Investigation

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  She twisted around; finally saw the woman in uniform standing behind her, obviously waiting. Waiting for Kitty. She turned back to Jaytee, her hands on his body, clutching and pulling in a frantic rhythm at his vest and jacket. He caught her hands in his, hunched down quietly, his head bent to hers; he walked her to the side of the courtroom, his arm around her, preventing her from seeing George, who was struggling with Jeff Weinstein—struggling for breath and struggling to get to Kitty. Sam Catalano helped Weinstein; they got George out a side door.

  “Now, you are not listenin’ to me, Kitty,” Jaytee said firmly, “and you are not behavin’ the way I expect you to behave. Now, you knew what to expect, honey. This is only gonna take maybe one, one and a half hours at the very most.” As he spoke to her, he shook her from time to time; he alternated between scolding and reassuring her. “Soon’s you start actin’ like mah girl, honey, that’s how soon Jeff and me gonna get that bail bond all arranged and get you ta hell outa here and back with ole George where you belong, y’heah?” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders; his head ducked down and he seemed to be whispering right into her ear. All I heard of it, when he drew back, was, “Now, you remember, you gotta be brave for ole George, honey. That man needs you.”

  Kitty nodded; took Jaytee’s large white handkerchief, turned away to wipe her face. Her back went stiff again; she raised her head, turned away from her attorney without another word and went toward the woman court guard. I accompanied them through the barred door off the front of the court; down the flight of steel stairs, through another steel-barred door at the entrance to the detention quarters.

  There was an exchange of signatures; I verified delivery of Kitty Keeler; they verified acceptance. We never looked at each other as Kitty went in one direction and I went in another.

  Tim and I sat in his office and watched. Jeremiah Kelleher on the eleven-o’clock news. “There is little feeling of satisfaction in any of this,” Jerry said seriously and quietly. “The whole case, from beginning to end, is a tragedy.” He was careful not to divulge any details, but he did say, somewhat smugly, I thought, “As I told the parents of Queens County right at the very start of this tragedy, we had no reason to assume that their children were in any danger. We never, at any time, had any serious doubt that the solution would lie within the walls of the Keeler apartment.”

  Tim stabbed at the television button and Jerry’s face disappeared, swallowed down the drain at the center of the picture tube. Tim’s eyes were red-rimmed and he didn’t do them any good by rubbing at them every few minutes.

  “He’s terrific, isn’t he? Isn’t it wonderful how things are working out for him, that son-of-a-bitch. He got the indictment in time for the primary; all the goddamn free publicity in the world.” Tim slumped into the center of the green leather couch. He took a long swallow of Scotch, leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, Joe, wouldn’t it be something if we picked up some guy tomorrow, some total stranger, someone from left field, who sits down and tells us he killed the Keeler kids? Hands over the gun, comes up with all kinds of proof. Some guy who has access to all the homes of all the children in Queens.”

  Grinning tightly at his fantasy, Tim continued, “And we’d work it out so this guy gives himself up to Marvin L. Schneiderman, right on the six-o’clock news.” He laughed shortly. “I’d like to see old Gorgeous Jerry go on the tube and talk about that. Jesus, wouldn’t that be something?”

  “You want me to go out and find him, Tim?”

  Tim pulled himself upright. His eyes centered on me and didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, “You really think she didn’t do it, Joe? For Christ’s sake, no one else could have done it.”

  “About two million people could have done it, Tim.”

  “Right. And only one person did do it. Kitty. With help from someone else. And that’s where it’s at right now. That’s where our focus is: we have to find the guy who helped her.” He stood up and walked behind his desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, took out the bottle, poured another inch, put the bottle away, sat down. He rubbed at his eyes again. He looked exhausted; his voice was drawn and tired. “Joe, you were here; you heard what Martucci told us. Line for line, exactly what we had figured out ourselves, right?”

  “That’s the point, Tim.”

  He drank some Scotch and glanced up at me as though he hadn’t heard what I just said. “What? What’s the point?”

  “Tim.” I took a long deep breath, leaned forward and crushed the butt end of my cigarette and immediately lit another one. “Tim, that’s the point. Martucci.”

