Murder in Hell's Kitchen (11 page)

“You want me to pick you up and drive you to JFK?” Defino asked.

“That's gotta be out of your way, Gordon.”

“Gives me an excuse to leave early. Let me have your address and I'll be downstairs whenever you want.”

“Thanks.”

She got about two pounds of paper from Annie, some of it with Graves's signature still damp, and started to make her rounds. There were three offices she had to visit, all at One PP. Annie had called ahead that this was top priority, so Jane finished in a couple of hours, probably a record. This kind of procedure usually took forever. Next she took the subway to Bloomingdale's and bought a medium-sized wheelie. She could get enough in there for several days, although she didn't think her trip would last more than two or three. Then she juggled it on the subway back to her apartment, emptied her mailbox, wondering what would happen when the mail piled up, decided not to think about it, and went upstairs to pack. Defino called before she had finished and checked to make sure the time was right. She said it was fine, and when she hung up, she suddenly started to feel very good. She was glad to be getting away from the MacHovec–Defino tension, glad to be going somewhere she'd never been, and glad to be the first to get a crack at Hutchins. If Hutchins was there. If Hutchins was still alive.

12

JOHN GRANT WAS at the gate when she walked off the plane, a lean man with pale, thinning hair, a nice smile, and a firm handshake. He led her to the baggage carousel and lifted her new suitcase off the belt as though it were weightless. They walked out into the dark night and into a parking lot.

“It's just up here on the left. How was your flight?”

“I guess it was fine. They fed me something edible and they got me here.”

He laughed. “You can't ask for much more, can you? Here we are.” He stopped at a maroon van that had enough room for two big families.

“You have a lot of children?” she asked.

“Three and one's off to college. My wife wanted this. Said she couldn't live without it.”

She clambered into the front seat and looked down at the world below. “Nice view.”

“That's what she likes best. What's the plan for tomorrow? We going to try to take Hutchins first thing in the morning?”

“Are you sure we can see the door to the apartment without Cory Blanding seeing us?”

“Sure as I can be. In fact, she turns the other way to go downstairs, so her back's to me. What are you thinking?” He stopped to pay a laughably small fee for parking, then continued out of the airport.

“Hutchins is a suspect in four homicides, possibly five, but I think the old woman who died first was natural causes. Still, nothing links Hutchins to the murders except the fact that he's still alive.”

“And he fled New York, tried to get a New York State driver's license illegally, seems to be hiding out. . . .”

“It's very circumstantial. I don't want to screw this up. Let's stand by and watch the apartment after Cory Blanding leaves tomorrow morning. If he has a job, he's got to come out at some point. Then we can move in on him.”

“We can do that. I'll pick you up at the hotel at seven-thirty and we'll drive over.”

“Will that give us enough time?”

“Plenty of time.” He made a turn, and Jane saw that they were in the parking lot of her hotel.

“That was fast.”

“Exactly my point.” He hopped down to the pavement and came around to help her but she was already out. He took the suitcase out of the back and pushed the hatch door down. It moved slowly, thumping itself shut.

The hotel had her reservation, and she signed in while John waited nearby. With the key in her hand, she went to get her suitcase.

“How about you take that upstairs and I'll meet you in the bar?”

“That sounds good. I'll be down in five minutes.”

“Don't hurry.”

She called her dad, who was waiting anxiously for her call, and told him the little she knew about Omaha and Nebraska. He liked hearing what she said. He hadn't traveled much in his life, and she was his lifeline to the world he would never see.

Downstairs, wearing a different pair of shoes, she found her way to the bar, where John Grant sat at a small round table nibbling at nuts. He rose as she approached, a Midwestern gentleman.

“What's your pleasure?” he asked, signaling to the waitress.

“Scotch on the rocks with a twist, a little water on the side.”

“That makes two of us.” He gave the order to the waitress, a woman in her fifties with a cheerful demeanor. She walked over to the bar, stopping on the way to say a word to three men at another table.

“Very relaxed,” Jane said, taking a handful of nuts from the bowl.

“Who's in a hurry at this hour?” He smothered a yawn. “Just a little tired. It's been a long day. How'd you get involved in a case this old?”

She told him, pausing to toast their hoped-for success when the drinks came.

“Interesting idea, looking into cold cases. We've got a few ourselves, one of them dating back to the Second World War.”

“For all I know, we may have some of those, too. But we may be onto something here, now that we have a lead on Hutchins and the possibility that Arlen Quill was killed in error.”

