Murder in Greenwich Village

by Lee Harris

  “I agree with you. Thank you for your time.”

  Smithson had not returned from his interviews, so Jane briefed McElroy and MacHovec in the lieutenant’s office.

  “That kitchen costs what I earn in a year,” she said. “Everything stainless steel, indirect lighting around the counter, a gorgeous tile floor. The dining table is what my Salvation Army table pretends to be.”

  “Without bullet holes,” McElroy said.

  “So far.”

  “So he’s on the take, too,” MacHovec said.

  “Not necessarily,” the lieutenant put in, eager to stop the characterization before it got out of hand. “He’s got parents; she’s got parents. They could all have chipped in. All you’re telling me is that they’ve spent money on the apartment. Maybe they got it cheap.”

  “And her story about how her husband told her about Anthony’s death doesn’t jive with Mrs. Appleby’s story.”

  “It’s been ten years,” McElroy said.

  “All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t drop Beasely as a suspect.”

  “We’re not dropping him. We’re working around him.” They went back to their office.

  “Graves doesn’t want it to be Beasely,” MacHovec said. “Opens a can of worms.”

  “If Beasely did it, I want his ass.”

  “If Beasely did it, we’ll get him.”

  “You talk to anyone that needs interviewing?”

  “The best of them are iffy. Without looking at their bank accounts, I can’t put a star next to any name.” He passed her several sheets of paper.

  From their addresses, none of them lived in obviously expensive neighborhoods, but then, neither did Fitzhugh. “I’m going to lunch. If Warren comes back, tell him to wait for me before he takes off again.”

  Smithson was eating a sandwich at his desk when Jane returned. “No flashing lights,” he said. “Everybody’s a no or a maybe. MacHovec says you went up to Beasely’s place.”

  She told him about it.

  “Marble bathrooms and stainless-steel kitchens. How do these guys get away with it?”

  “Beasely didn’t pay for it out of his salary. I couldn’t ask directly; the lieutenant would have killed me.”

  Smithson put a Five in the typewriter and started banging.

  Jane swiveled toward MacHovec. “Here’s what I want. Every course that Fitzhugh, Beasely, your favorites, and Warren’s favorites took. Like studying for the sergeant’s exam. See if there are overlaps. If it was Fitzhugh, maybe he had a pal who took over when he went on leave. Look into the districts they served in, who served with them. If it wasn’t Fitzhugh over in Queens on Tuesday night, maybe it was Beasely or one of these other guys filling in for him. And I want photos of Beasely and Fitzhugh and everybody’s favorites.”

  MacHovec looked at his watch. “I’ll do what I can but I may not be able to go through all the stuff.”

  “Just print it out and leave it for me. I’ll take it home tonight.” She read page after page as they flew out of the printer, finding nothing useful.

  When the typewriter was free, Jane sat down to do her Fives. A few minutes into the first one, Annie showed up at the door.

  “Detective Bauer, the inspector wants to see you. I have to warn you: He’s not in a good mood.”

  “Thanks, Annie.”

  “That for going up to Beasely’s?” Smithson asked.

  “Can’t be anything else.” She left the Five in the typewriter.

  McElroy was already in the inspector’s office. He glanced at her briefly, then looked away.

  “Where did you go this morning, Detective Bauer?” Graves asked.

  “To the Beaselys’ apartment.”

  “I made it clear we were not considering him a suspect.”

  “I found no Fives on Mrs. Beasely in the Anthony file. I thought it might be helpful to hear her version of what happened the night Micah Anthony was shot.”

  “And?”

  “Her version differs somewhat from Mrs. Anthony’s. Which is in the file.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And the apartment they live in has been expensively renovated. The kitchen alone—”

  “I don’t care what their kitchen looks like. I don’t care what their view is. I want Lieutenant Beasely and his wife and his children treated as though they are not suspects, because they are not. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There will be no further discussion of Lieutenant Beasely unless I initiate it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In case it slipped by you, I am not happy with your behavior.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  She returned to the office.

  “That was quick,” MacHovec said. “Guess he didn’t pull any fingernails.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Not yet. That’s what’s coming when we clear this case.”

  “You’re the optimist,” Smithson said. “You think we’ll clear it?”

  “We have to now. We’ve gone too far to fail. Beasely’s off-limits for discussion. I have some ideas, but I’ll keep them to myself. No use taking you guys down with me.”

  “Graves needs you,” Smithson said. “If we pull this out, he’ll be throwing rose petals at you.”

  Rose petals. She sat down at the typewriter and went back to her Fives.

  Fifteen minutes later, McElroy walked in. “The inspector got a very angry call from Lieutenant Beasely.”

  “I’m sorry I put you on the spot, Loot,” Jane said. “If Garrett Fitzhugh is a suspect, John Beasely should be one.”

  “Keep it to yourself. Inspector Graves has made up his mind on this one.”

