St. Patrick's Day Murder (18 page)

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” I said. “I represent a member of their family that they haven’t seen since they lived here. It’s a mother and her son. I’ve come this far. Please help me find her.”

He gave me a bit of a scowl, growled something, and left the room. My time estimate was pretty accurate. He was back in a couple of minutes. “They lived on the second floor, 2D. It’s a small building. We got only four on a floor.”

“Were any of the tenants on two living here back then?”

He gave me the scowl again. “Mrs. Fisher’s always saying she’s been here forever. Come on up. I’ll introduce you.”

Mrs. Fisher was in her sixties or early seventies, a painfully thin woman with steel gray hair that looked as though it had been professionally set several days ago and now had wilted into haphazard curls. Her glasses were large and thick, the frames chosen for use, not style. She wore a full cotton apron over her clothes, and as the door opened, a strong smell of food cooking blew out of the apartment as though looking for a place to go.

I told her who I was and what I wanted.

“The Hanrahans,” she said. “I haven’t heard anyone talk about them for years.”

“Do you know where they are?”

She shook her head. “They had a problem and they moved. A long time ago. It must be twenty-five years.”

“Did you ever hear them say where they were going?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you recall their first names? Mr. and Mrs. Hanrahan?”

“Doris,” she said. “Doris and …” She stood there looking at me as though I could supply the missing name if I just tried hard enough.

“I’m really looking for the daughter, Carol.”

Mrs. Fisher smiled as though placating a child. “You won’t find her.”

“Do you know why?”

“It’s a long time ago, dear. Ask Mrs. Kennedy on four. They were friends.”

I thanked her, and the super rang for the elevator.

“What she do, this Hanrahan?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Sounds like you got a little mystery.”

“A big one,” I said.

On four Mrs. Kennedy opened the door when the super called to her. She was small and thin and had short, very thick hair the color of snow and very bright blue eyes.

Something about her made me smile. “I’m looking for the Hanrahans who used to live on two,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Doris and Charlie. I knew them.”

“They had a daughter, Carol.”

“They had a girl, yes.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“Well, they’re with God, most of ’em.”

My heart fell. “The daughter?”

“She died first. Sad case that was. And Doris next, a few years later.” She smiled brightly. “But old Charlie’s still around.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Well, I know where he used to be. Haven’t seen him for years, but my husband ran into him just a coupla months ago. Said he was livin’ in an old folks home around here somewheres.”

“Do you remember the name of it?” I knew this was it. If she couldn’t help me, I had a lot of work ahead and no certain success.

“It’s that big one over the other side of the park. St. Andrew’s? I think that’s it. St. Andrew’s Home for the Aged.” She laughed. “That’s a funny word now, isn’t it? Who wants to be called ‘aged’ in this day and age?”

“No one as young as you,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

In the car I looked at my watch. Two-thirty. I couldn’t chance missing Jack, so I worked my way over to the Sixty-fifth Precinct and parked at a meter not far from the coffee shop. It was just three when I walked inside.

Most of the tables were empty. I sat at one big enough for three and looked at the menu. When I glanced up, a waitress was standing near the table.

“Get you something?”

“Hot chocolate, please.”

“That it?”

“I think so.”

I had brought a book to read. Jack doesn’t have the kind of job that’s predictable. If he was catching cases today, he could be called out and spend hours away from the precinct.

“There you go,” the waitress said, setting my chocolate in front of me. “Gave you a little whipped cream.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“You’re Jack’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” The plastic bar pin on her uniform pocket said
TESSIE
.

I felt my cheeks warm. “I’m waiting for him,” I said, preferring not to acknowledge our relationship.

“I waited on you the first time you came here. Boy, could I tell he was falling for you.”

“I had just met him then,” I said.

“But I could tell. He’s a real sweetheart, that guy. You take good care of him.”

I told her I would. “He may call me here if he’s going to be late.”

“I’ll see you get the message.”