“Poor fella. Walks into his house and gets stabbed because he's got the wrong profile. How long've you been with NYPD?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“That's the magic number, isn't it?”

“I've got a new job lined up for when I hit twenty. Insurance.”

“Well, that should keep you busy in a quieter way.”

“I hope so. And it pays more.” She told him about the new apartment and the fireplace that actually worked.

“A working fireplace right in your apartment. That must be unusual in the big city.”

“It is. I looked for a long time before I found it.”

“You chop down your own trees for firewood? In Central Park or wherever?”

“I'm looking for a source.”

“Well, we'll send you some of ours. Got lots of trees where we live.”

“You look very tired, John. I think you should go home and let me get unpacked and into bed.”

“Can't argue with that.” He waved to the waitress and settled the bill.

They agreed she would wait outside the hotel for him to drive by in the morning. When she got upstairs, she knew she was even more tired than he had seemed. It had been a twenty-five-hour day.

The waitress poured coffee, shielding the cup from Jane so it wouldn't splatter. There were many acts of simple courtesy that would be rare in a New York coffee shop. She had slept well, the bed comfortable and her fatigue overwhelming her concern that the clock might not wake her at six-thirty.

At twenty-five after seven she stepped out the front door of the hotel into a brisk, sunny morning to see John Grant at the wheel of a black Ford. She was rather glad she would be spared the gymnastics of climbing into the van.

“You're early,” he said cheerfully.

“Likewise. Nice hotel. Good breakfast.”

“Sleep well?”

“Like a baby.”

“We can't be sure when we'll get our next meal, so I have some munchies and soft drinks in the cold pack.” He motioned his head to the backseat and Jane saw a Styrofoam picnic container resting there.

“I hope things move fast. I'm better at moving than waiting.”

“Least you don't fall asleep.”

They drove a short distance and entered the city. John made his way, avoiding the main part of downtown Omaha. At a quarter to eight they were driving slowly down a street with low apartment houses, a few stores, and people already walking purposefully along the street, getting into cars, driving off to work.

“That's her car,” John said, pointing to a dusty blue two-door that would never stand out in a crowd.

“Registered in her name?”

“You bet.” He pulled into a space across the street and they got out. “Let's stay on this side. The stairs to her apartment are right over there.” He nodded toward a break between one building and another. “There are other stairs back the way we came. I think, from where she parked her car, she'll come down these. We can stand under the stairs to the next section and watch for her. Then we'll go on up and start our wait. Unless, of course, he comes out with her.”

“That would be nice.”

They passed the stairs, crossed over, and walked to the next set nearby. Standing under them, they had a view of Cory Blanding's stairs and, in the other direction, the interior grounds of the buildings, including a swimming pool. The water had been drained but it looked nice, with steps down to the shallow end and a diving board at the deep end. Jane turned around to watch for Cory Blanding. For a minute or two, no one at all came down. Then they heard the click of heels.

“That's her,” John said in a low voice. He stepped out from under their hiding place and moved toward her. Then he shook his head. “No luck. She's alone. Come on. Let's go up and keep an eye on the door.”

Upstairs, John pointed to Cory's door. He stood next to it and put his ear against it, then walked away. “If he's inside, he's not making any noise. We can park ourselves down at both ends. There are seven doors. Blanding's is third from this end, fifth from the other end. As long as you can count, you're OK.” He left and took up a position at the far end of the corridor.

They began a long wait. At nine o'clock, she sat down on the concrete landing at the top of the stairs, her back wedged into the corner the wrought-iron bars made. When a door opened that was not Cory Blanding's apartment, she got up quickly, trotted down the stairs, along the sidewalk to the next set, and then up to where John was waiting.

“There's a gas station about a block back if you need a bathroom,” he said.

“I will soon. Want anything from the car?”

“Maybe a bottle of iced tea would be nice.” He pulled a ring of two keys out of a pocket and handed them to her. He was driving an unmarked police vehicle.

“You have Cory's phone number?”

He wrote it down.

“I'll try from the gas station.”

She enjoyed the walk. It was long enough to stretch her legs and wake herself up. She called her father from a pay phone and he was thrilled.

“A stakeout, huh?”

“A pretty boring one, Dad,” she said. “I don't think he's home, and it's going to take us a while to find out for sure.”

“Well, you're probably breathing better air out there.”

She had to agree. When she got off, she dialed Cory's number. It rang several times before a machine picked it up. “Hi, this is Cory. Leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can.”