  By the end of the day they had contacted almost all of the four hundred sergeants. Smithson had a few he wanted to interview on Monday; MacHovec had some possibles. Jane kept returning to Beasely and Fitzhugh. MacHovec got her photos of both men plus a few others and she dropped them in her bag. That night she would return to the block where Micah Anthony had been found, the block she and Smithson had canvassed with no success. This time she would show photos and ring doorbells where no one had been home last time. All she needed was one ID to give new life to the investigation.

  43

  SHE WASTED NO time with dinner, stopping at a coffee shop for a sandwich, then getting herself over to Waverly Place to start ringing bells of people who had said they had lived on the block ten years before. If Beasely had told his wife he was working four to twelve the night of the murder, he had an excuse for not being home, and he could have been at the wheel of the vehicle that picked Anthony up in the West Fifties. Anthony would have had no problem getting into his friend’s car, whether it was a personal car or a Transit Police car. Beasely would have known that Anthony had learned something potentially lethal because Charley Farrar would have briefed him after the meeting, but Anthony wouldn’t have known what, if anything, Beasely knew. And maybe Sergeant Beasely had a little action going down in the Village.

  All of the above was also true of Garrett Fitzhugh. All Jane needed was one ID of one of the photos.

  She started her canvass where she and Smithson had started, and watched heads shake as she showed the pictures. Finishing one building, she went down the outside stairs and up the next set, got herself rung in, and walked up to the top floor to start again. A pretty black woman in her mid-thirties answered one door, her hair full of tight braids, wearing big earrings and a large choker at her neck.

  “Ms. Hand?”

  “Yes?”

  “Det. Jane Bauer. We’re looking into the murder of a police detective ten years ago. Did you live here then?” The woman had not answered during the last canvass.

  “Ten years? Yeah, just about. I was new here.”

  “Do you recall the murder?”

  “I heard about it the next day. I live in the back and I don’t hear the street noise.”

  Jane showed pictures of her partners�
� favorites with no response. “Does this man look familiar to you?” Jane showed her Fitzhugh.

  The woman studied it. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about this man?” She handed her Beasely’s picture.

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Are you sure? Look at it a moment.” The answer had come too quickly.

  “I’m sure. I’m sorry. I don’t know who they are.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  The fifth floor, the fourth, the third, the second. She wanted to hit all the apartments that hadn’t answered last time, as well as those that had age-appropriate women, even if they had already talked to them.

  Down to the street level, up to the ground floor of the next building, up to the top floor, ring a bell again. She reminded herself, as she always did, that this was police work: knocking on doors, reading grim autopsy reports and the text of interviews with people who had little to say and less time to spare to say it.

  “Yes?”

  The preliminaries again, the photos, the head shaking. “Sorry I can’t help.”

  The rest of the floor, then down one flight. Doorbell, woman’s voice calling, “Coming.”

  The woman was white, blond, slim, lots of hair, a nice smile. Jane said it all again, then handed her Beasely’s photo.

  “He doesn’t look familiar.”

  “It was ten years ago. Maybe he came to visit someone in this building.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jane showed her Fitzhugh.

  The woman took the picture and held it away from her face. She was about forty, becoming farsighted. “Let me get my glasses.” She walked into the apartment and returned wearing oval gold-rimmed glasses. Then she looked closely at the picture of Fitzhugh.

  Jane stopped breathing. “Look familiar?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible I saw him somewhere. When was this again?”

  Jane told her.

  “Ten years ago. Seems hard to believe I’d remember a face from so long back. Do you know his name?”

  “Garrett Fitzhugh.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell at all. Sorry. He must look like someone at work.” She handed the picture back to Jane.

  “Maybe you’d like to think about it,” Jane said. “I could leave a copy of the picture with you and call you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think so.” She smiled and handed the photo back to Jane. She was a very pretty woman. Ten years ago she would have been thirty and the smile even more radiant.

  “Were you single when you moved here?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, yes. It was my second apartment after one of those disastrous roommate deals. I got married a few years ago and we decided to stay. We only have one child so we’re able to manage. We both love the Village.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kislav. By the way, what was your name when you were single?”

  “Beringer. Alicia Beringer.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  The rest of the street was routine. No one blinked at the pictures; no one added anything significant. Jane went home. She made some coffee and sat down to look at her notes. The phone rang.

  “Jane, it’s Ron Delancey.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Gossip. I talked to some guys I knew on the job. They all thought Fitzhugh was a good cop but they all had reservations about him. One guy said Fitz would take a hot stove if it wasn’t nailed down, but he didn’t know who Fitzhugh’s connections were. Another guy said Fitzhugh took expensive vacations.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Fitzhugh let little things slip, you know, the rain in London, the heat in Rome, that kind of thing. It’s not impossible to do on a sergeant’s salary, but tongues wagged.”

  “Anything about his clothes? Jewelry?”

  “He wore an expensive watch, said his father-in-law gave it to him. Anyway, that’s what I got. Forget about making a case against him, but if you’ve got other stuff—”

  “Right. I really thank you.”

  “It was fun. Got to talk to some guys I hadn’t been in touch with for a while.”

