They walked quietly up the stairs and found apartment 3D. Dino put his ear to the door. “TV is on,” he whispered.
They took up positions on either side of the door.
Dino knocked firmly. “Hello?” he said, imitating the super’s accent. “It’s the super here.”
Nothing.
Stone listened to the door but heard nothing but the TV.
Dino knocked again, this time louder. No reply. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it as quietly as he could. As the door opened, the TV got louder. “Hello?” he called. “It’s the super here; I’ve got the plumber with me to check the plumbing.”
No reply.
Dino nodded at Stone and, as they had done a hundred times before, they went in, guns out ahead of them. They went from room to room, which didn’t take long, since there were only three of them.
“We’ve got two different shoe sizes here,” Stone called from the bedroom, “and a lot of empty hangers in the closet.”
Dino came into the bedroom. “What else?”
“Top drawer of the dresser is empty and open.”
“You think the other guy ran?”
They walked back into the living room, just as the TV station cut to the news desk.
“We’ve got more on that arrest on Third Avenue this afternoon,” the newscaster said. “Let’s go back to the scene and Maria Jones.”
The station cut to a young woman with a microphone, standing outside a dry cleaner’s. “Thanks, Bob. I’ve been able to confirm with the shop owner that the man who was arrested outside this dry cleaner’s shop earlier today is a dead ringer for a drawing that the police ran in Sunday’s New York Times. He is apparently connected with a Herbert Mitteldorfer, an ex-convict being sought by police for questioning in at least five murders and the bombing of an art gallery last week. I’m going over to the precinct now and talk with the police. Back to you, Bob.”
“Well, if that was the second report, I guess our guy saw the first one and lit out.”
“And the first thing he would have done is call Mitteldorfer,” Dino said.
Stone looked around. “There’s no phone here.”
“Shit,” Dino said.
They could hear cops pounding up the stairs. Andy Anderson was the first through the door.
“Andy, tape this place off, then get a team in here and turn it over very carefully. There was a second occupant besides Erwin Hausman; look for anything that could tell us who the other guy is, and anything that might tell us where to find Mitteldorfer.”
“Yes, sit,” Andy replied.
“Anything from Hamburg, yet?”
“No, sir, and nothing from Interpol, either.”
“Keep on them,” Dino said.
“Dino,” Stone said, “we need to talk. In the car.”
55
JEFF BANION, THE PARK AVENUE DOORMAN, was on duty when a taxi pulled up to his awning. He hurried to get the door, but as it opened, he saw that the cab’s occupant, who was paying the fare, was not likely destined for Jeff’s building. He stepped back to the front door and let the man deal alone with closing the cab’s door.
Then, to Jeff’s surprise, the young man came toward him. He was short, his hair was cut so closely as to make him nearly bald, and he was roughly dressed in baggy clothes and heavy boots. He was carrying a nylon duffel. “Can I help you, sir?” Jeff asked, not moving away from the door.
“I am seeing somebody in this building,” the man said with a thick accent.
“And who would that be, sir?”
“Mr. Howard Menzies.”
This did not add up at all to Jeff. “And what business would you have with Mr. Menzies?”
“I am having private business,” the young man said.
“Your name?”
“Peter Hausman.”
Jeff looked him up and down. “Wait right here, please,” he said. Jeff went inside and spoke to Ralph, the new desk man. “I’ve got a suspicious character out here who wants to see Mr. Menzies. Is he in?”
Ralph consulted a list of the building’s occupants. “Yes, unless he went out through the garage.”
“Get him on the house phone; I want to speak to him.”
Ralph dialed the number and listened. “Mr. Menzies? Jeff, the doorman, would like to speak with you.” He handed the phone to Jeff.
“Hello, Mr. Menzies?” Jeff said.
“Yes, Jeff, what is it?”
“There’s someone down here wanting to see you, but I wanted to speak to you before I let him in.”
“Who is it?”
“He says his name is Hausman, Peter Hausman.”
There was a long moment’s silence on the line, then Menzies spoke. “Oh, yes, that’s my nephew. He was in town for my wife’s funeral last week. Please send him up.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Menzies, but could you describe your nephew, please? I want to be sure it’s the right person.”
“He is about my height, has very short hair, and dresses rather oddly,” Menzies replied.
“Does he have an accent?” Jeff asked.
“Yes, he does.”
“I’ll send him right up,” Jeff said. He walked back to the front door and opened it. “Come in,” he said to the young man. “Take the elevator to the sixteenth floor; Mr. Menzies is expecting you.”
Hausman said nothing but went straight to the elevator and pressed the button.
Jeff felt he had covered himself, but he didn’t like having someone like that in the building. The other apartment owners wouldn’t like it, either, he knew.
“Jeff,” Ralph said.
Yeah?
“Carlos called in sick, and it’s recycling day. Would you please put the cans and newspapers out?”
“Sure, Ralph,” Jeff said. He didn’t like doing this very much, but there was no one else. He took the other elevator to the garage level, where the bags of recycling material and bound newspapers waited in a corner. He hung his uniform jacket and cap on a hook, pressed the button to open the garage door, and went to work. He humped the bags up to the street, four at a time, then turned to the heavy newspaper bundles. The people in his building sure read a lot of newspapers, he thought. He had never seen the attraction, himself. He sometimes watched the local TV news, but the news, in general, seemed to have little to do with him.
He broke a sweat with the newspapers, and as he piled the last bundle on top of the others, something caught his eye. On the front of Sunday’s Metro section was a drawing of a man, and he looked alarmingly like the young man he had just let into the building. There was also a photograph of another, older man.
Jeff eased the section from the bundle and read the story accompanying the pictures. The young man in the drawing had bushy hair, but otherwise was a ringer for this Peter Hausman. He turned his attention to the photograph of the older man. There seemed to be a familial resemblance between the two, and the older man looked a little like Howard Menzies, except that Mr. Menzies had a little beard and, of course, hair. The man in the picture was bald on top, so he couldn’t be Mr. Menzies.
He tore the story from the paper, folded it, put it in his pocket, then returned the Metro section to the bundle of newspapers. As he did so, he heard a car start in the garage, and, a moment later, Mr. Menzies’s Mercedes came up the ramp with Hausman at the wheel and Menzies in the front passenger seat. Menzies gave him a smile and a wave, and Jeff returned it.
Jeff went back into the garage, closed the door, put on his coat and cap, and went back upstairs in time to help a lady with her packages. When he had a moment, he took out the clipping and read the story again. Seven murders. He shuddered.
He reflected that, if he had not been personally acquainted with Howard Menzies, he might have called the police number in the story, but a gentleman like Mr. Menzies could never be involved with something like this. He wasn’t so sure about the nephew, though. He’d have to think about that.
Jeff put the clipping back into his pocket and went to get the door for someone.
56
BACK IN DINO’S OFFICE, STONE ASKED TO use the phone and called Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld. He’d called earlier, but Eggers had been late coming in.