Murder at the 42nd Street Library

by Con Lehane

  Ambler lowered the papers he’d been sorting through, to scrutinize Adele as if he weren’t quite sure what he’d heard.

  “Sorry.” She tossed her head like a pony and headed for the door. “An old Brooklyn expression.”

  As the morning wore on, everyone who worked in the library, it seemed, stopped by his desk, assuming—for no sensible reason—that he knew more than they did about the murder. He told them he had no idea what happened but that in most murders the victim knows the killer, so they shouldn’t suspect a killer with a vendetta against the library was on the loose and would pick them off one by one. He doubted he convinced anyone. For most of the day, the snaps and clicks of office door locks echoed along the marble hallways.

  The afternoon sunny and mild after the chilly drizzle of the day before, he took his lunch to the terrace behind the library overlooking Bryant Park, where he often sat before work or after lunch in nice weather. A panhandler stumbling past reminded him of the morning he first came to work at the library. On that morning in the mid eighties, you couldn’t take three steps into Bryant Park before being accosted by a herd of winos looking for handouts or a parade of skinny, nervous kids whispering, “smoke.” A murder wouldn’t have been out of place in those days.

  A freshly sodded lawn, wrought iron tables and café chairs, sculpted ivy beds, a small, cheerful merry-go-round, and fashionable Manhattanites sipping lattes from the kiosk near Sixth Avenue replaced the scraggly bushes, plastic garbage bags, beer cans, pint wine bottles, used rubbers, and sleeping winos one would have found in the park in those days. Little did he know when it began that the restoration of the park in the early nineties was a harbinger of the sanitizing and homogenizing that would turn Times Square—and soon the rest of Manhattan—into the Mall of America.

  Looking up from his ham and brie sandwich—whatever happened to Swiss—he saw a truculent looking man in a well-worn trench coat, open like a sail, striding in his direction and recognized Mike Cosgrove of the NYPD homicide squad.

  “Got a minute?” Cosgrove said. The detective’s twenty-plus years of dead bodies and senseless killings were carved into his face, his dark eyes blazed out of deep sockets like polished black stones, his hair, now steel gray, was still in the marine crew cut he’d worn in Vietnam. He’d given up smoking some years back, substituting toothpicks, one of which danced across his lips.

  “Good to see you, too, Mike.” Ambler smiled. Despite their differences in almost all ways possible, he liked Mike Cosgrove. Besides being the only NYPD homicide detective who didn’t go ballistic when he tried out his ideas on crime detection on cases he worked on, Mike was observant, and thoughtful—and not always so sure he was right. He pondered things. He had imagination.

  They’d met a few years before when Ambler began an investigation on a whim after reading about the death of a man in Kips Bay. He was intrigued by a photo of the widow in the Daily News because of something peculiar in the expression of the man standing behind her. Her husband, the man who was killed, a financier, was run over by a cab on Park Avenue South on a rainy night.

  The incident made the tabloids because of the size of the insurance policy he carried—five million dollars—and the fact that the policy contained a double indemnity clause. The coincidence was so glaring he began to look into the accident. He discovered the victim died of a broken neck—not unheard of in a pedestrian fatality but not that usual either. When he phoned the NYPD detective in charge of the case, he met Mike Cosgrove. They compared notes. Later, Cosgrove found the widow and the lawyer vacationing in Cancún. The rest was history.

  Cosgrove’s expression didn’t change. He nodded in the direction of the library. “In there, when I ask a question, everyone says talk to you. They think you’re in charge of the investigation.”

  Ambler laughed.

  Cosgrove gestured with his head, this time toward the park.

  “Everyone’s nervous,” Ambler said as they walked down the steps and onto the gravel walk that bordered the central lawn.

  “They should be.” Cosgrove’s hard-eyed stare took in the tourists strolling through the park and the office workers hurrying along the sidewalk on 40th Street alongside the park. A blaring horn from a delivery truck stuck in traffic interrupted the steady hum of the city. “So, what happened?”