  He snapped his head back slightly; brought himself sharply into focus. There was nothing vague or tired about him now; he knew I was about to tell him something and he wanted to be very prepared. Even his voice was different: sharp, renewed, tight, demanding. “Okay, Joe. Something’s been bothering you for quite a while. Since the night we bagged Martucci. Either you’re gonna forget all about it or you’re gonna tell me what it is, right now. And then we’ll both forget it.”

  “Martucci didn’t volunteer one single solitary bit of information, Tim.” Tim’s eyes were glazed and staring; he was whistling softly, but he was listening and hearing me. “Martucci gave back, verbatim, word for word for word, whatever we fed him.” I stood up; had to move around. All my muscles were tensed and cramping. “ ‘When Kitty called you the first time, Vince, did she say, “Vince, I just strangled Georgie”?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Yeah what, Vince?’ ‘Yeah, Kitty called and said Vince-I-just-strangled-Georgie.’ ‘Did Kitty say, “I gave Terry some sleeping pills and now he won’t wake up”?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Yeah what, Vince?’ ‘Yeah, Kitty said I-gave-Terry-some-sleeping-pills.’ And blah-blah-blah!” I walked over to the window and stared out without seeing anything but flashing lights: car lights, traffic lights, street lights, apartment lights. I turned around, leaned against the windowsill. Tim had swiveled around to face me; his hands were clasped across his stomach and his face was set into a blank, noncommittal expression.

  Tim knew what I was talking about. Maybe he hadn’t realized it while we were doing it: all of us, we all did it to Martucci; we gave him, line for line, what we wanted him to say; what fit in with what we’d already figured out.

  “Jesus, Tim, the only thing Martucci couldn’t tell us was who Kitty called to help her get rid of the bodies. And that’s because we don’t know who she called, so we couldn’t tell him.”

  I sat down again; slid my legs under his desk. Tim took out the bottle and poured about an inch into my glass, none into his this time. I swallowed it and tried not to feel what it was doing to my ulcer.

  “That’s what we’re going to do now, Joe. That’s assignment number one. That’s the loose end in the case. We’re willing to deal with Kitty in return for whoever helped her.” In a quiet, rational voice, Tim said, “In fact, finding her accomplice is almost more important than bagging Kitty. She killed the kids in an emotional state; whoever helped her did what he did in cold blood. In fact, he probably killed Terry; no one thinks Kitty fired the shot into him.”

  “That’s it, Tim? No discussion? You have nothing to say about Vincent Martucci’s statement?”

  Tim shook his head slowly and steadily. “Nothing at all, Joe. Not a goddamn thing; not a goddamn fucking thing at all. Vincent Martucci’s statement is going to convict her. There is nothing at all to say about it.”

  “I better get home before the supermarket closes. I don’t have any cottage cheese or milk left.” I held my hand against the digging pain.

  “Joe. I think you better pick up on that ‘special’ assignment for me. I think you better continue checking our Jeremiah’s real-estate dealings.”

  “That what you think, Tim?”

  Tim stood up. We stared at each other across his desk; neither one of us said anything. Then Tim said, “Joe, stay off this case; it’s over now as far as you’re concerned. Get something on Jerry and get it fast or that bastard is just liable to take the prim
ary. And then, buddy, it’ll be a uniformed desk job for me. And Florida for you.”

  “Florida. Florida. You know, Tim, tonight, just tonight, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

  CHAPTER 2

  WHEN THE PHONE RINGS at two o’clock in the morning, it’s natural to assume that it’s someone calling with bad news. No one calls to tell you something wonderful at two o’clock in the morning.

  “Jen?” My eyes narrowed against the sudden sharp light from the bedside lamp. My fingers were fumbling a cigarette from the crushed pack.

  “Joe?”

  “Who the hell is this?” It sure wasn’t Jen.

  “Joe, it’s me. Sam. Sam Catalano. Joe, could I come up to your place and see you? I’m right down the street; at the bar, Daly’s. Right on your corner.”

  “Yeah, I know where Daly’s is. All right, Sam. Come on up.”

