One Police Plaza

by William Caunitz

  “No one at home. We’ll have to come back,” Davis said, circling the apartment number on the interview sheet.

  “May I help you gentlemen?”

  The detectives turned and saw an attractive woman in her early thirties stepping off the elevator. She was carrying bundles of groceries.

  “I’m Janet Fox and that is my apartment. If you don’t tell me who the hell you are and what you want, I’m going to start the loudest scream you’ve ever heard in your lives.”

  Davis pulled out his shield and I.D. card and held them up to her. “We’re detectives. There was a homicide in this building yesterday and we’re investigating it,” he said.

  “Poor Sara. I just heard about it today. She was such a wonderful human being,” she said.

  “You knew her?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “We were friends,” she answered.

  Janet Fox had a cozy apartment with a terrace overlooking Chinatown. She sat on a cushioned ottoman in front of a recliner. The detectives exchanged glances. Davis arched his brow, indicating that he would do the questioning. O’Shaughnessy picked up the cue, nodded, and moved to the sofa across from where she was sitting.

  Janet Fox had first met Eisinger in the building’s laundry room. They had become friends; if one of them went on vacation the other would take in the mail and water the plants. Occasionally they had tea together, talked about the latest fashions. Janet Fox wasn’t sure where Sara Eisinger had worked. For a travel agency somewhere in Manhattan, she thought. What about her sex life? That was something they never discussed. “Never?” Davis said, not convinced.

  The witness stirred uncomfortably. She leaned forward, pulling her knees to her. “I guess there was someone,” she said, reluctantly. “But Sara never mentioned him.” About a year and a half ago, the witness said, Sara came to her and asked for the name of a gynecologist. “She wanted to get a diaphragm.”

  “Who were her friends?” Davis asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about acquaintances?”

  “Sara stayed very much to herself.”

  “She had no other friends in the building?”

  “None that I know of.”

  Davis said, “You mean to tell me that in the five years that she lived here you never once observed her with anyone?”

  “I never thought of it before, but yes. Never,” she answered bewildered. “But wait!” she was quick to add. “I did see her with a man. It was about six months ago. It was raining very hard. I had just gotten home from work and was running to get inside when I heard Sara calling to me. She was getting out of a car, opening an umbrella. I ran over to her and we shared her umbrella. A man was driving the car that she was getting out of.”

  “Did she tell you who he was?” Davis asked, looking at Pat who had his memo pad and pencil ready.

  “No, she didn’t. I didn’t pry and she didn’t volunteer any information. I think that’s why we got along. Neither of us pried into the other’s life.”

  “Describe the man you saw in the car.”

  “I was hurrying to get out of the rain. I only caught a glimpse of him.”

  “Was he white or black?”

  “White.”

  “Was he young or old?”

  “Sort of young.”

  “Was he over twenty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over forty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over fifty?”

  “I’d say somewhere in his early forties.”

  “Forty-five?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Guess!”

  “Forty-three, maybe.”

  “What about his complexion? Dark? Swarthy? Light? Fair?”

  “Fair complexioned.”

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Wiry, blond hair.”

  “What color were his eyes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She also remembered that he was very handsome. With sculptured eyebrows that seemed tweezed. She couldn’t recall how tall he was. After all, he was sitting behind the wheel of the car. About six foot, she guessed. And well built. The car? A little red Japanese one. A Honda, she thought. She told her interrogator that there came a time when she picked up mail for Sara Eisinger. He asked her if there was anything out of the ordinary about the mail that the victim received. Just junk mail and an occasional letter from overseas.

  “From what countries?”

  “Israel.”

  “Is there anything that you can think of that might help us?”

  “I’m sorry, there isn’t. I was surprised that I was able to remember what I did.”

  “You did real good,” Davis said, crossing the room to sit next to his partner.

  Janet Fox relaxed. She looked down at her palms. They were wet. She had not been aware of the tension before.

  “Janet, there is one more question that I would like to ask,” Davis said.

  Her stomach tightened. “Yes?”

  “You told us that you just heard about the murder today. A homicide in your apartment building, and you just found out about it?”

  She looked at the detective and said hesitantly, “I was away for a few days.”

  “Where?”

  The witness shifted. “I was at the Concord with my boss. He’s married and his name is Joseph Grossman.”

  Davis turned to his partner. “Pat, why don’t you continue knocking on doors. I’ll stay here and ask Janet a few more questions, get the name of the doctor that Eisinger used. It’ll save us time.”

  O’Shaughnessy was on the second floor when his partner caught up with him.

  “How’d it go?” O’Shaughnessy asked, making an obscene jabbing gesture with his fist.

  “Nothing like that!” Davis said. “She’s a very nice lady. We sat and talked, that’s all. How’d you make out?”

  “Zippo. She paid her rent, didn’t cause no trouble, and no one knows shit about her.”

  “What’s with the Curtain Rod Caper?” Inspector Zambrano bellowed, sweeping into Malone’s office.

  Malone took the Eisinger case folder out of the file basket and handed it to him.

