Another Part of the City

7

The television commercials all said, “Make it Jamaica again.” Somebody up there must have been listening. Today was Jamaica in New York City. The tropics right here in the Big Apple. Fifty-four degrees outside, clear blue skies, not a hint of wind. In the squadroom, the detectives were sitting around in shirtsleeves. When Hoffman came in, he was wearing a sports jacket over a cotton turtleneck, no coat. He threw that morning’s Daily News on Reardon’s desk.

“Our boy made the front page,” he said.

“Yeah, great,” Reardon said, and looked at the headline:

“Wanna bet he walks again?” Reardon said sourly.

“Not this time,” Hoffman said.

“Wanna bet?”

The phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Fifth Squad, Reardon,” he said.

“Mr. Reardon?”

A woman’s voice. Young, hesitant.

“Yes?”

“This is Miss Sanderson.”

“Who?”

“Martha Sanderson.” A pause. “I was juror number five.” Another pause. “The Jurgens trial.”

“Yes, Miss Sanderson?”

“I’m calling to apologize,” she said.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Reardon said.

“I saw the story in this morning’s paper,” she said, and paused again. “We were wrong... and I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, softening, “that’s all right. Thanks for calling, I appreciate it.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Mr. Reardon,” she said, “I really am sorry.”

“I understand,” he said.

“I’m not sure you do.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“I feel terrible about this, really, I do. I wonder... is it possible we could... I’d like to explain further. I don’t want you to think we reached our verdict without careful thought. And deliberation. It was a wrong decision, but I do feel I owe you an explanation.”

“You’ve already explained, Miss Sanderson.”

“I meant... in person.”

“Well...”

“Do you think we could meet for a drink sometime later today? Or a cup of coffee? Something? Really, I feel I owe you something.”

There was another long silence on the line.

“Mr. Reardon?”

“A drink sounds fine,” he said.

“What’s a good time for you?”

“I’m through here at four,” he said, and looked at the clock.

“Could we make it a little past five?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“I work for Forbes magazine,” she said, “at Fifth and Eleventh. There’s a place called Ringo’s, on Twelfth. Could you meet me there at, say, five-fifteen? It’s just off Sixth.”

“Ringo’s at five-fifteen. I’ll see you there.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, and hung up.

Reardon put the receiver back on the cradle.

“Must be a native New Yorker,” he said. “She called it Sixth.”

“Huh?” Hoffman said. He was reading the story on Jurgens’s arrest

“Instead of Avenue of the Americas.”

“Still claims he had nothing to do with the little dead girl,” Hoffman said. “Came running out of the hallway like a locomotive, but claims he never saw her in his life.” He shrugged. “Maybe he will walk again.”

“We shoulda nailed him on the roof,” Reardon said. “Two in the heart.”

His phone rang again. He picked up.

“Fifth Squad. Reardon.”

“Reardon, this is Weissman at the Two-Four.” a man’s voice said. “I got your flyer on that brown Benz, and I...”

“Yeah?” Reardon said at once.

“Relax, this ain’t a positive make,” Weissman said. “But I been working a murder up here, guy on Central Park West got killed Monday night — about an hour before your guy caught it on Mulberry Street. A brown Benz figures in it. You want to come up here sometime today? We may have something in common.”

Dave Weissman was a Detective Grade/First in his mid-forties, Reardon guessed, a bulky man wearing a sleeveless sweater over a sports shirt. The cops in this city frequently ran into one another, but this was the first time Reardon had ever met Weissman. Slightly balding at the back of his head, wearing eyeglasses, puffing on a cigar, he stood behind the slide projector and said, “This is what the apartment looked like.”

They were sitting in the Interrogation Room of the Twenty-fourth Precinct, uptown on West One Hundredth Street. The projector was set up on a long, scarred, wooden table. Weissman had hung a screen over the oneway mirror on the other side of the room.

“Place was a mess, as you can see.”

