Three-Day Town

Chapter


18


And yet there are other dark features of the city that are not to be slipped by unmentioned if one would make a fair survey and a candid commentary.



—The New New York, 1909



SIGRID HARALD—MONDAY AFTERNOON

Sam Hentz was waiting outside the open door to the Wall apartment when Sigrid reached the twelfth floor. The new man on the elevator seemed inclined to stay and see what was going on until Sigrid turned and said “Thank you” so pointedly that he closed the cage and left.

Having been on the receiving end of the lieutenant’s chilly dismissal more than once, Hentz was torn between amusement and irritation.

An anxious Mrs. Wall joined them at the door. Her silver hair looked as if she had combed worried fingers through it, and her face was as pale as the light gray turtleneck and slacks she wore. “Did he tell you?”

“That your son Corey is missing? Yes,” Sigrid said. “When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday morning. He said he was going sledding in the park. When he didn’t come home, I tried calling him, but he wouldn’t answer. We—we’d had words and he was angry with me. Fine, I thought. I’d just back off and give him time to get over it. I thought he’d crashed with some friends and gone to school from there. He often does that without telling me, but when he didn’t come home today, I started calling around. No one’s seen him. He didn’t meet them yesterday morning and he wasn’t in school today.”

“You’ve tried calling him again?”

“Of course I have.” Her anger at being asked something so obvious did not mask her mounting fear. “Here.”

She pressed a speed dial button on her phone and thrust it into Sigrid’s hand. Almost immediately, a mechanical voice said, “The person you have called is unavailable. Please try your call again later.”

“I’ve heard that the police don’t consider someone truly missing until they’ve been gone forty-eight hours, but please. Corey’s been gone more than thirty hours.”

“You said your son was angry when you last spoke,” Sigrid said. “Are you quite sure that his friends are telling you the truth? Is it possible that they’re lying as a favor to him?”

Mrs. Wall hesitated and Hentz said, “What did you fight about, ma’am?”

She tried to shrug him off. “What don’t teenagers and their parents fight about? Curfews, schoolwork—”

“Stealing your jewelry?” Sigrid asked quietly.

What little color had been in Mrs. Wall’s face drained away and the vibrant woman they had interviewed yesterday now looked old and defeated. “How did you know?” she whispered.

“Drugs or alcohol?” Hentz asked.

She gave a long unhappy sigh. “Corey doesn’t do either of those. He gambles. Last year he lost nearly six thousand dollars playing poker online. We put a block on his computer so that he can’t do that anymore, but he’s found live games here on the West Side. He’s hocked almost everything of value in this house. His computer, his camera, his television, even the silver that’s been in our family for four generations. If he realized the pottery was valuable, that would be gone, too.”

Tears glistened in her eyes. “He’s not a bad kid, but my father was an alcoholic and my brother’s addicted to cocaine. Our therapist says addictions can be genetic. His sisters don’t seem to have any, but maybe because he’s a boy? And the youngest?”

She pushed back the hair from her face and looked at the detectives helplessly. “My husband’s in Chicago. A business trip. I haven’t told him yet because he wants us to kick Corey out. Tough love, he calls it, but Corey can’t help himself. He needs that adrenaline rush and, really, if you think about it, if you’re going to be addicted to anything, gambling’s better than drugs or alcohol, isn’t it? Not as destructive?”

“Do you think his disappearance is connected with his gambling?” Sigrid asked.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. He swears he hasn’t played since Thanksgiving, but he’s lied before. He doesn’t have any money, though. We’ve cut his allowance to fifteen dollars a week. We cover everything else ourselves—clothes, fare cards. We even prepay his school lunches. Can’t you do something? An Amber Alert?”

“How old is Corey?” Hentz asked.

“Seventeen.”

“I’m sorry,” Sigrid said, “but Amber Alerts are primarily intended for younger abducted children unless there’s a clear indication of kidnapping, and you don’t really believe Corey was kidnapped, do you?”

