Michael Collins - Act of Fear

It was a simple guess. Gazzo is Homicide. He was interested in a boy who was on Water Street on Thursday and gone on Friday.

‘Thursday afternoon,’ Gazzo said. He went on reading his file. ‘Lived alone in a four-room luxury apartment in a non-doorman building on Doyle Street. Self-service elevator. Body found Friday morning by maid who comes in twice a week. Death from single gunshot wound in the head, close range. Gun was a. 38 calibre, probably a small belt gun according to ballistics. The place had been cleaned out. A lot of jewellery was gone. Worth maybe fifteen thousand dollars appraised value. There was an insurance list of the jewellery. Her boyfriend also confirmed what was gone and that nothing else had been touched.’

The captain watched me the whole time he read. I could not figure why. Unless he thought I knew more than I did. What could I know? All right, I got the picture now: Doyle Street was the next block to Water Street. But, as I said before, we get fifty violent crimes a day on the West Side, and a robbery killing doesn’t rate more than a couple of inches in most papers except the Daily News. I don’t read the News. I read the crime news in the better papers, sure, but I’ve got my own interests, and if I’m not hired for a job, why would I connect a two-bit killing on Doyle Street with a cop mugging on Water Street? I mean, Doyle is a long street.

‘I suppose the building on Doyle backs towards Water Street?’ I said. ‘Same crosstown block as Schmidt’s Garage on Water?’

‘With an alley on the side that opens into both streets,’ Gazzo said.

I thought about the city. Most cities have slums and middle-class areas all properly separated. The rivers make Manhattan special. Manhattan is an island, and there is little space to move in. The result is that the city moves in circles from good to bad and back to good again. You end up with a city in constant flux; with tenements, businesses, private houses, small factories, and luxury buildings all mixed together. And new buildings on polyglot streets are prime targets for burglars.

‘She caught a burglar in the act?’ I said.

‘That’s the way it reads,’ Gazzo said. ‘Door was locked and on the chain. The maid had to go to the back entrance. The back door was open, the lock cracked. The back door opens into a service stairway that goes down to the alley and a basement garage. The alley opens into Doyle Street at one end and Water Street at the other. No one saw the thief. At least, no one who’s talking.’

‘Broad daylight?’ I said. ‘With the woman at home?’

‘Her man says Tani was almost always out in the afternoon on her modelling work. Thursday she called in sick and cancelled a date with the photographer. The photographer says she missed a lot of appointments. She wasn’t too reliable. The bed had been slept in. She was in her slip, pants, and bra.’

‘Has the loot shown up?’

‘No,’ Gazzo said, and brushed me off. ‘Tell me more about this Olsen kid.’

I sensed the change of subject, the brush-off. The captain did not want to talk about the loot. It should have appeared by now. Burglars unload fast. I did not push it. If Gazzo held back, he had his reasons. He would tell me when he wanted to.

‘I told you all of it,’ I said. ‘He’s gone, period. A lot of people on Doyle and Water Streets probably went on trips.’

‘You think this Jo-Jo saw something?’

Gazzo did not believe that a lot of people from Doyle and Water had gone on trips. Neither did I.

‘Jewels don’t show, I said. ‘Even if the burglar came out on Water Street, all Jo-Jo would see is a man walking around.’

‘Maybe he saw the guy in the alley,’ Gazzo said.

‘Just walking? How would he know?’

‘Maybe he saw and recognized the guy. Later he hears about the burglary and killing and puts two and two together. Maybe he knows the guy saw him and knows him.’

It was a good theory. I could believe it. But I fought it for a time.

‘So he hangs around from Thursday evening to Friday morning?’ I said. ‘I mean, if the killer knew him, what held the killer up so long. My client says he talked to Jo-Jo Friday morning. I mean, Jo-Jo was nervous but not hiding yet.’

It stopped Gazzo for the moment. It stood to reason that if Jo-Jo and the killer knew, each other, and the killer knew he had been seen, and Jo-Jo thought there was danger enough to run, then the killer would have tried for Jo-Jo right away Thursday night. The time lag was all wrong — unless? I thought about Swede Olsen.

There aren’t many men you would see walking on the street and pay enough attention to, to wonder what they were doing. Especially if you were busy testing a new motorcyle and especially if the man did not want to be seen. But if you saw your father, even a quick glimpse, you’d notice and wonder. For some reason this did not seem to have occurred to Gazzo. And I still did not feel that the Olsens were worried that way, the police-trouble way. Anyway, why would Jo-Jo run if it had been Swede he saw? Not many boys rat on their father. Not every day anyway.

‘What about Stettin?’ I said. ‘Coincidence? Or maybe he saw the burglar?’

Gazzo rubbed the grey stubble of his chin. The captain needed a shave. He usually does unless City Hall or the chief wants to see him. Gazzo took some acid in the face twelve years ago and his skin is tender.

‘No one ever accused our men of being slow on the trigger,’ the captain said. ‘If Stettin had seen anything, there would have been a rumpus. Anyway, he saw nothing.’

‘Maybe the burglar thought Stettin saw him.’

Gazzo sighed wearily. ‘If the burglar even thought Stettin saw him, would he leave him alive? It was already felony murder.’

‘A cop killing? You’d have hounded him past hell.’

‘If he thought Stettin had seen him, it was kill or nothing, Dan. Why just tap him and leave him alive to make the ident? It wasn’t as if Stettin was chasing him. That might make some sense. If Stettin was after him, he might have tapped him just to get away. But Stettin saw nothing. Not even who hit him.’ Gazzo suddenly grinned in the dim office. ‘Stettin is embarrassed. It hurt his image of himself to have been slugged and not be able to say who, or even guess why. I think it’s the shoes that make him feel worst. He doesn’t like it that we found him with no shoes. Good thing he didn’t lose his pants.’

Gazzo was right. Stettin did not seem to tie in. So maybe it was still that Jo-Jo had just seen a mugger, not a killer. Or a killer and not a mugger. Take your choice.

‘How about some clues?’ I asked.

‘Clues?’ Gazzo looked sour. Clues don’t solve cases. ‘Sure, one on the Jones girl. A losing stub on a slow horse at Monmouth Park the day before. On the floor near the body. It was all that did not belong to Tani or her lover-daddy.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Monmouth Park is a popular track. I’d hate to be chased down a dark street by half the losers there in a single day. It’s like that with clues. Most of the time they don’t help, because most murders aren’t that logical or planned. Motive, opportunity, and witnesses, that’s what convicts.

‘What about the timetable?’ I asked.

Gazzo checked the file. ‘Woman died between five thirty and six thirty in the afternoon. Stettin was hit about six thirty.’

The time was just about as bad as it could be. Jo-Jo and Petey Vitanza had been at Schmidt’s until about six o’clock. Time is sometimes a good hammer to hit a killer with, but it’s not perfect. I mean, how many times do you really know exactly what time it is or what time you were at any particular spot a day or a week before? Give or take a half an hour is about the best most people can do without looking at their watch. And in this case a half hour made a world of difference. About six o’clock could mean five thirty and the opportunity to burglarize the apartment of Tani Jones.