Fresh Slices

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  The burger was good. The coffee so-so, but I sipped and made a to-do list: request uniforms to finish canvassing the boats tonight, confirm that SCU checked the underground garage, get a picture of the young woman, and come back to the café later this evening to question the help and the patrons.

  ELEVEN o’clock on a weeknight, and the Marina Café was hopping. Groups of drinking and flirting patrons, waiting for tables, filled the wide staircase up to the outdoor terrace. I went inside, or sort of inside, to the cave-like, brick-ceilinged area without walls. The din was unbearable. Yet the tables were all full, and the bar was invisible behind a ten-deep wall of men and women clumped into groups, leaning in close to shout in each other’s ear. I elbowed my way to the bar, and nobody even noticed the elbows. When I finally got the barmaid’s attention, I shouted my order for a San Pellegrino. A second later, she slammed the bottle down and did an impatient tap dance while I retrieved my money. I flashed the girl’s picture.

  She shook her head, grabbed my cash and the picture, which she showed to the three male bartenders as they flew by. Three no’s. As fast as the bartenders moved, the customers probably looked like a big blur. She handed the picture back and leaned close to my ear. “Ask Marie, the manager, or Frank, the assistant manager. They keep tabs on people.” She indicated a man in a long-sleeved shirt, standing alone.

  I sauntered over with my fizzy water and pointed outside the echo-chamber. He nodded and followed me. The noise level was a few decibels lower, but out here, we had to deal with the sounds of cars whizzing by overhead on the West Side Highway. I introduced myself.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Ever seen this girl?”

  He took the picture and stared a long time before handing it back. “She comes in a lot. Her name is Susan. Susan Liu. Not a good picture.”

  Yeah, not too many people look good dead. “When did you see her last?”

  “Last night. What she do?”

  “What do you think she did?”

  He shrugged. “I figure if a detective is looking for her, she’s in trouble.”

  “Who was she with?”

  He made a face, like he smelled something bad. “This guy, Terry, thinks he’s Frank Sinatra, a real ladies’ man.” He chewed his thumb. “Haven’t seen either of them tonight.”

  “What’s Terry’s last name?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “I didn’t notice. Marie would know, she keeps her eye on Terry. I’ll send her over.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “Need another drink?”

  I handed him my empty. “Another San Pellegrino would be great.”

  After he left, I realized I never told him Susan was dead. A minute later, Marie arrived with a bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass of ice. She was striking: nearly six-feet tall, with tons of dark curly hair haloing her heavily made-up face. Despite the heat, she was wearing jeans, a jacket, and cowboy boots. Just looking at her made me sweat. I identified myself, showed Susan’s picture.

  “Did you see her last night?”

  She lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled before answering. “Yes.”

  “Who was she with?”

  She took another drag. Her eyes met mine. “Is Susan in trouble?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “A sleaze-bag named Terry. I warned her about him.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Likes to put roofies in girl’s drinks. I told him, next complaint, he’s eighty-sixed.”

  “And?”

  “No more complaints, but I don’t trust him.”

  “Did Susan leave with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Know his last name and where he lives?”

  “No to both. So what’s going on?”

  “Susan was murdered.”

  “Oh, shit. Last night? In the park?” She swayed, grabbed my shoulder. “It was him. I knew he—”

  “Right now we’re tracing her movements. But I would like to talk to Terry. Call me if he comes in.” I gave her my card.

  She nodded, wiped a few tears, and went back to work.

  I found Frank. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Susan was murdered last night.”

  He paled. “Oh, God. Where?”

  “In the park.”

  He wiped his face. I couldn’t tell if it was tears or sweat. His eyes followed me as I showed her picture as best I could in the mob, but it was a waste of time, so I left.

  It was late, but Carter’s boat was lit up, so I took a chance.

  She was alone on the deck. She smiled and invited me to sit.

  “Her name was Susan Liu. She hung out at the café, and last night she left with a guy named Terry.”

  “Good work.”

  “Now that I have her name, I’ll find her apartment. And I’ll get some help, tomorrow night, to talk to the customers at the café, see if we can find Terry.”

  “Have you talked to the homeless people in the park?”