“No, but—”

“We can and will ask our patrol units to be on the lookout for him,” Sigrid said.

They took the boy’s description and that when last seen he was wearing jeans, boots, a Columbia University sweatshirt, and a Yankees hoodie.

“What about the sled?” asked Sigrid. “Are you convinced that’s where he intended to go? Did he take it with him?”

“He keeps it stored in the basement,” Mrs. Wall said. “I just assumed he went and got it and left from there.”

“Show us,” Sigrid said.


By then it was a few minutes past four, and when the elevator came, it was operated by the night man, Sidney Jackson, whose dark eyes were solicitous as he looked into Mrs. Wall’s anxious face. “You feeling all right, Mrs. Wall?”

“I’m fine, Sidney, thank you. We need to go down to the basement.”

Tactfully, the man did not ask further questions, and he ignored a buzz from the fourth floor in order to take them directly there.

Unaware that the detectives had already examined the basement, Mrs. Wall explained that every apartment had its own storage space. “But we have a common area with racks for bicycles and bulky equipment off to one side.”

They walked down the shadowy passageway to the storage area where the detectives had examined Phil Lundigren’s files over pizza yesterday. Mrs. Wall flipped a light switch in a side passage to illuminate an open storage room with many large hooks upon which to hang bicycles. Steel rings were bolted to the wall so that things could be secured with locked chains.

“That’s his sled,” she said in disappointment. “So he did lie. He didn’t go sledding after all.”

She pointed to a battered old Flexible Flyer that hung from a hook next to a bike that was missing its front wheel. The stenciled name—Fred Wall—had almost worn off. “It was my husband’s. Corey sold the expensive Hammerhead we gave him for Christmas two years ago.”

“What time did he leave your apartment yesterday morning?” Sigrid asked.

“Before nine. That was the crack of dawn for him, but one of his friends called and woke him up. They were going to meet for breakfast at a diner on Broadway and then go on to the park. Or so he said. His friends say he never came and they went on without him.”

“Nine o’clock,” Hentz murmured. “That’s around the time that Antoine quit, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” She looked up at him with a troubled frown. “Yes, I suppose it was, because someone on the eighth floor called me about nine-thirty to complain that the elevator wasn’t working. I had already arranged for one of the porters—Vlad Ruzicka—to come in at ten to check on the boiler, so when I heard Antoine had quit, I called Sidney and he volunteered to come in early and work a double shift.” She turned impatiently and switched off the light. “Oh why are we even talking about porters and elevator men? They don’t have anything to do with Corey missing.”

“No?” said Sigrid. “Some people think Antoine quit because Corey took the elevator when his back was turned.”

“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Wall looked from one detective to the other. “I know it’s wrong for my son to annoy the men like that, but this is a desirable job for someone with little education and no marketable skills. Good benefits and lots of tips as well. Even though our management agent hasn’t advertised it yet, we’ve already had three applicants for Phil’s job and a substitute for Antoine as well. No, Lieutenant Harald. Antoine didn’t quit because of Corey.” Her tone became defensive. “Besides, the elevator is never supposed to be left untended. If Antoine had done his job properly there would have been no opportunity for Corey to take it.”

Hentz said, “Sometimes people snap and say ‘take this job and shove it,’ Mrs. Wall. If Corey did play that trick on Antoine yesterday morning, maybe it was one time too many.”

The older woman suddenly froze. “Are you saying that Corey—? That Antoine—? That Antoine could have hurt him? Oh my God! Antoine killed Phil, didn’t he?”


Sigrid and Hentz escorted a panicky Mrs. Wall back upstairs. She gave them the names and addresses of the boys he was supposed to meet with Saturday morning. “Drew Narsetti’s his closest friend. He lives around the corner on West End Avenue and he’s called twice to ask if I’ve heard anything from Corey.”

