Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (7 page)

I went to bed.

* *

I stopped in Jo Jo’s and fixed myself a cup of coffee. Angela, the lady who worked mornings there looked like she hadn’t had her morning cup yet and barely grunted a hello. I dropped six quarters and a ball of lint on her counter and walked out.

A big figure was standing in front of my office. As I got closer, I could see the bulging biceps squeezed into a size-too-tight designer sweat suit. His hair had enough gel in it to hold down a hotdog wrapper against hurricane-force winds. It was Marco, standing alone, arms folded at the front door to my office. Luckily I was ready for him.

“Not hiding this time, Henry. Smart thinking.” A toothpick dangled from his lip, and he was chewing gum at the same time.

“Only my mother calls me Henry. And doesn’t that give you splinters?”

He didn’t seem to appreciate my joke. He continued to chew.

I reached into my pocket where I’d already separated two stacks of bills and wrapped them in rubber bands. I pulled one out and handed it to Marco.

“That’s twenty-two hundred. Tell Flip he doesn’t need to chase me. I’m good for the rest. I’ll come see him soon.”

Marco looked stunned, and maybe a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to get to kick my ass on this day. He took off the rubber band and gave the cash a fast count. He nodded, then said, “Okay, Henry. This covers last night but it doesn’t make a dent in the principal.”

I nodded.

“Juice is still running.”

I nodded again.

“See
ya
.” Marco walked over to a
souped
-up, red Camaro parked across the street. He got in, revved the engine, and sped off, wheels chirping as he did.

“So loud!” Mrs. Kim yelled. I turned and saw her behind her sewing machine holding her ears.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Kim.”

“It’s alright,” she said and brushed me off, letting me know it was no big deal.

“Morning, Mr. Kim.” I called out. He waved back.

I walked into the entranceway and reached for my key. I tried it in the lock but it didn’t fit; I wiggled it, but couldn’t jam the key in. There was a note hanging from the door: a handwritten eviction notice.

I grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket and called
Avi
. He answered on the first ring. He knew it was me.

“Mr. Mondale, how may I help you today?”

“
Avi
, I need to get in my office.”

“Sorry. I am tired of going through this exercise all the time.”

“
Avi
, please. I have your money.”

“Yes. Yes. I’ve heard this one before, Mr. Mondale.”

“I mean it,
Avi
. I have it right now, in the pocket of my pants. Come down here, open the door and take your money.”

“You are paying the locksmith bill, too.”

“
Avi
, why’d you have to go and change the locks?”

“Mr. Mondale, do I really have to answer that? If I left the notice without changing the locks, would we be having this conversation? Or would my notice be in your garbage pail?”

“Okay. Fine. You made your point. Please come down here. I have two months’ rent for you. This month and last month.”

“Very well. I’ll be there in a half hour.”

“Make it fifteen.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* *

I finished my cup of coffee inside the Kim’s bustling store. A steady stream of men and women in suits carrying shirts and blouses by the armful kept them busy, but they were good enough to let me sit on a bench that stood in the front corner of the store.

Avi
showed up about forty minutes later in a dark gray Lexus, which he parked in front of a fire hydrant and left idling. I met him out front, handed him his money and he opened the door. Begrudgingly, he handed me a key to the newly changed lock, then got back in his car. His window came down and he called out, “Let’s not go through this unneeded silliness again next month, Mr. Mondale. Please.” Then he quickly drove off.

The office was warm; Sandy had obviously paid the heating bill. As I walked towards the back, she came in.

“Hi, Hank,” she said with way too much enthusiasm for first thing in the morning.

“You missed all the excitement.”

“Oh?”

“
Avi
was just here. He changed the locks again.”

“Again?” she sighed.

“Here.” I handed her my key. “Go down to the locksmith and get yourself a copy made.”

“Okay.”

I walked into my office, and sat down at my desk. I noticed the empty bottle of whiskey.

“Sandy,” I called out.

She was halfway out the door and called, “What is it, Hank?”

“Get me a bottle of whiskey while you’re out.”

“Hank! It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

“Just get it. Please.”

“I’ll see what’s opened.”

“Thank you.”

I had two important calls to make. It was time to begin the process of gathering information. The first thing that I learned a long time ago in this business is to find out everything you can about the people who hire you. I needed a crash course in Thomas and Mackenzie Blake.

That was the first order of business for the day. My buddy, Warren Hill worked for The Post. Warren covered the city beat. Many considered The Post to be a rag paper, and Hill to be nothing more than a hack journalist, but truth be told, Warren took his job very seriously. He knew all there was to know about New York City and its various players. Thomas Blake was a big player in the business scene. Mackenzie Blake was a big player in the New York society scene. Warren was sure to know a lot about them both.

I opened the top drawer to my desk. Amongst random slips of paper, half-spent notepads and assorted junk, I found Warren Hill’s business card.

The phone rang without being answered, and then Warren’s voicemail picked up. Standard business message, no friendly greeting, just Warren’s deep voice sounding tired as usual, saying: “You’ve reached the voicemail of Warren Hill. Leave your number, I’ll call back.”

“Warren, it’s Hank Mondale. I need some help on a case. Maybe we can grab some lunch later and talk it over. Call me back.” I left my office and cell numbers and hung up.

The next number I didn’t need a business card for. I had Victor’s cell phone number programmed into my phone, and knew it by heart anyway. I punched the number into the dusty black phone on my desk.

“Hello.” Vic answered quickly.

“Hey, Vic. It’s me.”

“Hey, Hank.”

