Ghosts

by Ed McBain

  “Where were you Thursday night between six and seven P.M.?”

  “Coming home from work.”

  “Where’s that?” Hawes asked.

  “Techno-Systems, Inc., on Rigby and Franchise.”

  “What do you do there?” Carella asked.

  “I’m a computer programmer.”

  “What time did you leave the office on Thursday?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  “How do you normally get home?”

  “By subway.”

  “It shouldn’t have taken you more than a half hour from Rigby and Franchise. If you left the office at five-thirty…”

  “I stopped for a drink.”

  “Where?”

  “A place called Elmer’s, around the corner from the office.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Then, actually, you didn’t start home till about six-thirty, is that it?”

  “Six-thirty, a quarter to seven.”

  “Who were you drinking with, Mr. Esposito?”

  “I was alone.”

  “Are you a regular at Elmer’s?”

  “I stop in there every now and then.”

  “Where’d you drink? At a table or at the bar?”

  “The bar.”

  “Does the bartender know you?”

  “Not by name.”

  “Anybody there know you by name?”

  “One of the waitresses does. But she wasn’t working on Thursday.”

  “What time did you get back here to Harborview?”

  “Seven-thirty or thereabouts. The trains were running slow.”

  “What’d you do when you got here?”

  “There were policemen all over the place. I asked Jimmy what was going on and…that was when he told me my wife had been killed.”

  “By Jimmy, do you mean…?”

  “Jimmy Karlson, the security guard.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I tried to find out where they’d taken her. They’d moved her body by then. I tried to find out where she was. Nobody seemed to know. I came upstairs and called the police. I had to make six calls before anyone gave me any information.”

  “Did you know there’d been another murder in the building?”

  “Yes, Jimmy told me.”

  “Told you it was Gregory Craig on the third floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Mr. Craig?”

  “No.”

  “Never ran across him in the elevator or anything?”

  “I wouldn’t have known him if I’d seen him.”

  “What’d you do when you found out where they’d taken your wife?”

  “I went to the morgue and made a positive identification.”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t know who it was. One of the medical examiners, I guess.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around nine o’clock. They said I…I could have the body at noon Friday. So I came back here and called the funeral parlor and made arrangements to…to have her picked up.”

  “Mr. Esposito,” Carella said, “we’ll have to check with Elmer’s to make sure you were there. It would help us if we had a photograph we could show the bartender. Would you happen to have a recent picture?”

  “My attorney didn’t say I could give you a picture.”

  “Call him again if you like,” Carella said. “That’s the only thing we’ll use it for, to show at Elmer’s for identification.”

  “I guess that’s okay,” Esposito said. He started out of the room, turned, and said, “I didn’t kill her. We had our troubles, but I didn’t kill her.”

  They did not get to Elmer’s till almost 7:00 P.M.

  The bar on Christmas Eve was packed with men and women who had no place else to go, no cozy hearths, no glowing Christmas trees, only the dubious comfort of each other’s company. They lined the bar and sat at the tables, and raised their glasses in yuletide toasts, and watched the television set, on which a movie about a family holiday reunion was showing. There were two bartenders behind the bar. Neither of them had been working on Thursday night, when Esposito claimed to have been drinking here alone for an hour or more. They recognized his picture, but they couldn’t say he’d been here since they themselves hadn’t been here. The bartender who’d been working on Thursday—they explained that only one man worked the bar during the week and two on weekends—was a man named Terry Brogan, who was a moonlighting city fireman. They gave the detectives Brogan’s home number and also the number at Engine Company Number Six, uptown in one of the city’s highest fire-rate districts. From the phone booth in the bar they called Brogan at home and got no answer. They called the firehouse and spoke to a captain named Ronnie Grange who said Brogan had taken his wife and kids to Virginia for the Christmas holidays; his sister lived in Virginia.

  When they left the bar, Carella said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Cotton.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t ever get murdered just before Christmas.”

  They shook hands on the sidewalk, wished each other a Merry Christmas, and then walked off in opposite directions toward the two different subway lines that would take them home.

