tournaments associated with the park had been a stepping-stone for such legends as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Dr J.
There was quite a crowd when we pulled up, had to be a few hundred people in the aluminum stands. There was also an MC and even boom cameras and lights as two brightly uniformed three-on-three teams went at it. As I pulled behind Brooklyn’s double-parked cruiser, the crowd exploded in laughter and Bronx cheers as some lumbering six-five fifteen-year-old blew a slam dunk.
I sat in the back of the cruiser and shook Du Maurier’s hand. Du Maurier was a slim, neat, diminutive light-skinned black man in a dusty, threadbare tuxedo. His strange getup struck me as a cross between a magician and Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp. He nervously clutched a folding easel to his chest with both hands like it was an instrument he was about to play.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?” the seventy-something man said, rocking back and forth as he stared out at the crowd. He didn’t give me any eye contact. I wondered if he was maybe autistic.
“If you could be quick about it, please, Officer. That’s MTV filming in there. I don’t see these kinds of crowds that often.”
“That can wait, Mr. Du Maurier. I need your attention. I also need you to be perfectly honest with me. Did an officer speak to you yesterday? A female officer?”
“Yes, she did. A young woman with reddish-blond hair,” the street artist said, rocking even harder now as he began to bite a thumbnail.
“Detective Chist, no, Chast was her name,” he said, flicking a quick look in my direction. “I told her about what I saw a few nights ago, those men in the abandoned building by the subway.”
“Where did she speak to you?”
“At my apartment. Twenty-three forty-one Lenox Avenue, five J.”
“There’s a problem, Mr. Du Maurier. Officer Chast was found dead this morning. She was murdered.”
The old man stopped rocking momentarily as his eyes went huge.
“Murdered?” he said. “What? How? By who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said. “Now, specifically tell me what you talked about.”
Du Maurier grabbed at his hair as he stared intensely at the cruiser’s floor mat.
“Just how I saw the men sitting around the grill, about the tied-up girl. I gave her the license plate number I took down.”
“Do you still have the license plate number?”
He stared at me almost fearfully.
“No. I gave her the paper I had written it on. Holy moly.”
He was really tugging at his hair now. I wondered if he was going to rip some out.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with her death, do you? Please, I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Ask anyone. I can’t believe I’m caught up in this. I was just trying to be a good citizen, a good citizen.”
“It’s OK. Calm down, Mr. Du Maurier,” I said, patting the little old man’s shoulder as he began to weep. “I just have one more question. This building where you saw the men. What’s the exact address again?”
CHAPTER 33
THE BUILDING ON LENOX was old and crumbling and had a creepy, vaguely Gothic look to it.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of it with Doyle, I saw that instead of a front door, it had an aluminum riot door with a thick laminated steel padlock. On the hood of the rolling gate, there was a sticker with the name of the Realtor, Luminous Properties, along with a phone number. But even after two calls during which I let it ring a long time, no one picked up.
“What do you want to do now?” Doyle said, giving the steel gate a savage, frustrated kick.
“Let’s use your head to bash a hole through the gate,” I said as I looked up and down the block. “On second thought, let’s take a walk.”
We walked the two blocks back to Du Maurier’s building. My theory was that Naomi had left the man’s apartment and headed straight to the abandoned building. As we walked, I searched for security cameras that might have picked Naomi up. But
There was quite a crowd when we pulled up, had to be a few hundred people in the aluminum stands. There was also an MC and even boom cameras and lights as two brightly uniformed three-on-three teams went at it. As I pulled behind Brooklyn’s double-parked cruiser, the crowd exploded in laughter and Bronx cheers as some lumbering six-five fifteen-year-old blew a slam dunk.
I sat in the back of the cruiser and shook Du Maurier’s hand. Du Maurier was a slim, neat, diminutive light-skinned black man in a dusty, threadbare tuxedo. His strange getup struck me as a cross between a magician and Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp. He nervously clutched a folding easel to his chest with both hands like it was an instrument he was about to play.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?” the seventy-something man said, rocking back and forth as he stared out at the crowd. He didn’t give me any eye contact. I wondered if he was maybe autistic.
“If you could be quick about it, please, Officer. That’s MTV filming in there. I don’t see these kinds of crowds that often.”
“That can wait, Mr. Du Maurier. I need your attention. I also need you to be perfectly honest with me. Did an officer speak to you yesterday? A female officer?”
“Yes, she did. A young woman with reddish-blond hair,” the street artist said, rocking even harder now as he began to bite a thumbnail.
“Detective Chist, no, Chast was her name,” he said, flicking a quick look in my direction. “I told her about what I saw a few nights ago, those men in the abandoned building by the subway.”
“Where did she speak to you?”
“At my apartment. Twenty-three forty-one Lenox Avenue, five J.”
“There’s a problem, Mr. Du Maurier. Officer Chast was found dead this morning. She was murdered.”
The old man stopped rocking momentarily as his eyes went huge.
“Murdered?” he said. “What? How? By who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said. “Now, specifically tell me what you talked about.”
Du Maurier grabbed at his hair as he stared intensely at the cruiser’s floor mat.
“Just how I saw the men sitting around the grill, about the tied-up girl. I gave her the license plate number I took down.”
“Do you still have the license plate number?”
He stared at me almost fearfully.
“No. I gave her the paper I had written it on. Holy moly.”
He was really tugging at his hair now. I wondered if he was going to rip some out.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with her death, do you? Please, I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Ask anyone. I can’t believe I’m caught up in this. I was just trying to be a good citizen, a good citizen.”
“It’s OK. Calm down, Mr. Du Maurier,” I said, patting the little old man’s shoulder as he began to weep. “I just have one more question. This building where you saw the men. What’s the exact address again?”
CHAPTER 33
THE BUILDING ON LENOX was old and crumbling and had a creepy, vaguely Gothic look to it.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of it with Doyle, I saw that instead of a front door, it had an aluminum riot door with a thick laminated steel padlock. On the hood of the rolling gate, there was a sticker with the name of the Realtor, Luminous Properties, along with a phone number. But even after two calls during which I let it ring a long time, no one picked up.
“What do you want to do now?” Doyle said, giving the steel gate a savage, frustrated kick.
“Let’s use your head to bash a hole through the gate,” I said as I looked up and down the block. “On second thought, let’s take a walk.”
We walked the two blocks back to Du Maurier’s building. My theory was that Naomi had left the man’s apartment and headed straight to the abandoned building. As we walked, I searched for security cameras that might have picked Naomi up. But
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