Fare Play (2 page)

Aha. No misspellings.

Wonder of wonders
—
a cop who could spell
. The first officer on the scene of the fire, and the writer of the report, was a bluesuit named Strauss. Marian concentrated, but she couldn't summon up a face to match the name. So many new faces, and not yet time enough to learn them all. Well, that would come.

She read the rest of the reports on her desk. Nothing major; Captain Murtaugh would be happy.
Marian
was happy. Home at a decent hour: she thought she remembered what that was like. She gathered up the reports and took them to the captain's office.

“What?” Murtaugh barked.

Marian ignored his end-of-the-day gruffness and told him what. “Last night's attempted break-in at Liebowitz Jewelry turned out to be a false alarm—literally. A rat gnawing through the insulation of a wire set off the electronics. Officer on the scene told Liebowitz to call an exterminator instead of a security expert.”

Murtaugh grunted. “What next?”

“The fire in the stockroom at Lord and Taylor—nobody hurt. Bomb and Arson gets this one.”

“Cause?”

“First officer thought he smelled gasoline.”

The captain nodded. “Not our problem.”

Marian cleared her throat. “The only thing new I have on the steroids smuggling—”

“Pass it on to the Two-three. They're claiming jurisdiction and we're going to let them have it.”

She made a note:
23rd Precinct
. “Next, two kitchen workers at Riccardo's Ristorante on East Thirty-sixth went at each other with butcher knives,” she said. “Both men were treated for superficial cuts and taken downtown to the holding cells. Walker and Dowd are at the restaurant now, interviewing witnesses.”

Murtaugh waved a hand dismissively; just another knife fight. “Anything else?”

Marian had saved the best for last. “You'll be happy to hear,” she said with a smile, “that our friend Dmitri is at last in custody. Perlmutter just called it in.”

Murtaugh snorted. “About time. How'd he get him?”

“Luck. Perlmutter was standing on the street talking to a bluesuit when some guy ran up yelling that Dmitri was ‘signing' the Statler right then. They caught him in the act.”

“In broad daylight? The guy either has a screw loose or he wanted to be caught.”
Dmitri
was the nom-de-spray-paint of a mysterious “artist” who had taken it on himself to decorate a number of Manhattan's edifices with curious abstract designs. It was only when you looked closely that you could see the letters forming the word “Dmitri” worked into each design. Having a Dmitri signature on the building had become a camp status symbol in some quarters; but the
Times
had printed a no-nonsense article contending that defacing a beautiful building was still vandalism and would never be art. “Is it a kid?” Murtaugh asked.

“No, Perlmutter says he's in his late thirties,” Marian replied. “Postal worker from Queens, quiet, no rap sheet. He just likes to spray-paint buildings.”

“I know a couple of architects who'd like to spray-paint
him
,” Captain Murtaugh growled. “Let's hope the media don't turn him into some sort of folk hero.”

“They've already made a good start,” she said dryly. “If you don't have anything for me, I'm going home.”

“Go ahead.” He waved her out.

Marian had a few things to clear up in her office before she could leave.
Her office
—a perk that came with her promotion. The novelty of having her own office following years of sitting in a squadroom had worn off about fifteen minutes after she'd moved in. The office itself was a small windowless cubicle, cramped for space, and in need of a good cleaning. But it had a door that could be closed when the noise level got unbearable, and it gave her a modicum of privacy as she oversaw the work of the twenty-five detectives in her charge at Midtown South Precinct. The detectives were supposed to be divided into three squads of seven or eight, each squad headed by a sergeant. But the unprecedented shortage of sergeants plaguing the police department had left Midtown South one sergeant short at the moment. The two sergeants oversaw squads of eleven and twelve each with Marian herself stepping in to help out when needed. The NYPD's newest lieutenant was earning her paycheck.

