Silent City: A Claire Codella Mystery

by Carrie Smith

  The first question came like a rocket-propelled missile. “What’s the cause of death?”

  “The medical examiner’s official report isn’t in,” Codella answered calmly. “We expect it tomorrow.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “We’re only eight hours in.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t. What about persons of interest?”

  Codella didn’t hesitate. “I can’t comment on that.” Haggerty knew what that meant. She had no one yet.

  “What about witnesses?”

  “We’re speaking to many sources with pertinent information. I’m not at liberty to discuss any of those details right now.” She pointed to another hand. It belonged to the nasal voice Haggerty had spoken to several hours ago in front of Sanchez’s building.

  “Is there any evidence his murder was related to his role as principal, and if so, how can you be certain the students at PS 777 are safe?”

  This was the question they had all known would come, and whatever response Codella gave would be replayed on every TV network’s and radio station’s local news. She’d be quoted in tomorrow’s tabloids, he thought, and her answer would spread across the Internet through RSS feeds and tweets and public school bulletin boards. He watched her take a deep breath as she stared at the reporter.

  “So far we have absolutely no evidence linking Hector Sanchez’s murder to his role as the principal of Public School 777,” she said with a tone of utter conviction. That was Claire. She could spin anything—just like him—and get away with it. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t lying, of course. The fact that Sanchez’s body had been arranged to look like Christ on the cross and that he had been dubbed the “Savior of PS 777” in a national magazine still qualified as a circumstantial association. The killer had left no note decrying the victim’s work at the school. So far, there was no forensic evidence to connect the killer to the school, and they still had no witnesses to draw that connection. But he knew she was faking a tone of conviction she didn’t really feel, and she was keeping her fingers crossed that someone in the department didn’t leak the gruesome details to that nasal voice or some other reporter with a wad of cash.

  She continued to look at Nasal Guy. “That said, we’re taking every precaution to ensure the safety of the staff and students of PS 777. Until we determine who did perpetrate this crime, we’ll keep the security threshold high to ensure that students and staff have a safe learning environment. Their protection will be absolutely paramount during our investigation.”

  “What precautions are you taking?” the reporter probed.

  “I’m not going to discuss security measures explicitly,” she said. “They’re in place. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Sanchez was an outspoken critic of the teacher’s union,” said another reporter. “Could that be a factor in this case?”

  “People are outspoken critics of many things without getting murdered,” she pointed out. “This investigation won’t be built on speculation. We’ll look for solid evidence. I’ll take one more question.” She pointed.

  “The actress Dana Drew was a big supporter of the school. Are you looking into their relationship?”

  “We’re looking into all of his relationships,” she said dismissively.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Yes it is. And that’s it for now. Thank you.”

  She stepped away from the microphone. Hanson patted her shoulder. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks.”

  McGowan turned and walked toward his waiting car and driver without a word to his detective. Muñoz and Portino entered the station together.

  Haggerty watched Claire disappear behind the station, where cop cars were parked and fueled. A minute later, she pulled out of the driveway and turned toward Broadway. Cancer hadn’t changed her work ethic, he thought. She would keep going until there was nothing else to do tonight, and then she would go home and drop into bed and get up early and do it all over again. That’s what she was like. That’s what he was like, too.

  He got into his car and drove uptown to Queen Smith’s apartment. A day and a half of tracking down the boyfriend had only proven that he could not have killed her baby. He had been in the Harlem Hospital recovering from a crack OD. Queen Smith had lied to him, and now he had to bring her in.

  Chapter 18

  Codella parked in front of the hydrant. Ten feet ahead, a meticulous green awning supported by gleaming brass poles welcomed visitors to 375 Riverside Drive. She peered up at the Beaux-Arts structure. She was as susceptible to apartment envy as any other New Yorker crammed into a small apartment on a low floor, and the lucky river-facing residents of this address, she knew, overlooked the churning Hudson River and the long narrow strip of waterfront green that was Riverside Park. Tonight the New Jersey skyline offered up a spectacular pink sunset that probably added tens of thousands to the value of the uppermost apartments. She climbed out and slammed the car door. Who wouldn’t be envious of that?

  The doorman announced her arrival via house phone, and she stepped into an immaculate walnut-lined elevator. The smooth ascent made her remember the bumpy ride at the Jackie Robinson Village several hours ago, and she found it hard to imagine a child from that dismal project sharing the same school as one from this elegant building. Granted, public school catchments in Manhattan were as winding as gerrymandered voting districts, but affluent families who found themselves in unappealing zones usually moved or opted out of the public school system.

  The elevator opened on fourteen. Codella stepped out onto plush carpet and read the numbers on the nearest doors looking for 14G. Her search ended when a door behind her opened. The woman standing there was at least five foot ten, and in person, she was even more arresting than in her “We’re a Proud Family” photograph. Her short hair had been styled—quite expensively, Codella guessed—to create the artful illusion that it was accidentally tousled. Her gray T-shirt matched her gray eyes, and the tight fabric advertised broad shoulders and strong upper arms.

