“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?”