“Listen, about that murder case. The lady over by the FDR.”

“Yeah, Olsen case.”

“I need some information on it. Can I review the file?”

He laughed. “
Tate’ll
be a bitch about it, but…”

“Come on, Vic. He’ll get over it. Maybe I can even help out.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I’ve got a new client. I’m not sure yet, but maybe my case and your case overlap.”

“Really? Alright. I’m on my way in now. Stop by the stationhouse in an hour.”

“See you then.”

“Yup.”

I hung up the phone and looked over at the empty bottle of Jim Beam to my right.

“Where is Sandy,” I mumbled to myself. “I could really use a drink.”

She returned within a few minutes and I filled a flask with booze, took a swig right out of the bottle, then put the flask in my overcoat and headed towards the door.

“See you later, Hank.”

“Call my cell if any important calls come in.”

“You got it. This is so exciting to see you working on a big case.” She giggled with schoolgirl charm.

I took another swig, this time from the flask.

“Hank. You should watch that. You’re working.”

“That’s why I need this.”

“Oh, Hank. Stay out of trouble please.”

“Bye.”

The walk uptown took a while, but I had time to kill. A lot of times I would have taken a cab up to the thirteenth precinct. The walk was a good twenty blocks, and it was chilly out. But I knew Vic was just getting into work, and I wanted to at least let him get settled in with a cup of coffee before I bothered him.

O’Malley, or O’Hara was at the desk when I walked into the stationhouse. It wasn’t the same guy from the other day. It was the other one.

“Hey, O’Hara.”

“It’s O’Malley!”

“Sorry, my fault.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I walked upstairs to Homicide and Victor was at his desk, slugging away at a large cup of coffee. Tate wasn’t at his seat. Maybe he wasn’t in yet, which was fine by me.

“Hey, Vic.”

“Good morning, Hank.”

I heard a toilet flush and Tate walked out of the nearby bathroom, rubbing his wet hands on his suit pants.

“One of the joys of having a desk in the far corner of the stationhouse,” Vic said.

I nodded in agreement.

“So, what can I do for you today, Hank?”

“The murder from last summer. The FDR thing.”

“Olsen. Right. You have something for me?”

Tate sat down and for the first time took notice that I was in the room.

“I might. I’m not sure yet. Can I look over the file?”

“Come on, Mondale. You need to give a little to get a little,” said Tate. “What do you know?”

“I have a new client. My client may know something about the case. It’s probably nothing. But I need to check it out.”

“Who’s the client?”

“Come on, Tate,” Vic cut in for me. “You know Hank keeps his clients confidential. Show a little courtesy.”

Tate’s nose rose up towards the ceiling like an elephant’s trunk.

“Listen,” I said. “Let me look over the file. If I have anything, anything at all, I’ll fill you guys in. Right now, I don’t have anything to go on. If I did, I’d have already shared it with you. The file’s been cold for months, so what’s the big deal? If I have a solid lead, I’ll give it to you.”

Tate stood up and walked towards the cheap coffeemaker that sat on a table on the other side of the room; I could smell the crappy, burnt coffee from where I was sitting. With his back to us, he said, “Fine. Knock yourself out.”

Vic handed over the file, which was already sitting on his desk. It was a fairly slim file for a homicide. I didn’t figure it would take me long to read over.

Virginia “Ginny” Olsen was fifty-four years old at the time of death, married, had two children in their twenties and a dog named Peanut.

“Anything on the husband?” I asked Vic as I thumbed through the file.

“Seems clean. It’s all there.”

The husband’s name was Scott. Fifty-six years old. Worked downtown near Wall Street for a financial firm. No criminal record. Seemed like a clean, Joe Citizen. The file indicated Detectives Ortega and Tate questioned him on two separate occasions. He had a solid alibi; he was working late the night of the murder and had numerous coworkers to back that up. No reported marital problems. Like Vic said: nothing.

Juan Lopez, the building superintendent was the eyewitness. Mr. Lopez was questioned on four different occasions. His story was consistent, and backed up by security camera footage. He received a complaint of noise coming from the Olsen apartment. Went to check it out. Knocked, didn’t hear an answer, so he used his master key to get in. When he opened the door, a Caucasian woman, attractive, late thirties to early forties, barreled him over and ran out of the building. Juan turned on the lights and saw Mrs. Olsen, then called 911 immediately.

“That’s it, huh?”

“In a nutshell,” Vic replied. “That’s all we have. We have an eyewitness and security tapes, but no one knows who this woman is, much less why she’d do such a thing.”

“Vic, can you take me down to the scene?”

Vic shrugged. “I guess so. But what you see is what you get. Me and Tate have been over there a dozen times. We’ve interviewed the entire building. No one knows who that mystery woman on the security tape is.”

“Humor me.”

“Okay. This afternoon. I’ve got a lot to do this morning.”

“Great, see you then.”

“I’ll call you when I have time.”

“Thanks, Vic.”

When I walked outside the stationhouse, I noticed the little envelope on my cell phone. Someone had left a message while I was inside. Cell service was always a little dicey inside the precinct. On a good day you got perfect reception, other days, like today apparently, the phone didn’t even ring.

My hopes were fulfilled as I listened to the message and heard the voice of Warren Hill. His voice was raspy and he sounded every bit his sixty-seven years of age when he spoke in slow deliberate tones, as if each word might be his last. He smoked three packs a day, minimum and had a nasty coke habit for much of his adult years; although he’d kicked those demons at least ten years ago, many of the scars remained. Still, I was one of the few people who got along with the guy.