Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (9 page)

“Are you actually working?” I asked, but she didn’t answer, so I threw in, “You could almost pass for a college graduate when you take that businesslike tone.”

She held up her hand and extended her middle finger, but still didn’t turn around, instead, without missing a beat or even slightly changing the polite inflection in her voice, she continued talking to someone on the other end about some money matter. I knew she must be dealing with a credit inquiry. We ran routine credit histories and background checks from time to time. It was easy money and great work when we could get it.

“Huh, you are actually working,” I said.

She spun around in her chair, tilted her head to one side to cradle the phone between her shoulder and neck, then shot me double middle fingers. It was impressive how she could look so mean and yet sound so nice to the caller on the other side of the phone. I blew her a kiss, then walked into my office and closed the door.

I sat at my desk and waited for my phone to ring. I needed Victor’s help. I was eager to make some progress on the case. It wasn’t long before my patience started wearing thin. I picked up the phone to call him, but then dropped it back down. I couldn’t push Vic too hard. He was doing me a favor. I played solitaire on my computer until thankfully, around two-thirty, I got the call on my cell phone.

“Vic. Thanks for calling.”

“Hey, Hank. Been busy. Doing the best I can.”

“I know. I understand.”

“Listen, I’ve got a car. I’m on my way over. Be there in about ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Great. I’ll be ready.”

I reached in my desk, found a fresh notebook but couldn’t find a pen. “Sandy!” I yelled, then stepped out of my office and into the main room.

“What is it, Hank?”

“My pens. I need one.”

She reached into her pocketbook and took out a box of pens, handing me an unused one.

“Thank you, Sandy.”

She crinkled her nose at me, and I couldn’t help but lick my lips while thinking that she was the cutest little kleptomaniac I’d ever met.

“I’m going out.”

“Bye.”

I stepped outside.

“Hi, Mrs. Kim.” I said as I waved. She was in her usual spot behind the sewing machine. “Do you ever take a day off?” I cracked a smile.

“Too much to do. Too much to do,” she replied.

Mr. Kim stood behind the cash register and nodded and waved. I waved back just as I noticed a gray Dodge sedan approaching—standard unmarked police cruiser. It slowed and I could see Vic’s silhouette behind the tinted glass. Once it came to a stop, I walked around the back end and hopped in on the passenger side.

“Hey, Hank.” Vic said once I was inside.

“Nice suit.” Victor had on a striking burgundy suit with a matching tie on top of a dark shirt.

“You wish you could pull off a suit like this.”

“I’ll say.”

“You should start by washing yours. Those nice Koreans next door would do wonders with that suit, if you’d only let them.”

I sniffed the lapel of my jacket. “It’s clean.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Clean enough, anyway.”

There were no legal parking spots in front of the yellow brick building, so Vic parked the car right in front, ignoring the paint stripes identifying the fire lane, and we walked in together.

“I called ahead. The building super is expecting us,” Vic said while staring at his cell phone.

“You expecting a call?” I asked.

“Tate’s doing some paperwork on another case. He’ll be calling soon most likely. He’s getting tired of this one. Thinks we’ve hit a dead end. I’m not so convinced.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

We walked up to the front hallway, and Vic buzzed the super. A voice came over the static-filled line heard through a dirty, chrome speaker that was built into the wall.

“Yes,” the voice said.

“Mr. Lopez? It’s Detective Ortega. We spoke earlier.” Victor turned and looked at the security camera and waved.

“Okay. I’m coming down.”

The door buzzed open and we walked inside. The lobby was fairly modest for this neighborhood, but the building was no dump. It had my place beat, that was for sure. I took a seat on a wood bench. Vic stood.

As a bell rang and the elevator doors came open, I stood up from the bench. A man walked out: mid-thirties,
well built
but not especially stocky. Dark hair and dark complexion. Clean shaven. He wore a sky blue work shirt with white pinstripes and the word
Juan
was written over the breast pocket in red script lettering.

“Good afternoon, officers.” He spoke with an accent but wasn’t hard to understand.

“Hi, Mr. Lopez. Good to see you again,” Vic said.

“You can call me Juan, officer. That’s fine.”

