hung up their coats herself
when they got back.” I said it with emphasis. “The coats were there when she left the apartment.”
“You think someone put it on and walked out.”
“I do.”
“Because his clothes were bloody.”
“Yes.”
He made a little whistling sound. “You could be right.”
“There’s more. She told O’Connor, but he kind of waved it off. Said it was Easter Sunday and he was in a rush.”
“Hungry,” Jack Brooks said.
I laughed. “I know. Cops always think of their stomachs first. She called the precinct the next day and told someone about the missing coat.”
“Not O’Connor.”
“He wasn’t there.”
“So that’s lost.”
“Maybe not.” I was surprised at my own enthusiasm and optimism. “She remembers that she left the message with someone who had a name like a fruit.”
“A fruit?”
“That’s what she says.”
“I never heard of anyone named Joe Peach.”
“Well, maybe something will occur to one of us.”
“You know, there was a guy named Applebaum here a couple of years ago. I think his father was on the job. Let me look into it.”
“Applebaum,” I echoed. “I hadn’t thought of anything like that.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve been busy. I’ve got something for you, too. I found O’Connor.”
“You did!” I was ready to jump for joy.
“Retired and lives in Valley Stream, Long Island. I’ve got his number here.”
“Shoot.”
I wrote it down, glancing at my watch to see if I could decently call. I couldn’t. It wasn’t nine yet.
“I’ve talked to him myself so he’ll be expecting to hear from you. Sounds like a boring old guy who sits and watches TV all day. You know where Valley Stream is?”
“Roughly.”
“You can take the Throgs Neck Bridge and get on the Cross Island. Shouldn’t take you too long. He can probably give you directions if he can tear himself away from the screen.”
“I’ll call in a little while. When you get to work, could you look up the Talleys’ apartment number? Magda says there was a problem with the people downstairs.”
“Will do. But I don’t want you ringing doorbells.”
“I’ve already done it.”
“Chris, this is New York. It’s full of crazies.”
“I’ve just talked to a couple of people who remember the day of the murder. A little old lady in the apartment house and a man across the street, both in their eighties. The man remembers coming home from church and seeing all those blue-and-white police cars.”
“They weren’t blue and white.”
“What?”
“Not in 1950. They were green and white. Either he doesn’t remember or his memory’s gone.”
“He was so sure,” I said. “I wrote it down just the way he said it.”
The whole side of the street was filled with blue-and-white police cars.
“Sorry.”
“I’d better go back,” I said.
“Call O’Connor first. But go easy. This was his case, and he
knows
he handled it right.”
“I’m all tact.”
“I’ll get back to you with the Talleys’ apartment number.”
—
Kevin O’Connor’s wife answered when I called. Her husband was out playing golf but should be back by ten or ten-thirty. He liked to play early, before it got too hot.
I got in the car and drove over to Greenwillow. James was out in the garden, presumably pulling weeds and picking up litter. I went out back and stood near the building, watching him. He looked lost, as though someone hadn’t given him thorough enough instructions about what to do. He was in his shirt-sleeves, looking down at the ground, not moving. From where I stood, I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, if anything.
I felt an immense wave of sorrow. Here was a man who, although retarded, had once possessed gifts so remarkable that he was the subject of study and the object of wonder. Now he had lost everything—his brother, his mother, his gifts, even the simple skills he had mastered as a child.
I walked over to him. As I approached, I saw a small
when they got back.” I said it with emphasis. “The coats were there when she left the apartment.”
“You think someone put it on and walked out.”
“I do.”
“Because his clothes were bloody.”
“Yes.”
He made a little whistling sound. “You could be right.”
“There’s more. She told O’Connor, but he kind of waved it off. Said it was Easter Sunday and he was in a rush.”
“Hungry,” Jack Brooks said.
I laughed. “I know. Cops always think of their stomachs first. She called the precinct the next day and told someone about the missing coat.”
“Not O’Connor.”
“He wasn’t there.”
“So that’s lost.”
“Maybe not.” I was surprised at my own enthusiasm and optimism. “She remembers that she left the message with someone who had a name like a fruit.”
“A fruit?”
“That’s what she says.”
“I never heard of anyone named Joe Peach.”
“Well, maybe something will occur to one of us.”
“You know, there was a guy named Applebaum here a couple of years ago. I think his father was on the job. Let me look into it.”
“Applebaum,” I echoed. “I hadn’t thought of anything like that.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve been busy. I’ve got something for you, too. I found O’Connor.”
“You did!” I was ready to jump for joy.
“Retired and lives in Valley Stream, Long Island. I’ve got his number here.”
“Shoot.”
I wrote it down, glancing at my watch to see if I could decently call. I couldn’t. It wasn’t nine yet.
“I’ve talked to him myself so he’ll be expecting to hear from you. Sounds like a boring old guy who sits and watches TV all day. You know where Valley Stream is?”
“Roughly.”
“You can take the Throgs Neck Bridge and get on the Cross Island. Shouldn’t take you too long. He can probably give you directions if he can tear himself away from the screen.”
“I’ll call in a little while. When you get to work, could you look up the Talleys’ apartment number? Magda says there was a problem with the people downstairs.”
“Will do. But I don’t want you ringing doorbells.”
“I’ve already done it.”
“Chris, this is New York. It’s full of crazies.”
“I’ve just talked to a couple of people who remember the day of the murder. A little old lady in the apartment house and a man across the street, both in their eighties. The man remembers coming home from church and seeing all those blue-and-white police cars.”
“They weren’t blue and white.”
“What?”
“Not in 1950. They were green and white. Either he doesn’t remember or his memory’s gone.”
“He was so sure,” I said. “I wrote it down just the way he said it.”
The whole side of the street was filled with blue-and-white police cars.
“Sorry.”
“I’d better go back,” I said.
“Call O’Connor first. But go easy. This was his case, and he
knows
he handled it right.”
“I’m all tact.”
“I’ll get back to you with the Talleys’ apartment number.”
—
Kevin O’Connor’s wife answered when I called. Her husband was out playing golf but should be back by ten or ten-thirty. He liked to play early, before it got too hot.
I got in the car and drove over to Greenwillow. James was out in the garden, presumably pulling weeds and picking up litter. I went out back and stood near the building, watching him. He looked lost, as though someone hadn’t given him thorough enough instructions about what to do. He was in his shirt-sleeves, looking down at the ground, not moving. From where I stood, I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, if anything.
I felt an immense wave of sorrow. Here was a man who, although retarded, had once possessed gifts so remarkable that he was the subject of study and the object of wonder. Now he had lost everything—his brother, his mother, his gifts, even the simple skills he had mastered as a child.
I walked over to him. As I approached, I saw a small
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