Red Hook Page 8

  “Tell me about it,” Mike agreed.

  The elevator door opened. The metal walls were scarred and dull. The operator was a doleful little man with a pinched, birdlike face. He confronted the waiter.

  “Was that you pressing the goddamn button? Once is enough. You gonna drive me crazy in here.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” the waiter said halfheartedly.

  “This guy’s going up to the Robbins’,” Mike nodded toward the waiter. “And this gentleman”—he nodded toward Jack—“needs to go down to see Mr. Guzman.”

  “I’m running late because of an audition,” the waiter said to Jack, “Would you mind if I go up first?”

  “No problem.” Jack wanted to get a feel for Tomas Berrios’s working life. Another image to add to his mental store: a young man in a little metal cage, riding up and down with no view and no fresh air. A man would have to have precious little ambition to put up with such a dull job. Or he’d be frustrated as hell—which might be what drew Berrios into trouble.

  They rode up in silence. The operator brought the elevator to a smooth stop and the doors opened onto a landing in the gray stairwell. Through a half-open door, Jack could see directly into a large kitchen, which appeared to be empty, save for a cooking smell so good it made his mouth water.

  For all the security at the front of the building, access to the apartments seemed easy once you were in the service area.

  “Hello?” called the waiter as he strolled into the apartment. He moved out of sight as he said, “Sorry I’m late. I had to wait forever for the service elevator.”

  The operator shook his head. “Fuckin’ college kids.” On the way down, he looked quizzically at Jack.

  “He’s a cop,” Mike explained. He turned to Jack. “You here ’cause of Tommy? Man, I can’t believe it. I worked with the guy for years.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  “Me?” Mike sighed. “Far as I can tell, the guy didn’t have an enemy in the world. At least he never said anything would make me think different.” He shook his head. “Jesus, he had a wife, little kids. I’ll tellya, soon as I can get enough savings together I’m getting the hell out of this city.”

  Jack turned to the operator.

  “Tommy was a good kid. I hope you find the bastard that did this and string him up by the balls.”

  In the basement, Jack followed Mike down a fluorescent-lit hallway past a couple of wheeled luggage racks.

  “You can wait in here,” the porter said, gesturing to a tiny office. “I’ll find the boss.”

  Invoices and memos covered the battered metal desk; a bulletin board was thick with union notices and memos from the management company. On a poorly photocopied list of tenants, Jack recognized the name of a movie actor, a state assemblyman, and a TV news anchor. Outside the barred, grimy window, a ramp led up a service alley.

  He wondered if Daskivitch was having any luck finding witnesses. So far the case was going nowhere. Since Tomas Berrios rented his apartment, he had no mortgage. A little computer work revealed two credit cards, but the combined debt came to only $478.07. Berrios didn’t own a car and had no outstanding medical bills. There was no obvious reason why he’d need money.

  After Jack’s conversation with Hector the BigHead, he and Daskivitch had canvassed the neighbors. Tomas was a little loud sometimes when he was out on the stoop with his buddies, but he had never caused any real problems on the block. He came home from work, played with his kids, went to the store for his wife and mother-in-law. Jack called Eddie Reilly, the neighborhood’s Community Patrol officer and a good cop—he didn’t sit in a squad car all day, but actually got out and walked the streets, talked to people on stoops and outside of bodegas. If Berrios had been into any dirty business, Reilly would likely have known, but the CPOP officer had nothing really bad to say.

  Berrios had not been an angel—after all, he did have a sheet—but he didn’t seem to have any major known enemies. Still, someone had been angry enough to beat him around the head and truss him up like an animal. And it was easy enough to pull a trigger, but you had to really want to hurt someone to use a knife.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the super said briskly, dropping a section of heating duct and a tin snips on the desk. A compact man, he dropped into his office chair, then wheeled across the concrete floor to brush his chalky hands together over a wastebasket. His short, curly hair was dusted with the same chalk. His lips were pressed together and he had a tense jaw—a worrier. Dark circles marked his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “How you doing?” Jack said. “I’m Detective Jack Leightner, with the NYPD.” He stood up and leaned across the desk, offering his hand. The super reached out to shake it. As Jack grasped the man’s callused hand, he turned his own hand clockwise. It was a simple interrogator’s test: if Guzman let his hand be easily turned, it indicated he might make a compliant interviewee. If he resisted, he might be difficult. The result was inconclusive.

