Murder in Greenwich Village (9 page)

14

“WELL, YOU'RE LOOKIN' good. That your picture I saw on the front of the
Daily News
a while ago?”

“That was it. Got myself in a little trouble and everyone thought I did something special.”

“If this works, it'll be special.”

“It has to work, Ron. I have to find him. Two guys, maybe three, stuffed him in an old blue van, and no one's seen him since. I'm really worried.”

“We'll give it our best.”

This time they descended to the tunnel by lifting a grate on the busy sidewalk, the kind that Marilyn Monroe had stood on to have her skirt blown up. Ron had brought a backpack with flashlights for both of them, as well as night-vision goggles they would wear below.

He went down first, showing her how to replace the grate after her and lighting the ladder they would use, rungs embedded in a vertical concrete wall. Concerned, he kept the rungs above him lit for her and descended slowly.

They went down at least sixty feet, possibly eighty, the longest vertical descent on foot of her life. She felt relief to reach the bottom, a line that carried trains to Roosevelt Island in the East River and from there to Queens. Ron had it timed so they could get to the Second Avenue branch before a train came by. At that point, the lighting stopped and they turned onto a trackless bed.

They stopped there, and Ron dug in his backpack for two pairs of goggles, which they donned before continuing. Then he led her into an unreal underworld.

“This is it,” he said. “The famous Second Avenue subway. There's lots of places to hide someone around here. I can show you side passages used for storage. We've got bypass tunnels the guys use for working around utility lines. It wouldn't be smart to hide something there; it could be found.”

“What do they store?”

“Machinery, steel girders, track and signal equipment, lots and lots of cable reels, including empty ones.”

“Shit, we'll never find him.”

“Let's get our bearings.” He leaned against a ten-foot-high chain-link fence and took some papers out of his backpack. “These are maps and they're fairly up-to-date. I've penciled in what's stored where, and that should give us some help deciding where to look.”

“Fantastic.”

“Only if it works. Look. We don't want to go here or here or this area over here. They're stacked high with machinery. But these areas”—he ran his index finger over them—“these are places you could open the gate, stuff something in, and be on your way.”

“Then let's look there.”

Although there was no danger of trains, the rats were plentiful and the water bugs more so. She called Gordon's name several times and they stopped to listen for an answer, although none came.

“Let me do the calling,” Ron said as they walked. “Your voice sounds like you were shouting all night.”

“I was.”

“Gordon,” he shouted, his voice much louder than Jane's. “Gordon Defino. Rattle a fence if you hear me.”

They stood still, Jane not breathing. Nothing stirred. Toni would call her again that night or the next morning, hoping for news. They had to find him.

They checked out one of Ron's storage areas, going inside and inspecting the contents, but it was just what it was supposed to be. They went on to a second one with the same results. They stepped into an alcove but found only pipes and tubes without marking, colors so faded they could not be identified.

They came close to sewer pipes and water mains. This was what it took to run a city of eight million people. When a water main broke, as they did from time to time, flooding building basements and well-trafficked streets, this was where the fixers came, down to the netherworld beneath the streets.

“Steam lines, over there,” Ron said, pointing. “Hot as hell.” Then he called Gordon again.

Jane flashed her light on her watch. It was two hours since they had descended at Second Avenue. They were outside another storage area and Ron had his key out.

“Something's covered up in there,” Jane said. “Looks like burlap. Nothing else has been covered.”

“Let's take a look.”

He fumbled with the key and dropped it. “Oh, shit.”

“We'll find it.” She sounded more certain than she felt as she dropped to a squat. He had said he had knee trouble, and she didn't want him getting hurt. “Just shine your light over here, Ron. I'll do the crawling.”

She had put on a pair of gloves and she leaned on the ground as he moved the light slowly from side to side. Where was the fucking key? He had been standing exactly in front of the lock, and she was sure the key had not dropped inside the fence, although she had heard it tinkle as it fell.

He moved and looked at the ground where he had stood while Jane gently fluffed the earth or dirt or whatever it was. She was afraid of burying it deeper if she weren't careful.

“I'm sure it's on the outside,” he said.

“So am I.”

She moved her finger carefully along the ground where the fence met it, but found nothing. He ran the light inside the fence, just to be sure, but there was no sign of the key.

“I can get another key, but it'll take a day or two.”

