Father's Day Murder (8 page)

“Artie never visited us at home,” her husband said finally. “We took a trip to California a few years ago and ran into him there. He was very expansive, insisted on showing us around, taking us out, introducing us to his friends. In a weak moment I said, ‘Come and see us anytime, Artie.’ After that, he actually called and said he was going to be in Minneapolis to do a book signing and he wanted to see us. But it didn’t work out.”

“He came and you didn’t see him?”

“It just didn’t work out,” Fred Beller said. “He wasn’t there very long and he had a TV appearance besides the signing; we just didn’t manage to get together.” His tone of voice indicated he had said as much as he was going to.

“What made you move to Minnesota?” I asked him.

“I met Marge. She was from Minneapolis, and I went out there and fell in love with the place. I was already in love with her so it wasn’t hard.”

She was smiling. “My folks had a nice house with a big backyard and this city kid here couldn’t believe we didn’t live in the middle of a public park.”

“Have you ever seen where your husband lived as a boy?”

“We don’t come to New York much and I don’t think Fred wants to go back, do you, Fred?”

“I left the Bronx because I didn’t like it. I don’t think it’s improved with age.”

I decided not to mention that I was taking a guided tour tomorrow. “This is a wonderful lunch,” I said to relieve the tension.

“So is mine,” my host agreed. “I’m glad you made this
appointment with us or we might not have had a chance to eat here.”

I took the envelope of Father’s Day photographs out of my bag and put them on the table. “Have you seen these?” I asked.

“The reunion pictures? No, I haven’t. May I?”

“Please.”

He put his fork down and started through the pictures, looking at each one with interest. As he finished, he passed them along to his wife. “Mort looks good,” he said at one point. “This is Artie right here, honey. Is that his wife?” he asked me.

“I believe so.”

“Guess he still likes them young.”

I waited till both of them had gone through the pack and returned them to me. Then I said, “I would love to have one of you, Mr. Beller, or one of the two of you. Just to complete the set.”

Before he could say anything, his wife reached for her bag, which she had stowed under the table. “I have one I can give you.” She slipped the photo out of a plastic holder and gave it to me, handing it in front of her husband. I wondered whether he was tempted to grab it and keep it from me, but he didn’t. “It’s fairly recent,” Marge said.

“Thank you very much.” I put it in the envelope with the others. “Dr. Horowitz asked me to look into the murder of Arthur Wien. I’ve had some experience investigating murders, and his daughter and granddaughter were very concerned that the police felt he was the main suspect.”

“Is there any evidence?” Beller asked.

“I don’t know. It was my impression that because he found the body, he seemed the likeliest suspect. I’m sure they’re doing forensic work on the body and whatever
they picked up at the crime scene. What I’m doing is talking to the Morris Avenue Boys to see what they think about Arthur Wien, about each other, about what might have happened in the last fifty years that could have made one of the group a killer. What do you think?”

“I think Artie was a womanizer. He married in his twenties and was looking around at other women in his thirties. Is that a motive for murder? Maybe you should ask his first wife.”

It was something I intended to do. “He was murdered in a men’s room, so it’s a little less likely that a woman did it, but I agree, she might have a motive, although if she did it, it took her a long time.”

“Maybe hatred ripens with time.”

“Maybe it does. Was there anyone else who might have had a grudge?”

“I’m sure there were plenty of people, but murder is very extreme. Most of us work out our displeasures in other ways.”

“Besides Dr. Horowitz, did you keep in touch with any other members of the group?”

“Not really. I was always interested to hear how they were doing but not enough interested to pick up a phone or write a letter.”

I thought that about covered it. I drank my coffee, declined dessert, and wished them a good trip back home. Then I returned to the Koches’ apartment house to retrieve my car. When I went to pay the bill, I was told Mr. Koch had taken care of it.

7

Eddie had not yet woken up when I got home so I had a little time to sit and talk to Jack, who was ready for a break. I told him about my two interviews and the lunch, complete with all my uneasy feelings. Mrs. Beller had never answered my question about whether Arthur Wien had visited them at their home. It was her husband who had picked up for her and said it had never happened, but I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. Nor could I see what difference it made, but it was a question that Mrs. Beller obviously wasn’t allowed to answer.