  “Everybody here feels terrible about what happened to Tommy,” the super said. “We’re taking up a collection from the staff and tenants for his family.” He searched through a stack of papers on top of his desk, and then began opening the drawers. “I’m sorry. It’s very busy. I need to find a purchase order.”

  “What did Tomas do here?” Jack asked.

  The super rummaged. “He was a porter.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “He collects—collected—trash from every landing and put it out back, he helped maintain the building. He lent a hand to the tenants if they wanted something moved or fixed in their apartments. Mostly, he ran the service elevator.”

  “He had access to the apartments?”

  “Access?” The super stopped his search. “Only if someone asked for him.”

  “Someone?”

  “A tenant. Or maybe a housekeeper or maid, if they needed help with something. Listen, no offense, but why do you want to know this? He was killed in Brooklyn, right?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Guzman. We have no idea who did this to Tomas, so we need to talk to everybody who knew him. Is there anybody here he was particularly friendly with?”

  “Friendly? I don’t know what you mean—we’re all friendly on the staff.”

  The super rubbed his nose and Jack wondered if this might be a “tell”—an involuntary sign that the super was hiding something.

  “What about the tenants?”

  Mr. Guzman sat up straight. “We don’t get involved with the tenants, mister. We have our place back here, they’re up there—we don’t get involved in any troubles. Okay?”

  An interview was like a medical checkup: you prodded and poked until you met an odd reaction. Jack had touched a sore spot. He shifted gears. “How does someone get a job here, to be a porter?”

  “We’re careful who we hire, Very careful. If we get someone through an agency, it has to be a bonded agency. If they come through the union, they have to have references, someone to vouch for them.”

  “And Tomas?”

  “He got the job because his uncle worked here for many years. If Ray said somebody was okay, he was okay. With Tomas, I never had a serious problem. He would never do nothing to give his uncle a bad name.”

  “Where I can find this Ray?”

  “You’d need a psychic. He passed away eight months ago.”

  “Of what?”

  “Cancer of the lungs.”

  No foul play there. Jack stood up. “Thanks very much for your time. If you think of anything else, here’s my card. “You can reach me at this number anytime—if I’m not in, they’ll page me. One more thing: I’m going to need a list of all the tenants and staff.”

  The super threw his hands up in the air. “This happened in Brooklyn, mister. In Brooklyn! We have some very important tenants here and the management company won’t want me to give out their names. Why do you need this?”

  Jack sighed. “I can go straight
to the company and get the list, but that would be a waste of my time. One of your employees has been killed—do you understand? That’s important too.”

  To Jack’s astonishment, the super sank back in his chair and began to cry. He waited while the man searched through his desk, found a tissue, and turned away to wipe his eyes. After a moment, Mr. Guzman turned back and wadded up the tissue. He threw it at the wastebasket and both men watched as it hit the rim and fell in.

  “Three points,” Jack said. “Outside shot.”

  “I’m sorry, mister,” the super said. “I’m just trying to do my job. I’m under a lotta pressure here.”

  Running an exclusive building with wealthy, demanding tenants would be tough, Jack thought, but a superintendent subject to crying over the stress wouldn’t last long. “More pressure than usual?”

  Mr. Guzman nodded. “The management company is telling me I have too many people on the staff. They want me to let somebody go. The union says they can help me, but I think in the long run the company is gonna win. I’m trying to deal with this problem, and then this happens with Tomas.” He stood up and pulled the list of tenants off the wall and handed it over. “Take this, mister. Don’t go to the company. I haven’t told them about Tomas—if they find out we got a police investigation here, that’s all I need. I’ll help you with whatever you want.”

