Too Quiet in Brooklyn (32 page)

“We got another injury inside, the perp,” I told him.

The other paramedic told me another ambulance had already been dispatched. I could hear its siren in the distance. Across the street grew, the crowd stood still. A few minutes later the second ambulance appeared and Jane and Denny stood at the door steadying Ralph, a blanket around him to hide the duster. The paramedics rushed to him with a gurney. As they strapped him face down, Jane motioned to two officers to ride with the suspect.

While the emergency vehicles screamed away and the media were setting up their equipment in front of our stoop, I called Cookie’s mom and told her what had happened.

Before Jane had a chance to say anything, a reporter shouted, “Was that the strangler?”

Jane made a brief statement regarding the apprehension of a man who allegedly strangled Mrs. Mary Ward Simon and two other victims in New Jersey whose names were being withheld pending notification of next of kin. “He’s being held without bail. Nothing further at this time. Might as well all go home.”

Like an avalanche, the queries tumbled. Jane stood in front of the microphones, her head turning to take in the whole crowd as she was peppered with inquiries. She looked like a queen with a hearing disability.

“The bodies found in Cobble Hill last night, were they related?”

“No comment.”

She stopped to speak with some of her team, waved to the crowd, giving them the high sign. They clapped, and she walked back inside the house.

“You forgot to mirandize,” Willoughby said.

“I don’t need to mirandize, not until he’s questioned,” Jane said.

Briefing The Chief

We followed Jane into the dining room. Pens were strewn all over the table, balled-up papers were thrown onto the rug, and laptops were sleeping or faintly hiccuping. Chips and dips and empty glasses were strewn all over. The place was a mess.

But I was glad I wasn’t Jane. Her phone would be ringing from now until Christmas, plus she had a bazillion bosses to update.

She turned to me. “Holy Be-F’in’ J, how am I going to explain the duster to the chief?”

I knew it. “Tell him shit happens. Tell him I don’t carry,” I said. “Want me to tell him? I’ll start out with, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but …’”

“Did you mean ‘but’ or ‘butt’?” Jane asked, and she launched into an imitation of me on the floor chasing Ralph’s rear.

Leave it to Jane, she knew what she had to rehearse, because midway through her routine, the chief of NYPD detectives called, and she summarized what we knew.

“You’re way ahead of me, Chief,” she told him while she made the brown nose sign. “I was going to call you after we determined how he got inside the house. We haven’t figured that out yet or who exactly this character is. We know his name is Ralph. We know he drives around the metro area without a driver’s license, at least not on him, and he’s not telling us anything. We don’t even know his last name.”

She held the phone out and I heard the voice on the other end of the line say, “Why would he talk to you? He’s got a plunger up his ass!”

“Not a plunger, Chief, a duster.” She paused and I could make out a few of his comments like ‘ACLU on my tail’ and ‘sue the city.’ Jane listened, prancing around the dining room table and bowing to our silent cheers, the phone cupped to her ear. She said, “It was either that or watch him strangle her friend—Fina doesn’t carry … Fina, the private investigator I told you about her? Been doing lots of work for us in New Jersey? The one who found Charlie? … You got it, the one that Connors wanted killed … Right, he had a contract out on her. And Ralph was the assassin. … I know, it’s happening so fast. And by the way, the duster didn’t stop him. He was about to jump out the window, duster and all if I didn’t wound him in the shoulder … Glock, yeah. … Don’t worry, we’ve got all the signed statements, just going over them before I send them in.” She winked and we made the brown nose sign back at her.

The chief was quiet after that and let her talk for a few minutes.

“We’re trying to get all the info on him, but he has no ID. Better give the prosecutor’s office a head’s up … Don’t worry, the team’s on it. … Haven’t found the car he drove yet ….” She pressed the mute button. “He’s asking if there were witnesses.”

I mouthed “Cookie.”

“The woman he was trying to strangle was still in his grasp. … Yes, she’ll live … That would be … I’m sure she’d appreciate flowers … Brooklyn Hospital, but she won’t be there long, couple of days. Gotta go, got wrapping up to do. CSU’s upstairs in their glory—the guy threw a container full of his urine at us.”

She held the phone out again, and I heard him say, “Leak that to the press, will you?”

