step back. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m sorry to break the news: he was found dead yesterday morning.”
The woman’s right hand flew up to her cheek. “But he owes me two months’ rent!”
Jack didn’t bother to comment. In his time with Brooklyn South Homicide, he had witnessed just about every possible reaction to the news of a murder.
“What happened?” the woman asked.
“We’re investigating what looks like a homicide.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack and his partner trooped in past her, into a front hall that was decorated with flowered wallpaper more faded than the owner’s house-dress. “Which way, ma’am?”
Grudgingly, she pointed to a doorway. They followed her down a dimly lit, narrow stairway to another closed door. She reached into the pocket of her housedress and took out a key ring. As she turned the key, she looked back at them with a puzzled expression.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
“The door was unlocked. He never leaves it that way.”
Jack flashed on the image of the feds piling out of their van. “Has anyone else come by asking about Robert?”
The landlady shook her head. Jack frowned. Maybe the feds had dropped by without bothering to ring the bell. This landlady seemed like a tough watchdog, but these locks were old and not very effective; it would have been a simple matter to slip in while she was out. He started thinking about radiation: What if there was something nasty beaming little rays behind this door? In that case, he hoped the feds had paid a visit.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open. The reason for her wariness soon became obvious: the basement apartment was devoid of windows.
“Nice illegal rental,” Richie noted dryly.
“You’re not gonna turn me in, are ya?”
Jack saw a big chunk of her income disappearing in her panicked eyes, and he adopted a reassuring tone. “We’re not here to make any problems for you—as long as you tell us the truth.” He and his partner wandered through the apartment while they asked her more questions. They didn’t stumble across any atomic bombs in the making, which was certainly a relief.
“Any idea why someone would have it in for your tenant?”
“He kept to himself. I don’t know nothin’ about his personal life.”
“You ever hear any fights or arguments going on down here?”
“He never had company, not that I know of.” She stared at Jack. “Was it a nigger that killed him? Robert could never tolerate the niggers.”
Jack frowned at the casual slur; the last thing he needed right now was a reminder of his own teenage stupidity. “It seems like it might have been a Pakistani or an Indian.” He watched carefully for her reaction.
Her eyebrows went up. “Well, that’s a surprise. Those people seem pretty quiet. Family types.”
Jack turned back to his survey of the apartment. He wished he could tell if Brasciak might have had a little company post-mortem, but even if the feds had tossed the place, they could hardly have left it in more of a mess. It was a real bachelor dump, with empty beer cans scattered around, overflowing ashtrays, clothes strewn about. It looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since the seventies or eighties: the wallpaper was silvery, and there was a wall-sized photo mural of Manhattan at night in the little living room, which offered just enough space for a beat-up leather couch, a big-screen TV (employee discount?), an elaborate video game controller, and a weight bench and some dumbbells. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting smelled funky, like spilled beer and mildew. A poster on the wall bore a picture of a Hispanic-looking hoodlum holding a white woman in an arm lock. Crosshairs were superimposed over the man’s face, and Jack realized that it was a shooting gallery target.
“Did Brasciak have family?” Richie asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“How about
“I’m sorry to break the news: he was found dead yesterday morning.”
The woman’s right hand flew up to her cheek. “But he owes me two months’ rent!”
Jack didn’t bother to comment. In his time with Brooklyn South Homicide, he had witnessed just about every possible reaction to the news of a murder.
“What happened?” the woman asked.
“We’re investigating what looks like a homicide.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack and his partner trooped in past her, into a front hall that was decorated with flowered wallpaper more faded than the owner’s house-dress. “Which way, ma’am?”
Grudgingly, she pointed to a doorway. They followed her down a dimly lit, narrow stairway to another closed door. She reached into the pocket of her housedress and took out a key ring. As she turned the key, she looked back at them with a puzzled expression.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
“The door was unlocked. He never leaves it that way.”
Jack flashed on the image of the feds piling out of their van. “Has anyone else come by asking about Robert?”
The landlady shook her head. Jack frowned. Maybe the feds had dropped by without bothering to ring the bell. This landlady seemed like a tough watchdog, but these locks were old and not very effective; it would have been a simple matter to slip in while she was out. He started thinking about radiation: What if there was something nasty beaming little rays behind this door? In that case, he hoped the feds had paid a visit.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open. The reason for her wariness soon became obvious: the basement apartment was devoid of windows.
“Nice illegal rental,” Richie noted dryly.
“You’re not gonna turn me in, are ya?”
Jack saw a big chunk of her income disappearing in her panicked eyes, and he adopted a reassuring tone. “We’re not here to make any problems for you—as long as you tell us the truth.” He and his partner wandered through the apartment while they asked her more questions. They didn’t stumble across any atomic bombs in the making, which was certainly a relief.
“Any idea why someone would have it in for your tenant?”
“He kept to himself. I don’t know nothin’ about his personal life.”
“You ever hear any fights or arguments going on down here?”
“He never had company, not that I know of.” She stared at Jack. “Was it a nigger that killed him? Robert could never tolerate the niggers.”
Jack frowned at the casual slur; the last thing he needed right now was a reminder of his own teenage stupidity. “It seems like it might have been a Pakistani or an Indian.” He watched carefully for her reaction.
Her eyebrows went up. “Well, that’s a surprise. Those people seem pretty quiet. Family types.”
Jack turned back to his survey of the apartment. He wished he could tell if Brasciak might have had a little company post-mortem, but even if the feds had tossed the place, they could hardly have left it in more of a mess. It was a real bachelor dump, with empty beer cans scattered around, overflowing ashtrays, clothes strewn about. It looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since the seventies or eighties: the wallpaper was silvery, and there was a wall-sized photo mural of Manhattan at night in the little living room, which offered just enough space for a beat-up leather couch, a big-screen TV (employee discount?), an elaborate video game controller, and a weight bench and some dumbbells. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting smelled funky, like spilled beer and mildew. A poster on the wall bore a picture of a Hispanic-looking hoodlum holding a white woman in an arm lock. Crosshairs were superimposed over the man’s face, and Jack realized that it was a shooting gallery target.
“Did Brasciak have family?” Richie asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“How about
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