Brooklyn Wars Page 9

  What a drama queen. This little old lady in trouble? But I did try to get her to take her story to the police while Lisa tried to get her to tell us more. That was when she stood up. “We are done. You have nothing for me and I’m not talking about Mike’s secrets to anyone.”

  Lisa tried to ask some more questions but Mary threw open the door to her apartment and stood there, waiting.

  “If you are not out right now, I will call the desk. Believe me, this building has security on call.”

  We looked at each other and knew it was time to go. We didn’t say a word until the elevator doors closed, and after the person riding in it got off at nine. Then we couldn’t stop.

  “She is a character. I love this job! And she shouldn’t think she can hide all the secrets, either. I’m on it for real now.”

  “She said he was afraid. Wow, right? And she feels like she has to keep his secrets, but we don’t, right? I’m talking to that police lieutenant tonight, for sure.”

  “Okay, but can you keep quiet about me?” Lisa grabbed my arm as we reached the lobby but she held the button that kept the door closed. “Please? Because he might give me a hard time about asking questions. Or even, not trust you because you know me? Cops don’t like reporters much.”

  “What? Oh, okay, I don’t have to mention it, I guess. But I won’t lie if he asks. Deal?”

  “Fair enough.” She let the button go and the doors slid open to impatiently waiting riders.

  “What a day!” She almost bounced, walking down the street. “I’ve got to get back to the office or I’d say let’s have a drink.”

  “No matter. I’ve got to get home.”

  Chapter Nine

  Later, Detective Ramos turned out to be fortyish, average height, polite and confident. Good hair. Neat, casual clothes. Nice. I still didn’t remember him. He didn’t drive a police car but one of those anonymous American models favored by plainclothes cops.

  We drove right up to the Navy Yard gate. The guard looked at his badge, made a phone call and waved us through. We parked in the museum driveway. The nice thing about riding with a cop is that he can park anywhere. Perhaps only a New Yorker can truly appreciate that pleasure.

  The stop was just a courtesy call, I thought. He could go wherever he wanted. The rest of the property isn’t open to the public. It is now a humming beehive of small manufacturing and includes a very private film studio. No casual visitors allowed. I knew that and suspected he did too, but of course now it was also a crime scene.

  The young woman at the desk smiled brightly. “Let’s get someone to show you around.”

  A minute later, there she was, a sixty-ish woman with short gray hair and a body that was all muscle. “I am Dr. Randi Hartz, the museum director.” She shook our hands firmly. “Call me Randi. What can I do for you?”

  After all the explanations, she offered to show us around herself. “It’s lucky I have a little time right now.” She smiled. “How can I resist a plea to support both scholarship and crime-solving?”

  And keep us from going anywhere we didn’t belong?

  Detective Ramos agreed, with the understanding that she could not listen in or participate in any questioning he did with me. She smiled somewhat coldly. “Do you think I have nothing else to do but play cops and robbers?” She hoisted a large file of papers. “I’ll be working when you are.”

  She set off at a brisk pace and we followed until she stopped. “Now you need to lead the way to where you went that night.”

  “It was dark so I’m not sure…but I was trying to go toward Admirals’ Row.”

  “You couldn’t have gone far. That area is gated and locked. It’s too unsafe to have people wandering around there. Our board is afraid of an accident and a lawsuit. Rightly, I suppose.” She pointed down the path. “Anyway, come on this way. This is where you must have walked.”

  I followed, feeling a little sick as I walked back toward the neglected, woodsy area where I had witnessed the murder. I told myself the crime had nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.

  We soon came to a dead stop where the crime-scene tape was still up.

  When a cop approached us, he called Detective Ramos “Sir” and allowed us in. Detective Ramos indicated that Dr. Hartz should keep back now, and then he turned to me, “Let’s start with you standing exactly where you were then.”

  “Here, I think.” I stood where two paths crossed. “I stopped because I was trying to figure out which way to go next.”