  Ambler shook his head. “All I know is rumors.”

  “We’ll get to the rumors. What do you know about the victim?”

  “Almost nothing. I’m told he was the ex-husband of a reader in the library.”

  “A reader?”

  “That’s what we call our patrons. Kay Donnelly. She’s doing research.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  Cosgrove raised his eyebrows. “Is she your suspect? An ex-husband fits for a victim who brought it on himself.”

  Ambler shook his head. “That’s not exactly my theory.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “From the little I’ve seen of her, she’s intense, driven, aloof, like a lot of women who’ve worked their way up in the halls of academe. She’s an assistant—or as they say in those circles a junior colleague—of Maximilian Wagner, who’s writing a biography of Nelson Yates, a writer whose papers the library recently acquired.”

  “The victim, James Donnelly, was a writer.”

  Ambler shook his head. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “What about Maximilian Wagner, the guy you mentioned?”

  Ambler stopped walking. He had a lot to say about Max Wagner, not anything to do with the murder though. “He calls himself a literary biographer. Actually, he’s a scandal-mongering sensationalist posing as a scholar.”

  “Am I picking up distaste?”

  Ambler smiled. “There you go with those powers of detection.”

  “This Nelson Yates is one of yours, a mystery writer?”

  Ambler nodded. “Maybe the best of his generation.”

  “You know him?”

  He’d like to say he did. A few years ago, he’d interviewed Yates at a library forum. They’d had dinner and drinks afterward, and talked well into the evening. After that, he’d emailed the writer a couple of times when one of his books came out, and Yates responded with thanks and a suggestion they get together again one day for a drink. You wouldn’t call them friends. Yet Harry said that during the negotiations for his papers Yates asked if Ambler was still in charge of the crime fiction collection.

  “We’ve met,” he told Cosgrove. “Had dinner and a couple of drinks together. Having a drink with a hero … like you slugging down shots and beers with Dirty Harry.”

  Cosgrove chuckled.

  Another reason he liked Cosgrove, not what you’d expect; he got the irony of things.

  “How about Larkin, the ex-priest, the director of whatever it is—”

  “Special Collections.”

  “Collections. Who’d want to kill him?”

  Ambler stopped. Harry? Kill Harry? “No one. He’s a saint.”

  Cosgrove grunted. “Saints get killed, too. That’s how some of ’em got their positions. Whoever killed Donnelly took a couple of shots at the Jesuit.”

  Ambler considered this. Harry didn’t mention it. “Maybe because he was a witness.”

  “Maybe. Was there some trouble with the deal for that Yates collection? Do people fight over that kind of stuff?”

  Cosgrove was good, no denying it. If it was something connected to his case, he caught it. If he didn’t hear it or see it, he smelled it in the air. There was competition for the Yates papers. The acquisition was unusual—an anonymous donor provided the funding, everything done quietly, not exactly secretly, but without fanfare. Since Yates would be part of the crime fiction collection, Ambler should have been involved in the acquisition. But he wasn’t. At one point, there was a problem—meetings behind closed doors, Harry hurrying out of the library unexpectedly two or three times. No one told Ambler anything. Harry made clear he should
n’t ask. Then, it was over. The library had the collection. He told Cosgrove what he knew.

  “Donnelly, the victim, had an interest in the Yates collection. It might not mean anything. Could be he has a current wife who wanted him killed. He might have stepped on someone’s toe on the way into the library. That’s a killing they had up in the Bronx last week, only at a bodega not a library.”

  When they started walking again, Cosgrove was quiet, but Ambler knew what was coming. “Are you going to get involved in this one, Ray?”

  Now it was his turn to be quiet. Even before Cosgrove told him the killer shot at Harry, he was troubled. Surely, a killer could find a better place than the library to do his work—unless the killer was already there, hidden among the staff like the purloined letter.

  “Are you telling me not to?”

