Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case Page 7

  “I called ahead. The building super is expecting us,” Vic said while staring at his cell phone.

  “You expecting a call?” I asked.

  “Tate’s doing some paperwork on another case. He’ll be calling soon most likely. He’s getting tired of this one. Thinks we’ve hit a dead end. I’m not so convinced.”

  “Well, let’s find out.”

  We walked up to the front hallway, and Vic buzzed the super. A voice came over the static-filled line heard through a dirty, chrome speaker that was built into the wall.

  “Yes,” the voice said.

  “Mr. Lopez? It’s Detective Ortega. We spoke earlier.” Victor turned and looked at the security camera and waved.

  “Okay. I’m coming down.”

  The door buzzed open and we walked inside. The lobby was fairly modest for this neighborhood, but the building was no dump. It had my place beat, that was for sure. I took a seat on a wood bench. Vic stood.

  As a bell rang and the elevator doors came open, I stood up from the bench. A man walked out: mid-thirties, well built but not especially stocky. Dark hair and dark complexion. Clean shaven. He wore a sky blue work shirt with white pinstripes and the word Juan was written over the breast pocket in red script lettering.

  “Good afternoon, officers.” He spoke with an accent but wasn’t hard to understand.

  “Hi, Mr. Lopez. Good to see you again,” Vic said.

  “You can call me Juan, officer. That’s fine.”

  “Okay, Juan. I’m Victor Ortega. We spoke a few times in the past.”

  “Sure. I remember.”

  “This is Hank Mondale.” Vic paused and Juan and I shook hands. “Hank’s a private investigator. He’s helping me out with the case. Okay?”

  “Anything I can do to help. I’m happy to do. Mrs. Olsen was a very nice lady. But I already told you everything I know. There’s nothing new.”

  “I totally understand. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I’m sure you have plenty to do around here.”

  He laughed and his thin upper lip curled. “Just the usual. Keep the building in order. I don’t mind a quick break. I could use a cup of coffee. You fellas want?”

  “Sure,” Vic said.

  “Okay. Come to the office.”

  We walked down a hallway, then stopped at the first door. Juan opened it. Inside was a messy office. There was a desk with papers piled high, a counter with some more papers and junk mail piles, and a coffee maker. There was one cushy chair behind the desk and a few hard, plastic chairs pushed against the wall. Vic and I each sat down on a plastic chair.

  “I’ll make a fresh pot.” Juan began making the coffee.

  “Okay, Juan. Again, I know you’ve been through this, but maybe Hank can spot something that the rest of us missed. Just walk him through what happened.”

  “Well, Mrs. Olsen walked her dog every day two times. Once in the morning, once in the evening. Same routine. That day, she walked her dog, same as always. I was outside taking out the trash and I waved to her as she went by. Nothing special.”

  I took out my notebook but didn’t write anything down.

  Juan looked up at me, then continued. “A little later, her neighbor, Mrs. Younger call me and said there was a loud racket coming from Mrs. Olsen’s room. That I should come quick. At first, I don’t hurry.”

  “No?” I asked, more to let him know I was paying attention than anything else.

  “Mrs. Younger is an old lady. She complain a lot.”

  “About noise?”

  “About noise. About light. About darkness. About pets. You name it. She’s lonely. Husband die long time ago, now she just complains a lot. Not a bad lady but she can get on your nerves from time to time.”

  “I gotcha. We all have neighbors like her.”

  “Right. So at first I don’t think it’s a big deal. But then I get a second call. From Mr. Papadakos. He says he hears noise from Mrs. Olsen’s apartment. Mr. Papadokos don’t bother nobody. So, now I think I better go check it out. Make sure Mrs. Olsen’s okay.”

  “Sure. So you went upstairs.”

  “Yes. I go to her door and knock. I hear the dog bark and some muffled noises. I don’t know what to think. Maybe she have heart attack. Who knows?”

  “So you let yourself in.”

  “Yes. I use my key and let myself in.”

  “And then?”