Jane hung up. On the way back, she grabbed two iced teas out of the cold pack in the car and gave one to John.

“He answer?”

“Her voice on a machine.”

“Either he's out or they're very careful.”

“OK. I'll go back to my post.”

Around lunchtime John went down to the car and got some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. While he was gone, a woman left her apartment and walked down the stairs on his side. She was dressed nicely, a pants outfit and low heels, as though she were going to work or to lunch with a friend. Otherwise, there had been no activity for almost an hour.

They ate at opposite ends of the hall. Jane told herself this was not unusual, and it wasn't. Most detectives had spent long periods of time standing in dark hallways, on rooftops, or sitting in smoke-filled cars. One old-timer she knew would entertain himself by melting holes in Styrofoam coffee cups. Another played self-improvement tapes. Everyone had his own technique for waiting out suspects. It was more unusual for the wanted person to step out of his apartment five minutes after surveillance was set up. But she didn't feel good about this one. There was really no reason to believe Hutchins was living in the Blanding apartment. He could be anywhere in Omaha, anywhere in the country. Cory could have mailed the license to him and he could be driving around California or Utah just as easily as sitting inside the third door on the right.

The afternoon passed the way the morning had. They took turns going to the gas station, and finally, around four-thirty, they huddled at John's post.

“I'm going down now and watch for Cory. Let's give it some more time after she comes home. Maybe they'll go out for dinner or some fun.”

“Fun,” Jane echoed.

“Right. Remember when we had fun?”

“What a day.”

He went downstairs and Jane lost sight of him. A little after five he hissed at her from below, “She's on her way.”

Jane moved down the corridor to the far staircase and stood where she could see anyone who came toward Cory's apartment. The woman came up to the second floor a minute later, a key in her hand. Cory was about five-four, wearing dark tights and a navy-blue coat over them. Her hair was sandy and straight, her cheeks slightly red from the crisp air. She looked pleasant, ready to smile if you gave her an excuse. A dark shoulder bag hung from her left shoulder, while a bag that might be groceries rested in her left arm. As she turned the key in the door Jane moved silently toward her and was sure she heard Cory say, “Hi,” as she stepped inside.

Someone was waiting for her.

13

THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING. If someone was in the apartment, had been there all day, maybe he worked nights. Or maybe he didn't work and Cory supported him, and maybe they would go out in the evening.

Neither Jane nor John had the right to force their way into the apartment. And if they rang the doorbell and asked for him, there was only a slim chance he would show his face.

“I say give it a couple of hours,” John said. “This guy's been inside for a long time. If he works nights, he'll come out before midnight. You'd think he'd want to stretch his legs. Lord knows I want to.”

They took turns again going to the gas station. Jane called McElroy at home and briefed him. On her way back, she stopped in a little grocery store and picked up two sandwiches in case their stakeout lasted longer than another hour. But she was now wide-awake. The echo of that single syllable, “Hi,” had buoyed her.

It grew dark and Jane saw stars above the apartment complex. In New York it was often too hazy to see many stars, but here the air was clear and dry, the distant lights very bright.

About an hour after Cory Blanding came home, the door to her apartment opened and she stepped out into the hallway. “Well, don't forget it,” she called back through the open doorway. She shook her keys as she waited for him.

A few seconds later a man emerged, and John started down the corridor toward Jane's end, assuming the couple would move in that direction. The man with Cory was about medium height, with thinning pale straight hair, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. Cory locked the door and they turned toward the stairs at Jane's post. John moved in quickly from behind and Jane started toward them.

“Jerry Hutchins?” she said as John closed in. “I'm Det. Jane Bauer of NYPD.”

The look on his face was more fear than surprise. He turned to bolt in the other direction but John had him, and Jane grabbed his arm. “Let me go,” he shouted.

Cory screamed.

“Keep quiet, Cory,” Jane said. “We're police officers. No one's going to get hurt. We just want to talk to Jerry.”

Cory stopped screaming but her face froze, her mouth open, her eyes wide. John talked quietly to Hutchins, who had given up trying to run.

“We'll just take a quick trip to the station house and ask you a few questions. Is that OK, Jerry?”

“How'd you find me?”

“We'll get into that later.”

“Oh, my God,” he said, a faint note of hysteria in his voice. “How'd you find me?”

John led Hutchins down the stairs, and Jane and Cory followed. “You can come down and wait for him,” Jane said, “but you'll have to drive in your own car. We've only got room for Jerry.”