  Zambrano sat down, attentively flipping through the fives. He looked up at Malone. “Looks to me like you got a winner on your hands. Need any help?”

  “I’ll yell if I do.”

  “Dan, I know that this ain’t the right time, but in a few weeks I’m going to do the annual evaluation of your stewardship of the Squad. Try and get your paper in shape and don’t forget Operation Participation.”

  Malone leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Know something, Inspector. Working here is like pissing in a dark suit. You get that warm feeling, but nobody notices.”

  “That’s a very nice analogy, Dan. But don’t forget the fucking paper.”

  Heinemann came into the office and closed the door behind him. “Bwana! I just heard from the Wagon Board. Guess where those telephone numbers belong?”

  “Cut the bwana bullshit and tell me,” Malone said.

  Heinemann snapped to attention. “Both of them are confidential listings of Central Intelligence Agency phones.”

  “Aw shit! Not them bastards,” Malone said, slapping the desk.

  Heinemann leaned against the door. “The out-of-town number is a direct line to their headquarters in McLean. The other is a restricted line to their New York City field office.”

  “Did you contact them?” Malone said.

  “What for? They’re not about to tell us anything over the telephone.”

  Zambrano turned, on his way out, a sardonic grin on his lips. “Handle this very, very carefully. And I’d watch my ass. They’re bigger liars than we are.”

  It was after three when O’Shaughnessy and Davis returned from their visit to Eisinger’s gynecologist.

  “The doctor fitted Eisinger with a catcher’s mitt,” Davis told the lieutenant.

/>   “Did we find a diaphragm in the apartment?” Malone asked, checking the property sheet.

  Jake Stern shook his head.

  “I wonder where it is?” Malone thought aloud. “That’s not something a woman leaves just anywhere.”

  Malone sat back and laced his hands behind his head, listening to Davis tell him about their interview with Janet Fox.

  Heinemann entered the office and perched on Malone’s desk. “Those cuffs were shipped to Greenblatts. I just telephoned them,” Heinemann said, when Davis finished. “Their records show that they sold them to a Philip Alexander back in December. The name is probably as phony as the address that the guy gave.”

  “What else have you come up with?” Malone asked.

  “My source at Social Security informed me that the Eisinger account showed only two employers. The Eastern Shipping Company in Long Island City and Braxton Tours in Manhattan. I contacted another source at Dun and Bradstreet. They have nothing on Eastern Shipping. Braxton Tours is a big travel agency that’s run by a brother and sister, Aldridge and Thea Braxton. They work out high-priced trips for special groups. They specialize in Middle East tours.”

  “Anything else?” asked Malone, snapping forward and getting up.

  “The registration numbers on the gold-plated key were traced to a locksmith on Canal Street. They’ve been making the keys for a joint on the East Side called the Interlude. I called a buddy of mine in the Nineteenth. He told me the Interlude is one of them posh key clubs that cater to the beautiful people. Anything goes, no questions asked,” Heinemann said.

  Malone walked into the squad room, checking his watch.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to Braxton Tours.”

  “Want me to tag along?” Heinemann asked, following the lieutenant out of his office.

  “Pat caught the case. I’ll take him. I want you and Jake to stay on the Interlude. Check with the Hall of Records and find out who owns the building. Then get in touch with the Department of State in Albany. Find out who has the charter for the club. Then check with State Liquor and find out who buys the booze.”

  Braxton Tours occupied a suite of offices on the sixteenth floor of a huge glass-walled office building on Park. Attractive young women padded their way between glass-partitioned offices. The floors were carpeted; the furniture comfortable, expensive. Thea Braxton was waiting for them. She wore a beautifully tailored white, raw silk Chanel suit. Her shoulder-length hair was ash blond, enhancing the mature beauty of her tanned face. Her expression was coldly composed.

  “We’ve been expecting the police ever since we read of Sara’s death in the newspapers,” Thea said, dismissing her secretary with a wave.

  Malone measured her as he entered the office. He already had guessed just what she would say. Sara had been with the company for a year and a half. She stayed to herself and had no close friends within the company. Thea knew nothing of her personal life. What a pity that such a horrible thing should happen to such a beautiful young girl. Who could be responsible for such an act of barbarism? The newspaper accounts were just ghastly.

  Thea moved from behind her desk and motioned to a grouping of canvas director chairs in front of a thermopane wall, through which a huge slice of the city could be seen below.

  “What can you tell me about Sara Eisinger?” Malone asked, noticing the sunlight reflecting off her head. Her response was exactly what he had suspected it would be.

  “She was a conscientious worker,” Thea answered.

  “She didn’t seem to have many friends. Can you tell us why?”

  “By choice, I guess. Sara preferred to stay to herself. Everyone isn’t gregarious,” Thea said, looking at Malone who was standing directly in front of her.

  “Hmm. That’s true enough,” Malone said, walking over to the far wall, examining the paintings.

  “There must be big bucks in the travel business,” Malone said, loud enough for her to hear. “What was Eisinger’s responsibility with your company?”

