Blood Innocents

8

Later in the morning Reardon joined Mathesson in a canvass of the building in which Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky had been murdered. It was a five-floor walk-up and the two women had lived on the third floor. It had no doorman. Mathesson took the two floors above the third floor; Reardon took the two below it, beginning on the first floor.

There were two apartments on each landing. Reardon knocked several times at one apartment, but there was no answer. He walked across the hall to the other apartment and knocked on the door there. He waited a moment, then knocked again. After another pause the door opened slightly.

“Yes?” a voice inquired.

Reardon could see half a face peering between the two separate lengths of chain that held the door secure. “My name is Reardon,” he said, “New York City Police. I’d like to talk with you a minute.” He took out his shield and presented it.

“Oh, fine,” the voice said with obvious relief.

Reardon watched as the chains were undone and the door swung open to allow him in.

The man inside was short and very fat. His head was completely bald, but his face was covered with a massive black beard. Still, Reardon thought, it was an expressive face, mobile, the eyes darting about constantly like two blue marbles on a roulette wheel.

The man thrust out his hand. “My name is John Levinson,” he said. He smiled broadly. “Always happy to help the police. Never know when you might need a cop, you know.”

Reardon shook the outstretched hand. “John Reardon,” he said quietly. Such overt friendliness turned Reardon toward a shy, withdrawn self-consciousness.

“Have a seat,” Levinson said, pointing to a wicker chair. “Right there’s fine.”

Reardon sat down. “Thanks.”

Levinson sat down on a small sofa opposite Reardon and folded his arms across his chest. He looked, to Reardon, like one of those big-bellied Buddhas he had seen displayed in Village novelty shops.

“What can I do for you?” Levinson asked.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but we had two murders in this building last night.”

Levinson covered his mouth with his hand. “My God!” he muttered through his fingers. “Who?”

“Two women on the third floor named Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky. Did you know them?”

Levinson shook his head. “No. How were they killed?”

“I can’t go into the details,” Reardon replied.

Levinson nodded. “Brutal?”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“Hm,” Levinson said. “Career girls probably, right?”

“They had jobs,” Reardon said, growing uncomfortable with the style of Levinson’s interest.

Levinson suddenly shot out of his chair and went to a bookcase. His eyes moved across one of the shelves until he found what he was looking for. He took a paperback book from the shelf and looked at the cover. “Five hundred thousand copies sold,” he muttered to himself. Then he returned the book to the shelf and sat back down across from Reardon. “That’s really something,” he said, staring at Reardon. “Two white career girls brutally murdered in an exclusive Village brownstone.” He stroked his beard again. “Yeah, that could be something. There could be a book in there. That could really be something. Did you say they lived on the third floor?”

“Yeah.”

Levinson slapped his thigh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said enthusiastically. “Now that you mention it. Two girls on the third floor. I used to see them getting their mail out there in the foyer. Yeah, I used to see them. They were both lookers. Good lookers. Probably photographed well.”

“When was the last time you saw them?” Reardon asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Levinson said casually. “Several days ago, I guess.”

“Did you ever see them with anybody else?”

“No. No. I don’t think so.”

Reardon stood up. “I guess that’s it, then.”

Levinson jumped to his feet. “Just a second, Mr. Reardon,” he said, his eyes darting about the apartment. “How about a drink? I got some high-class stuff.”

“No, thanks.” Reardon said, starting toward the door.

Levinson grabbed Reardon’s arm. “Uh, wait a minute. I, uh, I might have a proposition to make to you.”

Reardon stopped and Levinson released Reardon’s arm. “Look,” he said nervously, “I’m a writer. You know? Free-lance. This sounds to me like it could be a real story. A big story. Maybe we could work together on it.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Reardon replied coolly.

“I know, I know, but these things make a good read. There’s a big audience for this sort of thing.”

“I’m a homicide detective,” Reardon said. He could not think of any other reply.

“Yeah,” Levinson said enthusiastically, “that’s great! You got all the dope! You got the inside track! You’ve seen the bodies, that sort of thing! You got access to pictures!”

Reardon could feel the heat rising in his face. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.

Levinson stepped back. “So who are you, Rockefeller?” he snapped.

Reardon opened the door of the apartment and stepped into the hall.

“You think that’s the end of it, don’t you?” Levinson shouted after him.

Reardon did not respond. He proceeded down the hallway toward the stairs.

“Well, it’s not. It’s not the end of it,” Levinson called. “I’ll get it from somebody else. You think you’re the only flatfoot in this fucking shit-hole town?”

