Murder in Greenwich Village (20 page)

35

SMITHSON WAS ALREADY at the station when Jane arrived at nine on Tuesday. Mickey Crawford's supervisor listened to their request without comment and called Crawford to the station.

“Take a while,” the supervisor said, “maybe fifteen minutes.”

It was an accurate estimate. At twenty after nine, Crawford appeared at the supervisor's door. Smithson and Jane took him to an empty office and Jane closed the door. Crawford was a good-looking man in his late thirties. He was unperturbed and asked no questions, sat where Smithson directed him, and waited quietly.

“There was a major theft of equipment about eight years ago,” Jane began. “You remember being questioned about it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You were unable to account for your time that night.”

Crawford said nothing.

“You remember what you were doing?” Smithson asked.

“It's a long time ago. Whatever I told the detectives then is what happened.”

“Were you married at the time?”

“Married but separated.”

“You sleep alone that night?”

Crawford shrugged. “Probably. I don't remember.”

“You married now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would think you would remember,” Jane said, “whether you were sleeping alone that night. You don't get questioned by the police very often.”

“No, ma'am. I think that was the problem back then, whether anyone could vouch for me that night.”

“Problem?” Smithson asked.

“When you sleep alone, no one knows if you're gone. If I'd had a girlfriend over, she could have told the police I was there all night.”

“You have any friends in the Transit Police at that time?” Jane asked.

“I run into them sometimes, but I can't say I've ever had a friend.”

“Did you know a Sergeant Beasely back then?”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Maybe someone who joined a few guys for a beer after work?” Jane said.

“Not that I remember.”

“You know anyone named Charley Farrar?” she asked.

“I don't know any Farrars.”

“You ever hear the name mentioned?”

“No, ma'am.”

Smithson picked up the questioning. “What about Curtis Morgan?”

“I don't think so.” He hadn't blinked at either name.

“A track man. You could have worked with him once.”

“I've worked with a lot of men and I don't remember all their names. I don't think I ever knew him.”

“You have kids?” Jane asked.

The question startled him. “Yeah, a son and daughter. Why?”

“Who had custody when you separated?”

“During the separation, my wife did. We worked out something else for the divorce. I get them alternate weekends and some holidays.”

“Where were your kids the night of the theft?”

“I was separated,” Crawford said. “They would have been with my wife.”

“You have a girlfriend at that time?” Smithson asked.

“Yeah, maybe. I'm not sure. But no one was in the apartment with me that night.”

“You're pretty sure of that.”

“Yes, sir.” He was as calm as he had been when they sat down. The questions rolled off him, leaving him dry as a bone.

They went at him for another ten minutes and he answered as he already had, remaining unconcerned, never displaying anger or even discomfort. Finally, they let him go.

They went up to the street level and found a place to sit and talk over coffee.

“I don't like him,” Smithson said. “He's too sure of himself, maybe too rehearsed.”

“I agree. And if he was going to be involved in that heist, he wouldn't have a girlfriend over.”

“So we keep him on the list. Who's next?”

Jane pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag. “That was Crawford. The one MacHovec liked for this was Terence Garland. He's working out of the Seventy-second Street station on the West Side.”

“He in today?”

“Looks like it.”

Smithson finished his coffee, dropped some bills on the table, and picked up the check.

“I'll call him, but I don't know how fast he can get here.

He's working down the track. What do you need him for?” The TA supervisor's reaction to the two shields was an instant lack of cooperation.

“We want to talk to him,” Smithson said.

“About what?”

“About the weather down there. You his private secretary?”

The supervisor scowled and picked up a phone. The message had to be relayed, and the supervisor's temper grew shorter with each exchange of words. Finally, he hung up with a bang. “He'll be here when he gets here. You want a place to sit, you'll have to stay put. We're short of space.”

Jane walked out of the office and called Annie, letting her know where they were. There were no messages. “We'll be back after lunch. This may take some time.”

Terence Garland showed up in his work clothes, having surfaced from the rat-infested tracks. “You wanted to see me?” He eyed the detectives as though they were the enemy.

“You want privacy?” the supervisor said, standing. “You can talk to him here. I'm leaving.” He shut the door behind him.

“What's this about?” Garland asked, looking for a place to sit.

Smithson sat behind the desk, leaving his chair free. Garland took it.

“We want to talk to you about a theft that occurred about eight years ago, while you were working on a renovation.”

“They talked to me about it. I didn't steal anything.”

“You know anyone who did?”

“No.” He fidgeted. “I thought that case was over.”

“It isn't,” Jane said. “It's just beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we're starting from scratch. We want the guys who stole that equipment.”

“Don't look at
me.
”

“Where were you that night?”

“I told the cops the first time around. I was home with my family. I never left my house.”

“Your wife vouch for you?” Smithson asked.

“Yeah, my wife vouched for me. I was there the whole time. I watched TV, I ate some fruit, I drank a beer, and I went to bed early.”

“What are you so nervous about, Terry?” Jane asked.

“I'm not nervous. I got a job to do. I don't know why you're asking me these questions. I wasn't involved in that and I don't know anyone who was.”

“You have a friend named Charley Farrar?”

Garland looked her in the eye. “Never heard of the guy. Should I of?”

“Not if you don't know him.”

“You know any Transit cops?” Smithson asked.

Garland shrugged. “I seen 'em. I don't know 'em. This some kind of guessing game?”

“Yeah,” Smithson said. “Get the right answer and we let you go.”

Garland said nothing. He glanced over at Jane, who avoided his gaze, then looked down at the desk in front of him. “What is it you want to know?” he asked Smithson.

“We want to know who was involved in the theft.”

“Not me.”

