I had everything back in order and returned to the file folder by the time Koehler came back. He had a fresh cigar going. I got out from behind his desk. He asked me if I was satisfied.
"I'd still like to talk to Pankow."
"I already set it up. I figured you're too fucking stubborn to change your mind. You find a single damn thing in that mess?"
"How do I know? I don't even know what I'm looking for. I understand she was hooking. Any evidence of that?"
"Nothing hard. There would be if we looked. Good wardrobe, couple hundred in her handbag, no visible means of support. What's that add up to?"
"Why was she living with Vanderpoel?"
"He had a twelve-inch tongue."
"Seriously. Was he pimping for her?"
"Probably."
"You didn't have a sheet on either of them, though."
"No. No arrest. They didn't exist officially for us until he decided to cut her up."
I closed my eyes for a minute. Koehler said my name. I looked up. I said,
"Just a thought. Something you said before about time putting Hanniford on the spot. It's true in a way besides the one you mentioned. If she was killed by person or persons unknown, you'd have put the past two years of her life on slides and run them through a microscope. But it was over before it started, and it's not your job to do that now."
"Right. So it's your job instead."
"Uh-huh. What did he kill her with?"
"Doc says a razor." He shrugged. "Good a guess as any."
"What happened to the murder weapon?"
"Yeah, I figured you wouldn't miss that. We didn't turn it up. You can't make much out of that. There was a window open, he could have pitched it out."
"What's outside of the window?"
"Airshaft."
"You checked it?"
"Uh-huh. Anybody coulda picked it up, any kid passing through."
"Check for blood spots in the airshaft?"
"Are you kidding? An airshaft in the Village? People piss out windows, they throw Tampax out, garbage, everything. Nine out of ten airshafts you'll find blood spots. Would you have checked? With the killer already wrapped up?"
"No."
"Anyway, forget the airshaft. He bolts out of the apartment with the knife in his hand. Or the razor, whatever the fuck it was. He drops it on the staircase. He runs out in the street and drops it on the sidewalk. He puts it in an open garbage can. He drops it down a sewer. Matt, we don't have an eyewitness who saw him come out of the building. We woulda turned one up if we needed one, but the son of a bitch was dead thirty-six hours after he cooled the girl."
It kept coming back to that. I was doing a job the police would have done if they had had to do it. But Richard Vanderpoel had saved them the trouble.
"So we don't know when he hit the street," Koehler was saying. "Two minutes before Pankow got to him? Ten minutes? He coulda chewed up the knife and ate it in that amount of time. Christ knows he was crazy enough."
"Was there a razor in the apartment?"
"You mean a straight razor? No."
"I mean a man's razor."
"Yeah, he had an electric. Why the hell don't you forget about the razor?
You know what those fucking autopsies are like. I had one a couple years ago, the asshole in the medical examiner's office said the victim had been killed with a hatchet. We already caught the bastard on the premises with a croquet mallet in his hand. Anybody who could mistake the damage done by splitting someone's skull with a hatchet and beating it in with a mallet couldn't tell a razor slash from a cunt."
I nodded. I said, "I wonder why he did it."
"Because he was out of his fucking mind, that's why he did it. He ran up and down the street covered with her blood, screaming his head off and waving his cock at the world. Ask him why he did it and he wouldn't know himself."
"What a world."
"Jesus, don't let me get started on that. This neighborhood gets worse and worse. Don't get me started."
He gave me a nod, and we walked together out of his office and out through the squad room. Men in plainclothes and men in uniforms sat at typewriters, laboriously pounding out stories about presumed miscreants and alleged perpetrators. A woman was making a report in Spanish to a uniformed officer, pausing intermittently to weep. I wondered what she had done or what had been done to her.
I didn't see anybody in the squad room that I recognized.
Koehler said, "You hear about Barney Segal? They made it permanent. He's head of the Seventeenth."
"Well, he's a good man."
"One of the best. How long you been off the force, Matt?"
"Couple of years, I guess."
"Yeah. How're Anita and the boys? Doing okay?"
"They're fine."
"You keep in touch, then."
"From time to time."
As we neared the front desk he stopped, cleared his throat. "You ever think about putting the badge back on, Matt?"
"No way, Eddie."
"That's a goddam shame, you know that?"
"You do what you have to do."
"Yeah." He drew himself up and got back to business. "I set it with Pankow so he'll be looking for you around nine tonight. He'll be at a bar called Johnny Joyce's. It's on Second Avenue, I forget the cross street."
"I know the place."
"They know him there, so just ask the bartender to point him out to you. He's on his own time tonight, so I told him you'd make it worth his while."
And told him to make sure a piece of it came back to the lieutenant, no doubt.
"Matt?" I turned. "What the hell are you gonna ask him, anyway?"
"I want to know what obscene language Vanderpoel was using."
"Seriously?" I nodded. "I think you're as crazy as Vanderpoel," he told me.
"For the price of a hat you can hear all the dirty words in the world."
Chapter 3
Bethune Street runs west from Hudson toward the river. It is narrow and residential. Some trees had been recently planted. Their bases were guarded by little picket fences hung with signs imploring dog owners to thwart their pets'
natural instincts. WE LOVE OUR TREE/PLEASE CURB YOUR DOG.
Number 194 was a renovated brownstone with a front door the color of Astroturf. There were five apartments, one to a floor. A sixth bell in the vestibule was marked SUPERINTENDENT. I rang it and waited.
The woman who opened the door was around thirty-five. She wore a man's white shirt with the top two buttons open and a pair of stained and faded jeans. She was built like a fireplug. Her hair was short and seemed to have been hacked at randomly with a pair of dull shears. The effect was not displeasing, though. She stood in the doorway and looked up at me and decided within five seconds that I was a cop. I gave her my name and learned that hers was Elizabeth Antonelli. I told her I wanted to talk to her.
