Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“Not very much,” Reardon said. He released her hand. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “You wouldn’t know anyone who drives a brown Mercedes sedan, would you?” he asked.

“Cosa?”

“That’s a car, Mom,” Mark said, and then shook his head. “I can’t think of anybody,” he said.

“Would your father have had any business dealings with Puerto Ricans?”

“Mom?” Mark said.

“No,” she said.

“Did any Puerto Ricans come to the restaurant this past week?”

“I don’t remember any.”

“To talk to your father, to eat, whatever.”

“That wasn’t a Spanish accent, Mr. Reardon,” Mark said. “I can tell you that.”

“We have a witness who saw three Puerto Ricans,” Reardon said.

“I don’t see how that can be,” Mark said. “Mom? Did they sound Spanish to you?”

“No. not Spanish.” Mrs. D’Annunzio said.

“Can you remember what they did sound like? It wasn’t Chinese, was it?”

“No. not Chinese,” Mark said.

“No,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said.

“Well,” Reardon said, and sighed. “Mrs. D’Annunzio, when I was going through your husband’s wallet... it’s right there in the stuff I brought back... I found a credit-card receipt for an airline ticket. It was dated the fourteenth of December, that would’ve been the day before the holdup. A Sunday. Would your husband have had any reason to fly anywhere on that day?”

“Yes,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, nodding. “His brother lives in Washington.”

“Is that where your husband went?”

“Yes. We’re closed on Sundays. He figured that would be a good time to go”

“To see his brother?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know why?”

“No.”

“What’s his brother’s name, can you tell me?”

“John D’Annunzio.”

“He’s the maitre d’ at a fancy restaurant there,” Mark said. “I have the name and address at the house, if you want them.”

“Yes, please,” Reardon said, “and his home address and phone number, too, if you’ve got those. I’ll stop by later.” He paused. “If there’s anything I can do for you, anything you need...”

“Thank you,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, and took his hand again.

He kept thinking I’m sorry for your trouble .

Put Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village together, Reardon thought, and they’d be a fair-sized town in some parts of the country. That was the amazing thing about this city. You tried to explain to somebody from Brindleshit, Wyoming, that you could tit his whole damn town into any given New York neighborhood, and he sucked wind through his teeth and looked at you like you were crazy. The two housing developments on the East River ran north and south for a total of seven blocks, almost a third of a mile, and then another three blocks — longer blocks because they were running east to west — between First Avenue and the river. Red brick buildings — well, they looked more brown than they did red — bordered on the north by Bellevue, where Kathy had done her nurse’s training, and on the south by another conglomeration of buildings that formed yet another town-sized development; the Jacob Riis Houses, the Lillian Wald Houses, the Baruch Houses. Choice waterfront real estate for the lower middle class. When he was living in Stuyvesant Town, it wasn’t too bad a commute to the station house. Walk up Fourteenth Street to the IRT subway stop on Third Avenue, take the downtown local to Canal — only four stations away, Astor Place, Bleecker, Spring, and then Canal — walk up the block to Elizabeth Street, and there you were. Your home away from home.

This apartment, the sound of tugs on the river. Greenpoint on the other side, a glimpse of the Queensboro Bridge farther uptown — the cops in this city remembered the names of the bridges by putting them in alphabetical order, starting with the Brooklyn Bridge, farthest south, and then the Manhattan, and then the Williamsburg, but the system went to pot when you got to the Queensboro on Fifty-ninth Street — this apartment used to be his home. It no longer was. Kathy lived here now. And his daughter. When she wasn’t with her goddamn grandparents in Jersey.

“I shouldn’t have let you in,” she said.

It was seven-thirty in the morning. A bleak gray Thursday, the eighteenth day of December, a week before Christmas. She was dressed for work, except for her shoes. She was sitting in what used to be his favorite easy chair, lacing up her flat white shoes.

“My lawyers told me...”

“That’s just what I want to talk about,” Reardon said, “your lawyers. Martin tells me they’ve got a signed court order...”

“I don’t know about a court order,” Kathy said. “I’m leaving this entirely to them. Bry. And I wish you would too.” She gave the lace a tug on the word “you.” She had a habit of emphasizing language with gestures, adding force to vocabulary.

“No. I’m not leaving it to any lawyers,” Reardon said. “Not where my daughter’s concerned.” He hesitated and then said. “Have you put a private eye on me, Kath?”

“Of course not.” she said, and rose, and went into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was brewing on the stove. She poured herself a cup. and did not offer him one.

“Then how’d they find out about my testimony yesterday?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sipping at the coffee. Probably went against her grain not to be able to extend a hospitality that was second nature to her. But making a point. This is my home now. You do not belong here. The coffee is mine. The cups are mine. You are not wanted here.

“They’re claiming I roughed up a punk who raped...”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

“They’re claiming I’m a violent man who’s harassing...”

“You are harassing me!” she said. “You come in here at seven in the morning...”

“Seven-thirty...”

“Yelling and screaming... I’m not even awake yet!”

“The hospital told me...”

“You shouldn’t have called the hospital.”

“I had to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s the fucking court order to talk about!”

“I told you I don’t know anything about a court order.” She put down the coffee cup, went to where her cape was draped over a chair, her nurse’s cap lying on the seat. She picked up the cap, pinned it to her hair. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be late.”

“The court order says I can’t see you or Elizabeth anymore,” Reardon said. “Why’d you do that, Kath? Do you really hate me that much?”

“I don’t hate you,” she said.

“Then why’d you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything, damn it. I’ve been leaving it to the lawyers. If they asked for a court order...”

“They did. And they got it.”

“I’ll tell them to tear it up, okay? Or whatever the hell you do with something like that.”

“No, it’s not that simple.”

“What do you want from me, Bry? I’ll call my parents, okay? I’ll tell them you can see Elizabeth no matter what the order says.”

“Fine,” he said, and paused. “Did you know about that order?”

“I told you I didn’t.”

“You told me a lot of things, Kath.”

“Bry, I’ve got to leave.” Putting on her cape, not looking at him, she said, “Please don’t come here again.”

“I used to live here,” he said.

“You don’t anymore.”

Reardon sighed. “Okay, call them,” he said.

“When I get to the hospital,” she said, and looked at her watch. “I’m already late.”