Murder in Greenwich Village by Lee Harris Page B

night?”
    â€œMen’s voices.”
    â€œLet’s give it a try.”
    The man remembered Jane, and this time they showed their ID. “You’re the one asked me about the woman across the hall, aren’t you?”
    â€œThat’s right. Now we want to ask you about a night ten years ago when you might have heard a man shouting or a bunch of men shouting.”
    He shrugged. “When her father was alive—that was a long time ago—he was always yelling at her. ‘Why don’t you find yourself a nice guy and settle down? Why don’t you get a job that pays more? You think your mother and me are gonna leave you a million bucks?’ But I don’t think he hit her.”
    â€œWe don’t mean the father,” Defino said.
    â€œHow long was that? Ten years? You think I remember a noisy night ten years ago?”
    â€œThis was men’s voices,” Jane said.
    â€œWhat men? What are you talking about?”
    â€œA crime may have been committed.”
    â€œAnd you come back ten years later to ask about it? Where were you ten years ago?” He looked as annoyed as he sounded.
    â€œDon’t lecture us,” Jane said, reflecting his annoyance with her own. “We’re reinvestigating the murder of a New York City police officer and we need your cooperation.”
    â€œI’m cooperating the best I can. If I heard anything, I don’t remember. OK?”
    Jane handed him her card. “What’s your name, sir?”
    â€œSklar, Phillip Sklar.”
    â€œIf you think of anything, Mr. Sklar, if you remember that night when the officer was killed, please give me a call.”
    â€œI’ll do that.” He sounded as though he would burn the card the minute the door closed.
    She said “Thank you” and turned away, glad to see the last of him.
    â€œWe’ve pushed that as far as we can,” Defino said in the street. “We should be able to talk to Franklin on Monday.”
    â€œI’ll keep calling over the weekend. Maybe I can find Sal at home, but we need to talk to them separately. She’ll say what he wants her to say.”
    They had lunch and went back to Centre Street. MacHovec had printed out two copies of a long history of Randolph’s last ten years, half of which had been spent in prison. He had served most of his sentence but not all. He knew how to make nice when it counted.
    They each read a copy, Defino holding a highlighter, Jane with a red pen. She looked for Manelli’s name or even Curtis Morgan’s, but neither appeared. The three men had severed their relationship after Anthony’s death or had kept it so secret that no one uncovered it. Now Randolph was dealing pot and Manelli was living off a Macy’s handbag saleswoman.
    The rap sheet was a depressing story of how a man with brains enough to switch from educated English to neighborhood lingo could apply his talents in ways that alternately made him money and gave him power, but put him away for years on end. Even after reading dozens of similar life stories, she wanted to ask the obvious questions.
    â€œThe three of them split up,” Defino said, looking up from his copy.
    â€œI noticed. I wonder if Randolph talked to his cellmate in Attica.”
    â€œHe’s too smart.”
    â€œYou want some names?” MacHovec asked.
    â€œCan’t hurt. Just in case Manelli and his girlfriend don’t pan out.”
    MacHovec got on the phone. Jane hoped the cellmate was back on the streets of New York. She didn’t need a trip to Attica after her visit to Rikers.
    She picked up her phone and dialed Judith Franklin’s number, which by now she knew by heart. On the second ring, a woman answered, “Hello?”
    Jane hung up. “Franklin’s back, Gordon. She just answered her phone.”
    Defino looked at his watch. “Want to go?”
    â€œYou could be late getting home.”
    â€œThey know how to