The Devil Knows You’re Dead

Chapter 9

“I hate to say it,” Joe Durkin said, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I wish you would give the guy his money back.”

“That’s something I never thought I’d hear you say.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s not like me. When a man gets a chance to make an honest dollar, who am I to stand in his way?”

“So what’s the problem?”

He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. He said, “What’s the problem? My friend, you’re the problem.”

We were in the detective squad room on the second floor of the Midtown North station house on Fifty-fourth Street. I’d walked over after breakfast, going a little bit out of my way in order to have another look at the Eleventh Avenue murder site. It was a lot livelier on a Monday morning, with most of the shops and showrooms open for business and more vehicular traffic on the avenue, but it didn’t offer any fresh insights into the last moments of Glenn Holtzmann.

From there I’d gone to Midtown North, where I’d found Joe at his desk. I’d told him how Tom Sadecki had given me a retainer, and now he was telling me to give it back.

“If you were almost anybody else,” he said, “you’d do what almost anybody else would do, which is put in a dozen hours or so and then tell your client what he probably already knows, which is that his nut job of a brother did it. That way your client knows he did all he could, and you earn yourself a decent piece of change without busting your hump to do it.

“But you’re a contrary bastard, and on top of that you’re as stubborn as a fucking mule. Instead of just taking your guy and shining him on, which is all he really wanted in the first place, whether he knows it or not, you’ll have to make sure you give him his money’s worth. And you’ll find a way to convince yourself there’s a possibility the brother didn’t do it, and you’ll put in the hours, and you’ll break everybody’s balls, mine included. By the time you’re done you’ll have so much time invested that you’ll be lucky to clear minimum wage for your troubles, and you’ll have come to the reluctant conclusion that Lonesome George is every bit as guilty as everybody knows he is, but you’ll have done everything in your power to fuck up an open-and-shut case. Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I was just wishing I had a tape of that speech. I could play it for prospective clients.”

He laughed. “You think I went overboard there? Well, it’s a Monday morning. You have to make allowances. Seriously, Matt, just go through the motions on this one, will you? It’s a high-profile case. We solved it fast with some good police work, but the media’s in love with the story. You don’t want to give ’em an excuse to open it up again.”

“What would they find?”

“Nothing. The case is solid. It was a good bust.”

“Were you on the case, Joe?”

“The whole precinct was on it, along with half of Manhattan Homicide. I didn’t have much to do with closing it. Once they picked him up it was closed. He had the brass in his pocket, for Chrissake. The casings. What more do you need?”

“How did you know to pick him up?”

“Information received.”

“Received from whom?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Can’t tell you that.”

“From a snitch?”

“No, from a priest who decided it was time to violate the seal of the confessional. Yes, of course from a snitch. As far as the identity of the snitch is concerned, don’t ask.”

“What did the snitch have to say?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I don’t know why not,” I said. “Was he on the scene? Did he see something, hear something? Or did somebody just pass on a rumor that led you to George?”

“We have an eyewitness,” he said. “How’s that?”

“An eyewitness to the actual shooting?”

He frowned. “I always tell you more than I planned,” he said. “Why do you figure that is?”

“You know it’s the best way to get rid of me. What did your eyewitness see?”

“I already said too much, Matt. There’s a witness and there’s hard physical evidence and there’s the next best thing to a confession. Sadecki says he figures he probably did it. The case is so solid even the perp’s convinced.”

It had me convinced, too, but I had a fee to earn. “Suppose what the witness saw was the aftermath,” I said. “George bending over the body, picking up the shells.”

“After somebody else shot him.”

“It’s possible.”

“Oh, sure, Matt. Somebody fired from the grassy knoll. You ask me, the CIA was in on it.”

“Holtzmann could have been mugged,” I said. “It’s not exactly unheard-of in that neighborhood. He could have been shot resisting a robbery attempt.”

“No evidence of it. He had a wallet on his hip with over three hundred dollars in it.”

“The mugger panicked after the shooting.”

“Funny way to panic. First he fires a very deliberate fourth shot into the back of the neck, then he panics.”

“Who else was on the scene? Who else did the witness get a look at?”

“He saw George. That was enough.”

“What was Holtzmann doing there? Did anybody bother to check that out?”

“He went for a walk. It’s not like commercial aviation, you don’t have to file a flight plan first. He was restless and he went for a walk.”

“And he stopped to make a phone call? What was the matter with the phone in his apartment?”