  Sam looked fresh and wide-awake even though he said he was beat; he didn’t even need a shave, although he rubbed his chin and said he needed a shave.

  “Look, Sam, you didn’t come up here at two o’clock in the morning to discuss your grooming. What’s on your mind?”

  He started rambling; Sam finds it very difficult to get right to the point.

  “Cut the bullshit. What’s on your mind?”

  “Okay. Okay, Joe. I’m going to take you into my confidence. I’m going to trust you completely.” He said it like he was offering me a rare gift.

  I was in no mood for Catalano. “Sam, why don’t you get the hell outa here and let me go back to sleep.”

  “Jaytee Williams has a transcript of the entire presentation to the Keeler grand jury.”

  “What?” It was impossible; or rather, it should have been impossible as well as being illegal, which it is.

  Sam looked over his shoulder, checking the walls in the tradition of all good secret-tellers. “I told you, I been cultivatin’ George. George told me. He tells me everything. Joe, according to George, Jaytee Williams has been having fits with Kitty because she won’t say anything against Vince Martucci. He’s been up the wall with her about it. Like one minute Vincent is her lover and now he’s talking his head off about what she said to him on the telephone the night the kids were killed. He keeps asking Kitty, not if what Vince said was true, but he keeps asking her, ‘What do the cops have on Vince to make him tell this story?’ And George says that Williams says that Kitty has got to know something about Martucci and she’d better tell him so that he’d have something on Martucci, too.”

  It was funny; it hadn’t even occurred to me. Kitty would have to know about Martucci. In fact, Christ, Kitty must have been fronting for him for the last couple of years: Vince was safe going out with his boys; it was common knowledge that Kitty Keeler was his mistress. What the hell was in it for Kitty? Money, clothes, probably. But now why wouldn’t she blow his cover? He was crucifying her.

  “George says that Williams says that without Martucci’s testimony there was no real case against her. And that’s why I come to see you, Joe.”

  “What’s why you come to see me, Sam?”

  Sam flexed his shoulders to adjust the perfect fit of his jacket. He glanced toward the windows, checking that no one was hanging by the fingernails, six stories up, to eavesdrop.

  “Joe, like I been tellin’ you, I’ve been buddyin’ up with George. We’re real close, Joe. Poor guy, he don’t have hardly anyone left to talk to, ya know? His business has fallen off, all his regulars, they don’t come around his pub anymore. They’re like uncomfortable, ya know? They don’t know how to talk to him anymore, with all the publicity about Kitty and all. So, see, he’s gotten to rely more and more on me.” Sam winked.

  “That’s terrific, Sam.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Joe. The way I got it figured, Joe, is this. Kitty depends on George; hell, George is all she got left. You know that old lady neighbor, the Jewish lady?”

  “Mrs. Silverberg?”

  “Yeah, right. Well, she died last week, George told me. He said Kitty was all broke up about that. She says like everyone she loves is dying or turning against her. All she got left is George.”

  “And what have you been telling George?”

  “That if he wants to see Kitty walk away from this before she’s an old woman, he better convince her to give with the name of her accomplice. The guy who drove the bodies to Peck Avenue. Either Kitty tells him or he’s gonna walk.” Sam leaned forward and spoke quickly, nervously. “Then she’d have no one. At all.”

  “And when you say that to George, what does he say?”

  Sam shrugged. “Aw, George is a funny guy, Joe. Quiet; never says too much, but he’s thinking; like you can tell he’s holding it all inside himself. But I’m sure he can get to Kitty, Joe. And, see, here’s the thing, Joe ...”

  “You want to make the collar.”

  Sam looked like I’d just thrown water in his face; he jumped slightly, looked around, leaned forward. “Well, after all, Joe, it’s only right. Look, I don’t know why Neary’s always on my back, but you know as well as I do he hasn’t let me near this case. Look, Joe, I’m not gonna be a third-grade all my life. If I come up with this accomplice, hell, anyone else would get jumped right up to first grade. But I’m willing to take second if that’s all Neary will give me.”

  “So George believes Kitty did it?”

