Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “You’re right. And then you disappeared.”

  “That’s also my right. I don’t owe you or anybody explanations.”

  “Unless you have something to explain.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Susan Kale. About why someone tried to kill Waldo on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Look, if you think I—wait a minute. Tried to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was killed.”

  “No he wasn’t. It was someone else that day in the Santa suit.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know that, Joe. I’m surprised your friend, Detective Rizzi, didn’t tell you.”

  “He knows?”

  “That’s a fair assumption.”

  “He would have—”

  “Would have told you? Should have told you?”

  He looked down at his shoes. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know what to say. All I know is that I’m in a hell of a spot.”

  “Why are you in a spot? Knowing that Waldo is alive should be good news. You are his friend, aren’t you?”

  “Sure I am. How do you know he’s alive?”

  “Because I’ve talked with him.”

  “Where is he?’

  “I’d rather keep that to myself, at least for now. After all, he’s in a tough spot, too.” I didn’t add that I was afraid what he might do if he knew how to find Waldo.

  He noticed that Bobby Johnson had pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket and was making notes. “Hey, knock that off,” he said. “This isn’t like some interview.”

  “Please, Bobby,” I said. He reluctantly returned the pad and pencil to his pocket.

  “I suppose all of this has a logical explanation,” I said, unable to keep the confusion and frustration from my voice. “But that isn’t nearly as important right now as Waldo’s wife, Nancy. Is she with you?”

  “Of course not. I haven’t seen Nancy since high school.”

  Could I believe him? For some reason, I did.

  “You said she moved,” Charles said. “Maybe she went out west, or to some foreign country. Why look at me like I should know?”

  This time it was the wife who yelled at us in Spanish. I reached for the closest thing, a bag of tortilla chips and held them up to her to see. “Dinero,” the wife said. Bobby Johnson swore under his breath, went to the counter, and dug through his pockets for change. While he was there, I asked Joe Charles, “Did you try to have Waldo killed?”

  “What?” He held his hand up in a gesture of sincerity. “Me? Try to get Waldo killed? Boy, do you have it wrong. Next you’ll accuse me of killing Susan. I loved Susan. When you saw me and Rizzi together, and after she was murdered, I figured it was time to split. I’d be in L.A. or Frisco if I had any bread. Why do you think I’m hiding out like this, playing this crummy joint, living in a flophouse? Don’t look at me, lady, when you talk about trying to kill somebody. Look at Waldo.”

  Johnson returned just as Charles finished his statement. “What did I just hear, that Waldo Morse is a killer?” he asked.

  Charles looked at Johnson. “I’ve said enough,” he said.

  “But what did you say?” Johnson repeated.

  Charles started for the door. Johnson grabbed his arm. Charles turned and looked at me. “You are some troublemaker, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I am only trying to get to the truth, Joe, and perhaps save Nancy Morse’s life. Are you sure you don’t know where she is?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m outta here.” With that he was through the door and running across the street.

  Johnson looked at me with questioning eyes. “Come on, Jessica, share with me. Don’t forget I brought you here. He claims that Waldo Morse is a murderer?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what he claims, Bobby. Waldo told me that it might have been Joe Charles who tried to have him killed on the street that day. I asked him about that, which prompted the response you heard. Frankly, I don’t know what the truth is.”

  “Let’s go back and talk to him some more,” Johnson said.

  I shook my head. “He won’t say anything else to us. He says he doesn’t know where Nancy Morse is.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I think I do. I’m very tired, Bobby. How do we get a cab in this neighborhood?”

  “Not easy. Maybe Mom and Pop here will call one for us.”

  Johnson returned to the counter where he used pigeon Spanish to get across that we needed a taxi. The wife said, “Dinero.” I browsed publications on the magazine rack while waiting for Bobby to return. The door behind me opened. I didn’t turn around until the two men who’d entered began shouting in Spanish. When I did turn in response, I was face-to-face with men brandishing handguns. One stayed with me while the other moved quickly to the counter and pointed the weapon at the owners of the store.

  I was frozen with fear. At the same time, I broke out into a sweat and my throat went dry. I stared at the man holding a weapon on me. As hard as I tried to avert his stare, I couldn’t. His eyes were black and small, and he had the crazed look of someone on drugs.

  The voices became louder at the counter. The man with me spun away and ran in that direction. I saw the husband open the register and toss bills on the counter. One of the gunmen scooped them up and shoved them in his pocket.

  Then, it happened. There were two shots. I couldn’t see who’d been hit. I threw myself to the floor and lay there shaking as two pair of feet ran from the back of the store toward the door. They stopped for a moment. Did they remember I was there? If they did, they decided not to bother with me because they opened the door and vanished into the night.

  The next voices I heard were the husband and wife. Unlike earlier when they were demanding money, they sounded like paid wailers at a funeral. I slowly got to my feet and approached the counter. What I saw affected me as though someone had punched me in the stomach. Lying in a pool of blood was Bobby Johnson.

  “Get help,” I said, although I needn’t have bothered. The wife had already dialed 911.