“Okay, Juan. I’m Victor Ortega. We spoke a few times in the past.”

“Sure. I remember.”

“This is Hank Mondale.” Vic paused and Juan and I shook hands. “Hank’s a private investigator. He’s helping me out with the case. Okay?”

“Anything I can do to help. I’m happy to do. Mrs. Olsen was a very nice lady. But I already told you everything I know. There’s nothing new.”

“I totally understand. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I’m sure you have plenty to do around here.”

He laughed and his thin upper lip curled. “Just the usual. Keep the building in order. I don’t mind a quick break. I could use a cup of coffee. You fellas want?”

“Sure,” Vic said.

“Okay. Come to the office.”

We walked down a hallway, then stopped at the first door. Juan opened it. Inside was a messy office. There was a desk with papers piled high, a counter with some more papers and junk mail piles, and a coffee maker. There was one cushy chair behind the desk and a few hard, plastic chairs pushed against the wall. Vic and I each sat down on a plastic chair.

“I’ll make a fresh pot.” Juan began making the coffee.

“Okay, Juan. Again, I know you’ve been through this, but maybe Hank can spot something that the rest of us missed. Just walk him through what happened.”

“Well, Mrs. Olsen walked her dog every day two times. Once in the morning, once in the evening. Same routine. That day, she walked her dog, same as always. I was outside taking out the trash and I waved to her as she went by. Nothing special.”

I took out my notebook but didn’t write anything down.

Juan looked up at me, then continued. “A little later, her neighbor, Mrs. Younger call me and said there was a loud racket coming from Mrs. Olsen’s room. That I should come quick. At first, I don’t hurry.”

“No?” I asked, more to let him know I was paying attention than anything else.

“Mrs. Younger is an old lady. She complain a lot.”

“About noise?”

“About noise. About light. About darkness. About pets. You name it. She’s lonely. Husband die long time ago, now she just complains a lot. Not a bad lady but she can get on your nerves from time to time.”

“I gotcha. We all have neighbors like her.”

“Right. So at first I don’t think it’s a big deal. But then I get a second call. From Mr. Papadakos. He says he hears noise from Mrs. Olsen’s apartment. Mr.
Papadokos
don’t bother nobody. So, now I think I better go check it out. Make sure Mrs. Olsen’s okay.”

“Sure. So you went upstairs.”

“Yes. I go to her door and knock. I hear the dog bark and some muffled noises. I don’t know what to think. Maybe she have heart attack. Who knows?”

“So you let yourself in.”

“Yes. I use my key and let myself in.”

“And then?”

“I barely have time to think. As soon as I open the door, the woman inside was waiting for me.”

“Okay.”

“She run me over, like a freight train or something. It was crazy.”

“A woman ran you over like a freight train. Describe her.”

“I already told Detective Ortega what she looks like.”

“Please, Juan. Bear with me.”

“Okay. Okay. She ran over me so fast. But I got a pretty good look. She was pretty lady.”

“Pretty? What way?”

“Pretty hair. Nice business suit. Look like a classy lady to me.”

“A classy lady?” I said. “Help me, Juan. I need more.”

“I’m trying my best, Detective.”

“I know you are. Did she have any unusual features?”

He looked at me funny, so did Vic.

“Anything out of the ordinary? Anything…” I couldn’t think of a way to put my question that would make sense, so I just asked, “Did any part of her look inhuman?”

“Hank?” Vic asked, clearly puzzled.

“She look like regular lady to me. Like I say, pretty, classy lady.”

I shook my head. “Look, Juan. You’re a pretty big, fit guy. You’re telling me a pretty, petite, forty-something-year-old white lady in a business suit ran over you like a freight train?”

He threw up his hands. “She surprised me. I didn’t know she would be there.”

“I understand. But you said a freight train. She was that strong?”

“Hank,” Vic cut in. “Take it easy. I think the coffee is ready.”

I took the hint, stood up and began filling three crummy-looking mugs with coffee. The bottoms were stained and they may not have been washed since the last time they were used.

Then, Vic said, “Juan, no one is accusing you of anything. We just want information. We’re trying to catch the person who did this.”