  “I haven’t seen any.”

  “It’s not unusual for them to witness something, because they fade into the landscape and people don’t notice them. They’re afraid of cops, but if you approach them with respect, you might get cooperation. Just don’t let Quinn near them.”

  I SPENT the next day in court, waiting to testify on another case, and when I got back to my desk at five, I almost missed the tiny sticky note that said, ‘Killer in cell 2, process him.’ No signature. Quinn had arrested someone for the murder? I was flabbergasted. Quinn, of course, was gone, and I couldn’t reach him to ask what convinced him this guy was the killer. I scrounged around and found the reports, hidden under a grimy pair of shoes in his desk drawer.

  An officer, canvassing in the park, had noticed a large purse around the neck of a homeless man called Buffalo Dog. When asked about it, Buffalo Dog refused to answer, just repeated the question, so they brought him in. The purse contained Susan’s wallet, with credit cards and four hundred in twenties. When they searched the many bags Buffalo carried, they found a pair of size-six spiked heels. Susan’s size. So Quinn wanted him booked for murder. Simple.

  Too simple for me. I called Carter.

  “Hi, it’s Cappy Jones. I’ve been in court all day, and I just found out that Quinn arrested a homeless guy . . . um, Buffalo Dog. He had Susan’s pocketbook and a pair of high heels in her size.”

  “Talk to Buffalo. See what you think, Cappy.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes.”

  I sensed a story behind that yes, so I kept quiet.

  Carter sighed. “Buffalo was one of the homeless people who chased my attackers and saved my life.”

  As I stepped into the interview room, I was assaulted by the reek: putrid vegetables; wet dog; moldy mattress; crusty, unwashed body; and clothes so filthy they may have never been exposed to water other than rain or snow. I adjusted my breathing to shallow and began, hoping I wouldn’t vomit before I finished interrogating him.

  He was standing nose to the wall, arms extended.

  I stared at his huge back. One swat of that powerful arm and I’d be dead. I glanced at the two-way mirror, then reminded myself that this man saved Stanhope’s life. I moved closer and spoke to his back. “Buffalo, I’m Detective Jones. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Ask me questions, ask me questions.”

  “Did you see,” I slipped the picture between his face and the wall, “this young woman, Tuesday night?” I was encouraged when he tipped his head back to look at the picture.

  He spun suddenly, and I did a quick two-step to avoid being trampled.

  “Come fly with me. Come fly with me.”

  “Buffalo, did you see this woman?”

  “Come fly with me. Come fly with me.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t get anything else out of him. I sent him back to his cell, and after holding my head out the window for f
ive minutes, trying to get the stench out of my nostrils, I moved to Quinn’s desk. Maybe because Buffalo had saved Carter’s life. Maybe because he hadn’t hidden the evidence. Or maybe because his clothes looked and smelled as if they hadn’t been washed in years, and he didn’t seem to have a spot of blood on him, I was still on the case.

  I picked through the reports. No address book or cell phone in her purse. The ID in her wallet wasn’t current. No help there. As I shoved the reports back, I noticed a stack of pink telephone messages. I thumbed through them. Hah, a friend of Susan Liu’s had called at four-thirty. I’d have bet a week’s salary that Quinn was long gone by then. I copied her address and headed out.

  When I arrived at Ricki Leung’s Seventy-third Street apartment, I learned that Susan had been something of a free spirit, a non-monogamous bisexual, who lived with her latest hot-sex partner only until she found someone else. Then, she changed partners. Recently, Susan had a problem with someone who wouldn’t let her go, but Ricki couldn’t remember who. The only names Ricki remembered were Tony, Carol, Frank, and Terry, a guy with a boat. I thanked her and drove to the boat basin.

  When I mentioned Terry, the dockmaster buzzed me through and pointed me to the Come Fly with Me. So, Buffalo wasn’t so crazy after all. I boarded.

  “I was expecting you,” Terry said.

  “But you didn’t call?”

  “I left a message for a Detective Quinn as soon as I heard.”

  “You were with Susan last night?”