The black and white slide showed the living room of an apartment in disarray. Sofa cushions strewn all over the floor. Chairs overturned. Open drawers and doors on the stereo unit and the long buffet. A floor lamp lying on its side.

“Whoever did it was obviously looking for something,” Weissman said, and pressed the remote button he held in his right hand. There was a small click. Another slide came on. Black and white like the one before it.

“This is the bedroom,” Weissman said.

A king-sized bed, a dresser opposite. The bed covers and pillows thrown on the floor. The mattress slashed. Clothing from the dresser drawers spilled onto the floor. Closet door open. Clothes on hangers thrown everywhere.

Another click, another slide.

“This is the victim.”

What looked like a studio-posed photo flashed onto the screen.

“Peter Dodge,” Weissman said. “Thirty-four years old. Single. I can let you have an eight-by-ten glossy of this, if you think you can use it. It’s a recent picture.”

“Yes, I’d like one,” Reardon said.

Another click. The picture of the dark-haired, smiling man on the screen was replaced by a shot of the same man, naked and lying on a blood-spattered, tiled bathroom floor.

“This is the way we found him,” Weissman said. “Starkers, his hands tied behind his back with a wire coat hanger. He was a lawyer. Partner in a small firm called Lewis and Dodge.”

Another click.

“Here’s the wall safe in the bedroom closet. Obviously forced him to open it, but didn’t take any of the contents. We checked with his insurance agent, got a list of all his valuables.”

Click.

“Silverware chest in the dining room. Nothing missing.”

Click.

“This is the library. Some valuable paintings on the wall, all of them still there.”

He snapped off the projector.

“That’s about it.”

He walked to the wall switch. Fluorescent light flooded the room.

“How was he killed?” Reardon asked.

“With a knife. How’d they get your guy?”

“Four slugs from a Swiss pistol. They shot him in the back.”

“Nice people,” Weissman said. “Before they killed my guy, they beat him half to death.”

“How many of them?”

“Three, according to the doorman.”

“And driving a brown Benz?”

“That’s what the man said.” Weissman rolled up the screen. “I’ll tell you, Reardon, this one baffles me. All the signs of a burglary, but nothing stolen. All the signs of a weirdo torture killing, but this guy Dodge was straight as an arrow.” He shook his head. “I hate mysteries, don’t you?”

“What time did the doorman say they went in?”

“Five-thirty, six, in there. What time was yours?”

“Around seven.”

“Plenty of time to get down there, even with the holiday traffic.”

“If it was them.”

“You got anything looks better?”

“Not at the moment.” He stood up, extended his hand. “Thanks. Weissman, I’ll keep in touch.” He looked at the wall clock. “Christ,” he said, “is that the right time?” He checked his own watch. “Mind if I make a call?” he said.

“Be my guest,” Weissman said, and hefted the projector off the table. Reardon followed him into the squadroom. “Any one of those desks,” Weissman said.

Reardon went to the closest desk, lifted the receiver on the phone there, got a dial tone, and dialed Directory Assistance. “In Manhattan,” he said into the phone. “A place called Ringo’s on West Twelfth.” He waited. He jotted a number onto a pad on the desk. “Thank you,” he said, and pressed the cradle button, and then dialed the number the operator had given him.

“Ringo’s,” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, would you know if there’s a Miss Sanderson there?”

“Who?”

“Martha Sanderson. I was supposed to meet her at five-fifteen, would you know if she’s...?”

“It’s already five to six,” the man said.

“I know. Is she still there?”

“Hold on a second, willya?”

He waited.

The man came back onto the line some three minutes later. “If it’s the one I think she was, she left about ten minutes ago.” he said.

“Okay, thanks,” Reardon said, and hung up. “Shit,” he said. He picked up the receiver again, waited for a dial tone, and called Information again. “In Manhattan, please,” he told the operator. “Martha Sanderson.”

“Would you spell the last name, please?” the operator said.

“S-A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. I think.”

“And the address?”

“I don’t have an address.”

“One moment, please.”

He waited.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“That number is out of service at this time.”