  I knelt beside Bobby and placed my fingertips on his brow. He was alive; a quick observation indicated that the bullet had hit him in the left shoulder. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against the wound to stem the flow of blood. “Just take it easy,” I said. “Help is on the way. You’ll be all right.”

  He responded by looking up at me and smiling, actually smiling. And he said, “Looks like we won’t have any problem finding a cab now, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was déjà vu all over again.

  The first two policemen through the door were in uniform. They were followed by none other than Detective Alphonse Rizzi. As had happened on Fifth Avenue, he and his colleagues were there in minutes. Late at night on Alexander Avenue in the South Bronx? It was hardly an area where a detective would be routinely cruising.

  “Amazing,” he said.

  “It certainly is,” I said. “Why are you here?”

  He gave me one of his patented stupid-question looks and pointed to the rear of the store where an MPD paramedic worked on Bobby Johnson. “Is that good enough reason for you?”

  “That’s not what I mean, Detective Rizzi. What I meant was that it seems highly unlikely that you would just happen to be in the area.”

  “I’m with Narcotics. This is heavy drug turf.”

  “I saw you when I came out of the Pan Am Building earlier this evening.”

  “Wrong. The Met Life Building. Pan Am went south.”

  “The name of the building doesn’t matter. Why are you following me?”

  “Don’t pride yourself on being important enough to be followed, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m not following you.”

  “Commissioner Frye said he was withdrawing police escort for me.”

  He ignored my comment. “Who’s your friend back there?” he asked.

  “His name is Bobb
y Johnson. He’s a Post reporter.”

  “Oh, that one, the guy who’s been turning out all the stories about you.”

  “Yes, ‘that one.’ ”

  I went to where the paramedic was tending to Bobby. He’d stopped bleeding, and there was more color in his face. “It’s dangerous hanging around you, Jessica Fletcher,” he said. A laugh accompanied his comment and caused him to cough.

  I put my finger to my lips. “We can talk about that later, Bobby. Right now you just do what you’re told and get well.”

  An ambulance arrived, and he was removed from the store on a cart. One of the uniformed cops who spoke fluent Spanish interviewed the mom-and-pop owners of the store.

  “What hospital is he being taken to?” I asked an EMS technician who’d arrived on the heels of the police.

  “Bellevue,” he answered.

  “I’d like to accompany him,” I said.

  “Against the rules, ma’am.”

  Rizzi came up to me. “I know you like asking all the questions, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’ve got one for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “How come you and the reporter were up here on Alexander Avenue? Not exactly a tourist attraction.”

  I hesitated before saying, “Perhaps the same thing you were doing, Detective. Meeting with Joe Charles across the street.”

  I observed his face for a sign of surprise or anger. He demonstrated neither. Nor did he confirm or deny that Joe Charles had been his reason for coming to the South Bronx. I realized, of course, that it was entirely possible that he’d simply followed Bobby and me there. Judging from his actions when we’d left the Wings Club, someone had been following us all night.

  “Would you be kind enough to find me a cab?” I asked.

  “No need for that, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll drive you myself.”

  “Directly to my hotel?” I asked.

  “Sure, only you’ll have to give me a half hour of your time. Since I ended up catching this one, I’ll have to get a statement from you.”

  “You personally? Why not one of the other officers?”

  His face mirrored his frustration with me. “I’ve developed sort of an attachment for you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Even though you’re a professional thorn in my side, I respect you.”

  “Like Mrs. Wilson.”

  He sort of laughed. “Yeah, only I wouldn’t give her a ride anywhere, at least not if I could help it. Come on, let’s go. No sense standing around this dump.”

  “It’s not a dump,” I said. I went to the counter where the wife was crying. Her husband looked ready to kill. “Thank you,” I said. “And buenos noches. I think that’s the proper term for ‘good night.’ ”

  “Gracias,” the husband said. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  I followed Rizzi outside into the rain. He led me to an unmarked vehicle and held open the passenger door. I looked up and down the street before getting in. The shooting had attracted dozens of people, most of whom chattered away in Spanish. It was pouring now. My hair was quickly saturated, which sent rivulets of water down my cheeks and over my nose. I got in the car, and Rizzi closed the door. I wondered if he would put on flashing lights and use his siren, but he didn’t. He drove slowly and quietly through the rubble-strewn streets and into less ravaged Manhattan.

  “You know, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m really not a bad guy. You just see one side of me.”

  “I never considered you a bad guy, Detective.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  More than you realize, I thought. I said, “Well, I know that you appreciate and understand fine wine and art. I know that you’re married, that your wife’s name is Emily, and that you have a mother-in-law named Mrs. Wilson.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of stuff. I mean about being a cop. Where is it you live?”

  “Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  “A little town, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see, Mrs. Fletcher, this is different than what you know about. Here in New York you don’t police by the book. Can’t. It doesn’t matter what all the knee-jerk liberals say about respecting individual rights. It doesn’t work. The scum on the street look at cops like we’re idiots, jerks. We arrest them, the judges let ’em go. We protect ourselves and we’re brought up on charges and the public wants our heads. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “You cut comers if you want to be a good cop—and live to write a book about it.”