  “Sure he does. Oh, he doesn’t come right out and say it, but when I talk to him, ya know, about getting down to cases with her, threatening to leave her, he don’t object, he don’t say a thing. And, see, I been emphasizin’ the bright side of it: ya know, if Kitty cooperates, her lawyer can deal with the D.A.”

  “Sam, why’d you come to me with all this?”

  Sam brushed some ashes from his knee, then checked the side of his leg. “Well, see, Joe. Well, you and me were partners almost since I been in the squad. And we did answer the Keeler call together. I mean, technically, it’s my case, too, but for some reason Captain Neary hasn’t liked me from the day I come into the squad. And, well, I wanna be sure no one screws me outa the collar. So, seein’ as you’re good friends with him, and we were partners and all, I wanna ask you to back me up. To make sure I don’t get shafted.”

  “Are you that sure, Sam?”

  “That George’ll get it out of her? Absolutely. Absolutely. Look, you know the old saying, still waters runs deep and all. She got no one at all left. Ya know, Joe, I already talked George outa killing Martucci.”

  He said it as though it was all in line with a day’s good deed. He was just full of surprises.

  “And. hell,” Sam went on, “that woulda blown the case, right?”

  “Not to mention what it would have done to Martucci. And to George. And to Kitty.”

  “Right, right. That’s what I tole him. So wadda ya say, Joe? Will you back me in this? Make sure I don’t get screwed?”

  “Sam. Go home. Go to bed. Let me go back to bed, all right?”

  “Right, right, sure, sorry I got you up. But, see, I just come from George’s place and I was really high on all this, ya know? Like I can feel the timing; that it’ll be soon, ya know?”

  “Terrific.” I led him to the door, practically had to shove him into the hall.

  “Joe, listen, just one thing, okay? Joe, how’d you get Martucci to turn on Kitty?”

  I closed the door and went back to bed.

  Sam was right about one thing. It happened soon. That was all he was right about.

  The next day, Tuesday, I spent most of the morning checking out Brooklyn and Queens real-estate records, going back nearly twenty years, which is just about when Jeremiah Kelleher entered the public employ. During those years, he had acquired, for remarkably little money, a collection of those useless little side alleys and irregularly shaped, unusable garbage lots and corridors between buildings, which the city sold at auction. He purchased these parcels regularly, steadily, over the years, and just as regularly and steadily he sold them back to the city, and in some cases t
o the state, for incredibly high amounts of money, when as it just so happened expressways or post offices or police stations or public libraries were to be built in exact proximity to Kelleher’s seemingly useless holdings.

  This was the kind of information Tim wanted me to locate, but it was really too complicated to be of any immediate use to him; there would be delayed investigations, charges, countercharges, accusations, denials, which could go on for years, during which time Jeremiah Kelleher might well be defending himself from City Hall. However, this is what the Man told me to do with my working life and this is what I was going to do.

  I had a bite to eat and went in to the office to write up my report. There wasn’t anyone else in the office except Sergeant Max Gelber, who looked like he was about to start another siege of the flu that had him laid up for a week. I stopped typing to listen to him yelling into the phone. Ever since he was sick Gelber had been accusing everyone of whispering around him; he wouldn’t admit his ears had been affected by the virus.

  “What? What?” he kept yelling. Finally he looked up at me and said, “Joe, you pick up on this goddamn joker, I got better things to do than play games.”

  He waited until I picked up the phone, then he slammed down his receiver and went down the hall toward the men’s room.

  “Detective Peters. Who’s this?”

  The voice was low and hoarse; I could hardly hear what was being said. There was a gasping, wheezy sound, a strangling, desperate, suddenly familiar sound.

  “George? George Keeler, is that you?”

  “Where’s Sam Catalano? Gotta talk to Sam. He wasn’t at his home; tried to call him, but he wasn’t at his home.”

  “George, this is Joe. What’s the matter, George? You okay? You sound bad. You having an attack, George? I’ll get you some help; hang up and I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “No. No. No ambulance. Listen. Just listen.”

  It was painful to listen to him; I felt a tightening, a constriction in my own throat and chest, a sympathetic wave of suffocation. It seemed to get worse, George’s wheezing, as I argued with him to let me get help.