Oscar Hinckle was quick to reply. ‘I didn’t see nothin’ like that.’ He ran a finger across his snow-white mustache, the wiry hairs rippling beneath his touch like an animal seeking affection. ‘Those two guys, they were all business. They didn’t say one word to each other. They just got in that car and peeled the hell outta there.’
THREE
Ellen Lodge met us at the door of her single-family home and quickly ushered us through the living and dining rooms. Our progress was followed by eight, very silent children. Adele and I had been able to hear the children as we approached the front door, a muffled din we expected to become raucous when the door was opened. Instead, everything stopped the minute we came into view. The kids were toddlers, old enough to walk, old enough to have minds of their own. They pinned us with unwavering stares. Who were we? What were we doing here? Was something bad about to happen?
A second woman, not introduced to us, knelt beside a bench covered with little bowls of paint. She was staring at us, too.
We were finally led into a large kitchen and the door closed behind us. Like the outer rooms, the kitchen had been pressed into service. Two trays stacked with sandwiches on paper plates rested on a table in the center of the room. A bubbling crock pot on a chipped counter was flanked by packages of Oreo cookies.
‘I haven’t said anything to the kids, but they know somethin’s wrong. No sense makin’ it any worse than what it is.’ Ellen Lodge was a small, bony woman just entering middle-age. She had a noticeably slender neck, a droopy nose and lobeless ears set very close to the side of her head. Thick and wiry, her graying hair was cut short enough to be termed butch, especially in a conservative neighborhood like Ridgewood.
‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ I said. ‘But we need to ask you some questions.’
Ellen walked over to a cabinet, pulled down eight plastic tumblers and set them on the counter. The tumblers came with spill-proof caps and she began to speak as she removed them. Her movements were quick and precise, a counter to her weary gray eyes and the smudged pouches beneath them. ‘I gotta keep workin’,’ she explained. ‘You got questions, fire away.’
‘We understand you told Sgt Murrano that your husband was released from prison yesterday.’
‘Yeah, from Attica.’
‘Did you pick him up?’
‘Does it look like I have time to drive upstate?’
‘So you didn’t pick him up?’
Ellen Lodge paused long enough to wipe her hands on her apron. When she spoke again, her tone was a little softer. ‘I’m a cop’s wife,’ she told us, ‘and I know where you’re goin’ with this. So, let’s just cut to the chase. I didn’t love my husband. I admit it. The only reason I didn’t divorce him was because I couldn’t afford a lawyer.’
‘Mrs Lodge, I only asked . . .’
She threw up her hands. ‘Alright, already. I don’t know how Dave got here. The bus, probably, or a train.’
‘You’re sure nobody else gave him a ride.’
‘If they did, he never mentioned it.’
Though Mrs Lodge’s tone was challenging, I refused to respond in kind. I wanted her help, if she had help to give, and I wanted to get her on the record. Those were my immediate priorities.
‘But he didn’t just show up, right? You did invite him to stay with you?’
‘I felt sorry for him, OK?’ She opened the refrigerator, removed a gallon container of apple juice and began to empty it into the plastic tumblers. ‘Look, there’s something you gotta understand. When Dave killed that pimp it turned my life upside down. You see what I do here five days a week? Well, on weekends, I’m a telemarketer for Time Warner. That’s right, I’m the one you curse at before you slam down the phone. So if I sound bitter, it’s most probably because I am.’
‘I understand, Mrs Lodge, believe me. I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible.’
But Ellen Lodge was having none of my sympathy. ‘Ya know, after it happened, me and Dave were tossed out of the family. You’re cops and I don’t have to tell you that I’m talkin’ about the Great Cop Family. Me, I don’t see what I did to deserve that, but I been scrambling to survive ever since. Now, you want the story, it goes like this. I wrote to Dave from time to time and I went to see him maybe twice a year. About three months ago, he mails me a letter sayin’ he’s gonna be released soon and could he stay with me until he gets back on his feet? It’s either that or a homeless shelter. Nice, right?’
