Three-Day Town

Chapter


7


It is generally supposed that the police of a city have but one duty to perform, namely to arrest law-breakers; but the New York police have other things than that on their schedule.



—The New New York, 1909



SIGRID HARALD—SUNDAY MORNING

When Sigrid joined him in the kitchen of 42½ Hawker Street on the edge of Greenwich Village, Roman Tramegra said, “Oh, good! I was about to tiptoe down the hall to see if you were awake yet. Have you seen the snowdrifts? A perfect winter morning for a hearty breakfast.”

Her housemate flourished his whisk at her and, in a deep voice that was a mixture of cinema English and educated Midwest, said, “What will it be, my dear? Hash browns, quiche, omelets, or waffles?”

Now in his early fifties, Roman fell somewhere between friend and surrogate uncle. He was an overly adventurous chef and his culinary experiments were often inedible, but breakfast was usually safe.

“An omelet would be good. Just cheese, though.”

“Only cheese? Not a few jalapeño peppers or chopped shallots and tomatoes?”

“Cheese,” Sigrid said firmly, and when Roman brought out a hunk of something with an odd color, she emended it to, “Cheddar cheese.”

Sighing, he returned his first choice to the refrigerator and exchanged it for the familiar orange wedge.

Sigrid poured herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose the paper came?”

“Actually, it did. At least there’s a plastic bag wedged in the snowbank inside the gate.” He broke two eggs into a bowl and gave them a brisk stir with the whisk. “I suppose you should get it before it’s completely buried.”

Sigrid smiled. Despite his bald dome and portly size, there were times that Roman reminded her of a large fluffy cat. He had a cat’s aversion to strenuous exercise and to the cold and wet. Snow might be beautiful, but that did not mean he wanted to walk across their small enclosed courtyard in it.

“If you go out for it, do you think you could manage to walk backwards?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s for my book. I want to see if a killer could make it look as if he only came in after a snowfall. Not that he went out.”

“It wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “Sorry. It’s not just the shoe tracks. Snow this deep will show which direction the legs were moving.”

Sigrid had first met Roman through one of her mother’s impulsive charitable acts. Due to an improbable set of circumstances, he had wound up camping in her tiny guestroom, and when her building went condo, he took it upon himself to find her a new apartment. Several frustrating fiascos later, he had brought her to this house built onto the side of a commercial building near the river on one of the shortest streets in Greenwich Village. The half-furnished rooms formed a sort of flipped L shape around a small courtyard with a high fence. The kitchen, utility room, and maid’s quarters were on the short segment, with a master suite on the long segment, along with a living room, dining area, and guestroom. The eccentric space was much too big for one person, yet the rent he quoted was quite reasonable.

“What’s the catch?” she had asked suspiciously.

“I have to live here, too,” he confessed. “It belongs to my godmother. Some of the furniture has been in her family for four generations, and I seem to be the only person she’ll rent the house to. I’ll live in the maid’s quarters and I promise I shan’t get in your way. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

That had not proved even remotely true, but Sigrid found that he was less intrusive than she had feared, and there were times that she was even grateful he was there. When Nauman’s death sent her into a deep depression, Roman’s constant presence and determined badgering had helped bring her out of it.

He had a magpie curiosity about everything that crossed his path and was entranced to learn she was a homicide detective, because he wanted to write mystery novels and thought she would be a handy resource. She could not convince him that most of her cases were open and shut and came with very little mystery attached. All the same, she could and did clarify points of police procedure for him, and she was quite touched when he dedicated his first book to her.

He had now written four books, and they were moderately successful. None had made the New York Times bestseller list, but they did sell well enough to pay his share of the rent, rent he now paid to her.

Buying this house was her only big indulgence after Nauman’s death, and his robe still hung in her closet. It no longer held the scent of his mellow pipe tobacco or aftershave, but merely touching it once in a while comforted her in ways she would not try to analyze.

There was a snow shovel in the utility room, and by the time she had cleared a short path out to the newspaper and made sure the gate could be opened, Roman had sautéed peppers, onions, and tomatoes for his own omelet and was ready to lay the plain cheese one on her plate.

She shook the snowflakes from her coat, slipped off her boots, and joined him. However, instead of lingering over the paper and a third cup of coffee as was usual on Sunday mornings, she ate quickly and told Roman that she would be going in to work.

“But it’s still snowing.” He gestured first to the window and then to the tiny television screen that hung under one of the cabinets. The sound was off, but they saw a reporter standing in Central Park. Falling snow frosted her bare head. Behind her, skiers and sledders were happily frolicking in the deep drifts. “Most of the crosstown streets are blocked. People are skiing from their apartment buildings straight over to the parks. They’re asking people not to drive. Cars are skidding into each other everywhere.”

“Our street may not be plowed,” she said as she put her plate in the sink, “but I’m sure West or Sixth will be passable. I’ll have a car pick me up.”