“Maybe he was trying to call his apartment, tell his wife when he’d be home.”

“How come he didn’t reach her?”

“Maybe the line was busy. Maybe he had the number half-dialed when Boy George shot him. Who the hell knows, and what the hell difference does it make? God damn it, you’re doing just what I knew you would do, you’re trying to pick holes in a perfectly solid case.”

“If it’s really solid I won’t be able to, will I?”

“No, but you’ll make a real pain in the ass of yourself in the meantime.”

I’m the one fly in the ointment, Tom Sadecki had said. I’m the pain in everybody’s ass.

I said, “What do you know about Holtzmann, Joe?”

“I don’t have to know anything about him. He’s the victim.”

“That’s where a homicide investigation starts, isn’t it? With the victim?”

“Not when you can cut to the chase. When you’ve already got the killer in custody, you don’t have to turn the victim inside out. Why the thoughtful expression?”

“You know what’s wrong with the case, Joe?”

“The only thing wrong with it is you’re taking an interest. Aside from that it’s perfect.”

“What’s wrong with it,” I said, “is you solved it too fast. There are a lot of things you would have learned — about Holtzmann, about other people in the area — but you never had to pursue them because why bother? You already had the killer in custody.”

“You think we’ve got the wrong man?”

“No,” I said. “I think you’ve got the right man.”

“You think the police work was slipshod? You think we missed something?”

“No, I think the police work was excellent. But I think there are some avenues you haven’t needed to explore.”

“And you figure you’ll take a little walk down them.”

“Well, I took the man’s money,” I said. “I have to do something.”

The Donnell branch library is on Fifty-third off Fifth. I spent a couple of hours in the second-floor reading room going through all the local papers for the past ten days. Once I got past the hard news, most of which was already familiar to me, the bulk of the stories turned out to be non-stories, pieces about homelessness, about neighborhood gentrification, about crime in the streets. There were interviews with people who’d lived for years in the area’s tenements and apartment houses, with others who’d recently moved into Holtzmann’s high-rise, and with a few who lived on the street. Every columnist with an ax to grind found a way to hone it here. Some of it made interesting reading, but it didn’t tell me much I hadn’t already known.

There was one essay I particularly liked, a Times Op-Ed piece by an advertising copywriter who was identified as residing within two blocks of the Holtzmann apartment building. He had been unemployed since late May, and he explained how his economic circumstances altered his perspective.

“With every passing day,” he wrote, “I identify a little less strongly with Glenn Holtzmann, a little more closely with George Sadecki. When the news first broke, I was shocked and horrified. That could have been me on the sidewalk, I told myself. A man just past entering the prime of life, a professional man with a bright future, living in Clinton, the most exciting area of the most stimulating city in the world.

“And as the hours and days slip by,” he went on, “it is a subtly different mirror in which I see myself. That could be me on Rikers Island, I find myself thinking. A man on the verge of middle age, an unemployed idler in a dwindling job market, drifting through the days in Hell’s Kitchen, the most unsettling area in the most desperate city on God’s earth. I still ache for the man who was killed, but I ache too for the man who killed him. I could have found myself in either man’s shoes, in Glenn Holtzmann’s well-polished wing tips or in George Sadecki’s thrift-shop sneakers.”

I walked back to my hotel, pausing along the way for a hot dog and a papaya drink. I checked at the desk for messages but nobody had called. I picked up a container of coffee at the deli next door and carried it across the street to the little park adjacent to the Parc Vendôme. I found a place to sit and took the lid off my coffee, but it was too hot to drink. I set it down alongside me on the bench and got out my notebook.

I jotted things down, thinking on paper, beginning with the assumption that George Sadecki was innocent. Trying to prove it was a waste of time; what I had to do was find someone else who could have done it. Someone with a reason to kill Glenn Holtzmann, or someone who might have done so with no more reason than George had.

Glenn Holtzmann. From where I sat I could see the top floors of his apartment building. If I turned around I could see the table at the Morning Star where we’d had our last conversation. Lisa had lost the baby, he’d told me. I had felt for him that afternoon, but still had remained disinclined to get close to him. I’d felt distanced from him, and was happy to keep him at a distance. I hadn’t wanted to get to know him.

Now it looked as though I had to. A homicide investigation, I’d reminded Joe, properly starts with the victim. To find a killer you look for someone with a reason to kill. To learn the reason you first learn who the victim is.