  “I barely have time to think. As soon as I open the door, the woman inside was waiting for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “She run me over, like a freight train or something. It was crazy.”

  “A woman ran you over like a freight train. Describe her.”

  “I already told Detective Ortega what she looks like.”

  “Please, Juan. Bear with me.”

  “Okay. Okay. She ran over me so fast. But I got a pretty good look. She was pretty lady.”

  “Pretty? What way?”

  “Pretty hair. Nice business suit. Look like a classy lady to me.”

  “A classy lady?” I said. “Help me, Juan. I need more.”

  “I’m trying my best, Detective.”

  “I know you are. Did she have any unusual features?”

  He looked at me funny, so did Vic.

  “Anything out of the ordinary? Anything…” I couldn’t think of a way to put my question that would make sense, so I just asked, “Did any part of her look inhuman?”

  “Hank?” Vic asked, clearly puzzled.

  “She look like regular lady to me. Like I say, pretty, classy lady.”

  I shook my head. “Look, Juan. You’re a pretty big, fit guy. You’re telling me a pretty, petite, forty-something-year-old white lady in a business suit ran over you like a freight train?”

  He threw up his hands. “She surprised me. I didn’t know she would be there.”

  “I understand. But you said a freight train. She was that strong?”

  “Hank,” Vic cut in. “Take it easy. I think the coffee is ready.”

  I took the hint, stood up and began filling three crummy-looking mugs with coffee. The bottoms were stained and they may not have been washed since the last time they were used.

  Then, Vic said, “Juan, no one is accusing you of anything. We just want information. We’re trying to catch the person who did this.”

  “Exactly,” I said, handing them each a mug filled with black coffee. “No one is implying you did anything wrong. I’m just trying to get a sense of what happened.”

  “I tell you what happened. She caught me off guard. That’s all.” He took a sip of the hot coffee, then a deep breath. “But like I say, she did seem very strong for such a little lady.”

  I nodded, then looked at Vic and sighed, “Strong lady.”

  “Guess so.” Vic agreed.

  Despite being fresh, the coffee tasted like shit, like the beans had been sitting in the dusty cabinet for months and the water was stinky and over-chlorinated. I put the mug down on the countertop and said, “Juan, how about after that? The woman barreled over you and then it’s believed she ran down a staircase.”

  “Yes,” he said as he nodded, then slugged from the mug; he didn’t seem to mind the taste. I guess he was used to it. “I heard the staircase door open and shut. It’s a heavy fire door. Makes a lot of noise when it slams shut. She didn’t take the elevator. I’m sure of it.”

  “Can you show me the staircase?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked back to the lobby. Vic must have put his mug down somewhere while Juan carried his. We took the elevator to the fourth floor. We stepped out into a carpeted hallway, and I looked up and down the corridor.

  Juan walked down the hall then stopped in front of a door. “This is the Olsen’s apartment. The lady, she run this way.” He walked past us then to a door with a well-lit Exit sign above it. “Then she go this way.” He pushed open the door and we followed. “Then, she run down four flights. My first thought was to chase her. But once I got to my feet, I decide to call 911
instead. I didn’t know if Mrs. Olsen was dead or what. She need help. I think at the time it was more important to get her help than to chase that lady.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

  We descended down the steps, and I didn’t see anything of interest. No clue the police missed. Nothing. Once down the steps, a doorway led out to the main lobby.

  “That’s all I know,” Juan said. “I’m sorry I can’t do more for you.”

  “Anything else, Hank?” Vic asked.

  I stopped, paused, shook my head back and forth, then said, “No. You’ve been a great help, Juan. I apologize for dragging you away from your work.”

  “No trouble, Detective. No trouble at all. If you have more questions, you let me know. Like I said, Mrs. Olsen was a nice lady. She tip me good at Christmas time. Ask me how’s my family. You know, treat me nice. If I could help you find that crazy lady who did this, I will.”

  “Thanks again, Juan,” Vic said, then we walked outside. Once outside, Vic said, “What exactly were you going for?”