“No pun intended? Oh and one more thing before you hang up,” Jane said. “You know the cold case involving the fraudulent loans at Heights Federal and the death of Carmela Fitzgibbons that we never could pin on Connors … right, that Mary Ward Simon was auditing …”

But I heard the click on the other end of the line. My mother’s death wasn’t worth his time.

Jane looked at me. “Too much on his plate.” She held a finger in the air and twirled one more time. “Crime scene’s going to be a while, sorry.”

“Anybody hungry?” Willoughby asked.

We looked at one another. I for one was tired and was able to shrug, but that was about it.

“And we’ve got to celebrate.”

“First we’ve got to find out how this guy got in,” Jane said. “And knowing his last name would be nice.”

We agreed to celebrate Wednesday night and Denny made reservations at our all-time favorite restaurant, Vinegar Hill House. Its proximity tipped us over the edge when we were trying to decide whether or not to buy here. Denny’s proposed there twice, each time to me.

The Following Week

Dinner At The McDuffy’s

As I say, things were good between Denny and me, nothing that a little dinner at the McDuffy’s could spoil. Or so I thought as I climbed the stoop and glanced at the nameplate, ominous-looking in the setting sun. I held my breath while Denny rang the bell and looked at me, a bottle of Cabernet tucked underneath his arm.

Things were so good I wore my raw silk pantsuit, the one I stole from Mom’s closet after she died, the one Cookie said was too good to bury. Earlier I’d stopped at the florist in the Clark Street Station where Mary Ward Simon used to hang out and bought a bunch of cut lilacs.

The weather was even obliging, the tenth day in a row of perfect temperatures and clean light, and the evening air was the kind that blows in off the ocean and picks up that unique Brooklyn scent, a mix of oregano and malt, of fish and funeral parlors.

“Lilacs and wine,” Denny said, shaking hands with his father who smiled at him and nodded at me. He led us down the hall to the parlor. I sat, stiff as the furniture, staring at a painting of the Sacred Heart and wondering what to say to this man who understood life a certain way and no other, a man who came from a loving home, born and raised and rooted in one neighborhood. Truth to tell, he looked more nervous than I felt.

“Something smells delicious,” I lied. I glanced at Denny. “I think I’ll go into the kitchen and see if I can help your mom.”

My footfalls echoed down the long hall. As I entered the kitchen, Lorraine McDuffy turned from the pot, her glasses steamed, a few strands of greying hair falling into her face. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave me a wet kiss. “Denny’s girl. We’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. A long time.”

“These flowers are for you Mrs. McDuffy. I bought them at a stand that was frequented by a woman whose death I just investigated. She was a lovely woman, kind. She knew a lot about flowers and loved them. I thought you might like something of her legacy.” I waited, wondering what she’d do with that.

She took them from me. Her hands shook, but she told me she was honored to have something born of Mary Ward Simon’s imagination. Doubtless, Mr. McDuffy didn’t bring her posies.

“Top shelf, there’s a vase. I’ll get the ladder.”

“Denny! We need you in here,” I said.

While we waited for him to hand us whatever he’d retrieve, Mrs. McDuffy asked me about my friend.

“They released her today, nothing broken. They told her it would be a few days before she got her voice back.”

“She was lucky you were there to rescue her.”

I was surprised Mrs. McDuffy was interested in the case. I helped her by pouring the water and bringing the food to the table, a safe role for a suspect. Denny poured the wine into small water glasses placed around the table, and Mr. McDuffy toasted.

“Here’s to Carroll Gardens and marriage and grandchildren,” he said.

That remark didn’t engender conversation. Mrs. McDuffy looked down at her plate. Denny raised his glass, but I couldn’t. I stared at the lilacs and felt my face boil and thought of my mother and what she’d say.

“What made you choose Vinegar Hill?” Mr. McDuffy asked his son into the silence while he struggled to slice a piece of corned beef. “Pass the mustard, Lorraine. And the bread. Now take this neighborhood. The butter, too. We’ve got everything right here—Star of the Sea down the block, grocery stores, beauty parlors. Your mother doesn’t have to leave Court Street, do you, Mother.”

“The corned beef is delicious, Mrs. McDuffy. One of my favorite meals, too. Thank you for going to all this trouble,” I said, wondering why I said corned beef and cabbage was a favorite. I swallowed. “As for Vinegar Hill, we liked the neighborhood and the prices,” I said. “And it’s close to Denny’s work,” I added. That ought to slap a smile on their faces.