‘He didn’t have any family? Mother, father, siblings?’
‘His mother’s dead and his father lives somewhere out west.’ She turned away from me, lifting the lid on the crock pot to release the fragrance of simmering vegetables.
‘Mrs Lodge,’ I asked, ‘do you know any reason why somebody would want to kill your husband?’
She laughed out loud. ‘How about one of the monkeys who spit on us whenever we came in or out of the courthouse?’
‘You mean the protesters?’
‘Yeah, the protesters.’
‘Anybody else? Anybody specific?’
‘No, but Dave was worried about the possibility of revenge. Definitely. He mentioned it to me a number of times in his letters and—’
‘We’ll need to see those letters.’
Ellen stopped short, her eyes rising to mine, then jumping away. ‘I didn’t keep them,’ she admitted after a long moment. ‘I mean, they weren’t love letters or anything like that.’
‘Can you remember what he wrote?’
‘Besides how he was worried?’
‘Yeah, besides.’
Ellen shrugged. ‘The usual stuff. How tough the screws were. How bad the food was. How he was trying to stay positive.’
‘But you don’t remember anything specific?’
‘Hey, you’re not listening. Me and Dave weren’t all that close, not after seven years. In fact, we were on the outs before he ever went away.’
‘Then what did he say that led you to believe he felt threatened?’
‘He said there were prison rumors that Clarence Spott’s old crew had a contract out on him. Personally, I didn’t take it all that serious, but the guy you wanna talk to is Pete Jarazelsky. You know who I’m talking about?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Pete Jarazelsky was stationed at the Eight-Three, same time as Dave. He got sent upstate a few years back for knockin’ over a warehouse. What I understand, they were pals. They told each other everything.’
‘And Jarazelsky’s still in prison?’
‘That’s what Dave told me last night. Dave said he was worried about Pete. You know, now that he wouldn’t be there to watch Pete’s back.’
From outside, a chorus of small sharp voices rose in song: I’m a little teapot, short and stout . . . Ellen Lodge took another look at the soup, then shut off the crock pot.
‘Gotta let it cool,’ she said. ‘Some of these kids, they don’t even know how to use a spoon. They stick their whole face in the bowl. One of them gets burned, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
I think she meant the remark as an exit line, but I wasn’t taking the hint. Over the years, I’ve mastered the art of passive-aggression. I’m the Rock of Gibraltar and the only way to move me is to answer my questions.
‘Now, you said your husband asked to live here until he got on his feet. Did he have a job lined up? Any prospects?’
‘Not that I know of. He told me he was gonna look up his old buddies at the Eight-Three, see if they’d help him find something.’
‘So the stay was open-ended?’
‘The stay?’
‘You told me your husband was going to stay with you until he got back on his feet. If he didn’t have a job lined up, he might have been with you for months.’
Outside, the children broke into widely varying renditions of ‘Frere Jacques’. Ellen listened for a moment, then said, ‘Lemme take out these sandwiches and the juice, get the kids started. If you don’t mind.’
‘Hey, children hav
e to eat. I understand. But just so it won’t be a total loss, would it be alright if my partner and I look through your husband’s room? In case there’s something up there we need to ask you about.’
I watched Ellen Lodge’s reaction closely. In my experience, even cooperative citizens don’t want cops roaming through their homes unaccompanied. But Ellen continued to replace the caps on the children’s tumblers. ‘It’s the bedroom in the back,’ she told us without raising her eyes from her work. ‘Look anywhere you want.’
Adele and I took Ellen Lodge at her word, exploring every inch of the room, even checking beneath the mattress. In a bureau drawer, three pairs of newly purchased socks and an unopened three-pack of Jockey briefs nestled in a corner. On the floor, a plastic bag held a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of dirty socks. On the night table, a few toilet articles – razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, deodorant, nail clippers – were scattered next to the lamp. Beyond those items, we found nothing.