Roman looked at her with sudden eagerness. “You never go in on Sunday unless it’s something interesting. And to brave the elements? Do tell!” He immediately began scanning the pages of the metro section. “Would it be in today’s paper?”

“I doubt it. And it’s not that interesting except that the murder weapon is probably a little bronze model my grandmother sent up for Mother.” Knowing that he would not leave it alone until she defused his interest, she gave him a bare-bones synopsis of last night and then went down to her room to dress.

9:15 and Grandmother Lattimore had always been an early riser, so she dialed the 919 area code. After two rings, a soft Southern voice answered, “Lattimore residence.”

“May I speak to Mrs. Lattimore?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the unfamiliar voice. “Mrs. Lattimore is sleeping. May I take a message?”

Surprised, Sigrid identified herself. “Grandmother’s not sick, is she?”

“She said she was just a little tired, ma’am, but I’m sure she’ll be awake soon.”

“Tell her I’ll call back this afternoon after church.” Her grandmother might be past ninety, but she had an iron will and Sigrid doubted that a little tiredness would keep her from Sunday morning services.

Moments later, she was speaking to a desk sergeant at a nearby precinct house who promised that he would have a car meet her at the corner of the closest uptown street.


At the office, Sam Hentz gave a tight smile when he saw her and held out his hand to the others, who groaned and handed over their dollar bills.

Sigrid seldom bantered with them, but their chagrined looks amused her and she paused to push back the hood of her white parka and unwrap the fleecy turquoise scarf that had protected her face from the worst of the icy wind sweeping off the Hudson when she made her way to West Street earlier.

“What?” she said. “You thought a little snow would keep me home?”

“Some of the drifts are three feet high in places,” said Urbanska.

“So how did you get in?” Sigrid asked.

The younger woman grinned. “Snowshoes. My brother sent me an old pair of his as a joke last year when we got those four inches, and I mushed over to my regular subway stop.”

“Very resourceful,” Sigrid said dryly.

If Hentz occasionally reminded her of a Doberman pinscher, Dinah Urbanska was a golden retriever—just as friendly, just as eager to please, if no longer quite as clumsy as when she first joined the department and they had all learned to keep coffee cups, laptops, and stray chairs out of her path. The sounds of broken glass or a “Jesus Christ, Urbanska!” followed by a string of curses as detectives rescued a pile of now-muddled case files from the floor were less frequent these days, but there were times when a crash from the squad room would penetrate Sigrid’s office and make her wonder yet again why Hentz, who normally kept himself slightly aloof from the others, had appointed himself her mentor. Under his tutelage, though, the klutzy young woman had become a good detective.

Sigrid hung her outerwear on a coat tree in her office, then came back into the squad room for a cup of coffee and the morning briefing.

Yesterday’s rain and snow had caused a dip in the usual Saturday night violence. A brawl outside a popular club had sent two men to the emergency room, another had been stabbed at a poker game, and an old woman was badly clubbed because she would not give her son money, but Phil Lundigren was their only homicide. Citywide, his was the first of the year. Last year, less than five hundred cases had been documented and the homicide rate kept dropping. Murder by gunshot still led the statistics, with blunt instruments a distant third. If they could shut off the trafficking of illegal guns from other states, the number of murders could be cut by half. In the meantime, the city’s controversial stop-and-frisk program did seem to be finding fewer and fewer guns.

Turning to their case, she learned that Hentz had already briefed them so that they were up to speed and ready to get the wheels moving.

“Any word from the ME yet?” Sigrid asked.

“Not yet,” said Hentz.

“What about Mrs. Lundigren?”

“Still under sedation,” Urbanska reported. “Yanitelli stopped by on his way in to work and got her prints.”

She set her own coffee cup on the edge of her desk and flipped open her notebook. Hentz reached over and moved the cup away from her hands before she could forget it was there and send it flying.

“The doctor on duty’s going to give her a mental evaluation this morning. He said we could probably question her after lunch, and if that goes okay they might release her this afternoon and let her go home.”

Sigrid turned to Hentz. “She told us she had no relatives. What about him?”

“None that the elevator man knew about. Want me to get a search warrant for the apartment? See if there’s anything there to point us toward his killer?”

She nodded.

With an urban detective’s disdain for someone who drawled like a hick, Hentz asked, “What about the stuff that was stolen from Sheriff Mayberry and his wife?”

“Major Bryant and Judge Knott?” Sigrid remembered that Kate had once said that her brother-in-law was former Army Intelligence, but why spoil it for Hentz? “It would appear that the only things taken from that apartment were an earring and a small bronze sculpture that my grandmother had sent up with them.”

That statement hung in the air for an awkward moment. Only Urbanska was artless enough to look up from her notes and say, “Your grandmother, ma’am?”

“Judge Knott is distantly related to her.” Her tone did not invite further exploration of that relationship.

“What’s this sculpture thing look like?” asked one of the detectives.