  Jack sat down. “Did the employees know that someone was about to be laid off?”

  Mr. Guzman shook his head. “I was waiting to make sure this had to happen—I didn’t tell anybody.”

  Jack pulled out a cigarette. “Let me ask you this: if you had to let someone go, would Tomas have been on your list? Was he a good worker?”

  “He never gave me no troubles. Except for that stupid hair under his lip.”

  “Was that a problem?”

  “I wanted him to shave it. But he did a good job. I can’t say he liked it all the time. Running a service elevator is not a job for a young man. Anyhow, the staff liked him.”

  “How about the tenants?”

  The super rubbed the side of his nose again. “Sure. He was a friendly guy.”

  Mike came through the door. “Mrs. Steinberg says she’s having a problem with the exhaust fan over her stove.”

  “Did you check it out?”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “I said I would, but you know how she is. Said she needs you to do it. Right away.”

  The super turned to Jack. “Are we finished?”

  “I guess so,” Jack said. “For now.”

  ten

  SOMETHING WAS BURNING.

  As Jack stepped through the front door of the house, he smelled smoke. He couldn’t see any, but something was definitely wrong. He hurried up to the first landing, but the smell got weaker. He jogged down the other way, into the basement hall. The smoke was visible there, a pall over the dim bare bulb.

  “Mr. Gardner!”

  “In here,” came a faint reply.

  Jack rushed down the hall and swung open the furnace-room door to find Mr. Gardner dropping a handful of papers into a metal trash can; flames lapped up.

  “What’s the matter?” the old man said, his eyes big through his thick glasses.

  “What’s the matter! Jesus, I thought the whole house was on fire.”

  “I’m just gettin’ rid of some old things.”

  Jack peered into the barrel. He was shocked to discover that the papers were photographs—before his eyes, Mrs. Gardner’s kindly face browned, curled, and flared into ash.

  He remembered the paramedics carrying her out of the house on a stretcher; remembered her husband sitting in the near-empty funeral home chapel, his head sunk onto his chest as if all the air had been let out of him. Jack had been especially depressed to see that all three of the bouquets by the casket were identical, as if bought at the same cheap florist.

  He reached out to stop Mr. Gardner as the man lifted a pile of his late wife’s clothes out of a plastic bag.

  “It’s okay,” Mr. Gardner said, pulling away and dropping the clothes into the flames. “I have a fire extinguisher ready, just in case. I’m sorry about the smoke.”

  Jack pried open a window. Fresh air rushed in, dissipating the bitter fog.

  He turned back to his landlord, who dropped another sheaf of photos in the can. Jack stood and watched, appalled. After a moment, he shook his head, and left the room.

  He went out into the backyard, sat in Mr. Gardner’s ancient lawn chair. Smoke curled out of the basement window, sifted through the magenta rosebushes, wafted like incense up into the early evening sky. Was Mrs. Gardner up there somewhere, a kind angel in an apron and a faded housedress? The image pleased Jack, but he didn’t believe it. The real afterlife was memory, a temporary immortality in the hearts of those left behind.

  He watched the dusk settle down over the trees; let his mind drift. Often he’d look out his kitchen window to see Mr. Gardner sitting in this same spot. Aside from daily shopping expeditions and puttering in his workshop or the yard, the old man didn’t have much to do all day. He rarely read. He sat quietly in the backyard, thinking. Remembering. The yard was conducive to that, a green oasis, its calm disturbed only by the cluttering of birds and an occasional child’s shout or car horn rising over the rooftops.

  Smoke poured out of the basement window. It seemed wrong, but Jack reconsidered. Maybe Mr. Gardner was seeking a sort of release, a freedom from memory. And who was he to judge the man for that?

  eleven

  THE IGLESIA DE DIOS Pentecostal was a long, low bunker, lit by weak fluorescent lights that cast a pallor on the congregation. A preacher in a sherbet-green polyester suit led the funeral service. His voice distorted the little loudspeakers flanking the stage. Mrs. Espinal sat in the front row, holding her grandchildren on her lap while next to her a young woman, presumably Tomas Berrios’s wife, clasped the sides of her head and rocked with grief. The casket, resting on the stage in a cloud of flowers, was closed.