She gave them a recent snapshot that showed a boy with a marked resemblance to her: small frame, pointed chin, hazel eyes. They said they would put out a BOLO for him and promised to keep her informed.

“What do you think?” Hentz asked Sigrid when they were back out in the hall.

“Probably what you’re thinking,” she said slowly. “Corey was at the party Saturday night and Antoine was in the building during the relevant times. Now Corey and Antoine are both missing. I’ve never cared much for coincidences. Have you?”

They met in the lobby with Detectives Albee and Urbanska, who had finished their canvass of the eight apartments that had not responded earlier. Hentz and Urbanska pushed some of the lobby chairs over to a couch in a secluded corner so that the four of them could sit and spread their notes on the low table while they shared their findings.

“No help from any of them,” Elaine Albee reported. “Two of them are still out of town.” She gestured toward the elevator. “According to Sidney Jackson, neither apartment was occupied this weekend. 2-A is something in the movie business and goes out to California for weeks at a time. The people in 11-C own a condo in Florida and always spend January and February down there.”

“I talked to the Peterson kid from 11-B,” Urbanska said. “He spent the weekend skiing with some cousins in Vermont. He also says Antoine’s lying if he says he stole the elevator anytime lately. He swears he only took it once. Over a year ago. His parents heard about it and took away his cell phone for a week, so that was his only time.”

As the others talked, Albee leaned back in her chair and looked through the two glass doors to the dirty snow heaped along the sidewalk. She found herself thinking about sunshine, blue water, and palm trees. Then Jim Lowry came up from the basement to join them and the afternoon felt suddenly warmer. She patted the broad armrest of her chair to offer him a perching place.

Surprised, Lowry took it. She had held him at arm’s length for so long, he had almost given up. Now he reported that he had separately interviewed the two porters on duty and he, too, had spoken with Sidney Jackson again. “To hear them tell it, they’re just one big happy family here. They don’t think Lundigren liked Antoine much, but they don’t know why. Both porters agree that Antoine doesn’t like Sidney because he only laughs when the Wall boy steals the elevator. They say Antoine doesn’t like to be laughed at and he’s always bitching about privileged kids. On the other hand, Vlad Ruzicka says he saw Antoine give Corey some money Friday afternoon.”

Sigrid frowned. “Not the other way around?”

“Maybe Corey sold him something his mother hasn’t missed yet,” Hentz suggested.

He proceeded to bring the other three up to date on their interview with Mrs. Wall, her admission that Corey had a gambling addiction, that he got the money to gamble by selling things he stole from the Wall apartment, and that he was supposed to have gone sledding Saturday morning, yet never made it.

“And his sled is still in the basement,” Sigrid said.

She turned to Hentz. “Try calling that Narsetti boy. If he lives just around the corner, perhaps he’ll come down and talk to us.”

All through this session, people had passed in and out through the lobby. Various delivery people came and went, including FedEx, Postal Pizza, and a dry cleaners. Now one of the building’s older residents approached from outside, pulling a loaded shopping basket behind her. Urbanska jumped up to hold the inner door open and was rewarded with a sweet smile. Close on her heels came a tall and gangly teenage boy who followed the woman toward the elevator with a cell phone in one hand and a latte in the other. As he passed them, his phone rang and he answered immediately just as Hentz said, “Drew Narsetti? This is Detective Hentz of the NYPD. Mrs. Wall—”

“Hey, cool!” the boy said, turning back to them. “I never had that happen before. I’m Drew. Are you the detectives Mrs. Wall said were trying to find Corey? She asked me if I’d come talk to you, but I really don’t know where he is.”

He sat down on the couch next to Hentz, unzipped his jacket, and took the lid off his coffee. The warm aroma of caffeine and hot milk filled the air and the detectives looked at it longingly, but none of them wanted to risk the lieutenant’s displeasure.

“Where did you get that?” Sigrid asked.

“There’s a coffee shop on the corner. Want me to get you one?”