But there was no message and there was no Jack. At five to four, I went out and fed the parking meter. I stood for a few minutes looking up and down the street, but there was no sign of him. I went back and ordered a corn muffin and coffee. The muffin came nicely toasted, with butter and raspberry jam, a very New York kind of snack; I ate it slowly.

“You still here?” Tessie was back.

“Still here and still waiting.”

“He won’t stand you up.”

“He’s probably out on a case.”

“You gonna wait some more?”

“Till five.”

“You’re a teacher, aren’t you?”

“Yes. English.”

“You don’t look like a teacher. I wouldn’t’ve guessed it if Jack hadn’t told me. You don’t look tough enough.”

“I’m probably not,” I said. “Tough enough.”

At ten after five I paid up. They had a pay phone, and I called his number at the precinct. The detective who answered said he’d been gone a long time and he didn’t know when he’d be back.

I hung up and called Jean McVeigh. There was no answer. I went to my car and drove to Brooklyn Heights.

I called Jean again when I got to Jack’s place, but again there was no answer. There was no message for me on Jack’s answering machine, so I set the table for our pizza and checked the refrigerator. There were a few cans of beer, some milk, some orange juice, and two cans of Coke. We’d do fine.

I didn’t like the silence. Jack had said the case was ready to blow wide open and then I hadn’t heard from him. I was sure Tessie would have told me if he had called at the coffee shop.

I dialed Petra’s number, and she answered quickly.

“Petra, it’s Chris. I just wondered if you’d heard anything, if anything had happened.”

“Well, the murder of the cop, but you must know that.”

“Do they think Ray had something to do with that?”

“They’re trying to make a connection. They aren’t even sure when this McMahon died, so they’re looking for an hour here, an hour there that Ray could have done it. They came to talk to me at work today. Can you imagine that? Two detectives walking into our showroom?”

“It must have been very embarrassing. Did you see Ray over the weekend?”

“The whole weekend, every minute. If he got away long enough to kill someone, it must have been when I was in the shower.”

That was a little odd. Ray had said he didn’t like to stay overnight; he liked to sleep alone in his own place. Suddenly, on a weekend when a second homicide was committed, he had changed his pattern. Or Petra was covering for him, possibly for the second time.

“You haven’t heard from Jean, by any chance, have you?” I asked. “I’ve called on and off all day and she doesn’t answer her phone.”

“Maybe she’s at her mother’s.”

“I think I’ll try her there.”

Mrs. Costello was home and said Jean wasn’t there. “But you may not get her at home. I think she’s unplugged the phone,” her mother said.

“Is something wrong?”

“She said some reporter was after her to answer questions. She doesn’t want to talk to them anymore. She’s trying to put it behind her.”

It sounded fishy. Why would a reporter want to talk to her at this point unless there was something new to talk about? Something was going on and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was the only one who didn’t know what it was.

I opened my book and started to read. As I turned a page, the phone rang. I jumped up and answered it, only to hear a dial tone. One ring and someone had hung up. I put the phone back and stood waiting for it to ring again. But there was nothing.

I couldn’t concentrate on the book anymore. I turned on the radio to see if anything new had developed in the McMahon murder. The autopsy had been performed today. The medical examiner said McMahon had died of a bullet wound in the chest from a gun fired at very close range. His hands had been tied behind him, making his death appear to be an execution. He had died over the weekend, probably on Saturday, almost certainly not where his body had been found by a bunch of boys riding dirt bikes. If the police had any leads, they were keeping them to themselves.

Finally, the downstairs bell rang. I jumped up to press the buzzer, so Jack wouldn’t have to find his keys, but I stopped short. Instead, I called, “Who is it?” on the intercom.

There was no answer. I called again. I thought I could hear a voice, maybe two voices, but no one was speaking to me. I went to the door and double-locked it. Even if I hadn’t buzzed him in, someone else might come along and open the door.

I went to the window in the living room, which overlooked
the street. A car was double-parked just to the left of the entrance. Two men appeared on the street, got into the car, and drove off. At that distance in the evening dusk, I could recognize neither, nor could I read the license plate.