We came downstairs just in time to make the acquaintance of Ellen’s helper, Sonia Ramirov. She told us that she hadn’t known her boss was even married until Lodge had made his appearance that morning. Then she rushed back to her charges.
For the next ten minutes, I studied Ellen Lodge at work. Though she was patient throughout, cajoling here, firm there, it was obvious to me that she needed more help. What was equally obvious was that she was running an unlicensed, shoestring operation, providing a service to working-class couples who couldn’t afford the real thing. I might have used that against her – Adele would already have done so – but I tend to hoard my ammunition.
Eventually, Ellen left the children in the care of her helper, then returned to the kitchen. Her timing, as far as I could tell, was arbitrary. After closing the door, she went to the sink and rinsed her hands.
‘You’re very good with the kids,’ I told her. ‘They respond to you.’
She threw me a sharp look, and for a moment I thought she was going to become angry. Then her look softened, the weariness flooding back into her eyes. ‘Me and Dave,’ she told us, ‘we wanted to have kids, but I never got pregnant. A year before he went away, I practically begged him to go with me to a fertility clinic. Big mistake. Dave broke appointments, showed up drunk, threatened the doctors. It was a nightmare.’ She shook her head. ‘So, where were we?’
‘Well, there’s a question that occurred to me while I watched you with the kids out there.’ I smiled sincerely as I hit Lodge with the sharpest arrow in my quiver. ‘You told us your husband had been threatened, that he believed somebody was out to kill him.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why weren’t you worried about having him in your house? What with the kids and all.’
FOUR
Ellen Lodge never did answer the question. Instead, she began by insisting that she hadn’t taken the threat seriously, then shifted, without prompting, to a pair of grudging admissions. Beneath her genuine and justified anger, she did have some feelings for her husband. And maybe she was just a little bit lonely.
I let her explanations stand, turning her to Lodge’s movements from the time he arrived at her home. Her responses were vague. He’d come in around four o’clock, while she was still burdened with the kids, and had gone directly to his room upstairs. After the kids left, she and Sonia had begun the clean-up and the preparations for the following day, which included shopping for supplies and for the meal they would prepare. It wasn’t until eight o’clock that she finally got around to her husband and a Chinese take-out dinner. By that time, she was so tired she could hardly think.
Over dinner, Dave had talked about old friends neither of them now had, about Ellen’s raw deal, about how he’d turned things around in prison, about his intention to live a good and sober life, a life of atonement. Ellen had listened, perhaps sympathetically, but if she’d expressed any opinions of her own, she couldn’t remember them.
They’d finally retired to separate bedrooms at ten o’clock. Ellen had fallen asleep immediately, then risen at six-thirty to get ready for the children. What with all the rush, she’d barely remembered that Davy, as she called him, was sleeping upstairs until the phone rang at nine o’clock. The call was for her husband, from a man whose voice she didn’t recognize, and she’d summoned Davy to the phone without giving the matter a lot of thought. A few minutes later, Davy had gone back upstairs to fetch his coat before leaving the house.
‘Look for me,’ he’d told her, ‘around five.’
Or maybe it was four-thirty, or six-fifteen, or eight minutes past seven. Ellen wasn’t absolutely positive. What with the kids and all.
The Crime Scene Unit was still going strong when Adele and I walked out onto the street. They were measuring the distance between David Lodge’s body and each of the shell casings on the street.
‘You know, Corbin,’ Adele said, ‘the merry widow seemed very unsure of the details. In fact, she was only certain about one thing.’
‘That we simply must see Pete Jarazelsky?’
Adele tossed me one of those sharp unamused smiles she’s so good at, then said, ‘Got it on the first try.’
We split up at that point, Adele to check on the progress of the Crime Scene Unit. I watched her walk away, then drove off to look for Paolo ‘Wonder Boy’ Aveda, the uniformed officer who was canvassing the neighborhood. Wonder Boy was what his brother officers called him, though not to his face. They were jealous, of course, as people of little talent always are in the presence of the gifted. Three years into the job, Aveda knew everybody in the precinct, from the priests and the merchants to the mutts and the mopes. He had more snitches than I had friends, a rabbi in high places and a hundred credits toward a college degree. Soon he would be called to better things, by Narcotics, Organized Crime or even the vaunted Detective Bureau. That’s why I’d picked him in the first place.