“I’ll go,” said Urbanska as the others quickly dug in their pockets. She took their money and their orders, then hurried out.

Drew Narsetti seemed like a nice all-American, Mom-and-apple-pie kid—shaggy brown hair that was squeaky clean and a long thin face that seemed to have escaped most of the ravages of acne. He told them that he and Corey had been friends since their sandbox days when their mothers used to push their strollers over to the park. “He’s five days older than me and we’re in the same class.”

“When did you last speak to him?” Sigrid asked.

“To actually talk to? Yesterday morning. I was his wake-up call. He didn’t think he’d hear the alarm. But we were texting back and forth till like midnight. He was at a beach party here in the building and he freaked when he heard their super got killed.”

“Did he send you pictures?”

The boy gave a reluctant nod.

Hentz held out his hand for the boy’s phone. “May I take a look?”

Drew took a long swallow of his latte to hide the embarrassment that suddenly reddened his face. “Well… see… I mean, like he didn’t know somebody was going to get killed.”

With a wry smile, Sigrid said, “And there were girls in bikinis?”

He gave a sheepish nod. “One of ’em was smokin’ hot.”

“We may already have those,” Hentz said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “We asked everyone who had taken pictures to send us copies. It helps us document who was on the sixth floor Saturday night.”

Drew hesitated then, with a what-the-hell shrug, said, “Let me pull up just the ones he sent, okay?”

“Fine. And I’ll forward them to our computer, if that’s all right with you?”

The boy nodded.

“Let’s talk about yesterday morning,” Sigrid said. “Did Corey sound as if anything was bothering him?”

“No, everything was cool. I called him at like a quarter to nine and told him where we were meeting to grab a bite before heading over to the park. He was a little down about the super. He really liked the guy and couldn’t understand how he’d get killed right there with a party going on down the hall. He said his mom was really bummed about it, too. She’s the head of their co-op board. But he said he’d see us at the diner. We waited till almost nine-thirty, but he never showed. I called and texted, but he didn’t answer. Just blew us off.”

“Has he blown you off before?”

“Not like this. He usually lets me know if he’s changed his mind.”

“No problems at school?”

“He’s flunking trig, but not like what you mean.”

“What about at home?”

Again the hesitation, and he seemed grateful when Sidney held the lobby door open for a florist with a cellophane-wrapped plant and for Urbanska, who carried a cardboard tray loaded with paper cups of coffee thick with foam. If the teenager had hoped that the coffee would bring a change of subject, he was disappointed.

Even as she uncapped her latte, Sigrid said, “Is he gambling again, Drew?”

He gave her a startled look. “You know about that?”

“His mother told us. She also told us about the stealing.”

“So is he?” Hentz asked. “Gambling again?”

It was almost painful to watch the conflict between loyalty and truthfulness in the boy’s face. After a long silence, he said, “Yeah.”

“Where’s he getting the money?”

That got them a defensive negative shrug.

“He doesn’t have anything left to hock and he’s not stealing from his parents, so who is he stealing from, Drew?”

“He’s not stealing from anybody.”

Sigrid looked up from her coffee as she registered the faint stress the boy had put on the unexpected word. “He’s not stealing? Then who is?”

Drew stood up so quickly that his gangly limbs almost knocked over his cup. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You need to find Corey and ask him all this stuff. Anyhow, don’t I have a right to an attorney?”

“Sit down, please, Drew,” Sigrid said with a calm level look.

Albee watched, fascinated. There was nothing menacing in the lieutenant’s manner, but Elaine had never seen her lose a staring contest. Although the teenager clearly wanted to leave, his shoulders drooped in defeat and he did as she asked.

“The day man here. Antoine. Corey gets money from him.”

“Why?”

Silence.

Elaine Albee leaned forward sympathetically and in her most coaxing voice said, “We know you don’t want to rat your friend out, Drew, but if we’re going to find him, we need all the facts. He may be into something over his head.”