Then there was Mrs. Koch’s intriguing statement that there was a rumor that Arthur Wien had had an affair with the wife of one of his friends. How does one know there was an affair without knowing with whom it took place? I wasn’t sure. But I now believed I would have to talk to the first Mrs. Wien. I would ask David Koch tomorrow for her name and address.

“So you’re going to the Bronx tomorrow,” Jack said when I had finished. “What do you expect to get out of that?”

“Maybe nothing, but I’d like to see this magical place that Horowitz and Koch loved so much and that Fred Beller hated.”

“Just a lot of brick and concrete,” Jack said. “And probably a lot more graffiti than fifty years ago. One neighborhood looks pretty much like another. You get any feelings from these guys?”

“Lots of feelings. Horowitz knew that Fred Beller was in town and he didn’t tell me. The two couples got together during the week. Beller didn’t answer some questions very forthrightly. Koch was—I don’t know—maybe less than candid.”

“Sounds to me like you’re investigating a homicide. When did everyone tell you the truth before this?”

“I guess never. But Jack, I made a real coup at lunch. I think Fred Beller sensed what I was doing but he couldn’t stop his wife. I asked for a picture of him or both of them, and she gave me one.”

“What good is that?”

“I want to find out if he was in the restaurant last Sunday night. If he was, he probably didn’t make the reservation under his real name. I want to get back there with this picture and see if the maitre d’ recognizes them.”

“Good thinking.”

“He said he wasn’t there but what would you expect him to say?”

“By the way, you got some phone calls while you were out.” He went to the kitchen and got a couple of message slips. “Someone named Kaplan?”

“Bruce Kaplan, yes, he’s the one who served time for embezzling.”

“The other one’s a Judy Meyer.”

“That’s the wife of the violinist. Good. Things are moving.” I read the messages but they just said I should call back. Before I did, I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. There were no little cries or other sounds from
upstairs so I went to the phone and called Bruce Kaplan first.

“Miss Bennett, yes, I hear you’re looking into the murder of our friend. How can I help you?”

For my number one suspect, it was the friendliest overture so far. “I’d like to get together with you and talk to you about Arthur Wien and the rest of your friends who were at the reunion.”

“Fine. Name your time.”

I thought for a moment. I was meeting David Koch at noon and we were driving up to the Bronx, not a very long drive from what I remembered of the geography of New York. I thought I would be back in mid-Manhattan no later than two. The Kaplans lived in Westchester County, as I did, not a long drive from either Manhattan or Oakwood. I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Meyer had in mind so I asked if I could get back to him. Then I called the other number.

“Ms. Bennett,” Mrs. Meyer said, “I know you left a message for my husband but he’s resting. Can I talk to you instead?”

I told her what I wanted, an interview with him. Tomorrow afternoon was a possibility.

“I think we can manage that. Two to three?”

“I’ll be there as close to two as I can make it.” Their address was on the West Side of Manhattan, near Riverside Drive.

“We’ll be here all afternoon.”

I got back to Bruce Kaplan and arranged to see him tomorrow evening. That meant that by Sunday night I would have spoken to all but two members of the group, the teacher and the researcher. The researcher worked in Manhattan and I would try to set something up for Monday. As
I was thinking of that, I heard my little one, and I left my investigative persona in the kitchen and went upstairs.

Having a small child around, I have learned in the last year and a half, is not just time consuming; it’s also mind consuming. Eddie gets into things. He also wants attention, specifically mine. I read to him and we play games together. I have also gotten together with other women in the neighborhood who have children about his age so that the little ones can play while the mothers talk and supervise. The women I’ve met are a very positive addition to my life. They’re bright and thoughtful, they’re involved in town affairs, and they make good conversation. One of them works part-time, one doesn’t work at all, and a third is able to work out of her home on a contract basis, something I do for Arnold Gold, my lawyer friend in New York, when he has the work and I have the time.

So Eddie gets to hang out at this early age with his contemporaries, and my life is richer and pleasanter because of it. But when we are one on one, my attention is at least ninety percent on him.

