annoyed.”
“Why? What did she say when you told her about knocking on the door and ringing the bell?”
“Well, she said that she’d been under the shower and had the radio on in the bathroom and didn’t hear me at the door.”
She looked up at me with her small runny eyes, waiting for me to ask the right question; unwilling to volunteer anything more.
“But you didn’t believe that, right, Patti?” I took a calculated guess. “The bathroom window faces the parking lot, doesn’t it?” She nodded. “Was the light on in the bathroom at that time?”
Patti shook her head. She looked at me hopefully. “Maybe she was bathing in the dark? Do you think that might be possible?”
I shrugged; that made her feel a little better.
“Patti, did you see anyone, anyone at all, either in the parking lot or near the building? Did anyone see you there at two-thirty this morning?”
She hadn’t noticed anyone; it would take days of bell-ringing and hundreds of interviews to determine if anyone in the vicinity could confirm the fact of Patti’s presence in Fresh Meadows at the time she claimed.
When I told her that I’d drive her to the squad office, she smiled, shoved the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands, and dug through a morass of garments in the small closet until she finally bent down and yanked out a short bright-blue fake-fur jacket. When she put it on, she looked like a stuffed blue teddy bear.
We hit the street just as Sam Catalano got out of his car. He waved and called to me. I waved back, got the Porsche’s keys from Patti, tossed them to Sam just before I got behind the wheel. The Porsche was parked right behind my car.
“See you later, Sam. They’re waiting at the 107th for the Porsche. Try to get back to the squad before Captain Neary.”
I couldn’t hear what Sam was calling out to me, so I just waved as we drove past him.
CHAPTER 5
W HILE I WAS IN Neary’s office giving him the essentials of what Patti MacDougal had told me, Patti was making friends in the squad room. To keep her happy until her statement was typed and ready for her signature she’d been provided with a bag of Burger Kings and a couple of chocolate milkshakes.
“Jesus Joe, let’s get her story confirmed.”
“I’ve notified Wise. And I pulled Collins and Schwartz from the Peck Avenue location and told them to question the owner of every car in the Fresh Meadows parking lot. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
It wasn’t that Tim was generous with his authority as squad commander; he wasn’t. At the point where the case was ready to be all pulled together, he would remind us both that even though I was the senior first-grade detective in the squad, he was the boss so far as credit was concerned. District Attorney Jeremiah Kelleher waited upstairs to remind Tim that in the event of failure it was also all Tim’s.
“I wish the goddamn Medical Examiner would call. Even with tentative information.” Tim was cracking his knuckles: a sure sign of building tension; “Have you seen the early edition of the Post? They got someone working in my squad or what?”
Some enterprising, ambitious anonymous reporter, trying to earn his byline, had gotten hold of the fact that there were more than a hundred men’s names in Kitty’s pink leather telephone book. And that of the names checked so far, more than half were known to the police in connection with various interrelated criminal matters. That was how this anonymous reporter described it: “various interrelated criminal matters.”
“The paper got that almost as fast as it was relayed to me, Joe.” Tim whistled softly between his teeth, and his eyes glazed over for a moment. Then he blinked and smashed his hand down on his desk. “Hey, where the hell is that dago son-of-a-bitch Catalano?”
Tim Neary has nothing against Italians. His wife, Catherine, is Italian. It was the first thing he told me about her, years ago when he asked me to be his best man:
“Why? What did she say when you told her about knocking on the door and ringing the bell?”
“Well, she said that she’d been under the shower and had the radio on in the bathroom and didn’t hear me at the door.”
She looked up at me with her small runny eyes, waiting for me to ask the right question; unwilling to volunteer anything more.
“But you didn’t believe that, right, Patti?” I took a calculated guess. “The bathroom window faces the parking lot, doesn’t it?” She nodded. “Was the light on in the bathroom at that time?”
Patti shook her head. She looked at me hopefully. “Maybe she was bathing in the dark? Do you think that might be possible?”
I shrugged; that made her feel a little better.
“Patti, did you see anyone, anyone at all, either in the parking lot or near the building? Did anyone see you there at two-thirty this morning?”
She hadn’t noticed anyone; it would take days of bell-ringing and hundreds of interviews to determine if anyone in the vicinity could confirm the fact of Patti’s presence in Fresh Meadows at the time she claimed.
When I told her that I’d drive her to the squad office, she smiled, shoved the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands, and dug through a morass of garments in the small closet until she finally bent down and yanked out a short bright-blue fake-fur jacket. When she put it on, she looked like a stuffed blue teddy bear.
We hit the street just as Sam Catalano got out of his car. He waved and called to me. I waved back, got the Porsche’s keys from Patti, tossed them to Sam just before I got behind the wheel. The Porsche was parked right behind my car.
“See you later, Sam. They’re waiting at the 107th for the Porsche. Try to get back to the squad before Captain Neary.”
I couldn’t hear what Sam was calling out to me, so I just waved as we drove past him.
CHAPTER 5
W HILE I WAS IN Neary’s office giving him the essentials of what Patti MacDougal had told me, Patti was making friends in the squad room. To keep her happy until her statement was typed and ready for her signature she’d been provided with a bag of Burger Kings and a couple of chocolate milkshakes.
“Jesus Joe, let’s get her story confirmed.”
“I’ve notified Wise. And I pulled Collins and Schwartz from the Peck Avenue location and told them to question the owner of every car in the Fresh Meadows parking lot. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
It wasn’t that Tim was generous with his authority as squad commander; he wasn’t. At the point where the case was ready to be all pulled together, he would remind us both that even though I was the senior first-grade detective in the squad, he was the boss so far as credit was concerned. District Attorney Jeremiah Kelleher waited upstairs to remind Tim that in the event of failure it was also all Tim’s.
“I wish the goddamn Medical Examiner would call. Even with tentative information.” Tim was cracking his knuckles: a sure sign of building tension; “Have you seen the early edition of the Post? They got someone working in my squad or what?”
Some enterprising, ambitious anonymous reporter, trying to earn his byline, had gotten hold of the fact that there were more than a hundred men’s names in Kitty’s pink leather telephone book. And that of the names checked so far, more than half were known to the police in connection with various interrelated criminal matters. That was how this anonymous reporter described it: “various interrelated criminal matters.”
“The paper got that almost as fast as it was relayed to me, Joe.” Tim whistled softly between his teeth, and his eyes glazed over for a moment. Then he blinked and smashed his hand down on his desk. “Hey, where the hell is that dago son-of-a-bitch Catalano?”
Tim Neary has nothing against Italians. His wife, Catherine, is Italian. It was the first thing he told me about her, years ago when he asked me to be his best man:
Similar Books