“Can you let me have the address there, please?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give customers’ addresses.”

“I know that, but I’m a police officer.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Check it with your supervisor, okay? My name is Bryan Reardon, Detective/Second Grade, Fifth Squad.”

“Well, sir...”

“Please check it, okay?”

“One moment, sir.”

He waited.

“Fuckin’ telephone company,” he said to Weissman.

The operator came back onto the line.

“I can let you have that address, sir,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and moved the pad into place again.

The building on Eighty-fourth Street and First Avenue was a four-story brick tenement flanked on either side by vacant, bulldozed lots. Reardon looked up at it. A dim, flickering light behind one of the third-floor windows. All the other windows black. Puzzled, he climbed the steps to the front door and stepped into the entryway. No lights. He struck a match, held it to the row of mailboxes. Only one mailbox had a nametag on it.

He shook out the match, opened the inner door — no lock on it — and started for the stairwell. Utter blackness. He struck another match, began working his way upstairs. He had burned at least a dozen matches before he reached the third floor. He struck another one, and searched for the apartment. The match went out an instant after he found 3B. He knocked on the door.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

“It’s me. Reardon,” he said.

“Oh.” Surprise in her voice. “Just a second, okay?”

He heard her fumbling with the lock and the night chain. The door opened.

“Hi,” she said. “How’d you find me?”

“I’m a detective,” he said, shrugging.

“Well, come in, okay?”

He stepped into the apartment. A loft-sized room, candles burning — the flickering light he had seen from outside — a cannel coal fire going in the fireplace.

“I waited a half-hour,” she said, “and then figured you’d changed your mind.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to call you there. Here, too. as a matter of fact. The operator told me...”

“Yeah, they cut off my phone. Would you like a drink? I have scotch.” She paused, and then said, “Or would you prefer scotch? Or maybe

scotch?”

“Scotch, thanks.” Reardon said, smiling.

He watched her as she crossed to a table on the other side of the room. She was wearing a dark skirt, a white blouse, high-heeled pumps. He looked around the room. A low sofa. A beanbag chair. Pillows scattered on the floor. Paintings on the walls, barely visible in the candlelight.

“I hope you like it neat,” she said. “And without ice. They turned off the water, too.”

“Who’s they?” Reardon asked.

“The people who own the building. They’re tearing it down, but I refuse to move.” She poured from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. “I’m the last of the Mohicans,” she said. “All the other tenants have already knuckled under.”

“You mean you’re all alone here?”

“And here to stay,” she said, and handed him his glass. She lifted her own glass. “Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers.”

They both drank.

“Have they served eviction papers?” Reardon asked.

“I tore them up. Sit down, okay?”

They moved to the couch.

“If they send a marshal,” she said, “I’ll throw him down the stairs. It’s the principle of the thing. This is my home, you know? They’ve got no right to knock it down for a goddamn condominium. Do you know how much rent I’m paying here?”

“How much?”

“Two hundred a month. On a three-year lease.” She sipped at her scotch. “Hell with them. If they drag me out of here, I’ll camp outside with my furniture. The bulldozers can work around me.”

“Well... good luck,” Reardon said, and drank.

There was a long silence.

“So,” she said.

“So,” he said.

“What do I call you?”

“Bry,” he said. “For Bryan.”

“Good Irish name.”

“And you’re Martha.”

“Martha? Oh dear God, no. That’s what’s on my birth certificate, but I’ve been Sandy ever since the first grade.”

“Sandy then.”

“And Bry.”

There was another long silence.

“So,” she said again.

“So,” he said.

“I would have waited at Ringo’s longer, but I have a standing rule. Half an hour and goodbye.”

“The principle of the thing,” he said, smiling.

“The principle,” she said, returning the smile. “Listen, I feel awful about letting that man loose,” she said suddenly. “It was just... well... I believed what the D.A. was saying about you. We all believed it.”

“It wasn’t true,” Reardon said.