“I’ve only seen pictures, but it seems to be several small male figures crammed into a roughly cylindrical shape about the size of a tall beer can.” Her slender fingers sketched the size and shape.

“Solid bronze?” Hentz asked.

Sigrid nodded.

“That much metal would have real heft to it. We didn’t find anything in the apartment that looked as if it had been used to clobber the victim. You think that could be our murder weapon?”

“Very possibly. I’m told that it could be valuable, so when you’re questioning the people who were at the DiSimone party last night, concentrate first on anyone who might have an art background.”

While Sam Hentz went off to find a judge who would sign a search warrant for the Lundigren apartment, Sigrid handed out the day’s assignments. In addition to last night’s violence, there were ongoing investigations into a mugging and some burglaries, and an arrest was imminent in a rape case. Detectives Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry were tasked with interviewing Luna DiSimone, who flatly refused to try to come to the station when they called her that morning.

“She says the snow’s too deep,” Albee reported, wrinkling her pretty nose in scorn.

“Then you’ll have to go to her,” Sigrid said. “We need a complete list of everyone who was there last night, especially anyone with a knowledge of art.”

It occurred to her that perhaps Deborah Knott or her husband could email them the pictures on their digital camera, so she went into her office and called Deborah’s number. One ring and a male voice said, “Deborah Knott’s phone.”

“Elliott?”

“Sigrid?”

She glanced at her watch. “You’re out early.”

“I never left,” he said and explained about his missing overcoat, his shoes, and the sold-out hotel. “The Bryants were kind enough to offer me a room, and I took it. It was after two before we got to bed, though, and I don’t think they’re awake yet, but if you want I can knock on their door and—oh, wait a minute! Hang on, here’s Bryant now.”

She heard Buntrock explaining, and a moment later Dwight Bryant said, “Lieutenant Harald?”

“Sorry to bother you, Major, but I saw that your wife has her laptop and I was hoping one of you could send me a picture of that maquette that my grandmother sent up?”

“Be glad to if Deb’rah brought along the little gizmo that reads the camera card.”

Sigrid gave him the address, then asked to speak to Buntrock again.

“Elliott, I’m sorry about last night. I’m told that you expected me to come back up to the sixth floor. I didn’t realize.”

“No problem,” he said easily. “Miscommunication on my part.”

“We’re on our way over there in a few minutes. Will you still be there?”

“If I haven’t totally worn out my welcome here, sure.” She heard an exchange of male voices, then Buntrock said, “Bryant says we’ll keep the coffee hot.”


Five minutes later, they were looking at a picture of the Al Streichert maquette, the scale easily discernible because of the hands that held it. The picture filled the screen.

“Holy shit!” said Lowry, and Albee giggled. “Talk about cocksuckers.”

As their focus switched from the penises to the caricatured faces, their grins faded and Albee, who was Jewish, took an involuntary step backward as she worked out what it depicted. One of the black detectives said, “This is your grandmother’s?”

“I haven’t talked to her yet,” Sigrid said. “I don’t know why she had it.”

He flashed her a cynical look. “She’s Southern, isn’t she?”

Sigrid’s cool gray eyes met his warm brown ones. “Not all Southerners are racist, Johnson.”

“If you say so, ma’am.”

“I do say so.”

Ray Johnson shrugged and turned back to the screen.

“Make some printouts,” Sigrid told him as the others went back to work. “It’s disgusting, but it may be valuable and it may also be our murder weapon.”

Lowry broke the tension by handing her a list of sixty-seven separate names that had been gathered at the murder scene. A touch typist, he had entered the names into the computer, with Albee and Urbanska double-checking to make sure none were left off. He finished sorting them alphabetically and printed out several copies to take over to the apartment building.

Sigrid pointed to two of the names. “Elliott Buntrock and Charles Rathmann are both tied into the art world and should be able to name any others. Buntrock’s still at the building, but call Rathmann and invite him to come down and help us.”

She took a copy for herself and told them to leave the handwritten sheets and a printout on Detective Tildon’s desk. Tillie shone at detail work like this and Sigrid planned to turn him loose on the list when he came in the next morning. She was quite sure he would soon have each name cross-referenced five or six different ways so that he could eliminate any guests who had been together all evening and could alibi others.

By the time Hentz got back with the search warrant, Lowry had signed out a car. Broadway was clear enough for them to make decent time, although the windshield wipers had to labor to push the falling snow aside. While it helped that today was Sunday, which meant fewer vehicles on the streets, the sidewalks were lined with piles of snow so high that with the thickening flakes it was hard see the jaywalking sledders and skiers headed for the park before they stepped out into the street.

The detectives were two blocks from Luna DiSimone’s apartment building when Sam Hentz’s phone rang. He answered, then murmured, “ME’s office.”

He listened intently for a moment or two and his face registered total surprise. “What? The hell you say!”

He hung up the phone, shaking his head in disbelief. “Turns out that the Phil may be short for Phyllis. Lundigren was a woman.”