“Ron, that key is here. We'll find it.”

He got down on the ground himself and started searching. He moved back a few paces and then forward, slowly. “What's that?”

“What? Where?”

“Under your right foot.”

She retreated carefully. A tiny piece of silver metal showed through the dirt. She ripped her right glove off and used her fingernails to coax it up. In half a minute she had the key. She couldn't help smiling.

“I knew I shouldn't've taken it off my big key ring,” Ron said, putting it back where it belonged and then inserting it in the lock. He pushed open the gate and they went in.

Jane pulled the burlap off whatever it was covering. Underneath was a stack of olive-drab metal boxes with yellow markings.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ron said.

“What is it?”

“Guns. Look at the yellow stencil on this one. Berettas, .40-caliber. I bet these were owned by the federal government.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. That's how they were packed when I was in the army.” He flipped open the top box and pulled out a dull handgun, dust on its oiled surface. “A Beretta,” he said. “.40-caliber. They don't use 'em anymore, but they were standard army-issue.”

“Two hundred twenty-seven missing guns,” Jane said.

“They were stolen over ten years ago from the armory at West A Hundred Sixty-eighth Street and Columbus Avenue. They were involved in the killing of Micah Anthony.”

“I remember that. Is it ten years already?”

“Yeah. That's what my team's been working on. Let's look around this area for Defino. If he's not here, he's not in the subway. I think they would keep him near the guns. They all knew where the guns were.”

They spent fifteen minutes and came up with nothing. Then they covered the boxes again. Jane took one Beretta with her to prove her story in case the guns were gone when they sent a recovery team for them. Then they reversed direction and went back to the city above their heads.

On the street level, her legs shaking from the climb, she found a pay phone and called McElroy. He was gone for the night. So was MacHovec. Reluctantly, she keyed Graves's number.

“Graves.”

“This is Jane Bauer.”

“Where are you?”

“Second Avenue and Sixty-second.”

“I want you here. Five minutes ago.”

“I found the missing two hundred twenty-seven guns, Inspector, and I'm holding hard evidence in my hand.”

“Are you on a cell phone?”

“No, sir, a landline.” Cell phones were easier to pick up by eavesdroppers.

“Say that again.”

“I'm on my way.”

Ron drove her downtown, although home was in the other direction.

“How do I look?” she asked him.

“Not too clean.”

“He'll have to take me as I am. This may be the last time we meet on the job.”

“He won't fire you, Jane. You just made a big find.”

“Thanks to you. If I were cleaner, I'd give you a hug.”

“Let me know how it turns out.”

She got out and called Hack from a pay phone.

“The guns from the Anthony case?”

“Right there in their original boxes stenciled in yellow and covered with burlap. Some grenade launchers too. I hadn't heard they were missing.”

“You talk to Graves yet?”

“I'm on my way up.”

“You're good, Bauer.”

“It was Delancey. He knows every nook and cranny down there.”

She took the elevator up, too tired to try the stairs. She stopped in the ladies' room, looked sorrowfully at her reflection, then washed her hands and face. The smell of the spray was still there, or perhaps it was stuck in her nostrils, where she would smell it for the next week.

Inspector Graves looked up as she reached his doorway. “Sit down.”

She took a chair, dropped her jacket on the floor, and waited.

“You disobeyed a direct order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Anyone else would have used an obscenity. Through all his anger, he still maintained a surface polish.

“I'm a detective's partner.”

“That doesn't override an order.”

“I'm sorry.” She stood, removed the Beretta from her pocket, and laid it on his desk.

He stared at it, faced with a dilemma. His detective had disobeyed a direct order but had made the biggest find in ten years. “Where did you find them?”

“In a storage area in the Second Avenue subway tunnel near Sixty-third Street. I have a map.” She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and held it.

“How did you get there?”

“With someone I know. He's not on the job.”

“You and I have a rip coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Meanwhile, we'll have to pick up those guns.”

“Inspector, if I can say something. If Gordon is still alive and his kidnappers find out that we know about the guns, that could be a signal for retaliation.”

“True.” He looked at her and then away. “We'll have to post people at the site in case they check it. Stay where you are in case I have questions.” He dialed a number from memory. “This is Insp. Frank Graves. I have an urgent notification for the chief of detectives. . . . Thanks, I'll wait for his call.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Graves waited for the phone to ring. It was Saturday night. The chief of D's might be spending time with a fabled lady friend whose number was known only to the person Graves had spoken to. When the phone rang, Graves wrote down a number and then dialed it.