If someone had a reason.

But maybe he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could have been the victim of a failed robbery attempt. Joe had made it sound unlikely, ridiculing the notion of a holdup man who would take the time for a coup de grâce, then dash off without retrieving the money. What he’d said made sense, but that’s more than most criminals do. They’re disorganized. They act impulsively, operate irrationally, and change course abruptly. A relative handful are stable and well organized, but the great majority do something stupid every time they leave the house.

Not that a would-be mugger was the only sort of person who might have killed Holtzmann for no good reason. He could simply have spoken out of turn in a city where altogether too many people walk about armed. Any kind of argument — over the use of a public telephone, for example — had the potential to turn violent.

Or he could have been killed by mistake. That had happened a few years back at a restaurant in Murray Hill. Four men, three of them furriers and the fourth their accountant, had just taken a table and ordered a round of drinks. Two men came in the door and one took out an automatic weapon and sprayed the furriers’ table, killing the four men and wounding a woman at the table next to theirs.

It was a very obvious mob hit, and for a week or two investigators probed for mob infiltration of the fur industry, or evidence linking any of the dead men with one of the five crime families. As it turned out, none of them had ever come any closer to organized crime than buying a candy bar from a vending machine. The intended target had been four other men, principals in a mobbed-up construction firm in Jersey City, who had been sitting on the other side of the restaurant when the hit occurred. The shooter, it turned out, was dyslexic, and had turned left when he should have turned right. (A DEADLY MISKATE was the Post’s headline.)

Well, these things happen. Everybody makes miskates.

So there were two ways to approach it. I could look to the victim or at the event itself. I was about ready to flip a coin when I saw a familiar face no more than twenty yards away. Hair like white Brillo, high cheekbones, a narrow nose, hornrimmed glasses, skin the color of my coffee. It was Barry, George Sadecki’s friend, and he was sitting on an upturned milk crate, with a three-foot concrete cube serving him for a table. He had a chessboard set up on it and he was smoking a cigarette and studying the pieces on the board.

I walked over and greeted him by name and he looked up at me, his mouth smiling easily even as his eyes labored to place me. “I know you,” he said. “Your name’ll come to me.”

“It’s Matt,” I said.

“See? Came to me by special delivery. Sit down, Matt. You play chess?”

“I know how the pieces move.”

“Then you know the game. That’s all it is, you just move the pieces till somebody wins.” He snatched up a pawn in each hand, held his hands behind his back, then presented me with both fists. I tapped one and he opened it to disclose a white pawn.

“See?” he said. “You’re a winner already, you get to make the first move. Set ’em up and we’ll play. No stakes, just to pass the time.”

There was another plastic milk crate on the opposite side of the table from him. I perched on it and set up my men, studied them, then advanced the king’s pawn two spaces. He answered in kind and we both made a few unsurprising opening moves. When I brought out my bishop to menace his knight he said, “Ah, the old Ruy Lopez.”

“If you say so,” I said. “Someone tried to teach me the names of the standard openings once, but it didn’t stick. I’m afraid I’ve got no head for the game.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Way you keep badmouthing yourself, seems like you’re trying to hustle me.”

“Dream on,” I said.

At first we both made our moves rapidly, but as the game developed I found it harder to come up with something and began spending more time studying the board. Ten or a dozen moves into the game we exchanged knights, and somehow I wound up a pawn down. A little further along he forced an exchange of his remaining knight for one of my rooks. With each move he was mobilizing his forces for an attack, and all I could do was await it. My position felt cramped, awkward, indefensible.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to find a move that did me some good. “I suppose I could resign.”

“You could,” he agreed.

I extended a forefinger and toppled my king. He looked sad, lying there on his side.

Barry said, “We wasn’t playin’ for stakes, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t duck across the street for a quart of Eight Hundred.”

“I’m not drinking these days, Barry.”

“Think I don’t know that, man? But when did you hear me say anything about drinking? Drinking’s one thing. Buying’s another.”

“That’s a point.”

“Basement of St. Paul’s,” he said. “That’s where I know you from, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t hardly get there. Used to come around for the coffee, and just to sit with folks. Drinking’s no problem for me.”

“You’re fortunate.”

“Long as I stay with the beer I seem to be all right. Was a time it was tending to make me sick.” He laid a hand on his right side, just beneath the rib cage. “Was hurting me some right about here.”

“The liver,” I said.