  It was beginning to snow again.

  Carella did not get home that night till almost 8:30. The snow was raising hell with the subway system on its aboveground tracks, and the trains were infrequent and plodding. Outside the Riverhead house he struggled his way through snowdrifts to the front door. There was a kid up the street who was supposed to shovel the walks every time it snowed. They paid him $3 an hour for the job, but it was obvious he hadn’t been here since yesterday’s storm. The new snow had tapered off a bit; the air was bristling with the tiniest of crystals. He stamped his feet on the front porch. The wreath on the door was hanging a bit askew; he straightened it and then opened the door and went inside.

  The house had never looked more welcoming. A roaring blaze was going in the fireplace, and the tree in the corner of the room was aglow with reds, yellows, blues, greens, and whites that reflected in the hanging ornaments. Teddy was wearing a long red robe, her black hair pulled to the back of her head in a ponytail. She came to him at once and hugged him before he had taken off his coat. He remembered again the afternoon before; he would have to tell her that Hillary Scott had tried to amputate his lower lip with her teeth.

  He had mixed himself a martini and was sitting in the chair near the fire when the twins came into the living room. Both were in pajamas and robes. April climbed into his lap; Mark sat at his feet.

  “So,” Carella said, “you finally got to see Santa.”

  “Uh-huh,” April said.

  “Did you tell him all the things you want?”

  “Uh-huh,” April said.

  “Dad…” Mark said.

  “We missed you a lot,” April said quickly.

  “Well, I missed you, too, darling.”

  “Dad…”

  “Don’t tell him,” April said.

  “He’s got to know sooner or later,” Mark said.

  “No, he don’t.”

  “Doesn’t.”

  “I said doesn’t.”

  “You said don’t.”

  “Anyway, don’t tell him.”

  “Don’t tell me what?” Carella asked.

  “Dad,” Mark said, avoiding his father’s eyes, “there is no such thing as Santa Claus.”

  “You told him,” April said, and glared at her brother.

  “No such thing, huh?” Carella said.

  “No such thing,” Mark repeated, and returned April’s glare.

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Cause there’s hundreds of them all over the street,” Mark said, “and nobody can move that fast.”

  “They’re his helpers,” April said. “Isn’t that right, Dad? They’re all his helpers.”

  “No, they’re just these guys,” Mark said.

  �
��How long have you known this?” Carella asked.

  “Well…” April said, and cuddled closer to him.

  “How long?”

  “Since last year,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “But if you knew there wasn’t any Santa, why’d you agree to go see him?”

  “We didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” April said, and again glared at her brother. “Now you hurt his feelings,” she said.

  “No, no,” Carella said. “No, I’m glad you told me.”

  “It’s you and Mommy who’s Santa,” April said, and hugged him tight.

  “In which case, you’d better go to bed so we can feed the reindeer.”

  “What reindeer?” she asked, her eyes opening wide.

  “The whole crowd,” Carella said. “Donder and Blitzen and Dopey and Doc…”

  “That’s Snow White!” April said, and giggled.

  “Is it?” he said, grinning. “Come on, bedtime. Busy day tomorrow.”

  He took them to their separate rooms, and tucked them in, and kissed them good-night. As he was leaving Mark’s room, Mark said, “Dad?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “Did I hurt your feelings?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Cause…you know…I thought it would be better than lying.”

  “It always is,” Carella said, and touched his son’s hair, and oddly felt like weeping. “Merry Christmas, son,” he said quickly, and turned from the bed, and snapped out the light.

  Teddy came out of the kitchen with a tray of hot cheese puffs and then went to say her own good-nights to the children. When she came back into the living room, Carella was mixing himself a second martini. She cautioned him to go easy.

  “Long hard day, honey,” he said. “Do you want one of these?”

  A scotch, please, she said. Very light.

  “Where’s Fanny?” he asked.

  In her room, wrapping gifts.