“Insp. Frank Graves here, sir. I have an urgent notification for you. I'd like to know where to deliver it. . . . That's fine. I'll be there within half an hour.”

He hung up and started writing. When he finished, he passed the sheet of paper across the desk. It was a brief description of the events of the night. Jane corrected a detail and passed it back.

“I'll need the map,” he said.

“I'll make a copy. It doesn't belong to me.”

“Who knows about this find?”

“You, me, and the man who took me underground. He understands the importance of secrecy.”

“You tell a boyfriend where you were going? A girlfriend? Your mother and father?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it's three people. We keep it at three. I'm delivering this letter to the Major Case Squad in a sealed envelope. They'll get some detectives to go down and guard the stash. Get me a copy of that map. Make it two.”

“Yes, sir.”

When she returned to his office, he was writing the letter on a UF49, uniform force, in longhand, as Annie was not there to type it. He took the maps from her and set them aside.

“Anyone turn anything up?” she asked.

“Nothing. Manelli's girlfriend got herself a lawyer, but I don't think she has any idea where Manelli is. She's home now, and we've put a bug on her phone.”

“That's good.”

“That scumbag won't call her. She's a convenience in his life even if he's more than that to her.”

“Right.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“I wish there were.”

“Go home and sleep. You think all the missing guns are there?”

“I didn't count. But there are some grenade launchers, too.”

“I'll have to find out if they were listed as missing. If you get any cute ideas this weekend, you check with the lieutenant before you do anything.”

“I will.”

“I'll see you Monday.”

She picked up her jacket and dragged herself home.

“You still got your shield?” Hack's voice said in her ear.

“For the moment.”

“I could use a few grenade launchers. Maybe we'll make a trip down there together.”

“Hack, I've had my fill of rats and water bugs for the rest of my life. It's late, I'm tired, and after my tenth shower, I'm going to bed.”

“I'll join you. We'll have a good brunch together.”

“Don't wake me.”

She didn't hear him enter the apartment, but she woke briefly when he slid in beside her. “If it's not Chief Hackett,” she mumbled, “I'm too tired to get my gun.”

“I'll give you mine.”

She scrambled across the bed to press her bare back against the warm, hard, naked front of his body. He kissed her shoulder and dropped his arm over her side, letting it rest there. Comforted, she fell asleep.

15

IN THE MORNING he went out to pick up the Sunday papers and the fixings for a New York–style Sunday breakfast: smoked sturgeon, whitefish salad, a couple of other cold salads, cream cheese, and onion-covered rolls that whetted the appetites of true New Yorkers everywhere. Waiting for him, she set the table, took out the frying pan, and remembered Paris.

After the case they had cleared in Alphabet City, she and Hack flew to Paris. A planned long weekend grew to a week, which they took in March. Neither had ever been there. They stayed in a small, elegant hotel on a residential street on the Left Bank, half a block from the Seine, with a view of the Eiffel Tower almost directly across the river. They walked miles and took the Metro, the trains so quiet on their rubber tires that their arrival in stations surprised them. They ate sandwiches of French ham and cheese on baguettes, sometimes in cafés, sometimes on the move, and dined fabulously and expensively at night. It was the longest period of time they had stayed together, and Jane could not deny how much she loved it. After ten years of an evening here, an afternoon there, a precious weekend away from New York, she sensed their staying power, their ability to talk about anything, to make each other laugh, to disagree and move on. Until the last night.

The key in the lock brought her back to her West Village apartment. Hack tossed the papers on the sofa and brought the bags into the kitchen.

“I forgot to ask you if you needed eggs.”

“I've got them.”

“Put the papers away for later.” He unpacked the groceries, and Jane set the fish and salads on the table, covering the bullet holes. When they had eaten, they moved to the living room, each taking a different paper to read. Eventually, they sat on the floor, tossing finished sections recklessly aside on the rug, making intermittent conversation, reading small items to each other, laughing. Hack picked up the
Times
crossword puzzle and started working on it, asking her for input until she worked her way over to where he was sitting to look at the clues herself.