“I guess. What I think it was, I think it was the Night Train. That sweet wine’s a killer. But the beer, she seems to agree with me.” He grinned, showing a little gold at the corners of his smile. “For now, anyway. Beer’ll pro’ly kill me herself someday, but a man has got to die of something. Live long enough, sooner or later you die of too much living. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Isn’t that what they say?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And what do you say, then? You want to spring for a quart of OE and we’ll play another game?”

I found a five and gave it to him. He touched his index finger to his eyebrow in a mock salute and headed for the Korean grocery across the street. I watched him move in a loose-limbed, effortless gait, his long arms swinging easily at his sides. He was wearing a navy pea jacket and faded jeans and high-top sneakers, and he had to be sixty years old at a minimum, and he loped across Ninth Avenue like a man who had it all together.

I caught myself thinking that maybe Barry had the right idea. Stick to beer and ale, go to an occasional meeting for the coffee and the company, work on your chess game, and hustle a buck now and then when you get thirsty.

Yeah, right. And get through life sitting on milk crates. And what kind of shape was I in, pray tell, if Barry was starting to look like a role model? I had to laugh at myself, recognizing the thought for what it was, just one more note in the siren’s song of the booze. Its lure was endless, and infinitely resourceful, and whatever street you walked down it would be waiting around the next corner, ready to pop out and take you by surprise. You could make a million dollars and win two Nobel prizes and the Miss Congeniality award, and next thing you knew you’d walk past a Blarney Stone and find yourself wondering if the stew bums in the back booth knew something you didn’t. Because they got to drink and you didn’t, so how wrong could they be?

Barry came back with a quart of Olde English 800 in a paper bag. He twisted off the cap and drank without removing the bottle from the bag. He said I could have the black pieces this time or I could stay with white, whichever I’d rather. I said I figured that was enough chess for one day.

“Guess you don’t have a real feel for the game,” he said. “You’d think you would, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, the figuring-out aspect of it. Must be a lot like police work, scoping out the moves, calculating you’ll do this if I do that. You was a cop, right?”

“You have a good memory.”

“Well, the both of us has been around the neighborhood enough years now. Be a surprise if we didn’t reckanize each other. Guess I’d figure you for a cop anyway, on the basis of how you present and represent. This be about George?”

I nodded. “I saw you on television,” I said.

“Man,” he said, “is there anybody in this city didn’t see me on television?” He sighed and shook his head, treated himself to another long pull on the Olde English bottle. “How many channels now? Sixty, seventy if you got cable? Must be everybody watches Channel Seven, because everybody seen Barry on television. Everybody but me. I swear I must be the only person in New York didn’t see the damn program.”

We talked some about George, and I sensed I was getting what everyone got who mentioned having seen the TV spot, a sort of reprise of The George Sadecki I Knew. I steered him to Holtzmann and asked him what he knew about the man who got shot.

“You live here,” I said. “You keep your eyes open. You must have seen Glenn Holtzmann around the neighborhood.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Don’t recall him if I did. I seen his picture in the paper and didn’t reckanize him. Terrible thing, wasn’t it? Bright young man, whole life ahead of him.”

“What are they saying about him on the street?”

“Like I just said. Saying what a fine young man he was and what a bad thing happened. What else they gone say?”

“That would depend on what they knew.”

“Man, how would they know him? He didn’t live here.”

“Of course he did,” I said. “You can see his building from here.”

He made a show of following my finger as I pointed at the top floors of Holtzmann’s apartment building. “Right,” he said. “That’s where he lived, up on the fortieth floor.”

The twenty-eighth, I thought.

“That’s another country up there,” he said. “Man commuted from the fortieth floor over there to some other fortieth floor where his office is at. Where you and me are is the street. Man like that, the street’s just a place he’s got to pass through twice a day, getting from one fortieth floor to another.”

“He was on the street a week ago Thursday.”

“To get some air, so they say.”

“Meaning?”

“Oh, I ain’t signifying. Just seems to me there ought to be plenty of air up on the fortieth floor. Got nothing but air up there, wouldn’t you say?”

“So what was he doing on the street?”

“Could be Fate. You believe in Fate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Man’s got to believe in something,” Barry said. “What I believe, I believe I’ll have another drink.” He did, and all but smacked his lips. He said, “I’m hip that you don’t drink, but are you sure you won’t have a little taste?”