  “And where was the light coming from?”

  “Over there.” I pointed to the nearest pole that had dimly lit the path. “I guess.”

  “So you’re standing here. Paved path, but woodsy. Yes?” He spoke softly, even gently. “What do you feel on your skin? What’s the weather like?”

  “Um, getting chilly. Late fall weather and it’s nighttime.”

  “Do you smell anything?”

  “No. Wait. Yes. A little moldy smell. Like from fall leaves piling up. I smell it now.”

  “And what do you hear?”

  “Voices. People were talking, coming out of the meeting.”

  “Where are those sounds coming from?”

  “Over there.” I waved. “Beyond the trees.”

  “Can you see any of those people? Take a minute and think about that. Or can you hear what they are saying?”

  I shook my head. “No. It was like kids getting out of school. Loud voices all at once. I couldn’t make out anything, and I wasn’t trying. I did feel safer, hearing them, and knowing I wasn’t really alone, even though I was alone right here.”

  “You were alone here? How did you feel?”

  I couldn’t see the point of this. He guessed at my impatience. “I’m trying to take you back to that moment.”

  “I felt a little nervous, and a little, I don’t know, disappointed. I wasn’t going to see much in this night walk, and I was ready to turn around. Then there was a sound from under the trees. Rustling.”

  “What did you think about that?”

  “An animal, maybe? But it sounded big. It sounded too big for a squirrel or a feral cat.”

  “Could it be a person?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re doing great.” He smiled. “Tell me what happened next.”

  “I saw a shape in the dark, like a moving shadow. A person-shaped shadow, but I couldn’t see more than that. And then he turned a little, like I told you, but it put him in the light. In the split second, I saw a pale face and hands, and I knew, somehow, he was old. Or not young, anyway.”

  “How old?”

  “I have no idea. It was only a second.”

  “All right. Close your eyes and remember. Now. What did you see that made you think ‘old’?”

  I tried. I tried hard but there was nothing. And then, to my astonishment, there was. “Gray hair.”

  “Ah. Very good. Any facial hair? Mustache? Beard?”

  “I don’t know!” I heard my voice rising. I don’t like not having answers.

  “You’re doing fine.” His voice was calm, even soothing. “Fine. Only a few more questions. Take a deep breath.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Now close your eyes again. Very good. Think about this moment. What do you see?”

  “Pale face. The hair, gray, peeking out from under something dark. A cap.”

  “Why are you sure it is a man? What do you see?”

  I did see something. “Stubble! Stubble on his face. Or something like that. I’m seeing gray skin.”

  “What next?”

  “He moved and he was back in shadows again. I saw him lift a shadowy arm with something at the end. Then…a loud sound I knew… and then it’s all a blur.”

  I let out a deep, shaky sigh and Detective Ramos smiled. “I can tell you are at the end. You
’ve done great. If anything else comes to you, be sure to contact me immediately, okay?”

  “Sure. But there isn’t any more.”

  “Oh? Look at all you remembered today. I went to a hypnotist to quit smoking. Maybe we’ll get her in to work on you next time.”

  He laughed when he saw my horrified look. “Just kidding. But you might have more hidden away in the brain cells, so stay alert to them, okay?”

  I was exhausted and sweating, even though we had done nothing but talk and the air was chilly. And when the detective shook my hand, I felt a strange connection, as if we had shared a moment of intimacy. That added confusion to my exhaustion.

  “Dr. Hartz? Do you have more to do with Ms. Donato, or should I offer her a ride home?”

  “You’re done?” She came back toward us checking her watch. “I have some time.” She turned to me. “Would you like a little private tour? Something less traumatic? Detective?”

  I nodded but Ramos shook his head. “Duty calls. Ms. Donato, thank you. You’ve been a trooper.” He smiled. “Get in touch if you have any more strange phone calls.”

  “But have you learned anything about the last one?” I saw my chance and took it. I wanted to know if he knew more, now, than I did.