  “Would it do any good?” Ambler followed Cosgrove’s gaze as he looked out over the newly sodded, bright green lawn at the center of the park. A small fence of thin rope, no more than a foot off the ground, girded the lawn; small signs asked folks to stay off the new grass until it established its roots. “One more thing … a witness said the victim was carrying a briefcase when he got to the library. We didn’t find it on or near the body. Larkin says he didn’t see a bag.”

  Ambler raised his eyebrows.

  They’d circled the park twice and walked to the corner of Fifth Avenue near the library’s main entrance. Cosgrove stopped and watched a man getting a shoeshine on the stand near the corner. “Maybe the friar will open up to you.”

  “You’ve lifted the ban on my butting into your investigations?”

  “No. We’re better at this than you are. You got lucky a couple of times and helped. You as easily could’ve gotten yourself or someone else dead, not to mention contaminating evidence, tipping off suspects, or finding other ways to fuck up an investigation.”

  “I never thought otherwise.”

  Their eyes held, until Cosgrove broke off with a slight smile. “Okay, my friend, what’s next on the recommended reading list?”

  “Try Yates.”

  After watching Cosgrove walk away down Fifth Avenue, Ambler stood for a moment in front of the library, taking in the grandeur of the building—the lions, Patience and Fortitude, standing guard, the marble steps, the massive bronze doors, the flow of tourists up and down the stairs. Mike didn’t usually tell him any more about an investigation than he’d tell the press—things that were public. This was understood between them. He’d listen to what Ambler had to say. He might even ask Ambler what he thought of something. Ambler knew not to ask him anything beyond that about a police matter.

  What he knew after talking to Mike was that the victim was a writer, had an interest in the Yates collection, and had been carrying a book bag or briefcase that disappeared. He’d also learned that the killer fired shots at Harry. Harry hadn’t told him any of this. But then he hadn’t asked him about the murder yet.

  * * *

  Near the end of the day, Ambler stopped by Harry’s office, hesitating for a moment in the doorway to watch Harry, who was working at his computer and didn’t hear him come in. He cleared his throat and knocked on the doorjamb. “Jesus, Harry! After what happened I’d think you’d be more aware of someone at your door.”

  Harry looked up. “I was sending an e-mail.”

  “The police think someone tried to kill you.”

  “No one tried to kill me.”

  “Someone shot at you.”

  Harry swiveled his chair to face Ambler. “You don’t have to tell me. I assume it was a warning not to follow.”

  Ambler searched Harry’s face. Something was wrong; some pain in his usually mild expression made him look older and careworn. “Do you mind telling me what happened with the shooting?”

  “I’ve told the police everything I remember.”

  “You might have missed something … something that might prevent another murder.”

  Harry cringed. “I don’t believe that. Why would there be another murder? That’s your imagination again. This isn’t a detective novel.”

  “Why did James Donnelly come to your office?”

  “I don’t know.” Irritation edged Harry’s voice.

  “Was it about the Yates papers?”

  “Why do you ask that?” Here it was again, something hanging in the air unsaid. It was like he was visiting a friend with an illness neither of them wanted to talk about.

  “Mike Cosgrove said Donnelly had an interest in the collection.”

  Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “The killer shot Donnelly, not me.”

  “That’s why I asked. What did the shooting have to do with the Yates collection?”

  Harry didn’t hide his impatience. “The person who did the shooting didn’t make a speech. Asking me a lot of question won’t change that. And I have work to do—and so do you.”

  Ambler was out of sorts when he went back to his desk. He browsed through an auction catalog, but his attention wandered. What the hell was going on with Harry? He was too guileless to get away with a cover-up—and what in God’s name would he be covering up—but that’s exactly what he was doing. Asked an innocuous question, he squirmed like he was getting the third degree.

  Chapter 3

  Ambler got to the Library Tavern that evening as cocktail hour was winding down, a more subdued and more relaxed gathering than during the week. McNulty the bartender glanced in his direction, the glance noting his arrival and suggesting he take his seat and wait until McNulty got to him, which wouldn’t be long.