  “Is that what you want to do, write a book about your years as a police officer?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m sure it will be a very good book.”

  We pulled up to the curb in front of the Sheraton-Park Avenue. He turned off the ignition and faced me. “You mind if I come in, Mrs. Fletcher. I could take a statement here in the car but it’s too cold.”

  “Of course.”

  I suggested we sit in a quiet comer of the empty lobby, but he shook his head. “Too public, Mrs. Fletcher. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon come up to your room.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Fletcher. I haven’t raped anybody in years.” He chuckled at his little joke.

  Rape was the furthest thing from my mind, but I didn’t express it. I said instead, “All right. let me make a fast phone call first.” I went to a house phone and dialed the room shared by Mort and Seth. They didn’t answer, and the operator came on the line. “This is Jessica Fletcher in the penthouse suite. Please leave a message for Sheriff Metzger and Dr. Hazlitt. Tell them I’m meeting in my suite with Detective Rizzi. And be sure to indicate the time of this call.”

  “I hope this will be brief,” I said when Rizzi and I walked into the suite. “I’m exhausted. Excuse me. I see that my message light is flashing, and I want to call the hospital to check on Bobby Johnson.”

  “Do that after I’m gone, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rizzi said. “You said you wanted this quick. That suits me, too.”

  “All right.” I removed my coat and sat in a chair. “Do you want me to make a statement, or do you wish to ask questions?”

  Rizzi’s response was interrupted by a violent sneeze. Then another. A third came immediately.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “You got a cat up here?”

  I laughed. “As a matter of fact, I do. Miss Hiss. I rescued her from that apartment where Susan Kale was murdered.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped eyes that had begun to run. “I got a terrible allergy to cats, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “We should have stayed downstairs.”

  “Mrs. Wilson bought two cats just to make me miserable.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where is the cat?”

  “In the bathroom.” The bathroom door was slightly ajar. Miss Hiss pushed through it and headed directly for Rizzi. He quickly stood and walked to the other side of the room. The cat continued in his direction. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, get that thing away from me.”

  I picked her up, put her back in the bathroom, and closed the door. “Better?” I asked.

  “No, but go ahead. Tell me what happened tonight, why you were there, what you saw.”

  Had I not mentioned Joe Charles when we talked at the scene of the shooting, I would not have mentioned him now. But since I already had, I started with an explanation of how Bobby Johnson had found Joe Charles playing in the small dive across from the bodega, and that we’d gone there to speak with him.

  “Speak with him about what?”

  “About—”

  Rizzi went into a sneezing frenzy. He managed to ask in the midst of it, “You got another bathroom in this place? Sometimes water on my face helps.”

  I pointed him in the direction of the second bath. While he was gone, I decided to retrieve my messages. There were calls from Vaughan Buckley, Ruth Lazzara, Seth and Morton earlier in the evening and, finally, the message
left by Nancy Morse. “Are you sure she didn’t leave any way to reach her?” I asked the operator.

  “Afraid not, Mrs. Fletcher. I asked, but she said she would call back.”

  “Thank you.”

  I wrote down on a pad the name of each caller and left it next to the phone. Rizzi returned from the bathroom. I excused myself to make a different use than he had of the same facility. I reached the door and looked back. He was leaning over the pad scrutinizing the names I had written.

  When I returned, he had his topcoat on and was about to leave.

  “I thought you wanted a statement from me,” I said.

  “I got enough from this visit, Mrs. Fletcher. Somebody’ll get in touch with you tomorrow to take a formal statement. In the meantime, stay out of bad neighborhoods. You can get hurt in them.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  My call to Bellevue Hospital had confirmed that Bobby Johnson was doing nicely. His condition was listed as “satisfactory.” I returned the other calls. Seth and Morton had taken in a Broadway show. To my surprise, Mort had loved it but Seth found it “lacking in artistic integrity and dramatic urgency.” Usually, Mort has trouble sitting through even a half-hour television show, and invariably finds all dramatic presentations silly at best, subversive at worst.

  Naturally, my call informing them that I was being interrogated by Rizzi in my suite triggered a barrage of questions about my evening and what had led up to being questioned. “Just routine,” I told them. The thought of recounting my adventure in the South Bronx was too painful, so I didn’t. I focused on the parties and dinner, summing up the rest of the evening with, “There are so many areas to explore in New York. You see something new and interesting everywhere you look.”

  Vaughan Buckley simply wanted to tell me how I’d charmed Wolfgang Wurtzman, and that he and Olga were looking forward to having me at their Christmas Eve party the following evening. Ruth Lazzara, of course, was simply confirming the next day’s activities, which would begin with a ten-o’clock book signing at Macy’s. I asked her for a phone number at which I could be reached at the store. She called back with it a few minutes later. I then called information on Long Island and got the number for K. C. Gallaghers in Sea Cliff. Should Nancy Morse call again, I wanted the operator to have every possible number at which I could be reached.