I’m not complaining when I say that I don’t have a lot of friends inside the New York Police Department. Oh, I’ve got a couple of dozen acquaintances on the force, which is impossible to avoid, given my line of work. There’s Inspector Cramer, of course, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins, both of Homicide, and both of whom I respect for their honesty and their devotion to duty. But I can’t call them friends any more than they would refer to me that way; there simply is too much adversarial baggage in our longtime relationship. Let’s not forget the earlier-mentioned Lieutenant Rowcliff, also of Homicide, whom I neither like nor respect — and the feeling is mutual. And there are others Wolfe and I have crossed paths with through the years, men — and a couple of women — I know by name. But friends? No — with one exception.
He is LeMaster Gilliam, and I have known him for at least fifteen years, maybe a few. more. Gilliam is as honest as Cramer, as dedicated as Stebbins, and infinitely more civil than Rowcliff. He battled his way up and out of one of the poorest and roughest ghettos in the Bronx and into college, CCNY, from which he got a degree. I first met him when he was an energetic young patrolman and I was working with Wolfe investigating the apparently accidental death of a dockworkers’ union official.
Gilliam had found the guy’s body floating just off a Hudson River pier and was the only member of the NYPD who thought he’d been murdered. Wolfe, who had been hired by the union, listened with interest to this rookie cop’s theory as to why the accident explanation didn’t wash, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, after weeks of digging, and with Gilliam’s unofficial help, Wolfe nailed the murderer, making sure Cramer knew that one member of the force had been of invaluable help.
LeMaster Gilliam still swears that was the beginning of his rise through the ranks. Maybe, but with his smarts, he was going to rise regardless. Our paths have crossed periodically since then, and once he mentioned with pride that he had a high school daughter who played the violin “like an angel.” I passed her name along to Lon Cohen. After some nosing around, Lon ordered up a feature story on Sharelle Gilliam, who was described in a Sunday Gazette piece as “a brilliant prodigy with a great future.”
The article, so Gilliam says, was a major factor in Sharelle’s getting a university scholarship, and she has gone on to play with a number of big-time symphony orchestras. Her father was so grateful that he told me if I ever needed a favor, I should but ask. Attempting to take advantage of that gratitude, I invited him to sit in on our Thursday poker games, where he joined Saul and Lon in helping to lighten my pockets until he got switched back to a night watch.
I didn’t mean to go on so long, but the man needed an introduction, especially because it was him I was going to see at One Police Plaza; Lieutenant LeMaster Gilliam now is head of Missing Persons for the department. “Archie Goodwin!” he roared when he’d been told I was waiting in the anteroom. “How the hell are you?” He pumped my hand with a meaty paw and steered me into his spartan office, which at least had a view of the small park in front of the building where flowering trees were showing off their blossoms.
“No complaints,” I told him. “What’s Sharelle doing these days?”
The smile got almost as wide as his broad chest. “Living in Chicago, and for a musician, that’s the best of the best,” he boomed. “Their ball teams may not always be so hot, but they’ve got the world’s finest damn orchestra, and she’s in it. Joined just last year. They’re coming to Carnegie for a concert next month, and guess whose proud parents are going to be fifth-row center? But I don’t think you ventured all the way Downtown just to ask about the world’s most-talented young violinist, did you?”
I allowed as to how I did have some business and pulled out the photo of Clarice, giving him what few particulars I had and conceding it wasn’t much to go on. Gilliam studied the picture, making a clucking noise with his tongue. “You say she hasn’t been reported as missing, huh? Well, the chances are that if she is in Manhattan and has disappeared, she doesn’t want to be located — probably for one, of two reasons.”
“Drugs or prostitution, right?”
Gilliam nodded. “Or more likely, both. But let me run a check to see if there’s another explanation.”
“Such as, an unidentified corpse that you now can put a name to?”
“You said it, Archie, I didn’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “By any chance are we looking for this woman, too?”
I grinned. “No, and it’s because you guys in authority don’t think a crime has been committed. But Nero Wolfe does.”
He returned the smile. “Why does that particular scenario sound familiar to me? And why does it take me back a whole bunch of years?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ve got to get back to work. We’re in the middle of something big right now. Then I’ll run a check on your Ms. Wingfield, or whatever she’s calling herself. Mind if I get back to you later today?”
What could I say to that? How many cops apologize for not being able to help instantly when you’ve barged in on them unannounced? But that’s LeMaster Gilliam for you.
I left one of the photos of Clarice with him and grabbed a northbound taxi on Centre Street. Eleven minutes later I was at Childress’s building in the West Village. In the entrance hall, I pushed the buzzer above CARLUCCI — SUPER, and I got a muffled “Yeah?”
“I’m here about Charles Childress,” I said into the speaker, getting an answer that, assuming I heard it right, I’m not going to share with you. I waited for close to a minute and was about to lean on the buzzer again when a scowling Carlucci burst into the foyer.
“You know, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” the super snarled. I don’t think he’d changed his clothes since I’d last seen him. “People all the time comin’ around and — hey, you been here before, right? Insurance investigation, right?”
I gave him my facts-and-figures nod. “Sorry to bother you again, but this won’t take long. We’re looking for some of Mr. Childress’s relatives, one of whom may have visited him here. Do you recognize this woman?” I pulled out a picture of Clarice and held it toward him.
He frowned, then squinted at the likeness. “Like I told you before, I don’t pay a lot of attention to comings and goings — I got plenty else to do. But she does look familiar, yeah. If I had to bet, I’d say she’s been here before. In fact...”
“Yes?”
He ran a thick paw over the off-white stubble on his jaw and took another look at the snapshot. “Now I can’t say for sure, because it was dark, but a few weeks back — more’n a month now — I was out in front of the building here, tapping down some of the bricks. A couple years ago, the guy who owns this place put a lot of dough into fixing it up — new windows, tuck-pointing, new iron railings, fancy coach lights, and a bunch of other stuff. Well, he also got the bright idea that it would look fancier to brick over the little patch of grass, which was mostly weeds and dirt anyway. Well and good, except the bricks were laid without mortar, and in the winter, the ground freezes and heaves ’em up so they’re uneven. So what happens? I end up trying to level ’em up again. And that’s what I was doing one night in March when a woman — coulda been the one in that picture, although the hair’s a little different now, shorter I think, she comes out the front door, and she’s screaming over her shoulder to Mr. Childress, who’s standing in the foyer.”