Reardon did not turn around. He started up the stairs to the second floor.

On the second floor Reardon found one empty, unrented apartment and one witness.

The witness was a small-framed middle aged woman with thick tortoise-shell glasses. As she opened the door to let him enter, Reardon noticed that she wore a flimsy nightgown that was almost transparent.

The living room was painted bright red with yellow trim. B-movie posters were plastered to the walls in various places, and a picture of Florenz Ziegfeld was illuminated by a fluorescent bulb.

“My mother’s,” the woman explained. “She always claimed to be his mistress.” She stared at the picture contemptuously. “She was full of crap. To the day she died, just full of crap.” She turned to Reardon and smiled. “Sit down,” she said. “Rest your feet.”

Reardon sat down. The woman slid into the chair opposite him with an exaggerated gesture of grace.

“I’m Mrs. Marjorie Malloy, but you can call me Meg.”

“How long have you lived in this apartment, Mrs. Malloy?” Reardon asked.

“Longer than it takes to spit, by God,” she replied with a grin. “Thirty-two years.”

“You know there was a double murder in this building last night?”

“I figured something like that. Place was blue as a strangled nun with all you cops this morning.”

Reardon shook his head to dissolve the repellent image. “The victims were the two women who live upstairs. Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky. Did you know them?”

“Just to say hi in the hall.”

“When did you see them last?”

“This morning, about three A.M. That was funny, too,” Mrs. Malloy added. “They usually kept regular hours.” She smiled. “They was lezzies, you know.”

“The two women?”

“Yep.” Mrs. Malloy looked at Reardon suggestively. “I’m a man’s woman, myself.”

“Did you stay home the rest of the night?”

“Naw, I went right back out again. Like I said, I’m a man’s woman. I met this guy in the bar, Donahue’s down the street, and we got to talking and he invited me over to his house, you know? So I told him okay, but I needed to get some things from my place. So he wanted to come with me, but I says, ‘Hell, no,’ I says, ‘I live in a high-class building, so I have to keep a low profile,’ you know?”

Reardon nodded.

“These assholes in this building will complain about anything, so you have to watch yourself. I been a widow for longer than I can remember. No children. I can have my fun, but I keep it private.”

“When you saw them this morning, were they alone?”

“No, they had somebody with them.”

“Can you describe that person?”

“Kind of tall. About six feet, I guess. But if she was a he, then he was kind of average size, I guess.” She hesitated. “You see, they all had their backs to me. The other one was walking in between Karen and Lee, and they were all wearing jeans and shirts and that person had long black hair. So I couldn’t tell if it was male or female.”

Reardon stared down at his pen as it scratched across his notebook.

“You’ve got a sensitive look,” Mrs. Malloy said.

Reardon did not look up.

“Sensitive eyes. Sensitive hands and face. What else is sensitive?”

Reardon looked up. He repeated his previous question. “Did you know either Miss McDonald or Miss Ortovsky very well?”

“Not very. They was lezzies, and I’m not. I stay the hell away from that sort.”

“How did you know that?” Reardon asked.

Mrs. Malloy laughed. “I could hear them going at each other at night. Moaning and groaning, you know. Sometimes I’d see them bring a man up to their rooms. But that didn’t mean nothing. In just a little while I could hear them going at each other again.” She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t give a damn. Kicks is kicks, but I get my kicks from a man.”

Reardon stood up. “I guess that’s it for now.”

Mrs. Malloy walked him to the door and opened it. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said softly, “I’m sorry about those girls.”

“I know,” Reardon replied.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I sometimes embarrass people.” She paused a moment, glanced down at her feet, then up to Reardon’s face. “I sometimes embarrass myself,” she added wearily.

Reardon put out his hand and Mrs. Malloy took it in hers.

“Thank you for coming forward, Mrs. Malloy.”

She smiled faintly, sadly, “It’s my duty, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Reardon said.

Reardon spent the rest of the day in the Buildings Department. He hoped that Petrakis’ former landlord might know where he had moved, but the apartment house from which he had been evicted was owned by the Upward Real Estate Company, which was, in turn, owned by the Amalgamated Owners Cooperative. Methodically Reardon pursued this corporation, only to discover that it was held by yet another: the East Coast Realty Investors Company. East Coast was a subsidiary of an even larger real estate corporation called the New York Investment Enterprise, Inc.

And for all intents and purposes, New York Investment was owned and controlled by a single individual: Wallace Van Allen.