  I decided to play dumb, at least for the time being. “What do you mean?”

  “Was there anything inhuman about her? What kind of question was that?”

  “You have to admit, a skinny, pretty woman running over that guy seems a bit much.”

  “She caught him off guard. He wasn’t expecting it.”

  “It still doesn’t quite add up.”

  “Are you saying you think that guy is mixed up in this?”

  “Nah. I just think we’re missing something here.” I looked around at the surrounding neighborhood. It seemed pretty normal. A few residential buildings, cars racing by on the FDR Drive just to the east. Nothing. “Vic, Juan said he saw her walking her dog while taking out the trash, right?”

  “So?”

  “Let’s check it out. What could be the harm?”

  “Fine.”

  We walked up the alleyway on the side of the building. Next door was a modern high-rise with balconies facing the East River. When we reached a row of trashcans, we stopped.

  “So Juan must have been taking out the garbage here,” Vic said.

  I looked down the alley. You could see the street fairly clearly.

  “Yeah, he saw Mrs. Olsen and waved.” I said.

  “Big deal. Come on, Hank. There’s nothing to see back here but garbage.”

  I looked up, then around. Vic was right. We walked back towards the car.

  “Hey, Vic,” I said. “You know anything about Bill Palmer? A missing persons case?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  I knew Victor Ortega since we went to public school together in the Soundview section of the Bronx. I knew I could trust him.

  “He’s business partners with Thomas Blake. Supposedly he’s gone missing.”

  A look of recognition filled his eyes. “Ah, yeah. Now I know who you’re talking about. The Thomas Blake thing. The way I heard it, a lot of people think Blake had something to do with the guy going missing. But who knows?”

  “Who has the case?”

  “Well, the guy lives in Westchester County, so it’s being investigated up there. But he also had an office in Manhattan. I hear there was some cooperation from our guys at one point. But they don’t have anything.”

  I nodded. We reached the car and got inside. Vic started it up then turned to me.

  “Is that who you’re working for? Thomas Blake?”

  There was no point lying to Vic. He’d spot it anyway.

  “Yeah. He hired me.”

  “To investigate this case? Why? Does he know Ginny Olsen somehow?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Vic smiled. “I know you’re holding out on me.”

  I looked down and rapped my knuckles together.

  “I’ll let it go…for now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But if you have anything that can help my investigation…” I cut him off.

  “Come on, Vic. If I have anything, you’ll know as soon as I do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right now I’m just on a hunch. He knows nothing about your case.”

  “Okay. But I don’t like you holding out on me.”

  “I know. Now when can you take me up to the Bronx?”

  “The Bronx? Is this what I think it is?”

  “Come on, Vic. I need to check into the dead hooker. Maybe there’s a connection.”

  “To what?”

  “To Blake, okay. To Thomas Blake. But it’s not the kind of connection you think.”

  “I don’t like it, Hank.”

  “Just trust me on this.”

  “You know I trust you. But give me a little something, here.”

  “Okay. Blake thinks someone is trying to kill his daughter.”

  “Wow. Really? And he’s hired you to protect her?”

  “No. He’s got his own muscle.”

  “So he’s hired you to find the guy.”

  “Yeah. Basically. He thinks someone is trying to kill his daughter…and…”

  “And what?”

  "Nothing, nothing. I think, maybe. Just maybe, your case has something to do with his case. Okay? Is that enough for now?”

  Vic nodded his head. “Okay. I’ll make some calls and take you up to the Bronx.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  * *

  Vic lined things up then we met the next morning and took his police cruiser uptown. We were to meet the detective from Bronx Homicide who was working the hooker case.

  “His name is Howie Barnes,” Vic told me as we drove over the Third Avenue Bridge and skyscrapers gave way to midsized tenements. “I don’t know him well, but I’ve heard he’s pretty cynical.”

  “Aren’t all Bronx homicide detectives?”