  They sat before the fire, sipping their drinks, nibbling at the cheese puffs. She told him dinner would be ready in a half hour or so, she hadn’t been sure what time he’d be getting home, it was heating in the oven now. He apologized for not having called, but he and Hawes had been on the go since early this morning, and he simply hadn’t found a spare moment. She asked him how the case was going, and he told her all about Hillary Scott and her twin sister, Denise, told her how Hillary had known not only Teddy’s first name but her maiden name as well, told her she’d somehow divined April’s name, told her she’d known that April resembled her mother.

  Then he told her about the kiss.

  Teddy listened.

  He told her how he’d tried to pull away from Hillary, told her she’d fastened to his mouth like an embalmer’s trocar trying to drain his fluids, told her all about the trance that had followed, Hillary shaking and swaying and talking in a spooky voice about drowning and somebody hearing something, somebody stealing something. Teddy listened and said nothing. She remained uncommunicative all through dinner, her hands busy with her utensils, her eyes avoiding his. After dinner they carried the wrapped presents up from where they’d hidden them in the basement and arranged them under the tree. He told her he’d better shovel the walks before the snow froze solid, and she remembered then to tell him that the boy up the street had phoned Fanny earlier to say he wouldn’t be able to get to the house over the weekend because he had to go to his grandmother’s.

  Outside, shoveling snow, Carella wondered if he should have told Teddy about the kiss after all. He had not mentioned that Hillary Scott looked like a younger version of her, and he was glad now that he hadn’t. The air had turned very cold. When he came back into the house, he stood before the dwindling fire for several moments, warming himself, and then went into the bedroom. The light was out. Teddy was in bed. He undressed silently and got into bed with her. She lay stiffly beside him; her breathing told him she was still awake. He snapped on the light.

  “Honey, what is it?” he said.

  You kissed another woman, she said.

  “No, she kissed me.”

  That’s the same thing.

  “And besides, it wasn’t a kiss. It was…I don’t know what the hell it was.”

  It was a kiss, that’s what the hell it was, Teddy said.

  “Honey,” he said, “believe me, I…”

  She shook her head.

  “Honey, I love you. I wouldn’t kiss Jane Fonda if I found her wrapped under the Christmas tree tomorrow morning.” He smiled and then said, “And you know how I feel about Jane Fonda.”

  Oh? Teddy said. And how do you feel about Jane Fonda?

  “I think she’s…well, she’s a very attractive woman,” Carella said, and had the feeling he was plowing himself deeper than any of the snowdrifts outside. “The point I’m trying to make—”

  I once dreamed Robert Redford was making love to me, Teddy said.

  “How was it?” Carella asked.

  Pretty good, as a matter of fact.

  “Honey?” he said.

  She watched his lips.

  “I love you to death,” he said.

  Then no more kisses, she said, and nodded. Or I’ll break your goddamn head.

  The Mayor, when asked by reporters how he planned to get the streets clear before the heavy holiday traffic began, said with customary wit and style, “Boys, this is nothing but a simple snow job.” The members of the press did not find his remark amusing. Neither did the cops of the 87th.

  Those who were unlucky enough to have caught the midnight to 8:00 A.M. shift on Christmas Day worked clear through to 10:00 in the morning, by which time the relieving detectives began arriving at the squadroom in dribs and drabs. There were eighteen detectives attached to the 87th Squad, and they divided among them the three shifts that constituted their working day, six men to each shift. The 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. shift (or—as it turned out—the 10:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M.) was shared by Meyer Meyer, Hal Willis, Bob O’Brien, Lou Moscowitz, Artie Brown, and a transfer from the Two-One named Pee Wee Wizonski. Wizonski was six feet four inches tall, weighed 208 pounds in his underwear and socks, and suffered a great many slings and arrows about being Polish. There was not a day that went by without someone in the squadroom telling another Polish joke. On Christmas Day (which was Wizonski’s holiday), Lou Moscowitz (who was celebrating Hanukkah) told about Pope John Paul II’s first miracle: He changed wine into water. Wizonski did not think the joke was funny. Nobody, including the Mayor, was having much luck with his jokes today.

  The fireworks started at about 10:30.

