This time it fell short.
"No," she said finally, "I'm not asleep in the evening. He gets home at different times."
"Like what?"
"After nine o'clock."
"How much after nine?"
"Different times."
"Now I'll tell you what this is about," the old gumshoe said tonelessly.
"This is about a murder, and if you keep jerking me around, I'm going to run your ass down to the drunk tank so fast your feet won't touch the ground. You can dry out with all those swell people in there until you decide to answer my questions straight. Is that what you want?"
Her face twisted, and she began to cry.
"You got no right to talk to me like that."
"I'll talk to you any goddamned way I please," Calazo said coldly.
"You don't mean shit to me." He swooped suddenly, grabbed her bottle of whiskey, headed for the stained sink in a kitchenette so malodorous he almost gagged.
She came to her feet with a howl.
"What are you doing?" she screamed.
"I'm going to dump your booze," he said.
"Then go through this swamp and break every fucking jug I can find."
"Please," she said, "don't do-1 can't-the check isn't due for- I'm an old woman. What do you want to hurt an old woman for?"
"You're an old drunk," he said.
"An old smelly drunk. No wonder your son gets out of the house every day." He held the whiskey bottle over the sink.
"What time does he get home at night?"
"At nine. A few minutes after nine."
"Every night?"
"Yes, every night."
He tilted the bottle, spilled a few drops.
She wailed.
"Except on Fridays," she said in a rush.
"He's late on Fridays. Then he comes home at ten, ten-thirty-like that."
"Why is he late on Fridays? Where does he go?"
"I don't know. I swear to God I don't."
"Haven't you asked him?"
"I have, honest to God I have, but he won't tell me."
He stared at her a long time, then handed her the whiskey bottle. She took it with trembling claws, hugged it to her, cradling it like an infant.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Kane," Detective Calazo said.
Outside, he walked over to Broadway, breathing deeply, trying to get rid of the stench of that shithouse. It wasn't the worst stink he had ever smelled in his years on the Force, but it was bad enough.
He found a sidewalk telephone kiosk that worked and called his wife.
"I'm coming home for dinner, han," he reported, "but I'll have to go out again for a while. You want me to pick up anything?"
"We're having knockwurst," she said.
"There's a little mustard left, but maybe you better get a new jar. The hot stuff you like."
"Okay," he said cheerfully.
"See you soon."
That night, warmed by a good solid meal (knockwurst, baked beans, sauerkraut), Calazo was back at 79th Street and Broadway by 8:30. He drove around, looking for a parking space, and ended up pulling into the driveway of the warehouse next to the Kanes' brownstone, ignoring a big sign: NO PARKING OR STANDING AT ANY TIME.
He locked up carefully and walked back to the Community Center, taking up his station across the street. He trudged up and down to keep his feet from getting numb, but never took his eyes off the lighted windows of the Center for more than a few seconds.
The Medical Examiner had said that Simon Ellerbee had died at 9:00 P.m.
But that was an estimate; it could be off by a half-hour either way.
Maybe more.
So if Isaac Kane had left the Community Center at nine o'clock on that Friday night, he could have made it across town to East 84th Street, bashed in Ellerbee's skull, and been home by 10:00, 10:30. Easily. Benny Calazo didn't think the boy did it, but he could have.
The lights in the Center began to darken. Calazo leaned against a mailbox, chewing on a cold cigar, and waited. A lot of people came out, one on crutches, two using walkers. Then Isaac appeared.
The detective crossed the street and tailed him. It didn't take long.
Isaac went directly home. Calazo got into his parked car and watched. He sat there until 10:30, freezing his buns. Then he drove home.
That was on a Wednesday night. The detective spent Thursday morning and afternoon checking out Kane at the clinic where he had met with Dr.
Ellerbee. They wouldn't show him Kane's file, but Calazo talked to several people who knew him.
They confirmed that Isaac was usually a quiet, peaceable kid, but had occasional fits of uncontrollable violence during which he physically attacked doctors and nurses. Once he had to be forcibly sedated.
On Thursday night, Calazo went through the same drill again: tailing Kane home from the Community Center, then waiting to see if he came out of the brownstone again. Nothing.
He took up his post a little earlier on Friday evening, figuring if anything was going to happen, it would be on that night.
Isaac Kane left the Center a few minutes before nine o'clock. Calazo got a good look at him from across the street.
He was all dolled-up, with a tweed cap, clean parka, denim jeans. He was carrying a package under his arm. It looked like one of his pastels wrapped in brown paper.
He turned in the opposite direction, away from his home, and Calazo went after him. He tailed Kane uptown on Broadway to 83rd Street, and west toward the river. Isaac crossed West End Avenue, then went into a neat brownstone halfway down the block.
The detective slowed his pace, then sauntered by the brownstone, noting the address. Kane was not in the vestibule or lobby. Calazo took up his patrol across the street, lighting a cigar, and walking heavily up and down to keep the circulation going. He wondered how many miles he had plodded like this in his lifetime as a cop. Well, in another month it would be all over.
Kane came out of the brownstone about 10: 15. He was no longer carrying the package. Calazo tailed him back to his 78th Street home. When Isaac was inside, the detective went home, too.
He was out early the next morning and parked near the neat brownstone on West 83rd Street a few minutes before 8:00 A.m. He figured that most people would be home at that hour on a Saturday. He went into the vestibule and examined the bell plate. There were twelve apartments.
He began ringing,-starting at the top and working his way down. Every time the squawk box clicked on and someone said, "Who is it?," Calazo would say, "I'd like to talk to you about Isaac Kane." He got answers like "Who?"
"Never heard of him."
"Get lost."
"You have the wrong apartment." And a lot of disconnects.
Finally he pushed the 4-B bell. A woman's voice asked, "Who is it?," the detective said, "I'd like to talk to you about Isaac Kane," and the woman replied anxiously, "Has anything happened to him?" Bingo. The names opposite the bell were Mr. amp; Mrs. Judson Beele and Evelyn Packard.
"This is Detective Benjamin Calazo of the New York Police Department," he said slowly and distinctly.
"It is important that I speak to you concerning Isaac Kane. Will you let me come up please? I will show you my identification."
There was a long silence. Calazo waited patiently. He was good at that.
Then the door lock buzzed, he pushed his way in, and clumped up the stairs to the fourth floor.
There was a man standing in the hallway outside apartment 4-B. He was wearing a flannel bathrobe and carpet slippers. A Caspar Milquetoast with rimless glasses, a fringe of fluff around his pale scalp, and some hair on his upper lip that yearned to be a mustache and didn't quite make it. Calazo thought a strong wind would blow the guy away.
He proffered his ID and the man examined the wallet carefully before he handed it back.
"I'm Judson Beele," he said nervously.
"What's this all about? You mentioned Isaac Kane to my wife."
"Could I come in for a few minutes?" the detective asked pleasantly.