  “She arranged group tours to the Middle East. Israel in particular.”

  Thea explained that being an Israeli, Sara Eisinger had access to many Jewish groups. “They love to travel.” Eisinger arranged charter tours and received a 5 percent commission on everything over a hundred thousand dollars. When Malone asked her if the travel business was the Braxtons’ only business interest, Thea replied that it was their main interest. Lately, they had branched out into social research.

  “What’s that?” asked Malone, now apparently absorbed by the view of Manhattan.

  She explained that before companies do business overseas they want to know all that they can about the country in which they’ll do business. A lot of money can be lost if one doesn’t know the customs of a host country. What is polite in the United States can be downright insulting in some parts of the world. Malone seemed surprised. “Don’t companies have their own research staffs?” he asked.

  The large ones do, she told him. But many of the smaller companies that were vying for a piece of the OPEC dollar do not and some of those companies came to Braxton Tours.

  “Interesting,” Malone said, turning to face her. “Do you know anyone who’d want her dead?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What about her love life?”

  Her hands went to her hips. “We do not pry into the personal lives of our employees.”

  “No office romance?” he asked, sensing her annoyance and deciding to follow it and see where it led him.

  “None that I know of.”

  “Was she straight, gay, or ambidextrous?”

  “I don’t know what she was. And furthermore I don’t care.”

  “Did she have any close girlfriends?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “How did Eisinger get her job with your company?”

  “She answered an ad that we put in the New York Times for someone with language abilities. Sara spoke six languages.”

  “Really? What were they?”

  “German, Polish, English, Hebrew, Spanish, and Ladino,” she replied.

  “Eisinger was dead for about a week before her body was discovered. How come you didn’t report her missing?”

  “Sara took a week off. She went to visit her parents in New Jersey. She wasn’t due back until yesterday.”

  “Can you think of anything that might help us?”

  “I wish that I could think of something,” she said, reaching for a porcelain jar on the table in front of her. She removed a cigarette and lit it.

  “I hope that you catch the people responsible,” she said, putting the lid back on the jar.

  “We will. We’d like to interview your employees. That is, if you have no objections,” Malone said.

  “Of course not,” Thea Braxton said, taking a drag.

  The door opened and a thin man in an impeccably tailored beige suit walked into the room.

  “Hello. I’m Aldridge Braxton,” he said as he moved toward Malone and offered his hand.

  Aldridge Braxton’s face was starting to wither. Crows’ feet furrowed deep around the eyes; dark circles were terraced in various shades of black. He had styled his unruly black hair into a moderate afro.

  “Did you know her well?” Malone asked him after the introductions.

  “Not as well as I would have liked to. She was a strange young lady in many ways. She reminded me of a person who was afraid to enjoy life,” Aldridge said, moving to the vacant chair next to his sister.

  “What can you tell us about her personal life?” Malone asked.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” Aldridge answered.

  Malone walked over to Thea’s desk. He picked up a figurine that had caught his attention. A gold goddess in a flounced skirt clutching snakes in both outstretched hands. He studied it carefully, then put it back.

  “Can either of you think of anything …?” Malone asked them.

  The Braxtons looked at each other. They turned in unison and shook their heads.<
br />
  “In that case, we’d like to interview your employees,” Malone said.

  Thea Braxton got up, crossed to her desk, and pushed the button on the intercom with her forefinger. Her secretary reappeared. “Arlene, please escort these gentlemen around the office. They’re policemen here to interview everyone concerning Sara’s death.”

  As they were walking out of the office, Malone pulled a pad from his pocket and stopped a moment to scratch a note to O’Shaughnessy: ck. N.Y. Times for Braxton ad seeking employee with language ability. Find out when inserted and withdrawn. He handed the note to O’Shaughnessy and followed Arlene out of the office.

  “That Braxton broad has really got her shit all together,” O’Shaughnessy whispered.

  Malone shot him a look. “Maybe just a little too together.” He then whispered to O’Shaughnessy. “Keep Arlene busy while I talk to the operator.” He stepped ahead of the woman and entered the telephone cubicle, closing the door behind him.

  O’Shaughnessy moved ahead and blocked the door, preventing Arlene from following inside.

  The operator was eager to help. “Sara used to receive calls from a man with an accent,” she said. “They always talked in a foreign language.”

  “What language?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it Spanish?”

  “Oh, no. It was one of the European languages.”

  “French?”

  “No.”

  “German?”

  “It might have been. I’m really lousy on languages.”

  “What was the man’s name?”

  “I don’t know. He never gave his name. Just asked for Sara Eisinger.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “I don’t know. How could I tell his age?”

  “By the sound of his voice. Take a guess.”

  “I’d say late thirties early forties.”

  “When did this man first start to call her?”

  “The very first day she started to work here.”

  “Are you the only operator?”

  “Yes. If I’m sick or on vacation, they get a temporary in.”

  “Did this man call her often?”

  “Every day that she was in the office. Sometimes two and three times.”

  “And he never once mentioned his name?”