  “Every one I’ve ever met,” he said with a snort. Then in a more serious tone, he said, “It’s the job. Dead hookers. Murdered drug dealers. Shit like that every day. It gets to you.”

  “I know.”

  Vic looked over at me. “I guess they should appreciate the job they have.”

  Vic knew I’d take that job in heartbeat. But I had a few skeletons in my past that pretty well guaranteed I’d never be a ‘real’ cop.

  The bridge let us out on the Major Deegan Expressway and we got off in the West Fordham section. Vic took Burnside Avenue up to Jerome. We pulled a U-turn on Jerome and stopped in front of the McDonald’s at the corner of Burnside and Jerome Avenues.

  “Looks like he’s not here yet,” Vic said. “He said he’d meet us right out front of the Mickey Ds. Figured it would be easier to meet here at the scene than over at the stationhouse.”

  “Okay. I guess we have a few minutes to kill. You want anything?”

  “I’ll take us through the drive-thru.”

  “Nah. I want to stretch my legs anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  I got out, leaving Vic in the car. His window came down as I walked away and he called out, “May as well get me a coffee.”

  “No problem.”

  I walked towards the front entrance to McDonald’s, but didn’t go inside. Instead, I continued down the block and turned into a bodega just across the south side of Burnside Avenue. There was a man in a turban behind the counter with a long black beard with gray flakes in it. He looked worn, as if he’d been manning that cash register for many years, nonstop.

  “You have fresh coffee?” I asked.

  “Yes, officer.” Not surprising he assumed I was a cop, as I was the only Caucasian guy in a suit in the store, and it was fairly busy. “Right behind you.”

  He pointed to a counter and I saw the pot, then fixed two cups. I walked towards him to pay and he said, “No need, sir. Coffee is free for New York’s finest.”

  “Thank you. Listen, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  He looked at his watch and his neck shifted as he sold a pack of cigarettes to a customer. “Is everything alright, officer?”


  “Absolutely. I just need to ask you a few questions, about an investigation I’m conducting. It doesn’t have to be this second.”

  He looked at his watch again. “Okay. My wife will be here in about half an hour. Would that be okay?”

  “Perfect. See you then.” I offered him two singles. “You sure you don’t want me to pay for the coffee?”

  He smiled. “No, sir. Just tell your men to watch out for me. I’m opened twenty-four hours, you know.”

  “I understand. It’s not easy making a living these days.”

  “No, sir. It can be difficult.”

  I held up the coffees in salute, stacked them on top of one another, and used my free hand to push open the door.

  Once out in the street, I saw a second unmarked police cruiser double-parked next to Vic’s. Vic was standing on the sidewalk and Detective Howie Barnes was leaning on his tan Crown Victoria scarfing down a Big Mac. Judging by the way his belly was bulging out from underneath his white, stained and untucked dress shirt, it was clear this wasn’t the first burger Detective Barnes had enjoyed.

  “Oh, you didn’t bring one for me,” Barnes said as I walked up.

  “Here. Have mine.” I said as I offered a cup to him while handing the other cup to Victor.

  “No. No. I never take another cop’s coffee. It’s bad karma.”

  “Actually,” Vic broke in, “Hank’s not a cop. Howie Barnes, this is Hank Mondale. Hank’s a private investigator and a very old friend of mine.”

  Barnes looked me up and down as if I had mad cow’s disease, then took a bite of the burger and said, “A private dick? What’s a private dick doing on this case, Victor?”

  “He’s just helping me out. Okay?”

  He gulped down the burger but didn’t wipe the sauce from his chin. “Whatever. I’m just surprised a private dick gives a rat’s ass about a dead crack whore.”

  I took a sip of my coffee while biting my tongue. Normally, I’d tell this guy where he could shove that Big Mac, but this case was too important to me to blow it on this asshole.

  “Okay, Howie,” Vic said, maintaining a smile. Victor always knows when to turn on the charm. “Just run us through what you know. I still think there’s something we’ve missed along the way that can help me with my case.”