro replied.
“Is it important?” D’Andrea asked.
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute, then.” D’Andrea got up and walked to the telephone booth. He closed the door. Sandro saw him dial a number.
Frank, the detective from the D.A.’s squad, was now talking to someone on his other side. At the booths around the room, many discussions of cases pending that day in court were going on simultaneously. Some detectives were explaining how they were being cross-examined by defense counsel, some defense counsel were telling other defense counsel how liberally the judge was handing out sentences this morning. Laughter exploded from the end of the bar near the front door.
D’Andrea opened the door of the phone booth and returned to the bar. “His yellow sheet reads like a junky tour guide. Mostly all drugs.” The yellow sheet is the record maintained in the police department’s Bureau of Criminal Identification for each person arrested in New York City. Each new arrest or conviction or sentence goes on it, making the yellow sheet an up-to-date criminal history. It is always printed on yellow paper. “His last arrest was 1966. He was sentenced to a year at Riker’s. He did nine months and was released last July fifteenth.”
“What date did you say?”
“July fifteenth.”
“You mean he was in jail on July third, 1967?”
“Yeah, why? What’s so important?”
“Nothing much. Somebody thought he might be a witness against me in some case, but I guess he can’t be. The crime took place on July third.”
If Salerno was in jail on July third—and the nine months preceding Lauria’s death—he couldn’t have killed Lauria; he couldn’t even have been part of the job. Sandro absently traced wet circles on the top of the bar. Why was Salerno acting so suspiciously? Perhaps, Sandro decided, he should go and see Salerno. If Salerno was in jail, he couldn’t be a people’s witness, and Sandro ran no risk of compromising himself. This story about Salerno didn’t make any more sense than the story about the gang-bang.
“Let me buy you a drink,” D’Andrea said, breaking into Sandro’s thoughts.
“No, this is on me. Louie, the same again, on my tab,” Sandro called to the bartender.
“Here’s a happy New Year, Sandro,” said Charlie.
“That’s right. Happy New Year, Charlie.” Sandro raised his glass. “Charlie, do you figure a bunch of cops would gang-rape a woman? Let’s say they were all full of piss and vinegar, worked up about something like a cop-shooting, and the woman was the wife of a defendant.”
“That depends,” Charlie answered slowly, studying Sandro’s eyes.
“Depends? On what?”
Charlie smiled. “On whether she’s a good-looking broad or not.” He shrugged.
“What can I expect from a wise-ass cop?”
“What do you want? I answered your question,” Charlie smiled.
“One other thing, while I’ve got you here. Do you know a guy named Snider who was in narco a few years ago? Had some kind of trouble.”
“No. I know the guy you mean. I heard about it, you know? But I never met him. He left before I got in the squad.”
“What kind of trouble was it?”
“I don’t know. A lot of guys were involved. A big shake-up. I think some guys were on the take. I don’t know about Snider.”
“I’ve got to run now, Charlie. Want another drink?”
“No, I got to go to court this afternoon. I don’t want the jury to sniff an alcoholic cop.”
“Thanks a lot, Charlie. I’ll talk to you soon. Louie, here’s some money, keep the change. Take care now, Charlie,” Sandro said, moving out into the street. The cold felt good, but he still had lots of questions, and not too many answers.
CHAPTER XXII
“I can’t figure that out at all,” Mike said with annoyance, as they drove toward Stant
on Street. Sandro had just finished repeating what Charlie D’Andrea had told him.
“Sorry. I know how you liked that idea.”
“Okay, so Salerno was in jail. What’s all this suspicious stuff, then, if the guy was in jail?”
“Maybe he’s just one of those people who go around confessing to different crimes for kicks, you know?”
“C’mon, Sandro, for Christ’s sake. I’m serious.”
“So am I. How else can I explain it. Unless he wasn’t in jail. Maybe D’Andrea made a mistake.”
Mike turned into Stanton Street and looked for a parking space.
“Unless he’s in with some other people who weren’t in the can,” Sandro suggested.
Mike turned in the middle of maneuvering into a tight space. “That’s a possibility.”
Sandro knocked on the door of Apartment 2B. They could hear a radio playing inside and a baby crying.
“Yeah, who is it?” demanded a female voice from inside.
“Mr. Salerno home?” Sandro inquired.
“Who is it?” the female voice demanded again. The radio had been turned down, and the baby had stopped crying.
“Mr. Luca, a lawyer,” Sandro answered.
The door opened a crack. Sandro saw an eye peer out. It was a short woman with her hair pulled tight in a ponytail. As the door opened more fully, Sandro recognized her as the young woman who had been so venomous the first night he had been in this building, the one who wanted to put Alvarado into the electric chair without a trial.
“I’m sorry,” Sandro said abruptly. “I was looking for the Salerno apartment.”
“You found it.” She was as cold and defensive as before. Mike looked at Sandro, confused.
“Is this where Salerno, I mean, Mr. Salerno, lives?”
“That’s right. What can I do for you?”
“Is he home?”
“Who is it, Carmen?” said a thin, dark-haired young man, coming to the door. He was in need of a shave and about twenty good meals.
PART 35 Page 16