“Exactly,” I said, handing them each a mug filled with black coffee. “No one is implying you did anything wrong. I’m just trying to get a sense of what happened.”

“I tell you what happened. She caught me off guard. That’s all.” He took a sip of the hot coffee, then a deep breath. “But like I say, she did seem very strong for such a little lady.”

I nodded, then looked at Vic and sighed, “Strong lady.”

“Guess so.” Vic agreed.

Despite being fresh, the coffee tasted like shit, like the beans had been sitting in the dusty cabinet for months and the water was stinky and over-chlorinated. I put the mug down on the countertop and said, “Juan, how about after that? The woman barreled over you and then it’s believed she ran down a staircase.”

“Yes,” he said as he nodded, then slugged from the mug; he didn’t seem to mind the taste. I guess he was used to it. “I heard the staircase door open and shut. It’s a heavy fire door. Makes a lot of noise when it slams shut. She didn’t take the elevator. I’m sure of it.”

“Can you show me the staircase?”

“Sure.”

We walked back to the lobby. Vic must have put his mug down somewhere while Juan carried his. We took the elevator to the fourth floor. We stepped out into a carpeted hallway, and I looked up and down the corridor.

Juan walked down the hall then stopped in front of a door. “This is the Olsen’s apartment. The lady, she run this way.” He walked past us then to a door with a well-lit
Exit
sign above it. “Then she go this way.” He pushed open the door and we followed. “Then, she run down four flights. My first thought was to chase her. But once I got to my feet, I decide to call 911 instead. I didn’t know if Mrs. Olsen was dead or what. She need help. I think at the time it was more important to get her help than to chase that lady.”

“Sure,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

We descended down the steps, and I didn’t see anything of interest. No clue the police missed. Nothing. Once down the steps, a doorway led out to the main lobby.

“That’s all I know,” Juan said. “I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.”

“Anything else, Hank?” Vic asked.

I stopped, paused, shook my head back and forth, then said, “No. You’ve been a great help, Juan. I apologize for dragging you away from your work.”

“No trouble, Detective. No trouble at all. If you have more questions, you let me know. Like I said, Mrs. Olsen was a nice lady. She tip me good at Christmas time. Ask me how’s my family. You know, treat me nice. If I could help you find that crazy lady who did this, I will.”

“Thanks again, Juan,” Vic said, then we walked outside. Once outside, Vic said, “What exactly
were
you going for?”

I decided to play dumb, at least for the time being. “What do you mean?”

“Was there anything inhuman about her? What kind of question was that?”

“You have to admit, a skinny, pretty woman running over that guy seems a bit much.”

“She caught him off guard. He wasn’t expecting it.”

“It still doesn’t quite add up.”

“Are you saying you think that guy is mixed up in this?”

“Nah. I just think we’re missing something here.” I looked around at the surrounding neighborhood. It seemed pretty normal. A few residential buildings, cars racing by on the FDR Drive just to the east. Nothing. “Vic, Juan said he saw her walking her dog while taking out the trash, right?”

“So?”

“Let’s check it out. What could be the harm?”

“Fine.”

We walked up the alleyway on the side of the building. Next door was a modern high-rise with balconies facing the East River. When we reached a row of trashcans, we stopped.

“So Juan must have been taking out the garbage here,” Vic said.

I looked down the alley. You could see the street fairly clearly.

“Yeah, he saw Mrs. Olsen and waved.” I said.

“Big deal. Come on, Hank. There’s nothing to see back here but garbage.”

I looked up, then around. Vic was right. We walked back towards the car.

“Hey, Vic,” I said. “You know anything about Bill Palmer? A missing persons case?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

I knew Victor Ortega since we went to public school together in the
Soundview
section of the Bronx. I knew I could trust him.

“He’s business partners with Thomas Blake. Supposedly he’s gone missing.”

A look of recognition filled his eyes. “Ah, yeah. Now I know who you’re talking about. The Thomas Blake thing. The way I heard it, a lot of people think Blake had something to do with the guy going missing. But who knows?”

“Who has the case?”

“Well, the guy lives in Westchester County, so it’s being investigated up there. But he also had an office in Manhattan. I hear there was some cooperation from our guys at one point. But they don’t have anything.”