“I know that now. Or at least I think I do. You’re... you don’t seem to be the kind of man who could... well, I suppose that’s wrong, too. I suppose, in your line of work, you’re often forced to act violently. In violent situations, I mean. I mean... shit, forget it. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

“And I’m sorry for the way I behaved. In the corridor, I mean. After

the verdict.”

“Good, so we’re both sorry,” Sandy said, “so that’s that, so what shall I make for dinner?”

“Well, I hadn’t...”

“I thought...”

“Well...”

“Or do you have other plans?”

“No,” he said. “No other plans.”

“Then...”

“Yes, sure.”

“Good. The choice is limited,” she said, “I haven’t got any gas, either. But we’ll figure something out, okay? How does fondue sound?”

“Fine.”

“And I’ve got some white wine chilling on the window sill.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Good,” she said, and rose from the couch. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a wall with a passthrough counter on it. He watched as she held a match to a kerosene lantern and then carried it to the kitchen table. “Candles are romantic as hell,” she said, “but they don’t give much light. Neither does this thing, for that matter. How’d the pioneer ladies manage?” She opened one of the cabinet doors, took out a bowl. “Do you think he’ll go to jail this time?” she asked.

“I hope they throw away the key,” he said. “Can I help you there?”

“No, I’m fine, just relax. More scotch?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Just help yourself, okay?”

“Thanks,” he said, and walked to the table against the living room wall. Pouring, he asked, “What do you do up there at Forbes?”

“I’m a researcher,” she said. “Stepping-stone to bigger and better things. Are you sure fondue’s okay?”

“Sure. Bigger and better like what?”

“Editor-in-chief, of course,” she said, smiling. “I mean, after all, I didn’t major in economics for nothing, did I? At Yale, no less.”

“I’m impressed,” he said, walking over to the passthrough counter, and sitting on a stool there.

“Don’t be,” she said, “it was a lark. Not too many girls there when I was a student, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” She came to the counter, passed a fondue pot over it. “Could you light this thing, please?” she said. “Or maybe you ought to carry it over to the table first. Right in front of the couch there.”

He took the pot, carried it over to the coffee table.

“How long have you been a cop?” she asked.

“Almost sixteen years. Do I just put a match to this?”

“Yeah, the Sterno. Don’t blow yourself up. And before then?”

“I dropped out of C.C.N.Y. when my father died. I was twenty-one, joined the force to support my kid sisters. My mother was already dead. I missed Vietnam because my lottery number was a high one.”

“Lucky you. How old are you, Bry?”

“Thirty-seven. And you?”

“Twenty-eight.” She paused, and then said, “Ever been married?”

“I’m separated,” he said. “You?”

“Twice,” she said, surprising him. “I’ll just make a small salad, okay?” she said. “This lettuce looks a bit wilted. Window boxes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. The first time, when I was sixteen,” she said. “My parents had it annulled. Next time just after I got out of Yale. To the sweetest man in the world, who decided his charms were being wasted on only one woman. I came home one day and found him in bed with two teenage girls and a Labrador retriever.” She looked up from the salad bowl, smiling. “I exaggerate,” she said. “But it was bad enough.”

“When did that one end?”

“Four years ago.”

There was a long silence.

“So,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Let me take in the wine.” she said, and went to the window. “Do you realize that when my grandparents first came here, they didn’t have a refrigerator, either?”

“Ice boxes,” Reardon said, nodding. “My grandmother had an ice box.”

“I almost bought one,” Sandy said. “But who’d deliver ice up to the third floor? Anyway, are there still ice men in this city?”

“I guess, yeah, but... well, I don’t know, actually.”

“It’s nice and cold,” she said, carrying the wine bottle to the passthrough and handing it to him. “If you want to put this on the table, too,” she said, indicating the salad bowl, “I think I can manage the cheese and the bread.” She picked up her tray, carried it around to the kitchen door, came into the living room, and went to the coffee table, where the Sterno can was flaming blue under the fondue pot.

“Good,” she said. “Nice fire.” She looked at him, and smiled suddenly. “This is fun, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

And meant it.