Denny smiled, nodded. “Right down Gold Street, four, five blocks.”

“Vinegar Hill? What parish is that, St. Ann’s?” Mr. McDuffy asked.

I cleared my throat while Denny’s face grew lipstick red.

“We used to be in that parish until the archdiocese consolidated or whatever it is they did. The church was torn down in 1992. I remember it well, I was four. But now Assumption in the Heights is the closest to us.” Glad I’d done my homework.

The conversation limped along until Mr. McDuffy who seemed to call all the shots said, “Well son, catch any killers lately?”

“Fina did last night. A man hid in her study and waited for her. Her quick thinking and expert action saved her friend’s life.”

“More like endangered it,” I said.

Mrs. McDuffy put a hand to her chest. “It was the strangler, Robert. She captured the strangler.”

Denny nodded.

Mr. McDuffy looked at his plate. “Bit tough, the beef,” he said, “but the potatoes are all right.”

“They’re wonderful,” I said. “So light and fluffy. Best mashed potatoes I’ve eaten. And the cabbage has so much flavor.”

“Thanks, but it’s nothing. Glad you like it.”

“You’re a wonderful cook, Mrs. McDuffy. And you keep such a beautiful house.”

“Call me Lorraine, everyone does. And nice of you to say so.”

Denny finished chewing. “Corned beef’s great, Mom, as usual.”

“Glad you like it, dear. How did Ralph get into your house? Climb up the fire escape?”

Denny shook his head. “Got sprinklers, no need for fire escapes. We’re not sure how he got in,” he said. “But he’s a big guy, six-five at least and we think he must have picked up parkour skills somewhere and walked up the house.”

I looked at old man McDuffy and knew he didn’t have a clue or perhaps he just wasn’t listening.

“We found a footprint on the bricks about five feet from the ground. The study’s on the third floor and the window was open.”

Mr. McDuffy grinned. “The study? Pretty hoity-toity if you ask me.”

“Why did he pick your house?” Lorraine asked.

“He was contracted to kill me.”

That brought Mr. McDuffy to attention, at least for a second.

I summarized the case and my involvement in a few sentences.

Lorraine’s hand crept from her chest to her neck.

Mr. McDuffy was busy with a toothpick. “What’s for dessert, Lorraine?”

“Fina’s too modest, but she’s the one who rescued Charlie.”

“Who’s Charlie?” Mr. McDuffy asked.

“Where have you been, Robert? He’s the little boy who was missing.”

“I don’t pay attention to news. I know what I need to know.”

“Sports,” Denny said, sipping his wine.

Mr. McDuffy looked at his watch. “Reminds me, there’s a Mets game on tonight. Lorraine? Dessert?”

Usually I don’t do dishes, but there was a fragility about Lorraine that really got to me, so I helped her as much as I could.

In the kitchen I said, “The weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow and I have to go to New Jersey to return a photo. It’s the head shot of the man who died. His mother lent it to me. I could mail it, but that’s so cold. Would you like to come along?”

“New Jersey?”

“It’s about an hour from here, a quaint little town. Founded in 1706. Where do the plates go? And the woman is so … crushed.”

“Arrowsmith’s mother?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Oh, I keep up. Can’t help it, it’s all over the news. Robert does, too, if it’s sports.”

“She lost her husband in 9/11. She’s had a rough twelve years. But she’s got another son who’s at Rutgers and he calls her all the time and visits, so she’s not totally alone.”

“Thank God.”

“But the loss of a child must be a devastation, no matter what the child’s done. I thought between the two of us, our visit might be good for her. She sounded so forlorn when I talked to her today. Afterward we can stop and have lunch if you have the time. But the trip would take the better part of a day.” I thought for sure she was going to decline, but the more I talked, the more I surprised myself, because I found myself wanting Lorraine to come with me.

“Well, I don’t know what Robert …”

She stopped herself, kind of shook her head, took off her glasses and wiped them.

“Listen to me, you’d think I wasn’t a grown woman. I’d love to go. I’ve always wanted to see New Jersey.”

Returning The Photo

I looked in the mirror and jumped when Denny came into the bathroom.

“A thousand bunnies in your study.” His hair was mussed and his bathrobe open, a mug of coffee in each hand. “Thought you might need some java this morning,” he said, “after last night.”