She'd been on the job only three weeks. But that was long enough to figure out which of her detectives resented taking orders from a woman and which were playing a waiting game.
Most
of them she had figured, that is; a couple she couldn't quite pin down. The two female detectives in the bunch appeared honestly glad to see a woman in the lieutenant's office; no problem there. And one of the men was a toady. Big smiles all the time, if you need any help let me know, my don't you look nice today. Jerk.

But they were all watching her, out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for her to make a mistake. Captain Murtaugh was watching too; he'd taken a chance, recommending her for promotion. If she screwed up, he'd look bad. Marian and the captain hadn't known each other long, had worked on only one case together while she was still technically attached to a different precinct. All of Midtown South was new to her—the personnel, the beat, the snitches, the danger spots, the ongoing rackets, the “flavors” of the area, the smells. She had a lot to learn.

Marian cleared her desk and put on her coat, pleased at getting away at a decent hour. She almost made it.

“Lieutenant Larch!” A young detective in shirtsleeves was talking on the phone and waving an arm at her.

She crossed the squadroom to his desk as he finished talking and hung up. O'Toole, his name was.

“This just in, Lieutenant,” the detective said. “Passenger found dead on a crosstown bus. Caucasian male, in his seventies.”

“Heart?”

“Bullet. Shot at close range. First officer says there's no telling how long he'd been riding like that. Dead, I mean.” O'Toole cleared his throat. “Sergeant Campos isn't here.”

Neither was anyone else. Campos was O'Toole's squad leader, the one who made the case assignments. At the moment the young detective was the only one in the squad-room.

“Looks like you and me, O'Toole,” Marian said. “Saddle up.” So much for getting home early.

O'Toole grabbed his suit jacket and coat and followed her out.

3

The bus was sitting in the right-hand lane on West Thirty-fourth, directly in front of the West Side Jewish Center. Two uniformed officers were directing traffic around the obstacle, while another had the more demanding job of keeping a group of anxious, noisy people from pushing their way off the bus. The passengers were all crowded into the front half of the bus; the driver stood on the sidewalk beside the closed side door, talking to a fourth uniformed officer.

“Jesus!” said O'Toole. “How do you contain a crime scene like that?”

Marian was wondering the same thing herself. She started toward the bluesuit questioning the bus driver, but he saw her coming and said, “Stay back, ma'am.”

She held up her shield. “Lieutenant Larch. Are you the first officer on the scene?”

His eyes widened a fraction:
So this is our new lady lieutenant
. “No, Lieutenant, Jackson's first officer.” He indicated the bluesuit guarding the front exit of the bus. “What we gonna do about all these people?”

“We're going to let them off two at a time. What's your name, Officer?”

“Torelli.” A pause. “Ma'am.”

“Well, Torelli, I want you and Detective O'Toole here to take down the names and addresses of all the passengers and ask them if they saw anything.”

“They all say they didn't see nothin'.”

“Ask them again. If they have more than one form of ID, you can let them go. No ID or anything that smells fishy, hold them. For out-of-towners, get local addresses.”

“I gotta call in,” the bus driver said in an aggrieved tone.

“We'll call for you. Give the phone number to Detective O'Toole. And wait here—I'll want to talk to you.”

The right bluesuit was guarding the bus passengers: a barrel-chested black man with shoulders wide enough to block the exit. “Officer Jackson?” Marian identified herself and told him to start letting the agitated passengers off two at a time. “You're the first officer?”

“Yes'm. Most of the passengers had scrammed before I got here. This bunch here musta been daydreaming—they didn't think nothing of it when the driver stopped the bus to make a phone call.”

“I was afraid of that.” She waited while Jackson ordered the first two passengers to step off; O'Toole and Torelli were waiting for them. “How long between the dispatcher's call and your arrival?”

“Couldna been more'n two or three minutes. But that's long enough for most of 'em to get off. There's only ten, twelve people here—but the driver said the bus was packed.”

So most of their potential witnesses had disappeared into the streets. Marian nodded her thanks to Jackson and went back to the bus driver, who was watching the cops directing traffic around his bus amid a lot of horn-honking and shouting.