  He smiled apologetically, but shook his head. No new information? Or none he would share?

  “Does that mean…?”

  “Ms. Donato,” he interrupted, “thank you.” And he was gone. Before I could go after him with my questions, Dr. Hartz said, “Come on.” She went off briskly in a new direction. “I have an idea, and I know you’ll enjoy this more than your grilling by that cop.”

  A paved walk ahead, a loop, and then we were at a fence. It was a big fence, tightly padlocked. Through it I could glimpse the ghostly houses of Admirals’ Row. I pressed my face against the fence, trying to see it all.

  “Let’s go.” She winked at me and waved a large bunch of keys. “Don’t go one step anywhere on your own. Okay? Because if you get hurt, I am in big trouble.”

  I thought she might have her priorities wrong about me getting hurt, but I was happy to agree.

  The houses were lovely. Of course I am biased. I like old houses. I bought my own old house, not a lovely one, against many parental lectures about a bright split-level house on Long Island.

  They had simple, classic, early nineteenth-century exteriors but the proportions made them beautiful. They were still beautiful but they were dying. Dr. Hartz moved a large fallen branch that lay across our path. A difficult walk through overgrown vegetation took us to a house covered with vines, like in a fairy tale.

  We got close enough to peep in. An elegantly curved staircase but rubble all over the floor, a hole in the ceiling, finely molded plasterwork crumbling and stained.

  “Officers stationed at the Yard lived here with families. Once upon a time, there used to be children here, dinner parties, dancing, holidays. Music. They found a rotted piano in one. The strings were all chewed up by animals.”

  She pointed to the house where half the building had collapsed, and we could see the crumbling rooms within. It was like looking into crazy derelict dollhouses. There was a bathtub upstairs, an old coal range in a kitchen. Delicately stenciled walls and a young tree growing in the dining room.

  “You know about Matthew Perry? The admiral who opened up Japan? He was the Yard commander for a while; he lived right over there.” She pointed to the largest house.

  In another, there was a bathroom piled with rubble and rotting wood. And there were beer bottles, wine bottles, a piled-up nest of now sodden blankets, a makeshift set of table and chairs.

  I pointed and Dr. Hartz shook her head. “Oh, yes, there were problems with squatters over the years. And of course teens sneaked in just because the fence challenged them not to. When the buildings were still fairly safe, it must have been a tempting private space. Not now.”

  She looked sad. “Ten years ago they could have been saved. Some of them, anyway. We have photos at the museum if you’d like to see how they looked then. Now they are too far gone.”

  Once again I was torn between being a historian, mourning loss of the evidence of the past, and being a social historian, knowing that the new supermarket and the jobs it would bring would change lives in the neighborhood. So, farewell and hail. In the city, the only constant is change.

  In the next house, where there was still a roof, we saw a large pile of bottles and cans from hash and spaghetti and soup. The labels were still intact. And a cheap manual can opener and a camp stove. A radio and a sleeping bag rolled up and wedged into a doorless cabinet.

  “Damn. I see we still have squatters here.” Dr. Hartz whipped out a phone and took pictures. “We should go now. I have to go raise hell with security.”

  We walked away quickly. “I can’t help feeling compassion.” Dr. Hartz’s voice shook a little. “But they are not safe. It is truly dangerous.”

  “People are living there? Invisible to everyone? It feels like real ghosts.” I shuddered. “Ghosts even while they are still alive, haunting a place that is gone.”

  “What an admission for a historian! Ghosts, indeed!” Then Dr. Hartz added, “Not to say that we haven’t had our ghost stories over the years. But believe me, whoever is eating those cans of hash is no ghost.”

  A small beep startled us back into the real world. She looked at her watch. “I don’t have time to deal with this now. I have a meeting coming up.”

  We did not stop at the crime scene. In fact, she led me back on a different path entirely. It was a relief to emerge into the bustling working part of the property.