Again they saw the conflicting emotions.

“You won’t tell anybody I told you? Not Corey or anybody?”

Albee glanced at Sigrid, who said, “We can’t promise that until we know what it is, but we’ll do whatever we can to keep your name out of it.”

He slumped down in the chair. “He has something on Antoine.”

“He’s blackmailing Antoine?”

Drew nodded.

“How? What’s Antoine done?”

“Corey says Antoine’s been stealing from some of the apartments. See, the super’s wife is like a klepto or something, so everyone thinks it’s her. I don’t know how Corey found out about it, but he did and Antoine pays him to keep quiet about it.”

“He’s still stealing?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“The stealing or the blackmail?”

“Both.”

“I don’t know. Like, a couple of months maybe? Not for much. Just enough to get him into a poker game once in a while.”

“Where’s the game?”

“Now that I really don’t know. Honest. It’s some office building down in the Fifties. He’s never said and I don’t ask. I think he’s pretty good. He says he wins enough pots that with what he gets from Antoine he can keep playing once a week. He’s like trying to taper off, you know? Like when you quit smoking or drinking? He used to want to play almost every night. Now he’s down to only Tuesday or Thursday night. It’s crazy. I mean, we all like to play cards once in a while, but just penny-ante stuff. I can understand coke or meth. That messes with your body. Changes your chemistry.” He looked at them in bewilderment. “But gambling? How can it mess with your head that much?”

And of course, they had no answer to the boy’s plaintive question. After a few more questions of their own, they thanked him and let him go.

Sigrid looked at her watch. Nearly five o’clock. “Let’s talk to the porters again. See if they know more about Corey and Antoine. Are they still here?”

“Vlad Ruzicka is, I know,” Lowry said. “He was on his way out to shovel the sidewalk when I came up. Tomorrow’s their pickup day and he had to make a place to set the bags.”

“Let’s see what else he knows,” Sigrid said as she took a final swallow of her coffee. “Might as well add our cups to his trash.” She picked up her parka, which had been lying on the back of her chair, and realized that she had forgotten to tell them about the flip-flop that Deborah had found. She took it from her pocket to show them and Hentz immediately recognized that the earring stuck in the sole was a mate to the one they had found in Lundigren’s hand.

“I doubt there are any usable prints on it,” she said, handing the bag to Urbanska. “Judge Knott and I both handled it before we realized what it was, and I suppose Luna DiSimone did, too.”

“I’ll have it checked,” Urbanska promised.

Hentz still had Lundigren’s keys and he led the way across the lobby, unlocked the door to the stairwell, and held it for the others while Lowry rang for the self-service elevator.

Dinah Urbanska paused and looked up at him. “What do you think, Sam? Is our killer the person who wore that flip-flop or is it Antoine Clarke? And has Clarke killed the Wall boy?”

“Let’s hope not,” he said grimly.


When the elevator doors opened, they found themselves face-to-face with the excitable Vlad Ruzicka. The big ruddy man was white-faced and spluttering. “Thank God! I was just coming to find you. Oh my God, I can’t believe it! It’s horrible!”

“Calm down,” said Lowry. “What’s happened?”

Ruzicka immediately grabbed Lowry’s arm and dragged him through the outer door where two large wheeled garbage bins sat ready to roll up to the curb for tomorrow’s pickup. At the top of the ramp, on the sidewalk, the lid of a third bin was raised. “So heavy. Like a ton of lead. I said maybe somebody tossed another set of encyclopedias or some bricks or something, so I opened it up and oh my God!”

Lowry leaned over the open bin and gingerly turned back the top of a black plastic bag.

A young man stared back at him with open lifeless eyes.

“Oh shit,” he said when he realized who it was.

Bracing herself, Sigrid stepped forward to look into the bin. Instead of the white teenage boy she expected, she saw the narrow chinstrap beard that outlined Antoine Clarke’s dead face.