  “Maybe we’ll have dinner.”

  “Get your man first.”

  She went back to Alicia Beringer. When she was thirty and single, Garrett Fitzhugh was in his forties, ten or twelve years older than she. Any man would be pleased to have such a pretty young woman open her door to him. No one else in that building admitted to recognizing him, but if he arrived at night and left at night, they would have little opportunity to see him. Few tenants of Jane’s old building in the West Eighties had ever noticed Hack.

  Maybe Alicia and Fitzhugh had begun an affair when she was living with the roommate, and that had been the cause of the disruption. She needed a place of her own where her intimacy would be completely private.

  Jane found the Kislav number and called it. Alicia answered.

  “This is Detective Bauer,” Jane said. “We spoke earlier this evening.”

  “Right. Hi.”

  “Mrs. Kislav, where did you live before you moved to the Village?”

  The woman gave an address over on the east side, near Alphabet City. “It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it was what we could afford.”

  “And what was your roommate’s name?”

  “Beverly Quick. She’s married now. I think her married name is Shaw.”

  “Do you have an address and phone number for her?”

  “Just a moment.” Alicia came back and read off an address near Columbia University. “Her husband teaches up there.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Kislav.”

  It was too late to call, too late to visit. If Alicia was protecting Fitzhugh—and she might not know he had died— Beverly might give him up. The next day Jane would find out.

  On Saturday morning Jane called the Shaw apartment and a woman answered. She hung up, walked to the subway and rode up to One Hundred Sixteenth Street and Broadway.

  The Shaws lived on One Hundred Fourteenth Street between Broadway and Riverside Drive, not far from where the Beretta had been found a couple of weeks before and where she and Hack had met that evening to view the area. Now Jane walked down Broadway and turned right at One Hundred Fourteenth, finding the apartment house quickly. Beverly Shaw was home.

  “I don’t have much time,” the woman said as Jane entered. “I have a meeting and I have to drop my son off at play group.”

  “This won’t take long.” She followed the woman into the living room. It looked professorial, one step up from graduate student. Beverly Shaw was physically the opposite of her former roommate. Short, with short, dark, straight hair, and her face was a picture of tension, as though her worries were a permanent burden.

  Jane gave her the intro. “Ten or eleven years ago you shared an apartment with Alicia Beringer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you split up?”

  She let air out of her mouth in a puff. “Alicia had a boyfriend, a married boyfriend, by the way, and his presence drove me crazy. One night they locked me out of the apartment.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They were fucking, that’s why. They wanted the apartment to themselves. I was furious.”

  “I can understand that. What did the boyfriend look like?”

  Beverly Shaw seemed flustered. “I never saw him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I wasn’t allowed in the apartment when he was there. Usually, Alicia would tell me in advance that he was coming and I’d make other plans, but it got to be wearing. I lived there, after all. It was my home as much as it was hers.” From the sound of her voice, she was arguing her position all over again.

  “And you never even got a glance at him?”

  “I may have seen him once, when he was leaving and I was coming home. I’m not sure.”

  Jane handed her Beasely’s picture.

  “Oh, no, this isn’t him. Alicia would never go out with a black m
an.”

  Jane gave her Fitzhugh’s picture.

  “I really don’t know. I can’t tell you I recognize him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this man before.”

  “Would you like to hold on to—”

  “I don’t think so. I’m in a hurry.” She glanced at her watch and passed the photo back to Jane. “I can tell you one thing. I’m pretty sure the man she was seeing was a cop.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “She must have. It was probably why she kept him so secret.”

  “Do you know if he was a Transit cop?”

  Beverly Shaw frowned. “Is there a difference?”

  “Actually, there isn’t, but some people refer to the cops in the subway as Transit cops.”

  “I don’t think that ever came up.”

  “She ever refer to him by name?”

  “She called him ‘my honey,’ as in, ‘My honey’s coming over tonight.’ ”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Jane sat on the subway turning it all over. She had thought it was Beasely because of his wife’s inconsistencies and his closeness to Anthony. But Beverly Shaw’s comment that Alicia would not date a black man made her reconsider. Maybe, she thought, it was something Alicia said to point Beverly in the wrong direction. If Beasely had enough money for that kitchen, he might shave a bit off and be nice to a beautiful woman, maybe pay a piece of her rent in the Village so they could do their thing in private.

  The same, of course, was true of Fitzhugh. What Jane liked about Beasely was that he was alive. Two cops in Queens had heard his voice. Both had heard Manelli ask if he was the sarge. Whichever it was, if it were one of them, Alicia had had an affair with him, Jane was sure of that. And that fact made him a good suspect for murder.

  Her head was abuzz, thinking of all the things she needed to do. First, if they were working today, she wanted to show the photos to the two Transit workers, Garland and Crawford. And she wanted to talk to Defino.

  She went to Centre Street and found the phone numbers for Garland and Crawford. Luck was with her. They were both working today. But first she called Defino.

  “Yeah, hello.”

  “Gordon, it’s Jane.”