  They started with a so-called “family dispute” on Mason and Sixth. Not too many years ago Mason Avenue had been known far and wide as la Via de Putas—Whore Street. The hookers along that seedy stretch of Puerto Rican turf had since left it for greener pastures downtown, where they could turn a trick in a massage parlor for a quick forty to eighty dollars, depending on the services rendered. La Via de Putas was now simply la Via—the Street—a combination of pool parlors, porno bookshops, porn-flick theaters, greasy spoons, mom-and-pop grocery stores, a dozen or more bars, and a storefront church dedicated to saving the souls of those who frequented the area. Except for the church—which squatted in one-story religious hopefulness between the grimy buildings sandwiching it—the classy emporiums lining the Street were on the ground floors of tenements that housed people who were willing to settle for grubby surroundings in return for some of the cheapest rents to be found anywhere in the city. It was in one of these apartments that the family dispute took place.

  The two patrolmen responding to the call were confronted with a distinctly unholidaylike scene. There were a pair of bodies in the living room, both of them wearing nightgowns, both of them the victims of a shooting. One of them, a woman, was sitting dead in a chair near the telephone, the receiver still clutched in her bloody hand. It was she, they later learned, who had placed the call to Emergency 911. The second victim was a six
teen-year-old girl, sprawled face downward on the patched linoleum, similarly dead. The woman who’d placed the call to 911 had said only, “Send the police, my husband is going crazy.” The patrolmen had expected a family dispute, but not one of such proportions. They had knocked on the apartment door, received no answer, tried the knob, and then entered somewhat casually—this was Christmas Day, this was Hanukkah. Now they both drew their pistols and fanned out into the room. A closed door was at one end of it. The first patrolman—a black cop named Jake Parsons—knocked on the door and was greeted with an immediate fusillade of shots that ripped huge chunks out of the wood paneling and would have done the same to his head if he hadn’t thrown himself flat to the floor in instant reflex. Both cops backed out of the apartment.

  On the radio in the car downstairs, they reported to Desk Sergeant Murchison that it looked like they had a double homicide here, not to mention somebody with a gun behind a locked door. Murchison called upstairs to the squadroom. Pee Wee Wizonski, who was catching, took his holster and pistol from the drawer of his desk, motioned to Hal Willis across the room, and was out through the gate in the railing even before Willis put on his coat. Murchison downstairs put a call through to Homicide and also to the Emergency Squad covering this section of the city. If there was a guy with a gun behind a locked door, this was a job for the volunteer Emergency cops, and not mere mortals. The Emergency cops were already there when Wizonski and Willis made the scene. Together the detectives from the Eight-Seven looked a lot like Mutt and Jeff or Laurel and Hardy. Wizonski was the biggest detective on the squad; Willis was the smallest, having just barely passed the Police Department’s five-foot-eight height requirement. The RMP patrolmen filled them in on what had happened upstairs, and they all went up to the fourth floor again. The Emergency cops, wearing bulletproof vests, went in first. Whoever was behind the locked door fired the moment he heard sounds in the apartment, so they abandoned all notions of kicking in the door. In the corridor outside, the assembled cops held a high-level conference.

  The two Homicide men assigned to the case were named Phelps and Forbes. They looked a lot like Monoghan and Monroe, who were home just then, opening Christmas gifts. (The men of the Eight-Seven would later learn that Monoghan’s wife had presented him with a gold-plated revolver; Monroe’s wife had given him a video cassette home recorder upon which he could secretly play the porn tapes he picked up hither and yon in the city.) Phelps and Forbes were disgruntled about having to work on Christmas Day. Phelps was particularly annoyed because he hated Puerto Ricans, and was fond of repeating that if they’d all go back to that goddamn shitty island they’d come from, there’d be no more crime in this city. So here was a Puerto Rican family causing trouble on Christmas Day—assuming the bedbug behind the locked door was indeed Hispanic. “Hispanic” was the word the cops in this city used for anyone of even mildly Spanish descent, except for Phelps and many cops like him who still called them “spics.” Even the deputy mayor, who’d been born in Mayaguez, was a spic to Phelps.