"What about?"
"Your third-floor tenants."
"Shit. I thought that was over and done with. I'm still waiting for you guys to unlock the door and clear their stuff out. The landlord wants me to show the apartment, and I can't even get into it."
"It's still padlocked?"
"Don't you guys talk to each other?"
"I'm not on the force. This is private."
Her eyes did a number. She liked me better now that I wasn't a cop, but now she had to know what angle I was working. Also if I wasn't on official business, that meant she didn't have to feel compelled to waste her time on me.
She said, "Listen, I'm in the middle of something. I'm an artist, I got work to do."
"It'll take you less time to answer my questions than it will to get rid of me."
She thought this over, then turned abruptly and walked into the building.
"It's freezing out there," she said. "C'mon downstairs, we'll talk, but don't figure on taking up too much of my time, huh?"
I followed her down a flight of stairs to the basement. She had a single large room with kitchen appliances in one corner and an army cot on the west wall.
There were exposed pipes and electrical cables overhead. Her art was sculpture, and there were several examples of her work in evidence. I never saw the piece she was currently working on. A wet cloth was draped over it. The other pieces were abstract, and there was a massive quality to them, a ponderousness suggestive of sea monsters.
"I'm not going to be able to tell you much," she said. "I'm the super because I get a deal on the rent that way. I'm handy, I can fix most things that go wrong, and I'm mean enough to yell at people when they're late with the rent. Most of the time I keep to myself. I don't pay much attention to what goes on in the building."
"You knew Vanderpoel and Miss Hanniford?"
"By sight."
"When did they move in?"
"She was here before I moved in, and I've been here two years in April. He moved in with her I guess a little over a year ago. I think just before Christmas if I remember right."
"They didn't move in together?"
"No. She was living with someone else before that."
"A man?"
"A woman."
She didn't have any records, didn't know the name of Wendy's former roommate. She gave me the landlord's name and address. I asked her what she remembered about Wendy.
"Not a hell of a lot. I only notice people if they make trouble. She never had loud parties or played the stereo too loud. I was in the apartment a few times. The valve was shot on the bedroom radiator, and they were getting too much heat, they couldn't regulate it. I put a new valve in. That was just a couple of months ago."
"They kept the apartment neat?"
"Very neat. Very attractive. They had the trim painted, and the place was furnished nice." She thought for a moment. "I think maybe that was his doing. I was in the place before he moved in, and I think I remember it wasn't as nice then.
He was sort of artsy."
"Did you know she was a prostitute?"
"I still don't know it. I read lots of lies in the papers."
"You don't think she was?"
"I don't have an opinion either way. I never had any complaints about her.
Then again, she could have had ten men a day up there, and I wouldn't have known about it."
"Did she have visitors?"
"I just told you. I wouldn't know about it. People don't have to get past me to get upstairs."
I asked her who else lived in the building. There were five floor-through apartments, and she gave me the names of the tenants in each. I could talk to them if they were willing to talk to me, she said. But not the couple on the top floor-they were in Florida and wouldn't be back until the middle of March.
"You got enough?" she said. "I want to get back to what I was doing." She flexed her fingers, indicating an impatience to return them to the clay.
I told her she had been very helpful.
"I don't see that I told you anything much."
"There's something more you could tell me."
"What?"
"You didn't know them, either of them, and I realize you don't take much interest in the people in the building. But everybody invariably forms an impression of people they see frequently over an extended period of time. You must have had some sort of image of the two of them, some feeling that extended beyond your hard factual knowledge of them. That's probably been shifted out of position by what's happened in the past week, what you've learned about them, but I'd like to know what your impression of them was."
"What good would that do you?"
"It would tell me what they looked like to human eyes. And you're an artist, you've got sensibilities."
She gnawed at a fingernail. "Yeah, I see what you mean," she said after a moment. "I just can't find where to pick up on it."
"You were surprised when he killed her."
"Anybody'd be surprised."
"Because it changed how you saw them. How did you see them?"
"Just as tenants, just ordinary-wait a minute. All right, you jarred something loose. I never even put words to the tune before, but you know how I thought of them? As brother and sister."
"Brother and sister?"
"Right."
"Why?"
She closed her eyes, frowned. "I can't say exactly," she said. "Maybe the way they acted when they were together. Not anything they did. Just the vibrations they gave off, the sense you got of them when they were walking along. The sense of how they related to each other."
I waited.
"Another thing. I didn't dwell on this, I mean I didn't give it any thought to speak of, but I sort of took it for granted that he was gay."
"Why?"
She had been sitting. She got up now and walked to one of her creations, a gunmetal-colored mound of convex planes taller and wider than herself. She faced away from me, tracing a curved surface with her stubby fingers.
"Physical type, I suppose. Mannerisms. He was tall and slender, he had a way of speaking. You'd think I would know better than to think in those terms.
With my figure and short hair, and working with my hands, and being good with electrical and mechanical things. People generally assume I'm a lesbian."
She turned around, and her eyes challenged me. "I'm not," she said.
"Was Wendy Hanniford?"
"How would I know?"
"You guessed Vanderpoel might be gay. Did you make the same guess about her?"
"Oh. I thought- No, I'm sure she wasn't. I generally know if a woman is gay by the way she relates to me. No, I assumed she was straight."
"And you assumed he wasn't."
"Right." She looked up at me. "You want to know something? I still think he was a faggot."
Chapter 4
I had some dinner in an Italian place on Greenwich Avenue, then hit a couple of bars before I took a cab over to Johnny Joyce's. I told the bartender I was looking for Lewis Pankow, and he pointed me toward a booth in the back.