They had heard my voice and decided not to come upstairs. Either they had been looking for Jack, or they had been looking for an empty apartment. Either way, I was scared. If their intentions had been honorable, my voice would not have sent them off.

Jack walked in about five minutes later, carrying a pizza that was still warm. “Sorry about this afternoon, honey.” He gave me a kiss as he put the pizza on the counter. “Got a call on a shooting that turned out to be a suicide threat. Took a lot of time to calm him down and disarm him. He’s OK,” he said, seeing my face. “How’re things?”

I told him what had just happened.

“It was probably Tim. Don’t worry about it.”

“There were two men, Jack. I saw them leaving the building.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I heard two voices through the intercom, and then I saw two men leave the building and get into a double-parked car.”

I could see he didn’t like it. “Let me call Tim.”

Tim had already left home to come here. We sat and ate pizza while I told him about my afternoon.

“Tessie let you in on all my personality quirks?”

“I think she likes you. She was very circumspect.”

The downstairs bell rang, and a minute later the awaited Tim joined us.

“Chris, Tim O’Brien,” Jack said.

“O’Brien,” I echoed. “You called St. Stephen’s this week.”

“Didn’t get anything out of them. That’s a tight-lipped, protective bunch of nuns.”

“Sit down, Tim,” Jack said, handing him a beer. “Tell Chris the story.”

“I’m Jerry McMahon’s partner,” he began. “I was,” he amended his statement. “We were partners for three years. We knew each other pretty well and we trusted each other. It wasn’t like we told each other everything, but damn near.
But some crazy things have happened lately, and last week I knew something was going on that he was keeping to himself. I didn’t like to ask. It could be personal. You know.”

“I understand.”

“Last Friday we were on a four to twelve. Sometime after eleven, Jerry said he had to take a run over to Manhattan and I should leave a line for him. In the log,” he explained. “So he could come back and sign out. He would do the same for me.” He was a little embarrassed owning up to the deception, something that wasn’t all that unusual.

“Yes,” I said. “Go on.” I wasn’t interested in ethics; I wanted to see what he was leading up to.

“I signed out around midnight and went home. I never thought twice about it. When he didn’t come in on Monday morning, I just figured he’d had a blast over the weekend. It wasn’t the first time. Jerry was a real ladies’ man and he did crazy things sometimes. Anyway, at some point, it occurred to me to check the log. He’d never signed out on Friday night. I didn’t like that, so I drove over to his apartment. He gave me the key a long time ago. When you’re single, you need a backup like that and he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d leave a key on the ledge over the door where anyone could find it.

“The apartment looked OK,” he said. “The bed was even made, so it didn’t look as though he’d just gotten up after spending the night with a”—he paused to find the right word—“a woman,” he said, using an uncontroversially correct word. “I made a cursory search of the place and didn’t find anything much until I saw a piece of paper sticking out under the phone.” He opened his wallet, took out a folded note, and handed it to me.

It opened to about three by five and written on it in ballpoint ink was my license plate number. “He was going to meet me Friday night near Lincoln Center,” I said.

“I couldn’t say for sure. I checked the plate and got your name and the upstate address. You understand, nuns aren’t the kind of women Jerry hung around with. So I called St. Stephen’s and asked for you.”

“But they didn’t tell you anything.”

“Nothing. Lots of pleases and thank-yous, but nothing
else. Then last night, after they found Jerry’s body, I was having a beer with one of the guys and he said Jack had a girlfriend named Chris who used to be a nun. This morning we put it together.”

“He was coming to see me,” I said, feeling a shiver. “Did he leave you early enough to get to Lincoln Center by midnight?”

“Plenty of time.”

“What’s happened to his car?” I asked.

“There’s an alarm out for it,” Jack said. “They’ve been cruising his neighborhood since Monday, but it hasn’t turned up. Hasn’t turned up anywhere else, either.”

“Did Jerry know Scotty?” I asked.

O’Brien shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Jean said she saw him at a party once. I wonder if he knew Harry Donner or Gavin Moore.”

“Sure he knew Donner,” Jack said. “We were all at the same place at the same time for almost a year.”