I found Aveda two blocks to the south, the direction from which Lodge’s assassins had come. Glad to see me, he jumped into the Ford I was driving and stuck his hands into the flow of tepid air coming from the defroster.
‘I think,’ he told me, ‘if I touched my ears, they’d crack.’
After giving the car and himself a chance to warm up, Aveda went on to admit that the canvas wasn’t going particularly well. That was because most of the houses and apartments along Palmetto were empty, the parents off to work, the children either in school or day care.
But Aveda’s partial canvas hadn’t been entirely without results. Three elderly women had walked up Palmetto around nine, on their way back from the eight o’clock mass at St. Catherine’s. They’d seen nothing amiss.
‘These kind of old ladies,’ Aveda told me, ‘you find ’em all through Ridgewood. They’re the alarm system for their blocks. I couldn’t tell ya how many times I been called out because one of ’em saw something out of place.’
‘Something with the wrong color skin?’
‘You got it.’ Though Aveda was Puerto Rican and fairly dark, his tone was matter-of-fact. This was an issue he’d dealt with long before. ‘I also talked to three other people, a disabled guy with an aide who pushed him around the block in a wheelchair, and a woman who went shopping. Nobody saw anything out of place.’
We were parked before a line of modest row houses that stretched the length of the block. The houses were of brick and flat-roofed, with bow windows on the upper and lower floors. Under a noon sun, the yellow brick appeared warm to the touch, an illusion dispelled by the icicles dangling from cornices so uniform they might have been part of a single structure.
I was gathering the courage to suggest that Aveda and I face the cold implied by those icicles when my cell phone began to ring. Though I was hoping for rescue, I was nevertheless surprised when my partner told me that a pair of Bushwick cops had located the red sedan beneath the El on Broadway.
‘There was a handgun inside, a TEC-9,’ she explained. ‘We better get over there.’ Then she hung up.
Delray Webber, a pat
rol sergeant from the Eight-Three, was waiting for us at the intersection of Broadway and Linden Street when we arrived ten minutes later, along with a pair of uniforms who had the good sense to remain in their cruiser. Adele went off to get the names of those officers, along with a few details, in case they were needed to testify at some later date. Across the street, on the south side of Broadway, a maroon Toyota Camry was double-parked beneath the elevated tracks carrying the J line. Surrounded by ribbons of yellow tape fixed to the girders of the El, it looked to me like the featured vehicle on a used car lot. The one I couldn’t afford.
‘The officers noticed the car double-parked and ran a check,’ Webber explained. ‘When the vehicle came up stolen, they moved in for a closer look and found the gun. Then they called me.’
‘You know when the car was stolen?’
‘Last week, on the eighth.’
Webber led me to his patrol car, then pointed through the window. A TEC-9 was lying on the front seat next to Webber’s driver. In appearance, it was nothing short of ferocious. The fifty-round magazine was a foot long and the barrel was surrounded by a stainless-steel baffle. You couldn’t look at the weapon without imagining a gangster spraying bullets in all directions. But appearances are deceiving. Relatively cheap, the TEC-9 is a triumph of style over substance. It fires ordinary 9mm cartridges, one round at a time, just like the Glock parked at my hip, the main difference being that my Glock is far more accurate. True, the TEC-9’s magazine holds thirty-two rounds to the Glock’s fifteen, an advantage for street criminals with no training and no opportunity to practice. But that’s not why the mutts love them. No, mutts are attracted to TEC-9s because their own lives are a triumph of style over substance.
‘What I’m gonna do here,’ Webber explained, ‘is take this to the house, voucher it and send it on to the lab. Meanwhile, I called for a tow. They should be here in about fifteen minutes.’
‘I appreciate that, sarge.’
Bodies in Winter Page 3