Not that I mind it. I got Eddie ready for the rest of his day and took him down to see his daddy; then we went out. My phone calls could wait till later.

I suppose Saturday night isn’t the best time to call people but it was the only time I had left. Bernie Reskin, the teacher, was still not answering so I tried Dr. Ernest Greene. He answered the phone himself and I explained who I was.

“Yes,” he said, “Mort Horowitz said you might call. I’m afraid I don’t have much time, Ms. Bennett. And my wife and I are just going out so I can’t help you right now.”

“I’d be glad to see you at your home or at your office,” I said, “whatever is convenient for you.”

“I wish you’d just cross my name off your list. I don’t know anything. I’ve known Artie Wien all my life, but he wasn’t a special friend of mine and there’s not a lot more I can say about him.”

“If you could just spare a—”

“I’m very sorry. And I’ve got to go.”

That ended the conversation. I was disappointed, but I knew the doctor had no obligation to talk to me. His only obligation was to the police. At some point I would let Dr. Horowitz know what had happened but I didn’t want to bother him right now. Tomorrow, when I was driving through the Bronx with David Koch, I might be able to get some information out of him. And anyway, I had a full day tomorrow.

We ate breakfast early Sunday morning as we always do, and then I picked up my cousin Gene to take him to mass. Gene lives here in town at a residence for retarded adults. We’ve been buddies since we were Eddie’s age, and I try to have him to the house on weekends if I can manage it. Today wasn’t a good day for dinner, but I took him to mass, took him home and chatted with him for a while, and then went home myself. I left lunch for Eddie, knowing Jack was better at putting together food for himself than I was, and he said he would make dinner if I promised to be home for it. I promised.

I got to the Koches’ apartment house before noon, and David Koch and I went back downstairs to a waiting car. It was just a plain old black car, a Ford, I noticed, and we got in the backseat, assisted by the doorman.

“Chris, this is Sergeant Harry Holt of the NYPD.”

We exchanged hellos and I told him my husband was also a sergeant on the job.

“Oh yeah? What precinct?”

“The Six-Five.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Yes.”

“I think I ran into him at a class last year or maybe the year before. Tell him hello for me.”

I promised I would.

He drove over to the East River Drive, otherwise known as the FDR Drive, and headed north. The drive runs along the East River and changes its name to the Harlem River Drive when the river changes its name. But we exited just before all the changes, taking the Triboro Bridge to the Bronx. Mr. Koch told Harry to take the Grand Concourse instead of a highway, and we drove north along the beautiful, wide boulevard with apartment houses along both sides.

“This was once one of the finest places to live in New York,” Koch said. “It was very beautiful.”

“It looks very nice right now,” I said.

“Over to the left there is Yankee Stadium. I don’t have to tell you we were all Yankee fans. In the summer we lived and breathed baseball, even when we went away. The best thing was to find someone who lived in one of the apartment houses that overlooked the stadium. The stadium was lower in those days. They’ve added a tier on top. So you could sit on an apartment house roof and watch the game free.”

“And feel you were getting something for nothing.”

“Oh yes. We always tried. You can turn right at the next block, Harry.”

We zigzagged a little and then there we were on 174th Street and Morris Avenue, the corner they all remembered.

“Harry, turn right on Morris Avenue and see if you can park.”

Harry made the turn and slid into the only vacant spot on the block.

“That’s where Mort and I lived, right in that building across the street on the corner of 174th,” David Koch said.

It looked very ordinary, a prewar building of not very clean yellow brick. There were two women standing around and talking, but not the women of David Koch’s memory. One way or another they were all gone.

“I’ve never been up here,” Harry said.

“It isn’t much to look at any more. Back there,” he pointed to 174th Street, “everything’s changed. That used to be a bustling street with stores on both sides. In the late fifties, they built the Cross Bronx Expressway, cutting through the rock so that it’s way down below the level of the street. To do it, they got rid of half of 174th, so it’s just a shadow of what it used to be. At this point, it’s one way going east. It used to be a wide, two-way street. Drive up to the corner, Harry.”