him.”
“Yup,” Rizzo said, turning onto East 73 ^ rd Street. “On the left, two doors off Lex.”
It was a tree-lined street of brownstones, empty except for a man in a hooded jacket walking his dog.
“Nice and quiet, so far.”
“Seven-thirty,” was all Rizzo said.
He stopped and Cody grabbed his satchel and got out while Rizzo stayed on the move, circling the block and waiting for instructions. Cody entered the narrow, three-story brownstone squeezed between two taller buildings.
It had a cramped hallway, like most brownstones, but pale green Berber carpeting and pastel yellow walls brightened the gloomy atmosphere often found in these older buildings. Stairs on the left. Apartments on both sides of the hall. A private elevator at end of the hall. So quiet you could hear a mouse snore except for the muffled sobs coming from above.
Cody followed the sound to the second floor and faced a small, pleasant sitting room at the end of the hallway. Cal Bergman was waiting for him, comforting a woman seated on a couch nestled between two ficus trees under a bank of soft grow lights. The hallway was dark except for a faux Tiffany lamp on an end table beside the sofa.
The woman looked terrified, close to shock, and was clutching a bottle of spring water in one hand while Bergman held her other hand. She looked up wide-eyed and gasped as Cody reached the top of the stairs.
Bergman quickly reassured her.
“Mrs. Kearney, this is Captain of Detectives Cody,” he said. Cal Bergman was six feet tall, making him two inches taller than Cody, a lean blonde in his early thirties wearing a dark blue suit.
“Mrs. Kearney,” Cody said in a soft pleasant voice as he walked over to them. “Inspector Bergman has filled me in a bit. I understood you’ve had a terrible experience here this morning.”
Her eyes welled with tears and she began to shake. Cody squatted down in front of her, staring straight into her eyes. She was about fifty, a bit on the heavy side, dressed in slacks, a sweater and Nike sneakers. Her brown eyes were tear-streaked, her hair close cropped and turning gray. Her strong face had seen better days.
“It’s gonna be alright,” Cody said. “Take a deep breath and swallow, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I know Cal, here, has talked to you but I’d like you to answer a few questions for me.”
She nodded.
“What’s your first name?”
“Wilma,” she stammered.
“Okay if I call you Wilma?”
She tried a smile. “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Are you married, Wilma?
“I’m a widow. My husband worked for the Transit. He had a heart attack five years ago.”
“And what’s your employer’s name?”
She sucked in her breath. Veins stood out on her forehead. Her throat bobbed with sorrow.
“Take a drink of water, it’ll help.”
She took a sip and then the dam broke: “Raymond Handley. He’s such a nice young man, a stock broker, a very successful stock broker with Marx, Stembler and, uh…”
“Trexler?” Bergman offered.
“Thank you. Mister Handley is a vice president and he’s only, like, thirty-nine. He’s engaged to Linda Stembler, Mister Stembler’s daughter.” Her voice cracked, and she had to take another sip of water. “She goes to college in Boston. She comes down on weekends sometimes and sometimes he visits her up there. He’s very kind, pays well, and he’s very neat.” The tears started again. “A very neat young man. He works very hard.”
“I’m sure he does,” Cody said, keeping her as calm as possible. “How long have you worked for him?”
“Three years-ever since he moved in. I answered an ad in the Times. I work three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and sometimes he’ll call and ask me to come in extra and dust off the apartment.”
“Dust off the apartment?”
“Like last night. He was out of town and he called and asked if I would come in and straighten up a bit and vacuum. I guess he was having guests. So that’s what I did. I come over before my three o’clock and picked up the bathroom, dusted, and vacuumed the floor. I was here about an hour. Got home about five. I have an apartment on Avenue B.”
“And then you came in again this morning?”
Bergman was taking notes in shorthand as she rambled on.
“It’s my regular day and it’s pay day. I usually come in about seven. He works out early, then gets a massage. I fix breakfast for him and he reads The Wall Street Journal while he eats. Sometimes makes phone calls. Leaves for work about eight. He likes to get in early. Gets a leg up, as he says.”
“Uh huh. Now, Wilma, I’d like you to describe the apartment for me. How is the place laid out?”
“Well, when you go in there’s a big living room on the right. Goes all the way to the front of the building. Then the bedroom is beside the living room also facing 73 ^ rd Street. Then there’s his bathroom. A large bathroom. And beside it is a little half bath for guests. Then there’s the kitchen.”
“Does the back door lead off the kitchen?
“Yes. There are fire stairs to the ground floor.”
“Okay. What else?”
“And…and…” she began.
“Take it easy, Wilma, you’re doing just fine.”
“On the left when you go in, there’s a closet. And…and…then the entranceway to the library.”
“How many feet would you say it is into the library?”
“Six maybe. The closet is about that deep. It’s where I keep the vacuum cleaner.”
“Then walking straight ahead what’s next?”
“Another door to the library before you get to the kitchen.
“So there are two doors into the library?”
She nodded. Bergman was making a rough sketch of the interior as she described it.
“You have your own keys?” Cody asked.
She nodded. “Front door and the apartment.”
“So what happened this morning?”
She was shaking now and Cody took her hands in his.
“Just tell me exactly what happened.”
Her voice raised an octave. “I went in. And turned on the lights and…and I looked in the library and, Sweet Jesus! It was awful.” She shook her head back and forth. “Awful, awful, awful. I can’t get it out of my head. I was so afraid. I was scared to death.”
“Just tell me what you saw.”
Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I…can’t t-t-talk about it. It’s s-s-sickening…I said, ‘Mister Handley?’ But I knew he was dead. I just knew he was dead. I’ve never smelled anything like that before. And I was so afraid that maybe whoever did it…” her voice began to rise, “was there in the apartment! And I just ran out.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. She started crying again. “It’s okay, Wilma.” He reached over and took her in his arms and her voice choked off.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just ran out. Ran out and locked the door behind me and dialed 911 on my cell phone and…and I just stared at that door and next thing I knew this nice young man ran up the stairs.”
Cody looked at Bergman.
“You didn’t go in, right?” he asked Bergman.
Cal shook his head. “Followed procedure.”
“Good. How about his parents, Wilma?”
“His father was killed in an accident when he was six years old. His mother died in California years ago. I think he had a sister.”
“You wouldn’t have her number?”
She shook her head. “It’s probably in his book. He has this book with everything in it. Addresses,