“Not today. What was there besides Fate and fresh air that could have brought Holtzmann to Eleventh Avenue?”

“Told you I didn’t know the man.”

“I figured you might know the street.”

“ ‘Leventh Avenue? I know where it’s at.”

“Did you ever go over to George’s room?”

“Didn’t even know he had one until just this past week. Knew there was some place he kep’ his stuff but didn’t know where. Far as Eleventh Avenue’s concerned, nothing much to draw me there.”

“You didn’t have to take your car in for a brake job?”

He laughed richly. “No, the brakes is just fine. Maybe I take a run over there, let ’em rotate the tires.” He had another pull of Olde English, and this time he drew the bottle halfway out of the bag and squinted at the label over the tops of his glasses.

“See,” he said, “beer and malt liquor’s just about the right speed for me. Wine an’ whiskey’s bad for me. Was a time they treated me decent, but those days is gone.”

“So you said.”

“ ’Course I’ll smoke a little herb once in a while if it happens to come my way, but I won’t go looking for it. Man passes you a jay, offers you a taste, you want to be sociable, you follow me?”

“Sure.”

“An’ the last time they had me over to Roosevelt they cut me open an’ gave me this Percodan after they sewed me up. One every four hours, and I swear they was nicer than the pain was bad. They gave me some to take with me when they discharged me, but they run out pretty soon, and they wouldn’t refill the scrip. I went over to DeWitt Clinton Park and bought six pills off a skinny white boy with those mirror sunglasses, and they looked same as the ones they gave me at Roosevelt, same color, same markings on ’em, but they just didn’t do me the same kind of good. Maybe there’s such a thing as drug-company seconds, ones that don’t measure up an’ they sell ’em out the back door. What do you think?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“So I don’t get over to Eleventh Avenue much,” he said. “They ain’t got nothing I need.”

His Percodan story had put me in mind of Jan’s decision to pass up painkillers rather than compromise her sobriety. My mind tracked that thought and I almost missed the implications of what Barry was saying.

Then my brain geared down and I said, “DeWitt Clinton Park. There’s a little park a block or two below the corner where Holtzmann was shot. The west side of Eleventh. Is that the park you’re talking about?”

“Uh-huh. Clinton Park. You ever go there, don’t buy nothing off a white boy with mirror shades. Be wasting your money.”

“That’s a little out of my range,” I said. “I didn’t even know the name of the park. They sell a lot of drugs there?”

“Sell a lot of shit,” Barry said. “Pill’d have to do more’n that for me before I’d call it a drug. There’s always dealers there, if that’s your question. This here’s about the only park I know that don’t have dealers in it, and that’s on account of how small it is. No grass, no trees, just slabs for benches and tables. Call it a park, but it’s just a wide part of the sidewalk. A genuine park, you sure to have drug dealers.”

“They can’t get much business over there.”

“You selling what the people want, they come an’ find you.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“An’ at night you get the girls. You know the girls I mean. They just hang around in case somebody in a car or a truck calls them over to ask directions.”

“That’s further downtown, isn’t it? It used to be just north of the Lincoln Tunnel that the girls would work the traffic.”

“Don’t know about that,” he said. “Girls I know about is right here on Eleventh Avenue, strutting their stuff in the blond wigs and the hot pants. ’cept they ain’t girls, if you take my meaning.”

“You mean they’re transsexuals.”

“Transvestites, transsexuals. There’s a difference, but I disremember which is which. Boys looking to be girls, and I must say there’s some of ’em look mighty fine. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I’m too old for that,” I said.

He cackled happily. “You younger’n I am, and I ain’t too old for it. The girls on Eleventh Avenue, though, they got an eye for the dollar. An’ a lot of ’em sick nowadays, you go with ’em and you catch your death. No, when I get the old feeling, I’m better off with my schoolteacher.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lady I know, lives up near Lincoln Center. Teaches the fourth grade up in Washington Heights. Likes that white wine, whatchacall Chardonnay. I believe that’s how you say it. Always has beer in the icebox for me, though. And I can always have a hot bath there, and while I’m soaking in the tub she’ll be down in the basement running my clothes through the washing machine. I can stay there on a cold night, an’ she’ll cook me breakfast in the morning, if she don’t have too bad of a wine hangover.” He uncapped the OE bottle and looked down into it. “She’ll gen’ly come up with five or ten dollars, too, but I don’t like to take money from her.” He looked at me. “But sometimes I do,” he said.