“What're you going to do to him? He's got to get to work.”

“We're just going to ask him a few questions.”

“Is he under arrest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Oh, God.” Her eyes filled. “Should I call someone, Jerry?” she called after him.

“Wait awhile,” he said. “I don't know. Jeez, I don't know what to say.”

“This is a mistake,” Cory said. “Jerry didn't do anything. We were just going out to eat. What are you going to ask him?”

“A few questions.”

At the bottom of the stairs they crossed the street to John's unmarked car. Cory stood at the curb watching. Then she started running.

They sent out for pizza for Hutchins, pizza and a Coke. He ate hungrily, finishing a slice and a half before pushing the box away and putting his head in his hands.

“You ready to answer some questions?” John asked.

He nodded but didn't look up.

“You want to tell us your name?”

“Jerry Hutchins.” He looked up.

“When did you leave New York, Jerry?”

“About . . . I'm not sure. Maybe three years ago.”

“What was your last address in New York?”

He gave the loft address.

“And before that?”

“Fifty-sixth Street, between Ninth and Tenth.”

“What made you leave?”

He didn't answer right away. He reached for the unfinished slice of pizza and ate it, crust and all, then drank from the Coke can. “Everyone was dying,” he said slowly.

“Jerry,” Jane said in a gentle voice, “I want you to tell us about the deaths, starting with the first one.”

“Quill?”

“That's the one. Tell me what you remember about Arlen Quill and how he died.”

“All I know is I came downstairs that morning because I heard a lot of noise. There were cops there, and that woman who lived on the first floor was crying, more like wailing. She wouldn't shut up. I didn't really see Quill because they had him covered, but the whole scene was really gruesome.”

A shudder passed over him and he reached for the Coke again. “I wanted to leave for work but they asked me to stay, so I did, and some detective sat down with me and asked me a lot of questions I couldn't answer.”

“Why couldn't you answer them?”

“Because I hardly knew him—Quill, I mean. We talked sometimes, but he really kept to himself, never said much that was personal. I didn't know if he was married or single, where he came from, that kind of stuff. He was a guy, he was quiet, he had a job, and he lived downstairs in the apartment on the other side of the building.”

“Where were you the night he was murdered?”

“I was probably home listening to music or watching TV.”

“Is that what you told the detective?”

“Sure.”

“And you didn't hear anything?”

“I lived on the fourth floor. He was murdered inside the front door.”

“Who else in the building did you know?”

“I knew them all,” he said. “New Yorkers are funny people. They live somewhere forever and never meet their neighbors. I had come from Omaha and I knew everyone on my street. I didn't know you were supposed to keep to yourself, so I didn't. I said hello to everyone and they said hello back. Even the black guy downstairs. We used to go out for dinner together sometimes. You know what I mean?”

“You were a friendly person.” Jane smiled. “That means you can tell us more about the other tenants in that building than anyone else.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Let's start with the woman on the first floor.”

Jane led him through a series of questions about Mrs. Best, how he occasionally helped her open a jar or change a lightbulb. There was nothing new in his answers.

“What was the next death?” Jane asked.

“Henry Soderberg.”

“Did you know him?”

“He was another one that kept to himself but yeah, we talked sometimes.”

“Did he ever invite you into his apartment?”

“No.”

“You invite him?”

“I did, now that you mention it. He came in for a beer once.”

“Did he tell you anything about himself?”

He shook his head. “Not much. He said he'd been married once but it hadn't worked out. Mostly it was like an interview, him asking all the questions.”

“You have any idea where he worked? What he did?”

“Electronics sales. Whatever that means.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“They said he fell down the stairs.”

“Who said?” John Grant asked.

Hutchins said, “It's what people were saying when I got home.”

“Did you believe it?” Jane asked.

“Yeah, I did, when it happened. But later . . . I don't know. I don't know what to believe anymore.”

“You feel like smoking, Jerry?” John asked. “It's OK to smoke in here.”

“Nah. Thanks. I don't smoke.” He reached for another slice of pizza and started eating it.

“What happened to make you think Henry Soderberg didn't just fall down the stairs?” Jane asked.

“It's what happened to everyone else.”

“Tell me.”

He talked about the night Henry died, his conversation with Margaret Rawls, whose name he couldn't recall, who had found him and was hysterical, how she moved out that night.

“She sent me a Christmas card with an address somewhere in Oklahoma, and I sent one to her. Then what happened was, I called her down there to tell her what happened to Hollis Worthman, and her sister said she'd had an accident and got killed. Hey, I was scared shitless.”