  In the back row, Daskivitch straightened his tie and leaned close to Jack. “Last funeral I went to was for Johnny Briggs, this guy I worked with in Narcotics. He got shot undercover, while he was doing a buy.”

  “Was he wearing a vest?”

  “It wouldn’tve mattered. They shot him in the head.”

  “Eeesh.”

  “I’m glad to be out of Narco,” his partner continued. “But not as glad as my wife. Undercover was a bitch. Half the time you worry you’re gonna get popped by some scuzzball doper. The other half you’re hoping you don’t catch one from some gung-ho off-duty Transit rookie.”

  Everyone around them rose and joined hands. The pastor said something in Spanish and they sang a hymn. Jack—a Jew in church—looked around to see if anyone noticed he wasn’t singing. When the hymn was over, the pastor said something else. The members of the congregation turned to one another, exchanged strong hugs, then rose and began to file up the aisle toward the casket.

  “Where you going?” Daskivitch said as Jack stood up.

  “Just paying my respects.”

  He clasped his hands over his belt and waited as the line plodded forward. He’d seen so many dead people, so many funerals. Cops. Drug lords, innocent bystanders, guilty wife beaters. Abandoned kids, elderly parents, trial witnesses, hit-and-runs. People killed by guns, by baseball bats, by lye, by suffocation, by rat poison, even a World War I bayonet.

  A little butterball of a woman stood in line in front of him. Farther up, he recognized Hector’s big head.

  The woman turned with a friendly gold-capped smile and asked Jack a question. She stopped when she saw his puzzled expression. “Habla español?”

  He raised his hands apologetically. “Un poquito, solamente.”

  The woman shrugged and turned around.

  He was glad the casket was closed. His father had wanted an open casket, Lord knows why. It was against Jewish tradition, but the old man never cared about that. Maybe he wanted to force the world to acknowledge him one last t
ime. When he died of a stroke (due to high blood pressure—which surprised no one), he left only debts. Jack had debts of his own, so the funeral had been arranged on the cheap. The embalmer had done horrible work; the corpse looked like a budget taxidermy job. Sitting in the front row of the funeral parlor, contemplating the walk up to the casket, Jack had expected to be seized by grief or rage, to shout or sob, but when the moment came, he’d felt nothing, been a walking pillar of stone.

  The line shuffled forward. The smell of the garish, waxy flowers assaulted Jack’s nostrils; he breathed shallowly through his mouth. As he approached the casket, he pictured Tomas Berrios lying inside the wooden box in his best Sunday suit, pictured the knife wound in his side and wondered if the funeral director had bothered to cover it up. And suddenly, out of nowhere, water welled up behind his eyelids and started to seep out. He pressed his eyes closed with his fingers, but it didn’t help. He stifled a sob, hoping his partner didn’t notice anything amiss, stepped out of the line and headed for a side door in the chapel.

  Along a dim hallway, he found a bathroom. He went in, locked the door, and sat down on a radiator by the back wall. He blew his nose loudly. What was wrong with him? He prided himself on staying calm in any situation, but he’d lost control twice within just a few days. He took out a cigarette, noting with disgust that his hands shook as he raised the match.

  Maybe he was overworked. Before this Berrios case, he’d worked almost double time for two straight weeks to crack a nasty revenge murder in Bensonhurst. Maybe he just needed a little rest. When was the last time he’d taken a real vacation? He could hardly remember. He took a deep drag from the cigarette; the nicotine soothed him. Yes, he decided, that was it: he just needed some R and R. Even a veteran could get stressed out by too many days in a row on such a job.

  Daskivitch found him outside the chapel, waiting on the sidewalk.

  “Where the hell’d you go?”

  “The smell of those damned crappy flowers was getting to me,” Jack said, scratching the side of his mouth. “I needed some fresh air.”