The driver was an angry man in his late thirties who took it as a personal affront that someone would go and get himself killed on
his
bus. “Like I don't have enough to worry about,” he complained. “Busful of tired and short-tempered people on their way home from work. And me already behind schedule.”

“How did you find out you had a dead man on board?” Marian asked. She had to shout to make herself heard.

“Passenger told me,” the driver shouted back. “And she told me loud enough that everybody in the front part of the bus heard her. They couldn't wait to get out of there! I couldn't even go back and check the guy right away because of that mob pushin' to get off.”

“Did you touch the body?”

“Hell, no. With all that blood everywhere? He was dead, all right.”

“The woman who told you—was she one of those who left?”

The driver looked at her scornfully. “You expect her to hang around?”

No, Marian didn't. “I don't suppose you remember where the dead man got on?”

The driver looked smug. “Matter of fact, I do. Second Avenue.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He was an old guy, slow … ya know. While he was climbin' on, I was lookin' at what the Thirty-Fourth East was showin'.”

A movie theater. “So he was killed somewhere between Second and Ninth Avenues. Let's see, counting in Lexington and—”

“Nine blocks,” he interrupted. “Exactly.”

“And nobody heard the shot? Or saw anything?”

“Musta used a silencer,” the driver said, nodding sagely.

While they'd been talking, both the Crime Scene Unit van and the car from the Medical Examiner's office had arrived. Marian could hear the CSU men griping about having to deal with a movable crime scene that was blocking traffic. They waited until the last passenger was off and then boarded the bus.

The traffic noise had died down to its usual level—which was to say, merely deafening. O'Toole and Torelli had let everyone go except three people, one of whom was a girl of thirteen or fourteen who looked scared to death. Marian shot a look at O'Toole.

“You said keep everybody who didn't have ID,” he said defensively.

Marian drew the girl aside. “What's your name, kiddo?”

The girl whispered something.

“What's that? I can't hear you.”

“Sharon Brandt.” A louder whisper.

“Sharon, don't you know you should never leave home without carrying some kind of identification? What if you're in an accident? How could we let your parents know?”

The girl nodded dumbly, wide-eyed.

“Even if it's just a card you've written your address on. Something.”

Sharon nodded again.

“You promise me you'll carry ID from now on?”

“Oh yes!” Faintly.

“Good. You go on home now.”

The girl took off running. The other two who'd been held back were a middle-aged woman and a scruffy, stick-thin youngish man. The latter's pupils were pinpoints; his head was swaying in time to music only he could hear, and a loose grin made him appear as carefree as he probably felt. His only protection against the February cold was a ragged sweater; the guy looked like a slaphappy scarecrow.

“This one can't even tell us his name,” O'Toole said in disgust.

Marian sighed. “Take him in and hold him until he comes down from wherever he is.” Torelli led the unresisting scarecrow away.

That left the middle-aged woman, who blinked when a flash from the police photographer's camera went off inside the bus. She had short brown hair, minimal make-up, featureless clothing. Nondescript. “No ID?” Marian asked.

“Oh, she has ID all right,” O'Toole said with a grim smile. “She's a private.”

“I'm not licensed,” the woman said hurriedly. “I
work
for a licensed detective. I'm an operative.”

“Her name's Zoe Esterhaus,” O'Toole added. “Zoh-ee without a
y
. She and the victim got on the bus at—”

“Second Avenue,” Marian interrupted.

O'Toole looked surprised. “That's right.”

Marian couldn't believe this early break. “You were following the victim?”

“Yes, I was,” the operative admitted readily. “But don't ask me why. My instructions were to file a report on everywhere he went. That's all I know.” The Esterhaus woman heaved a big sigh. “Lieutenant, I'd like to cooperate, but I really think you'd better talk to my boss.”

“We're going to talk to both of you. What's the victim's name?”

“Oliver Knowles. Retired businessman of some sort. He lived on Central Park South. Lived pretty well, from what I could see.”