“Let's back up a minute. How did you find out about Hollis Worthman?”

“I told you, we used to have dinner sometimes. I knew him. He moved out after Henry died and went to live with his mother up in Harlem. But a couple of times we got together—he'd call me or I'd call him. Not too often, just once in a while. And it was, like, my turn to call him to set something up, and his mother said he was dead.”

“What did she tell you?” Jane asked.

“He got knifed in the street one night, going to the store. You know what? It happened the night after the last time we had dinner together. It was like a piece of ice went right down my back. I just looked around at the doors in that building, and behind every door there was a dead body.”

It was a chilling image. “When did you move out?”

“I started thinking about it when Hollis got killed, or when I heard he'd gotten killed. They were renovating the building by then. For a while I was the only person living there, and it gave me the creeps. You know how it is. You wake up in the middle of the night and you hear noises.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Just noises. Creeping around. Rats, mice, who knows? It's just that it's dark and you're in New York and it's not exactly the rich East Side.”

She talked to him about the loft, then looked down at her notes. “OK, so you found out Hollis Worthman had been killed. Let's go back to the southern lady, Margaret Rawls.”

Hutchins smiled. “Rawls, that was her name. Margaret Rawls. Yeah. Well, I got her phone number down South and I called to tell her. She was friendly with everyone who lived in that building. It was just her nature, I think. And this woman answers and says she's her sister and Margaret was killed in a freak accident.” He finished his Coke and scrunched up the can. “And I just saw it. Someone was killing everyone in that building and I was the only one left. Which meant I was next. I moved out.”

“I don't blame you,” Jane said sympathetically.

John Grant got up and left the room, returning a minute or so later with a fresh Coke. Hutchins had been finishing up the pizza and he was ready for something to drink.

“Anything happen while you lived in the loft?” Jane asked.

“Not much. But I looked behind me a lot. I didn't forward my mail there. I didn't have any credit cards, and I let my mother know where I was so I didn't have to forward anything. I cut off my phone and I didn't have to pay the electric bill anymore. At the loft, we just split the bill that came every month, and one of the guys paid it. I had a driver's license with the Fifty-sixth Street address on it and I changed that. But I was really scared, and after a while I came back here.”

He had just wanted to come home, he said. “The thing was, my license expired and I needed a new one, and I didn't want it on record that I lived in Omaha. So I got one from New York.” He looked at Jane. “That's how you found me, isn't it?”

“That was it.”

“Shit.” He put his head in his hands again, and when he sat up he looked as though he had figured out how they'd found him. “You can't keep anything a secret anymore, can you?”

“It gets tougher and tougher,” John said.

“So if you could find me, anyone could, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Jane said. He seemed genuinely scared. “We can get into files that the public can't.”

“But if someone really wanted to find me, they could, right?”

“There's a chance they could.”

He shook his head. “I was feeling safe, but now I don't know where to go from here.” There was a tremor in his voice.

“Jerry, I don't think anyone's after you, because if they were, they would probably have found you by now. It's over four years since Arlen Quill was killed.”

“Even so. They found Margaret, didn't they? And she left New York.”

“Why would someone be after you, Jerry? Did you see anything that might put the finger on who killed Arlen Quill or Henry Soderberg?”

“I didn't see anything. I don't know anything. I just lived in my apartment, went to work, that's all.”

It was a little too glib. Jane had that itchy feeling she got when someone was holding something back. “Can you describe Arlen Quill for me?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows as though the question had surprised him. “Maybe five-ten, five-eleven—he was a little taller than me—wore glasses, most of his hair was gone, didn't smile much.”

“How old would you say he was?”

“Thirties. Thirty-two, thirty-three.”

“What about Henry Soderberg?”

“He was a big guy, six feet probably. Older. Looked like maybe he worked out. He had pretty broad shoulders.”

“His face?”

“Big face, big nose, not much hair.”

“Did he wear glasses?”

“Yeah, usually. I remember when he came to my place that night he took them off and kind of cleaned them with a napkin.”

“Did he ever change lightbulbs in the hall in that building?”

“I don't know. The super did that stuff. Derek was his name.”

“You never saw Mr. Soderberg change a lightbulb?”

He thought about it. “I don't think so. Doesn't mean he didn't do it.”

“When did Mr. Soderberg come home from work?”

“Different times.”

“How do you know? You lived two floors above him.”