  Brian McNulty was an old-school bartender who ruled over his establishment as if it were a fiefdom bestowed on him, rather than a job. The bar owners had given up trying to rein him in, since as curmudgeonly as he was, fully three quarters of the bar’s patrons came specifically to see the bartender. Not much of a glad-hander, he earned the loyalty of the after-work crowd by his craftsmanship and by his sincere interest in those things the folks who frequented his bar wanted to tell him.

  Ambler sat down. As he expected, before he was fully settled in, McNulty delivered his beer. A few minutes later, Adele came through the door. She squinted at Ambler. “What’s the matter with you? Pretty soon, you’ll be as grumpy as McNulty.”

  The bartender, not far away, shot her a mildly reproachful glance and went back to making the drinks a waitress had ordered. Finished, he sauntered over. “Did you take a number when you came in?”

  “I don’t want a beer. I want to try a new drink. Cognac and Coke.” Adele was searching through her bag.

  McNulty shook his head. “I’m not going to make that. It’s a waste of Cognac.”

  She poked her head out of her purse. “I’m paying for it.”

  McNulty, both hands on the bar, bent toward her. “Drink the Cognac straight, in a snifter. With Coke have rum, if you must.”

  She turned to Ambler. “Is he like this to you?”

  “Some days he’s touchier than others.”

  “I’ll go back to having a beer.”

  McNulty drew the beer and delivered it, taking a moment to lean on the bar in front of them. His hair was long enough to be considered shaggy, his expression somewhere between bored and impatient, his manner bordered on surly. What gave him away was the twinkling in those Irish blue eyes. “Doesn’t she brighten up the evening?” he asked Ambler while looking at Adele, who smiled.

  “What have you heard about the shooting in the library?” Ambler asked the bartender. He’d known McNulty a long time. A journeyman bartender and Equity-card carrying actor, the son of a card-carrying Communist, McNulty had had run-ins with, and at times ran with, any number of denizens of the mean streets. He’d also read half the books in Ambler’s crime collection.

  “I got something. Hang on a minute.” He turned and walked to the service bar where two waitresses stood patiently. Neither had called him. They’d waited only a few seconds.

  “He saw those servers out the back of his head,” Adel
e said.

  They sipped their beers watching McNulty.

  “I had a strange conversation with Harry this afternoon,” Ambler said. “I asked him about the shooting and he didn’t want to talk about it. You’d think he’d be more concerned that someone shot at him.”

  Adele jolted up straight. “Someone shot at him?”

  Ambler nodded. “Mike Cosgrove said the victim was interested in the Yates collection. Harry didn’t want to talk about that either.” He waited for her reaction. She’d been privy to some of the hush-hush negotiations over the Yates papers.

  “That’s strange.” She paused. “That the man who was killed was interested in Nelson Yates is strange, not that Harry wouldn’t talk about it. He’s not supposed to.”

  “Someone didn’t want the library to get the donation, right?”

  “Nelson Yates didn’t donate his papers. We paid for the collection.” She paused, as they watched McNulty shaking a cocktail. “His wife, Mary, didn’t want the papers to go to us. Someone else—I don’t know who—made a fuss. Harry thought the deal might fall through. Then, we met with the donor—”

  “The donor—”

  Adele rolled her eyes. “Don’t grill me, Sherlock.” She put her hand on top of his to quiet him. “The funding came from a donor who doesn’t want her name revealed.”

  “Do you know who the donor is? A her?”

  “Anonymous, Raymond. An anonymous donor.” She made a sour face. After another moment, she grabbed his forearm with both hands. “Guess what?”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “I’m moving to Manhattan.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know. The rents are shocking. But I really want to live here. How about if I move in with you?”

  Ambler felt a rush of panic.

  She giggled. “You turned as white as a ghost.” She peered into his eyes. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

  “No. No.… No. You’re not bad at all. It’s … It’s just—”

  “Stop. I was kidding. I wouldn’t want to live with you. You’re too grouchy.”