“Then who? You got a name? A couple of names?”

“Look, Detective, I wasn't there, I didn't do it, nobody told me who did. I came to work the next morning, the place was crazy. There was cops all over the place. They hauled us in and talked to us for hours.”

“Transit cops?” Jane asked.

“Yeah. Detectives like you. That's all I can tell you.”

“Nobody called you and told you what was going down?”

“Nobody called me. Nobody told me nothin'.” He took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. Then he said, “Who's this Charley guy you asked about?”

“We're asking the questions, Terry. You remember him?”

“I told you, I never heard of him.”

“How 'bout Curtis Morgan?”

“Who's he?”

“You tell me.”

“Curtis Morgan.” He said it softly. “I could've heard the name.”

Smithson jumped on him. “Where? What's the connection?”

“Just a name. You hear a name sometimes, it sticks with you. He work for the TA?”

“He's a track man,” Smithson said. “Just like you.”

Garland considered it. “If I ever met him, it wasn't in the last couple of years.”

Smithson handed him a card. “If you remember anything about him, you call that number.”

“Sure.”

“You ever know a Transit cop named Beasely?”

“I never knew no Transit cops. I told you that already. And I don't know no city cops neither.”

“Just asking, in case it comes back to you.”

“I told you what I know.”

Smithson glanced at Jane. She turned to Garland. “You ever work on the Second Avenue subway?”

“Nah. I hear they're gonna give that another try. Throw another billion bucks down the drain.”

“OK, Terry. Go back to work.”

They went back to Centre Street and had lunch. In the office, Annie had left each of them a note to see McElroy. MacHovec joined them. McElroy began by talking about his interview of Lieutenant Beasely. Then he asked Jane and Smithson to report.

“Zip,” Jane said. “One guy's smooth and relaxed and the other's a bundle of nerves; thought maybe he'd heard of Curtis Morgan but backed off. Which probably means he's never heard of him. If you asked me to pick one of them, I'd flip a coin.”

“You got more names?” McElroy asked.

“I gave them all the suspects the Transit detectives picked,” MacHovec said. “These two were the most likely and the least likely.”

“You working on Transit sergeants from ten years ago, Detective?”

“As much as I can.” MacHovec sounded put-upon.

“Keep at it.” McElroy waved them away.

“What's biting his ass?” Smithson said as they walked back to the office.

“Lack of results,” Jane said.

“You want some sergeants?” MacHovec asked.

“Yeah, give us some sergeants,” Smithson said. “These track guys smell of bug spray. Maybe the sergeants'll smell better.”

MacHovec printed out a sheet. “I've only checked down to here.” He underlined a name. “This one's dead, these two retired. This one's a lieutenant.”

“That's Beasely,” Jane said.

“Oh, yeah. And he's been cleared. I was thinking. You ask these guys if they knew Farrar or Morgan?”

“Yeah,” Smithson said.

“One of them might try to call them if he doesn't know they're dead. Farrar's murder didn't get a lot of coverage.”

“They kept his ID out of the news,” Jane said. “The funeral's probably today or tomorrow. We'd better get that telephone tapped ASAP. One of the guys from this morning could call. I'll talk to McElroy.”

McElroy took care of it. Jane regretted involving Mrs. Farrar at this time of crisis, but if one of their suspects made a call, they had to know about it. She walked back to the office slowly, thinking about Farrar's phone. Randolph had gotten a message to Farrar from Rikers Island. If Randolph knew Farrar was dead, he had no one to call now, unless he had the sarge's number, and he probably didn't. But Farrar knew Manelli. Farrar had gone to the Catskills to brief Manelli, and Farrar had gone to Manelli's apartment. Manelli might have Farrar's phone number.

Jane dialed the number. A young woman answered.

“Mrs. Farrar?”

“This is her daughter. Can I help you?”

“This is Detective Bauer. I'm sorry to bother you but I need to talk to your mother.”

“Just a moment.”

Jane could hear voices in the background.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Farrar, this is—”

“I know who this is. You got my husband killed. I never heard from him after you came here.”

“I'm very sorry about your husband, ma'am. We never saw him. I'm sorry to bother you but I need to know if you've gotten any phone calls from your husband's friends, men friends.”

“A lot of people have called.”

“Did someone named Sal call?”

“Sal, yes, he did. He called after you left last week. He said he was Charley's friend and he had to talk to him. He said it was urgent.”

“Did you give the message to Charley?”

“I never talked to Charley after you left. The man left a number. I was going to give it to Charley when I saw him that night but . . .” She sobbed.

“I understand.” Jane waited till the woman calmed herself. “Do you have the number?”

“Here it is.” She read off a 718 number, Brooklyn or Queens.

“Did he call back?”

“I don't think so. If he did, I didn't answer the phone. Wait a minute. Let me see if there's a message I didn't read.” She went through paper, then came back to the phone. “No, it doesn't look like it. That must have been the only time.”

“When is the funeral, Mrs. Farrar?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.” Jane hung up. “Manelli called Farrar last Thursday, just after we were there. Here's the number.” She handed it to MacHovec, who grabbed it and started working the keyboard. He would check Cole's Directory online and get the address.

“She call you?” Smithson asked, coming in with coffee.

“I called her. The funeral's tomorrow. Manelli called after we left last Thursday, said it was urgent, left a number. She never gave it to Charley because she never talked to him again.”

“Got it,” MacHovec said. He wrote an address on Jane's slip of paper. “It's an auto repair place. Looks like Long Island City.”

“Think it's a pay phone?”

“It's not. I'll check my map, but I think it's near Queens Plaza. Lot of industry. Maybe he's sleeping on the floor with a lot of boxes.”