Ghosts

They would not have thought, until now, that the murder of Gregory Craig was a smoke screen for the murder of Marian Esposito. Everything seemed to indicate that the second murder was a murder of expedience—the killer fleeing from the building with a bloody knife in his hands perhaps, and being seen, and panicking at the possibility of later identification. Zzzzaaaahhhh went the knife, and zing went the strings of my heart. But now they wondered. They wondered because three separate tenants of 781 Jackson told them that Marian and Warren Esposito shared a marriage that could at best be termed rocky.

The couple who lived next door to the Espositos—in Apartment 702, one of the apartments Hawes hit—told him that on two separate occasions Marian had called the police because her husband was beating her up. On each of those occasions the responding patrolmen had settled, on the scene, what is euphemistically known to the police as “a family dispute.” But Marian walked around with a pair of black eyes for weeks after the first beating, and her nose was broken during the second beating.

The tenant in Apartment 508—who recognized Marian from the somewhat unflattering picture the Photo Unit had taken at the scene—told Carella that he’d been riding up in the elevator one time with the Espositos, and they’d started arguing about something, and Warren Esposito had grabbed his wife’s arm and twisted it violently behind her back. “Thought sure he’d break it,” the man said, and then offered Carella a glass of wine, which Carella refused. The man was waiting for his son and daughter-in-law to come visit him for the holiday. His wife had died six months ago; this was to be his first Christmas without her. He again offered Carella a glass of wine. Carella had to refuse; he was a cop on duty. But he lingered longer than the fifteen minutes he’d allotted for each apartment, sensing the old man’s loneliness and hoping to hell his son and daughter-in-law would not disappoint him.

In Apartment 601, just below the Esposito apartment, the woman tenant there told Carella that there was always a lot of yelling and thumping going on upstairs, sometimes at 2:00, 3:00 in the morning. She was wrapping Christmas gifts at her kitchen table as she disclosed the information. “Sometimes,” she said, and carefully tied a bow, “if there are children living above you, there’ll be a lot of ru

“So it looks like we’ve got a wife beater,” Hawes said.

“Looks that way.”

“Came in yesterday wanting to know what we were doing to find his wife’s murderer,” Hawes said, and shook his head. “Had his lawyer call the lieutenant to turn on the screws. He must miss having her to bat around.”

“I want to check this with Records, see if she really did call us twice,” Carella said. “Have you got some change?”

Hawes dug in his pocket and came up with a handful of coins. Carella plucked two dimes from his palm and then went to the phone booth near the cigarette machine. At one of the other tables a blonde in her forties, wearing a sprig of holly on the collar of her coat, turned to Hawes and smiled at him. He smiled back. Carella was on the phone only long enough to get the information he needed. When he got back to the table, he said, “It checks out. First call was on August eighteenth, second one was November twelfth. I’d like to talk to Esposito right now, what do you say?”

“I’m bushed,” Hawes said. “But if he’s our man, I don’t want him spending Christmas in South America.”

They knocked on the door to the Esposito apartment at ten minutes to 5:00. Warren Esposito opened the door for them when he recognized Hawes through the peephole. He was wearing only trousers and a tank-top undershirt. He told them he was dressing to go back to the funeral parlor. He said he’d been there all afternoon and had come home to shower and change his clothes. His eyes were puffy and red; it was evident he’d been crying. Carella remembered Hillary Scott’s description of the “ghost” who’d slain Gregory Craig. Warren Esposito was perhaps thirty-four years old, with curly black hair and dark brown eyes. But how many other people were there in this city with that same combination of hair and eyes, including someone who’d a

Warren Esposito was no poltergeist. He was perhaps six feet two inches tall, slightly taller than Carella and just as tall as Hawes, with muscles bulging all over his chest, his biceps, and his forearms. The woman Carella had seen lying dead on the sidewalk was perhaps five feet six inches tall, and he guessed she must have weighed 115 pounds. Nice man, Mr. Muscles Esposito, Carella thought, and asked his first question.

“Mr. Esposito,” he said, “is it true that on two separate occasions your wife phoned the police for assistance in a family dispute?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Esposito said. “The people in this building ought to mind their own business. Who was it? Kruger next door?”

“The patrolmen responding to both calls made full reports,” Carella said.

“Well…there may have been one or two arguments,” Esposito said.

“And your wife called the police, right?”

“Yes, I suppose she did.”

“During one of those arguments did you blacken both her eyes?”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s in the report,” Carella said.

“We were arguing, that’s all.”

“Did you blacken her eyes?”

“I may have.”

“And on the second occasion did you break her nose?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you once twist her arm so violently that a witness thought you’d surely broken it?”

“I know who that is,” Esposito said. “That’s Di Luca down on the fifth floor, isn’t it? Boy, I wish these goddamn people would mind their own business.”

“Did you, or didn’t you?”

“I suppose so. What difference does it make? What is it you’re trying to say, Mr. Carella? Are you trying to say I killed her? Just because we argued every now and then? Don’t you argue with your wife? Are you married?”

“I’m married,” Carella said.

“So don’t you and your wife—?”

“Let’s talk about you and your wife, okay?” Carella said.

“Where were you between six and seven P.M. on Thursday night?” Hawes asked.

“Listen,” Esposito said, “if this is going to turn into a third degree here, I want to call my lawyer.”

“You don’t need a lawyer to answer a few questions,” Hawes said.

“Not unless the questions make it sound like I killed my wife.”

“Only the answers can do that.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“Okay, call your lawyer,” Carella said. “Tell him we’re asking you some simple questions you refuse to answer, and tell him we may have to get those answers before a grand jury. Go ahead, call him.”

“A grand jury? What the hell…?”

“A grand jury, yes. Call your lawyer.”

“I will.”

“I wish you would. We’re wasting time here.”

Esposito went to the phone and dialed a number. He listened as the phone rang and then said, “Joyce, this is Warren Esposito. Is Jerry there? Thank you.” He waited again, and then said into the phone, “Jerry, I’ve got two detectives here, and they’re asking questions about where I was Thursday, and threatening me with a grand jury…Sure, just a second.” He held out the phone to Carella. “He wants to talk to one of you.”

Carella took the phone. “Hello?” he said.

“Who’s this?” the voice on the other end said.

“Detective Carella, 87th Squad. Who’s this?”

“Jerome Lieberman, Mr. Esposito’s attorney. I understand you’ve been threatening my client with a grand jury if he—”