  Codella displayed her shield. “I’m looking for Dana Drew.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not here right now.”

  “You’re her partner?”

  “That’s right. Jane Martin. I heard the news about Hector. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “You can help by telling me where to find Miss Drew.” She didn’t hide her impatience.

  Martin said, “She’ll be at the Booth by now. You might be able to catch her before she goes on. Curtain time is seven o’clock.”

  Codella looked at her watch. She had an hour and a half. She thanked the woman, rode the elevator back to the lobby, got in the car, and sped toward West Forty-Fifth Street.

  Once, after the performance of a musical she couldn’t remember the name of now, she had waited with friends at the stage door of a Broadway theater for the actors to emerge and sign playbills. But she had never actually been backstage at a Broadway theater, and she had never stopped to consider what a dressing room there might look like. The one she now entered reminded her of a cluttered, unglamorous prewar study, with racks of clothes rolled in and a long makeup counter installed where the bookshelves should be.

  “Visitor for you, Miss Drew,” said the stagehand who had led her here. “Detective Codella.”

  Drew rose from the couch, smiled, and held out her hand.

  Codella shook it. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, Miss Drew.”

  “Nonsense, Detective. Please come in. I have a few minutes before I dress.” Her casual tone suggested that she hadn’t heard about Sanchez. Her eyes were as green as they looked on the large screen, and they followed the contours of Codella’s body like a human PT scanner.

  Codella stared back at the eyes. They were like a riptide that swept you away from shore.

  Drew was still holding her hand. “I didn’t know I had any fans in the NYPD. I’m honored.” She pulled Codella farther into the room, to a spot right in the center where Code
lla caught a glimpse of her reflection in the makeup mirror over the actress’s shoulder. She saw her spiky inch-long hair, her leather jacket, and white blouse, and it all made sense.

  She thinks I’m a lesbian. And why wouldn’t she? I look more like one than she does.

  And then she recalled the afternoon her stylist, Jonathan, had come to her apartment between her second and third treatments to shave off what was left of her shoulder-length black hair. It had been falling out for two weeks. She would wake up in the morning and find clumps on her pillow. She would see it in the drain after a shower and then on the tile floor after she blew it dry.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” she had said as they sat in her kitchen, and he had done it quickly, efficiently, and then swept clean her parquet floor so she wouldn’t have to look at all the hair she had lost. After that she had worn soft baseball-style caps sold on the American Cancer Society website. No wig for her.

  Finally Drew released her hand, returned to the couch, and patted the opposite cushion. Codella remained standing.

  “I’m a huge fan, Miss Drew, but I wouldn’t presume to impose on you this close to curtain time unless I were here on business. I’ve come because of your acquaintance with Hector Sanchez.”

  The actress frowned. “Hector? What about him?”

  “He’s dead, I’m afraid. He was murdered. Last night.”

  The actress uncrossed her legs, sat forward, and shook her head. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I assure you, death is something I don’t joke about.” At least not anymore, she thought.

  “But how?”

  “We’ve just begun our investigation. How well did you know him?”

  For several seconds, the actress just sat there with a look of confusion on her face and shook her head.

  “How well did you know him, Miss Drew?” Codella repeated.

  “I’m sorry.” She forced herself to attention. “My daughter attends his school. I’ve gotten to know him because of that.”

  “A photo of you and your family was in his apartment. Did you know that?”

  “We ran an ad campaign. Proud Families of PS 777. You’ve probably seen the billboards.”

  Codella nodded.

  “Hector asked me to sign a print.” She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, when did you say he died?”

  “Sometime last evening. When did you last see him?”

  Drew massaged the bottom of her bare foot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sanchez, when did you last see him?”

  She thought a moment. “Friday.”

  “Where?”

  “At the school.”

  “Were you alone with him?”

  “No. Sofia Reyes was there too. And Jane, my partner.”

  “Some people say you were having an affair with him.”

  Drew gave a shrug of resignation. “People say all kinds of things about me.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you think they say it?”

  “You’ll have to ask them,” she said stiffening. “Not all celebrities fuck around, you know, despite what the gossip mill says. And if I window-shop at all, it isn’t at the men’s store, Detective.” The green eyes watched her closely.

  “You e-mailed Sanchez on Saturday. You asked him to call you. Why?”

  “We’re working on a project.”

  “What project?”

  “Afterschool Apptitude.”

  “What is it?”

  “An afterschool intervention program. The school day isn’t long enough. Most of the kids at PS 777 go home to a television at best. They fall further and further behind. The apps students will use in this program directly support their math and literacy skills. And they don’t require large teacher staffing, which is costly and difficult to recruit for after school.”

  Codella held the actress’s stare. “I’m curious. Why does your daughter attend that school? Why not a private school?”

  Drew bristled at the question. “Should I assume from all these questions, Detective, that you think I’m somehow involved in this?”

  “Not at all.” Codella smiled. “I’m just trying to understand things.”

  “Well, you obviously haven’t done your homework on me, or you’d know my mother was principal of that school when I was growing up. I went to that school. I’m very committed to the public schools. I wanted to give it a chance.”

