Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“I work for Forbes magazine,” she said, “at Fifth and Eleventh. There’s a place called Ringo’s, on Twelfth. Could you meet me there at, say, five-fifteen? It’s just off Sixth.”

“Ringo’s at five-fifteen. I’ll see you there.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, and hung up.

Reardon put the receiver back on the cradle.

“Must be a native New Yorker,” he said. “She called it Sixth.”

“Huh?” Hoffman said. He was reading the story on Jurgens’s arrest

“Instead of Avenue of the Americas.”

“Still claims he had nothing to do with the little dead girl,” Hoffman said. “Came running out of the hallway like a locomotive, but claims he never saw her in his life.” He shrugged. “Maybe he will walk again.”

“We shoulda nailed him on the roof,” Reardon said. “Two in the heart.”

His phone rang again. He picked up.

“Fifth Squad. Reardon.”

“Reardon, this is Weissman at the Two-Four.” a man’s voice said. “I got your flyer on that brown Benz, and I...”

“Yeah?” Reardon said at once.

“Relax, this ain’t a positive make,” Weissman said. “But I been working a murder up here, guy on Central Park West got killed Monday night — about an hour before your guy caught it on Mulberry Street. A brown Benz figures in it. You want to come up here sometime today? We may have something in common.”

Dave Weissman was a Detective Grade/First in his mid-forties, Reardon guessed, a bulky man wearing a sleeveless sweater over a sports shirt. The cops in this city frequently ran into one another, but this was the first time Reardon had ever met Weissman. Slightly balding at the back of his head, wearing eyeglasses, puffing on a cigar, he stood behind the slide projector and said, “This is what the apartment looked like.”

They were sitting in the Interrogation Room of the Twenty-fourth Precinct, uptown on West One Hundredth Street. The projector was set up on a long, scarred, wooden table. Weissman had hung a screen over the oneway mirror on the other side of the room.

“Place was a mess, as you can see.”

The black and white slide showed the living room of an apartment in disarray. Sofa cushions strewn all over the floor. Chairs overturned. Open drawers and doors on the stereo unit and the long buffet. A floor lamp lying on its side.

“Whoever did it was obviously looking for something,” Weissman said, and pressed the remote button he held in his right hand. There was a small click. Another slide came on. Black and white like the one before it.

“This is the bedroom,” Weissman said.

A king-sized bed, a dresser opposite. The bed covers and pillows thrown on the floor. The mattress slashed. Clothing from the dresser drawers spilled onto the floor. Closet door open. Clothes on hangers thrown everywhere.

Another click, another slide.

“This is the victim.”

What looked like a studio-posed photo flashed onto the screen.

“Peter Dodge,” Weissman said. “Thirty-four years old. Single. I can let you have an eight-by-ten glossy of this, if you think you can use it. It’s a recent picture.”

“Yes, I’d like one,” Reardon said.

Another click. The picture of the dark-haired, smiling man on the screen was replaced by a shot of the same man, naked and lying on a blood-spattered, tiled bathroom floor.

“This is the way we found him,” Weissman said. “Starkers, his hands tied behind his back with a wire coat hanger. He was a lawyer. Partner in a small firm called Lewis and Dodge.”

Another click.

“Here’s the wall safe in the bedroom closet. Obviously forced him to open it, but didn’t take any of the contents. We checked with his insurance agent, got a list of all his valuables.”

Click.

“Silverware chest in the dining room. Nothing missing.”

Click.

“This is the library. Some valuable paintings on the wall, all of them still there.”

He snapped off the projector.

“That’s about it.”

He walked to the wall switch. Fluorescent light flooded the room.

“How was he killed?” Reardon asked.

“With a knife. How’d they get your guy?”

“Four slugs from a Swiss pistol. They shot him in the back.”

“Nice people,” Weissman said. “Before they killed my guy, they beat him half to death.”

“How many of them?”

“Three, according to the doorman.”

“And driving a brown Benz?”

“That’s what the man said.” Weissman rolled up the screen. “I’ll tell you, Reardon, this one baffles me. All the signs of a burglary, but nothing stolen. All the signs of a weirdo torture killing, but this guy Dodge was straight as an arrow.” He shook his head. “I hate mysteries, don’t you?”

“What time did the doorman say they went in?”

“Five-thirty, six, in there. What time was yours?”

“Around seven.”

“Plenty of time to get down there, even with the holiday traffic.”

“If it was them.”

“You got anything looks better?”

“Not at the moment.” He stood up, extended his hand. “Thanks. Weissman, I’ll keep in touch.” He looked at the wall clock. “Christ,” he said, “is that the right time?” He checked his own watch. “Mind if I make a call?” he said.

“Be my guest,” Weissman said, and hefted the projector off the table. Reardon followed him into the squadroom. “Any one of those desks,” Weissman said.

Reardon went to the closest desk, lifted the receiver on the phone there, got a dial tone, and dialed Directory Assistance. “In Manhattan,” he said into the phone. “A place called Ringo’s on West Twelfth.” He waited. He jotted a number onto a pad on the desk. “Thank you,” he said, and pressed the cradle button, and then dialed the number the operator had given him.

“Ringo’s,” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, would you know if there’s a Miss Sanderson there?”

“Who?”

“Martha Sanderson. I was supposed to meet her at five-fifteen, would you know if she’s...?”

“It’s already five to six,” the man said.

“I know. Is she still there?”

“Hold on a second, willya?”

He waited.

The man came back onto the line some three minutes later. “If it’s the one I think she was, she left about ten minutes ago.” he said.

“Okay, thanks,” Reardon said, and hung up. “Shit,” he said. He picked up the receiver again, waited for a dial tone, and called Information again. “In Manhattan, please,” he told the operator. “Martha Sanderson.”

“Would you spell the last name, please?” the operator said.

“S-A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. I think.”

“And the address?”

“I don’t have an address.”

“One moment, please.”

He waited.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“That number is out of service at this time.”

“Can you let me have the address there, please?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give customers’ addresses.”

“I know that, but I’m a police officer.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Check it with your supervisor, okay? My name is Bryan Reardon, Detective/Second Grade, Fifth Squad.”

“Well, sir...”

“Please check it, okay?”

“One moment, sir.”

He waited.

“Fuckin’ telephone company,” he said to Weissman.

The operator came back onto the line.

“I can let you have that address, sir,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and moved the pad into place again.

The building on Eighty-fourth Street and First Avenue was a four-story brick tenement flanked on either side by vacant, bulldozed lots. Reardon looked up at it. A dim, flickering light behind one of the third-floor windows. All the other windows black. Puzzled, he climbed the steps to the front door and stepped into the entryway. No lights. He struck a match, held it to the row of mailboxes. Only one mailbox had a nametag on it.