Murder in Hell's Kitchen by Lee Harris Page A

who had lived where, what a nice person he was, who lived there now.
    â€œHow do you get to the roof?” Defino asked.
    â€œUp there.” Derek pointed. The stairway became little more than a ladder from the top floor to the roof.
    â€œYou keep that door locked or open?”
    â€œLocked most of the time.”
    â€œWas it locked or open when Mr. Quill died?”
    â€œProb’ly locked, but I don’t remember no more. You can ask that policeman was here after the murder. He tell you.”
    â€œWhat about when Mr. Soderberg died? Was it locked or open that day?”
    Derek raised his shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you. Prob’ly locked.”
    â€œWho else has the key to the roof?”
    â€œMr. Stabile.”
    â€œAny chance Mr. Soderberg was out on the roof the day he had the accident?”
    â€œI don’t guess so. Nobody goes out there ’cept me.”
    The interior of the building had a new coat of paint, and the stair treads looked as though they had been repaired or replaced recently. Maybe Stabile had put some money into the building in order to attract renters.
    They went downstairs, stopping on two, where Soderberg’s body had been found.
    â€œIs that where Mr. Worthman lived?” Jane asked.
    â€œYeah, that was his place.”
    â€œYou have any idea where he went when he moved out?”
    â€œI think maybe back to his family in Harlem.”
    â€œIs Mr. Worthman black?”
    Derek nodded his head.
    â€œHow long did he live here?”
    â€œLong time. Maybe twenty years. More’n I been here.”
    They went downstairs and out to the street. Derek left them, walking slowly back to his building.
    â€œI wonder if Bracken ran a check on Derek to see if he has a record,” Jane said. “Let’s check the case file and, if not, call down to NCIC.”
    â€œSounds good. Want me to sign you out?” Defino asked. “Seems like a shame for you to go all the way downtown just to turn around and go back up.”
    â€œThanks. I don’t mind. Give me a chance to think.”
    MacHovec had spent a busy afternoon. The medical examiner would send over a copy of the report on Soderberg’s autopsy tomorrow. “Lotta broken bones,” MacHovec said, looking at his notes. “Head injury probably did him in.”
    â€œAny chance he was pushed?”
    â€œThere’s always a chance. Also a chance it was a suicide. But the ME’s office labeled it accidental. Looked like he was up on a stool to reach a lightbulb.”
    â€œYou get anything on Worthman?” Jane asked.
    â€œNot yet. You?”
    â€œHe’s black. The super thinks he went back to his family in Harlem. Maybe we should try the phone book.”
    MacHovec grinned. “I’m good at that.”
    They sat down and began comparing notes. MacHovec had the name of the friend Miss Rawls had moved in with, but he hadn’t been able to reach her by phone. He also had a forwarding address for the man from the West, Jerry Hutchins, and had come up with a local phone number from Cole’s Directory, but again, there was no answer.
    â€œI’ll try them from home tonight,” Jane said, taking the slips of paper and copying the information. “They’ll be home from work.”
    MacHovec had also checked up on the landlord’s record. It was amazingly clean. He had been cited for a minor violation in another of his buildings two years ago, but aside from that, he seemed to manage well-run buildings. Either he had a cozy relationship with inspectors or his buildings were up to building code. There were no records of anyone who lived in Quill’s building at the time of his death ever taking a complaint downtown.
    Defino was just starting to type up his DD14s, the forms for recording additional information, when the second whip knocked on the doorjamb and came inside.
    â€œJust touching base,” he said. “Anything I can