Lawrence Block - A Stab in the Dark

"I remember. She was some woman from New Jersey, married to a doctor, wasn't she?"

"That's right."

"I got a rule-of-thumb. When a doctor's wife gets killed, he did it. I don't give a shit about the evidence. The doc always did it. I don't remember whether this one got off or not."

"Neither do I."

"I take your point, though. The M.E.'s report isn't something you want to run to the bank with. But how good is a witness to something that happened nine years ago?"

"Not too good. Still—"

"I'll see what I can see."

He was gone a little longer this time, and he had a funny expression on his face when he returned. "Bad luck case," he said. "Allgood's dead, too. And the patrolman, Havermeyer, he left the department."

"How did Allgood die?"

"Heart attack, about a year ago. He got transferred out a couple of years back. He was working out of Centre Street headquarters. Collapsed at his desk one day and died. One of the guys in the file room knew him from when he worked here and happened to know how he died. Havermeyer could be dead, too, for all I know."

"What happened to him?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? He put in his papers just a few months after the Icepick thing. Cited unspecified personal reasons for returning to civilian life. He'd only been in for two, three years. You know what the drop-out rate's like for the new ones. Hell, you're a drop-out yourself. Personal reasons, right?"

"Something like that."

"I dug up an address and a number. He probably moved six times between then and now. If he didn't leave a trail, you can always try downtown. He wasn't here long enough to have any pension rights but they usually keep track of ex-cops."

"Maybe he's still in the same place."

"Could be. My grandmother's still living in three little rooms on Elizabeth Street, same apartment she's been in since she got off the boat from Palermo. Some people stay put. Others change their houses like they change their socks. Maybe you'll get lucky. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Where's Haring Street?"

"The murder scene?" He laughed. "Jesus, you're a bloodhound," he said. "Want to get the scent, huh?"

He told me how to walk there. He'd given me a fair amount of his time but he didn't want any money for it. I sensed that he probably didn't-some do and some don't-but I made the offer. "You could probably use a new hat," I said, and he came back with a tight grin and assured me that he had a whole closetful of hats. "And I hardly ever wear a hat these days," he said. I'd been offering him twenty-five dollars, cheap enough for the effort he'd expended. "It's a slow day at a quiet precinct," he said, "and how much mileage can you get out of what I just gave you? You got anybody in mind for that Boerum Hill killing?"

"Not really."

"Like hunting a black cat in a coal mine," he said. "Do me one favor? Let me know how it comes out. If it comes out."

I followed his directions to Haring Street. I don't suppose the neighborhood had changed much in nine years. The houses were well kept up and there were kids all over the place. There were cars parked at the curb, cars in most of the driveways. It occurred to me that there were probably a dozen people on the block who remembered Susan Potowski, and for all I knew her estranged husband had moved back into the house after the murder and lived there now with his children. They'd be older now, seventeen and nineteen.

She must have been young when she had the first one. Nineteen herself. Early marriage and early childbirth wouldn't have been uncommon in that neighborhood.

He probably moved away, I decided. Assuming he came back for the kids, he wouldn't make them go on living in the house where they found their mother dead on the kitchen floor. Would he?

I didn't ring that doorbell, or any other doorbells. I wasn't investigating Susan Potowski's murder and I didn't have to sift her ashes. I took a last look at the house she'd died in, then turned and walked away.

The address I had for Burton Havermeyer was 212 St. Marks Place. The East Village wasn't that likely a place for a cop to live, and it didn't seem terribly likely that he'd still be there nine years later, on or off the force. I called the number Antonelli had given me from a drugstore phone booth on Ocean Avenue.

A woman answered. I asked if I could speak to Mr. Havermeyer. There was a pause. "Mr. Havermeyer doesn't live here."

I started to apologize for having the wrong number but she wasn't through. "I don't know where Mr. Havermeyer can be reached," she said.

"Is this Mrs. Havermeyer?"

"Yes."

I said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Havermeyer. A detective at the Sixty-first Precinct where your husband used to work supplied this number. I'm trying to—"

"My former husband."

There was a toneless quality to her speech, as if she was deliberately detaching herself from the words she was speaking. I had noted a similar characteristic in the speech of recovered mental patients.

"I'm trying to reach him in connection with a police matter," I said.

"He hasn't been a policeman in years."

"I realize that. Do you happen to know how I can get hold of him?"

"No."

"I gather you don't see him often, Mrs. Havermeyer, but would you have any idea—"

"I never see him."

"I see."

"Oh, do you? I never see my former husband. I get a check once a month. It's sent directly to my bank and deposited to my account. I don't see my husband and I don't see the check. Do you see? Do you?"

The words might have been delivered with passion. But the voice remained flat and uninvolved.

I didn't say anything.

"He's in Manhattan," she said. "Perhaps he has a phone, and perhaps it's in the book. You could look it up. I know you'll excuse me if I don't offer to look it up for you."

"Certainly."

"I'm sure it's important," she said. "Police business always is, isn't it?"

There was no Manhattan telephone book at the drugstore so I let the Information operator look for me. She found a Burton Havermeyer on West 103rd Street. I dialed the number and no one answered.

The drugstore had a lunch counter. I sat on a stool and ate a grilled cheese sandwich and a too-sweet piece of cherry pie and drank two cups of black coffee. The coffee wasn't bad, but it couldn't compare with the stuff Jan had brewed in her Chemex filter pot.

I thought about her. Then I went to the phone again and almost dialed her number, but tried Havermeyer again instead. This time he answered.

I said, "Burton Havermeyer? My name's Matthew Scudder. I wondered if I could come around and see you this afternoon."

"What about?"

"It's a police matter. Some questions I'd like to ask you. I won't take up much of your time."

"You're a police officer?"

Hell. "I used to be one."

"So did I. Could you tell me what you want with me, Mr. — ?"

"Scudder," I supplied. "It's ancient history, actually. I'm a detective now and I'm working on a case you were involved with when you were with the Six-One."

"That was years ago."

"I know."

"Can't we do this over the phone? I can't imagine what information I could possibly have that would be useful to you. I was a beat patrolman, I didn't work on cases. I—"

"I'd like to drop by if it's all right."

"Well, I—"

"I won't take up much of your time."

There was a pause. "It's my day off," he said, in what was not quite a whine. "I just figured to sit around, have a couple of beers, watch a ball game."

"We can talk during the commercials."

He laughed. "Okay, you win. You know the address? The name's on the bell. When should I expect you?"

"An hour, hour and a half."

"Good enough."

The Upper West Side is another neighborhood on the upswing, but the local renaissance hasn't crossed Ninety-sixth Street yet. Havermeyer lived on 103rd between Columbus and Amsterdam in one of the rundown brownstones that lined both sides of the street. The neighborhood was mostly Spanish. There were a lot of people sitting on the stoops, listening to enormous portable radios and drinking Miller High Life out of brown paper bags. Every third woman was pregnant.