It was two when they got off the floor and made their way to the bedroom, stripping each other as they went, leaving behind a trail of clothing, a living room that looked as though the heavens had opened and rained down newsprint, dirty dishes on the table in the kitchen, the puzzle and its clues on the sofa. In Paris they had made love in the afternoon and felt renewed. Anything you could do in a Paris hotel room, you could do in a New York apartment. They hadn't been together for a while; sleeping and eating and reading and puzzle solving had made them hungry. But they were always hungry.

He kept her close as one pleasure subsided and another took its place. “Jane?” The voice near her ear.

“Hmm?”

“Fuck sunsets.”

Later they talked about the case. “Graves said they've bugged Manelli's apartment,” she told him. “But he's such a creep, he won't even think to call his girlfriend.”

“So they've got Defino somewhere, and you've looked in some likely places and he's not there.”

“And now I'm stuck. I'm terrified that they've killed him. What do they need him for?”

“Maybe to bargain, although I don't see for what at this point. The kidnapping was almost an accident: A cop was there; they couldn't let him go because they thought he knew something he probably didn't know. They didn't think; they just followed their instincts.”

“I suppose we can try to chase down every blue van, starting with Fords, in the five boroughs. And then find it came from New Jersey.”

“Get your friend MacHovec on it. He shouldn't be spending a single second doing nothing.”

“I'll talk to Curtis Morgan's wife,” Jane said. “We've got her staying with a sister somewhere; I think I have the address. Morgan's friends may also be Manelli's friends. Maybe the bargain they want is for Randolph.”

“The guy in Rikers?”

“Yeah. The one who set all this in motion. That swine.”

“Don't get personal. Just do your job.”

“Where did they put Defino?” It was a question to herself.

“Where the neighbors won't be aware of a body. I need my ice cream.”

She grinned. “I picked up some chocolate syrup.”

“You are one good woman, Bauer.”

“Come and scoop it out of the container.”

After he left, she checked her notes. Mrs. Morgan's sister also lived in Brooklyn, out near Kings Highway. That was far but not inconvenient to reach; the D train ran from West Fourth all the way out there. Jane took some unread parts of the paper with her and left the apartment.

The train ride was long and she finished the paper before she arrived. She walked up East Seventeenth Street to Quentin Road and found the apartment house for Mary Ann Gibbons. On the second floor she pressed the bell for 2C, and Emma Morgan herself opened the door.

“You're the detective.”

“Detective Bauer, Mrs. Morgan. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Where are you taking me?” She looked fearful.

“We can talk right here.”

Emma Morgan backed up, letting Jane inside. They sat in the living room, a homey place with pictures of weddings and babies. The sister looked in, asked if they wanted coffee, and left them alone.

“Mrs. Morgan,” Jane began, “we have a very serious situation. A police officer, a detective, has been kidnapped. We haven't received any word from his kidnappers. All we're sure of is that it ties in to the murder of Det. Micah Anthony ten years ago.”

“I don't understand. My husband had nothing to do with that and I don't know anything.”

“Your husband may not have known who killed Micah Anthony, but he knew the people involved in stealing the guns—guns that have never been recovered.”

“He told me he didn't.” She was starting to look uncomfortable. “He said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he got arrested with those men. He stood trial and he was acquitted.”

“I know that. And I'm not here to besmirch your husband's name. I know he died a long, painful death, and I'm sorry for that. What I need to know from you is who his friends were that worked with him on the subway.”

“You mean from the Lex?”

“I mean the Second Avenue subway. You said he was involved in the building of the tunnels.”

She shrugged as though to dismiss the question. “It's so many years since he worked there. I haven't seen any of those people—it could be twenty years.”

“What was the name of his supervisor?”

“Who, Collins?”

“Do you have a first name?”

“Larry, maybe, Larry Collins. No. Maybe it was Barry.

It's hard to remember. I never knew him. Curt would come home and bitch about him. ‘We took too long a break. We didn't clean up right.' Things like that.”

“How about someone he liked, someone he maybe had a beer with after work?”

“That would be Holy Joe Riso,” she said quickly.

“Holy Joe Riso?”

“That's what the men called him. He was a charmer. I met him a couple of times. He had me in stitches. His wife was this little woman who giggled a lot. They were made for each other, I used to tell Curt. He told the jokes; she laughed at anything he said.”

“You remember where he lived?”