  “Thank you for taking me there and giving me a chance to look at this before it’s gone.”

  “I must run. If needed, can someone talk to you about what we saw? That evidence of a squatter?”

  I replied that of course they could, but I was sure no one would need to. I was done with the Navy Yard of today, the physical place. I needed to get back to work on the Navy Yard of history, which lived on only in the documents.

  Chapter Ten

  As it turned out, I was not done. Not even close. Very early the next morning, pink dawn-sky early, there was a pounding my front door, alternating with persistent doorbell-ringing.

  “Mrs. Pastore, what in the world?”

  “I gotta talk to you right now. I know it’s too early. I know. But I have Annabelle at my house and she is raving. You got to come over.”

  “What? Now? But I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand neither, but it seems like she’s mad at you. Come on! Get your coat on!”

  So I left a note for sleeping Chris and got my jacket. Mrs. Pastore was a good neighbor and could also be a force of nature when she needed to be. I knew I had no choice.

  The sweet elderly woman I had met was gone. In her place was a raging fury, pacing back and forth in the Pastores’ old-fashioned, cluttered kitchen. Her tired old eyes were now bright with anger.

  “They came to see me, the cops. Because of you.”

  “Annabelle. Honey. You know you already talked to them before this.”

  “Yeah, well, they came back. And they wanted to know about an old love of Michael’s. An old, old love, from back when we were kids. Erica told them all about her. They wanted to know who she was and what I know about her.”

  She sat down suddenly, arms crossed, mouth in a grim little line.

  “And? Did you tell? Did you even know?”

  “I told them nothing. They have no right to paw over my private life like that.”

  “But they do.” I thought I was being the voice of reason. “They…”

  She started to cry. “All those years. All those years. I knew about some of the other women, sure. I didn’t like it. What wife would? But I didn’t know he was still seeing her. She was some little tramp, even then, yo
ung Mary Pat O’Neill as she was then. I can’t remember her married names. A real man trap.”

  Mrs. Pastore handed her a box of tissues.

  “I think they were going to Jennifer too. Something one of them said…” She pulled a phone from her pocket and hit one button. “Jennifer, it’s me. Call me right away. It’s very important.”

  “I didn’t know it mattered, after all these years,” Annabelle whispered. “Funny, isn’t it?”

  The doorbell rang, ripping into her grief.

  “At this hour?” Mrs. Pastore grumbled as she went to the front of the house. She returned looking grim followed by a younger woman in a long fur coat. Younger, I thought on second look, but not as young as she wants to seem.

  She and Annabelle hugged, and she let the fur coat slip to the floor. In jeans and a glittery sweater, high-heeled boots and makeup at this early hour, even dressed down she looked dressed up.

  I was in the yoga pants I had been sleeping in when Mrs. Pastore came to my door.

  “What are you doing here? I called you this minute. How did you find me?”

  “I called a car right after the cops left. And your housekeeper knew me and told me where you went.”

  She looked right past Mrs. Pastore’s hostile eyes, ignored me, and turned to Annabelle. “We are in some trouble, you and me.”

  “So they did find you too? Those cops?”

  “You do remember I am the actual widow? Of course they found me. They shouldn’t even still be coming to you. They should be leaving you alone and dealing with me.”

  “ I suppose they had to question us, once someone with a big mouth told them.” She flashed an angry stare at me. “But you? You don’t go back far enough to answer questions about Mary Pat.”

  “Very true. I couldn’t tell them more even if I wanted to, which I don’t, but they talk to everyone.” She ran her hands through her glowing blond hair in a gesture of frustration. Or perhaps, instinctively showing off.

  “It doesn’t look good to have cops coming to my door. I’ll be hearing from my co-op board tomorrow, I’m sure. It’s not what they expect on Park Avenue.” She almost chuckled and Annabelle almost smiled. “If she was one of Mike’s other women, how would I even know which one?” She paused. “You know Michael. He lived his own life.”