  “Yeah. We came here, had fabulous sex, then fell asleep. When I woke up a couple of hours later, Susan had almost finished a whole bottle of Bourbon. I said I would shower and then drive her home, but she was gone by the time I got dressed. I figured she’d be at the café, but I found her sleeping under a tree, near the stairs. I couldn’t wake her, and rather than leave her, I went up to the café to tell Marie and Frank where she was. I knew one of them would take care of her.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I drove to my, ah, to a friend’s to spend the night.”

  “I need your friend’s name and contact info.”

  He looked away. “My fiancé will be upset if you call.”

  “How upset will she be if you’re charged with murder?”

  “Can’t you ask Marie or Frank?”

  “The name and number, please.”

  His fiancé confirmed his story. I warned him not leave town, then I went to the café to talk to Marie and Frank. But she had taken the night off, and he had called in sick, so I chatted with the maître d’ and a couple of waitresses.

  On the way back to my car, it dawned on me. If Buffalo was nearby, then perhaps others were as well. After an hour of wandering around Riverside Park, I saw a guy on a bench with two mangy dogs and an empty whisky bottle beside him. He had really long dreads, but looked more pulled together than Buffalo Dog. And he didn’t smell nearly as bad. It’s all relative, though. I sat, so I wouldn’t tower over him.

  “Excuse me, are you Gentleman Gerry?”

  “Who’s askin’?” He sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles.

  “Detective Cappy Jones. Detective Stanhope suggested I talk to you.”

  He smiled, and his false teeth popped out. He pushed them back.

  “Were you around last night when that girl was murdered?”

  “They arrested Buffalo Dog. I told the cop Buffalo wouldn’t hurt nobody, but you know cops.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Um, excuse me. Do you know how Buffalo got her purse and shoes?”

  “Found ’em.”

  “Where?”

  He stretched out on the bench, and I scrambled to avoid having his feet in my lap. In a second, he was snoring. Back at the house, I found a message from the M.E.: left-handed killer, a couple of bloody prints found on the railing along the Hudson. NYPD Harbor Patrol had retrieved a switchblade from the water that could be the weapon, but no prints.

  I settled in to research my suspects. Finally, late as it was, I called Ricki to see whether I could jog her memory. I was sure who did it. I just needed confirmation.

  THE next morning, Quinn didn’t show. I called his cell. He didn’t pick up. I called his house. His wife said he had left for work a few hours earlier. Nobody knew where he was. I waited and waited. Finally, Paul Becarelli, a senior detective, noticed my agitation and took me under his wing. Together, we went to our lieutenant, presented the case, and got approval to proceed without Quinn.

  I found Gentleman Gerry wandering in Riverside Park. “If you come to the station and tell me how Buffalo got the woman’s things, I’ll let him go.” He agreed, but only if the dogs could come, too. Talk about smelly. I gagged as I drove, but managed to avoid embarrassing myself.

  At the house, I sat with Gerry and the dogs and took his statement. “We was sitting on a bench, and her and the guy that’s always singin’ were staggerin’ toward the boats. He dragged her through the gate, and it were hard to tell if she was crying or laughing. We went to see if she needed help, but she weren’t screaming or nothing, so we figured she was okay. Buffalo found her stuff on the ground and took it so nobody could steal it.”

  “Did you see her leave the boat?”

  “A couple hours later, she came out the gate and went to sleep under that tree by the stairs. We watched her and kept her things safe. Then the boat guy come, shook her, and went up to the café.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  “Yeah. Couple minutes later, he went into the garage.”

  “We waited till somebody came to take care of her, then we went to our sleeping place. We forgot Buff had her stuff.”

  Detectives brought in Marie, Frank, and Terry, and took their statements. After Buffalo and Gentleman Gerry signed their statements, I brought them into the room, one at a time, and asked them to point out the person they last saw with Susan. Gerry pointed, but Buffalo walked over and put a paw on the shoulder of one of the three. Detectives and suspects jumped up. I heard gagging, and there was a rush to open the windows as I escorted the two homeless guys out.

  I took a call. The lab had a match on one of the bloody prints.

  Becarelli spent some time on the phone with the café’s bank. We huddled. “Let’s do it,” he said.