  “And how’s it working out?”

  She frowned. “I’m not going to lie. It’s challenging. But if everybody who can opt out of public education does, what happens to the people who can’t?”

  “Most people who can wouldn’t care.”

  “Well, I’m not most people.” There was defiance in her voice.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Sanchez dead?”

  Drew shook her head. “Not unless bitter, lazy teachers kill their principals. No, I can’t.” She looked at the clock behind Codella. “I’m sorry, Detective, but it’s getting late. I have to . . .” She gestured toward her dressing table as she pulled off her cardigan.

  Codella noticed a purplish-yellow bruise on her left bicep. “What happened?” Codella asked.

  Drew followed her eyes. “Oh that? I don’t know.” She moved toward the rack of clothes.

  Codella fished a card from her pocket. “Please call me if you think of any information that might help us.”

  “Of course.” Drew took the card and smiled, but her green eyes looked troubled.

  Chapter 19

  Vic Portino’s hair was thinning, and he had a little paunch. He always reminded Codella of the Rhode Island Italian men she had grown up around, except that he wore suits and they didn’t. Portino’s suits were the kind you bought off the rack at discount stores like Men’s Warehouse, but as cheap as they were, they still looked better than unflattering polyester sports shirts stretched across too many plates of pasta. “What have you got for me, Vic?”

  “Muñoz and I have gotten through most of the faculty and staff with a little help from some of the duty officers.”

  She peeled off her jacket, pulled up a chair next to Muñoz, and settled into it like an audience member at the Booth Theater just before curtain time. She thought about that bruise she’d seen on Dana Drew’s arm. Was it really nothing? She remembered how Drew had taken one look at her and assumed she was a lesbian. She wondered if Portino and Muñoz also thought she looked like a lesbian with her short hair. What about Haggerty? She pushed the thought aside. What did she care? “Tell me about our cast of characters.”

  “Let’s start with Bosco, the suspended fifth-grade teacher.” Portino leaned back and rested his notepad on his stomach. “He’s got two DWIs. One six years ago, another one last year. His blood alcohol was point one five.”

  “Okay, so he’s a drunk, but that won’t help us pin a murder on him.”

  “What if he’s an angry drunk?”

  “How angry?”

  “He’s got a suspended license right now for a road rage incident.”

  “Go on.”

  “An elderly woman tried to go through the E-ZPass lane at the JFK Bridge. Only she didn’t have an E-ZPass, so of course she stopped traffic. Bosco was the car behind her. He couldn’t back up, and it took the bridge and tunnel cop about five minutes to issue the woman a ticket and raise the gate, and by then Bosco had gotten so pissed that he climbed out of his car and started ranting and hammering on the old woman’s hood. Gave the cop some attitude, too. According to the arrest report, they almost took him in for a psych evaluation. He ended up pleading no contest and got a reduced sentence by attending anger management classes.”

  “No wonder Sanchez wanted him out. Anything else?”

  “His credit cards are maxed, and he’s filed a lawsuit against his landlord. Claims he slipped on an unshoveled walkway after a snowstorm two winters ago and injured a disk. That’s it so far.”

  “I guess we
’ll have to meet him. What about Marva Thomas?”

  Portino flipped to another page of notes. “Unmarried. Lives in Washington Heights. Has a car loan. Pretty decent credit rating. No arrests. Clean.”

  “Christine Donohue?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Married 1978 in Sudbury, Massachusetts. Divorced in 2004. Been with the DOE since 1983.”

  “And the others?”

  “The typical stuff. A few foreclosures. Some ugly divorces. Personal injury claims. Someone by the name of Natalie Rapinoe has about ten speeding tickets. Lots of unpaid parking tickets, too. Emily Truesdale has a restraining order on her ex-husband. Roz Porter has a misdemeanor arrest from the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations in 2011. She refused to leave Zuccotti Park when the police tried to clear everyone out for sanitation reasons.” Portino summarized the records of the other teachers.

  “What about the staff? Those janitors, the nurse, cafeteria workers.”

  Muñoz cleared his throat and took over. “Milosz Jancek is the head custodian, as you know. He’s been with the DOE since 2001. He’s from Croatia. Rerecic, the maintenance guy, is from Albania. He got his citizenship in 2004. Neither one has a record. It’s like the United Nations over there. Over half the parents are foreign nationals. We posted lots of queries with immigration. We’re waiting for results.”

  “What else?”

  “Janisa Lopez, the school secretary, defaulted on a student loan, so her wages are being garnished.”

  “What about cafeteria workers?”

  “Pretty clean,” he said. “A couple domestic violence issues. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Did we run any checks on his neighbors?”

  Muñoz looked at his notes. “We started. We need help.”

  “I’m working on that. I’ve got a call into McGowan. We need a task force on this. What have you found so far?”

  “Only one name with a criminal record, for marijuana possession. Nobody else looks bad on paper.”

  “Which isn’t the same as not being bad.” Codella swigged water.

  “What about his laptop?”

  “It’s still in the evidence room. There wasn’t time,” said Vic.