Emma Morgan shook her head. “I was never there. We met in the city once or twice for a drink or dinner. Curt liked him. I could see why. The union'll have his address.”

“Anyone else, Mrs. Morgan?”

She closed her eyes. “Someone named Willie. I don't remember the last name. Oh, yes, there was also a Ronnie or Donnie something. Let me think. Parnell? Parelli? I think it was Parnell. They were friends for years, him and my husband. They even went fishing a few times, no women allowed.”

“That sounds good.” Jane looked up from her notes. “I'll take all the names you can give me.”

Emma Morgan shook her head. “I'm surprised I remember that many. It's been so long. What are you looking for, Detective Bauer? What can these men tell you?”

“I don't know, but maybe one of them knows something that will help.” She waited a moment, hoping for another name or two, but Emma Morgan was finished. Jane shook her hand, thanking her for her trouble. “If anything comes to you . . .” she said.

“I have your card. I'll call. But don't hold your breath.”

Ten minutes later Jane was back on an almost empty D train heading for Manhattan.

On Monday morning she told MacHovec that she would keep quiet till Graves allowed her to talk. She knew Sean had figured out where she had gone, although he could not know about the find. By late the night before she was sure a detail of a boss plus a couple of detectives from the Major Case Squad had been dispatched to the site in the Second Avenue tunnel, where they would guard the boxes of guns and take into custody anyone coming near the storage area.

“I talked to Curtis Morgan's wife again last night,” she told MacHovec. “She gave me some names of friends of his who worked on the subway. Also his supervisor, but it sounded like there wasn't any love lost between them.” She passed the names across to him.

“Holy Joe?”

“That's what Morgan called him. A jokester, according to Mrs. Morgan. She met him a couple of times.”

“I'll give it a try. These guys may have retired by now.”

“Or died.”

“Or been done away with,” MacHovec said, meaning, she assumed, by the people around Carl Randolph.

Annie came by and said the whip wanted both of them in his office right away. She didn't accompany them, but McElroy was there, and he closed the door behind them.

“What I'm about to say is top-secret,” Graves said without introduction. “Detective Bauer knows most of it.” He had become formal in addressing them, and his face reflected the seriousness of the situation. “On Saturday night Detective Bauer and an unknown person went into the Second Avenue subway tunnel and found the cache of weapons stolen from the armory over ten years ago, the weapons that figured in the death of Det. Micah Anthony.”

MacHovec gave Jane a look of surprise that was noticed by Graves. “I am told all two hundred twenty-six weapons are accounted for. In addition, several grenade launchers are packed away, ammunition, and some other assets. A lieutenant and three detectives from the Major Case Squad are guarding the find until we determine what the next move is. Defino's life is in the jackpot here, and we don't want to jeopardize it by removing the weapons. On that score, we are no closer to finding him than we were Friday night, although the team in the conference room has been looking into Manelli's life with a fine-tooth comb. We have a tap on Manelli's phone at the Franklin address on Minetta Street, but so far he hasn't called her. And her lawyer has ordered her to keep quiet.

“What I have told you doesn't leave this room. You don't talk to your wife and kids about it”—he looked at MacHovec—“or your parents or your lover or your girlfriends.” His eyes flicked over to Jane. “If you talk in your sleep, you'd better cover your mouth with duct tape. The chief of D's is personally involved at this moment.” He stopped. “Any questions?”

Jane said nothing.

“The conference room is working on Manelli,” MacHovec said. “That leaves Morgan for us.”

“Sorry. I meant to say that. Where are you right now?” Jane briefed them on the previous night's interview with Mrs. Morgan. “Sean's about to look up the names she gave me.”

“That sounds like a good move. See if you can get more out of her, high school friends, neighborhood friends. Find out what school he went to. How old was he when he died?”

“About fifty.”

“And he worked on the subway in his twenties.”

“That's the way it sounded.”

“You have her work address?”

“She's a secretary at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I'll give her a call.”

“Get over there fast. Morgan's got to be the key, now that we know about the subway connection.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This unknown person who accompanied you in the tunnel. How sure are you that he's not involved?”

“I met him years ago, Inspector. I'd have to check records to find a date. He wouldn't have led me to the stash if he'd been involved.”

Graves looked at his watch. “Get to work.”

It was what Jane wanted to do most.