  According to their statements, Susan Liu was screwing all three of them and living with one. We strolled over to the where they were seated. I hesitated, and aware that the room was watching me, I moved in front of the murderer.

  “Marie Torelli, you are under arrest for the murder of Susan Liu.” As Becarelli chanted the Miranda warning, Marie jumped up. Becarelli grabbed her. I stepped behind, pushed her sleeves up, and cuffed her. Lots of scratches under those sleeves.

  “You got the wrong one. Terry did it.”

  We took her to an interview room, stated names, etc. for the recorder, and started. “Didn’t you serve time a few years ago for slicing a girlfriend who wanted out of the relationship?”

  “You have no right—”

  “Two waitresses saw Terry speak to you right before closing.”

  “So, I forgot.”

  “Two other witnesses saw you with Susan under the tree.”

  “Liar. Nobody’s in the park that late.”

  “The bank said you deposited the night’s receipts at six that morning, not four-forty-five, as you claimed. We’re testing the deposit bag for blood.”

  She started to stand, but Becarelli placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, and we have your bloody fingerprint on the railing where you tossed Susan in.”

  Marie suddenly stilled, her eyes wide. “Okay. Okay. She was dead when I found her. I was afraid I’d be blamed, so I threw her in the water.”

  “Good try, Marie. Susan was alive when she was pulled out. Her last word was ‘Marie.’”

  With that, I led her to a cell.

  Carter Stanhope, my hero, called to congratulate me. Besides great press coverage, I got promoted. I’m no longer l
ow man on the totem pole. Oh, and Quinn retired earlier than planned. As it turned out, I was happier than he was.

  A MORBID CASE OF IDENTITY THEFT

  Clare Toohey

  IN a fourth-floor Brooklyn walk-up, summertime is a battle for survival, and the computer where I edit video and my apartment’s overloaded A/C refused to co-exist electrically. I’ve known Joanna since my first crop of peach fuzz, concurrent with my first failure at sneaking into a Roger Corman horror-movie marathon, so I wasn’t suspicious of her offer. Free computing in her climate-controlled library of unusual tomes and oddities. I didn’t even have to open to the public, she said, just ‘babysit the curiosities’ while she took her first week’s vacation since founding the place. That seemed overprotective for a bunch of junk, but I was grateful anyway.

  The Morbid Anatomy Library stands within a sprawling warehouse of art galleries. The industrial building hosting this cooperative is a former box-factory, squatting beside the historic and toxic Gowanus Canal. July’s heat enhanced the canal’s olfactory pleasures, but that wasn’t the most revolting aspect of my trudge to the library. All the way down Union Avenue, I was obstructed by sweating throngs assembled for a parade. No summer Saturday in New York City remains unblemished by lame public events. As a cinephile, I adore the medium of film, but not necessarily audiences, if you get me. I couldn’t wait to escape the heaving scrum.

  Upon reaching the library’s inner threshold and unlocking the door, simple relief was replaced with a tingle of illicit discovery. I felt as if I were sneaking into an explorer’s most private, strangest trophy room, or breaking into Houdini’s prop closet. I began to understand some of Joanna’s feeling for it, and wondered why I hadn’t visited earlier.

  If the crowded room that composes the Morbid Anatomy Library isn’t quite a library, it isn’t purely morbid either. The subject matter isn’t hamstrung to the anatomical or even the human. The bookshelves contain art and legend, metaphysics, superstitions, and the mysteries of death. Medical marvels share space with unapologetic frauds and freaks. I dumped my gear bag and found a delectable lemon muffin in a string-tied box on the desk. I noshed blissfully in the dry, impersonal mustiness.

  I hadn’t anticipated how much of the beautiful and bizarre I’d find worth filming. All I had with me was my mini-cam, but I got straight to capturing incidental imagery. A filmmaker of the macabre never knows when he might require a few frames’ worth of empty prosthetic legs. And what about a miraculous saint figurine, a plaster cast of the inner ear, convicts’s teeth, an empty hive, antique syringes, dangerous toys, or a reptile skull? As I panned and zoomed, the back of my neck prickled with a sense of being observed in return, of vague movement just beyond the lens.