Ghosts

“No one’s been threatening anybody, Mr. Lieberman. We wanted to ask some questions, and he wanted to call his lawyer. So he called you, and here you are.”

“What’s all this about a grand jury?”

“We want to know where he was when his wife was murdered. Your client has a history of wife abuse…”

“I’d be careful what I say, Mr. Carella…”

“Yes, sir, I am being careful. The police were called to this apartment on two separate occasions, I’ve already verified that. On the first occasion Mrs. Esposito’s eyes were bruised and discolored—that was on August eighteenth, Mr. Lieberman—and on the second occasion she was bleeding from the nose, and the patrolman making the report stated that the nose was broken. That was on November twelfth, last month. With such a record, I feel it’s reasonable for us to want to know where your client was at the time of the murder. If he refuses to answer our questions…”

“Have you advised him of his rights, Mr. Carella?”

“We’re not obliged to. This is still a field investigation; your client’s not in custody.”

“Do you plan to take him in custody?”

“On what grounds, counselor?”

“You tell me. You’re the one with all the answers.”

“Counselor, let’s quit playing games, okay? If your client had nothing to do with his wife’s murder, he’s got nothing to worry about. But if he refuses to answer our questions, we’ll subpoena him to appear before a grand jury, and maybe he’ll agree to tell them where he was at the time of the murder. Because if he refuses to tell them, as I’m sure you know, he’ll be held in contempt. Now we can do whatever you say, Mr. Lieberman. This is Christmas Eve, and you know as well as I that we won’t be able to get any grand jury action until the twenty-sixth, but if that’s what you want us to do, just say so. If you’d like my advice—”

“Oh, are you an attorney, Mr. Carella?”

“No, Mr. Lieberman, are you? We want some answers from your client, that’s all. My advice is for you to advise him to cooperate. That’s my advice. Free of charge.”

“And worth every pe

Carella handed the phone to Esposito. “Yeah,” he said, and listened. “Uh-huh…Are you sure it’s okay?…. All right, I’m sorry to bother you this way, Jerry. Thank you. And Merry Christmas,” he said, and hung up. “What are your questions?” he asked Carella.

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

“Coming home from work.”

“Where’s that?” Hawes asked.

“Techno-Systems, Inc., on Rigby and Franchise.”

“What do you do there?” Carella asked.

“I’m a computer programmer.”

“What time did you leave the office on Thursday?”

“Five-thirty.”

“How do you normally get home?”

“By subway.”

“It shouldn’t have taken you more than a half hour from Rigby and Franchise. If you left the office at five-thirty…”

“I stopped for a drink.”

“Where?”

“A place called Elmer’s, around the corner from the office.”

“How long were you there?”

“About an hour.”

“Then, actually, you didn’t start home till about six-thirty, is that it?”

“Six-thirty, a quarter to seven.”

“Who were you drinking with, Mr. Esposito?”

“I was alone.”

“Are you a regular at Elmer’s?”

“I stop in there every now and then.”

“Where’d you drink? At a table or at the bar?”

“The bar.”

“Does the bartender know you?”

“Not by name.”

“Anybody there know you by name?”

“One of the waitresses does. But she wasn’t working on Thursday.”

“What time did you get back here to Harborview?”

“Seven-thirty or thereabouts. The trains were ru

“What’d you do when you got here?”

“There were policemen all over the place. I asked Jimmy what was going on and…that was when he told me my wife had been killed.”

“By Jimmy, do you mean…?”

“Jimmy Karlson, the security guard.”

“What’d you do then?”

“I tried to find out where they’d taken her. They’d moved her body by then. I tried to find out where she was. Nobody seemed to know. I came upstairs and called the police. I had to make six calls before anyone gave me any information.”

“Did you know there’d been another murder in the building?”

“Yes, Jimmy told me.”

“Told you it was Gregory Craig on the third floor?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know Mr. Craig?”

“No.”

“Never ran across him in the elevator or anything?”

“I wouldn’t have known him if I’d seen him.”

“What’d you do when you found out where they’d taken your wife?”

“I went to the morgue and made a positive identification.”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know who it was. One of the medical examiners, I guess.”

“What time was that?”

“Around nine o’clock. They said I…I could have the body at noon Friday. So I came back here and called the funeral parlor and made arrangements to…to have her picked up.”

“Mr. Esposito,” Carella said, “we’ll have to check with Elmer’s to make sure you were there. It would help us if we had a photograph we could show the bartender. Would you happen to have a recent picture?”

“My attorney didn’t say I could give you a picture.”

“Call him again if you like,” Carella said. “That’s the only thing we’ll use it for, to show at Elmer’s for identification.”

“I guess that’s okay,” Esposito said. He started out of the room, turned, and said, “I didn’t kill her. We had our troubles, but I didn’t kill her.”

They did not get to Elmer’s till almost 7:00 P.M.

The bar on Christmas Eve was packed with men and women who had no place else to go, no cozy hearths, no glowing Christmas trees, only the dubious comfort of each other’s company. They lined the bar and sat at the tables, and raised their glasses in yuletide toasts, and watched the television set, on which a movie about a family holiday reunion was showing. There were two bartenders behind the bar. Neither of them had been working on Thursday night, when Esposito claimed to have been drinking here alone for an hour or more. They recognized his picture, but they couldn’t say he’d been here since they themselves hadn’t been here. The bartender who’d been working on Thursday—they explained that only one man worked the bar during the week and two on weekends—was a man named Terry Brogan, who was a moonlighting city fireman. They gave the detectives Brogan’s home number and also the number at Engine Company Number Six, uptown in one of the city’s highest fire-rate districts. From the phone booth in the bar they called Brogan at home and got no answer. They called the firehouse and spoke to a captain named Ro

When they left the bar, Carella said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Cotton.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t ever get murdered just before Christmas.”

They shook hands on the sidewalk, wished each other a Merry Christmas, and then walked off in opposite directions toward the two different subway lines that would take them home.

It was begi

Carella did not get home that night till almost 8:30. The snow was raising hell with the subway system on its aboveground tracks, and the trains were infrequent and plodding. Outside the Riverhead house he struggled his way through snowdrifts to the front door. There was a kid up the street who was supposed to shovel the walks every time it snowed. They paid him $3 an hour for the job, but it was obvious he hadn’t been here since yesterday’s storm. The new snow had tapered off a bit; the air was bristling with the tiniest of crystals. He stamped his feet on the front porch. The wreath on the door was hanging a bit askew; he straightened it and then opened the door and went inside.