wasn't the worst stink he had ever smelled in his years on the Force, but it was bad enough.
He found a sidewalk telephone kiosk that worked and called his wife.
'I'm coming home for dinner, han,' he reported, 'but I'll have to go out again for a while. You want me to pick up anything?'
'We're having knockwurst,' she said.
'There's a little mustard left, but maybe you better get a new jar. The hot stuff you like.'
'Okay,' he said cheerfully.
'See you soon.'
That night, warmed by a good solid meal (knockwurst, baked beans, sauerkraut), Calazo was back at 79th Street and Broadway by 8:30. He drove around, looking for a parking space, and ended up pulling into the driveway of the warehouse next to the Kanes' brownstone, ignoring a big sign: NO PARKING OR STANDING AT ANY TIME.
He locked up carefully and walked back to the Community Center, taking up his station across the street. He trudged up and down to keep his feet from getting numb, but never took his eyes off the lighted windows of the Center for more than a few seconds.
The Medical Examiner had said that Simon Ellerbee had died at 9:00 P.m.
But that was an estimate; it could be off by a half-hour either way.
Maybe more.
So if Isaac Kane had left the Community Center at nine o'clock on that Friday night, he could have made it across town to East 84th Street, bashed in Ellerbee's skull, and been home by 10:00, 10:30. Easily. Benny Calazo didn't think the boy did it, but he could have.
The lights in the Center began to darken. Calazo leaned against a mailbox, chewing on a cold cigar, and waited. A lot of people came out, one on crutches, two using walkers. Then Isaac appeared.
The detective crossed the street and tailed him. It didn't take long.
Isaac went directly home. Calazo got into his parked car and watched. He sat there until 10:30, freezing his buns. Then he drove home.
That was on a Wednesday night. The detective spent Thursday morning and afternoon checking out Kane at the clinic where he had met with Dr.
Ellerbee. They wouldn't show him Kane's file, but Calazo talked to several people who knew him.
They confirmed that Isaac was usually a quiet, peaceable kid, but had occasional fits of uncontrollable violence during which he physically attacked doctors and nurses. Once he had to be forcibly sedated.
On Thursday night, Calazo went through the same drill again: tailing Kane home from the Community Center, then waiting to see if he came out of the brownstone again. Nothing.
He took up his post a little earlier on Friday evening, figuring if anything was going to happen, it would be on that night.
Isaac Kane left the Center a few minutes before nine o'clock. Calazo got a good look at him from across the street.
He was all dolled-up, with a tweed cap, clean parka, denim jeans. He was carrying a package under his arm. It looked like one of his pastels wrapped in brown paper.
He turned in the opposite direction, away from his home, and Calazo went after him. He tailed Kane uptown on Broadway to 83rd Street, and west toward the river. Isaac crossed West End Avenue, then went into a neat brownstone halfway down the block.
The detective slowed his pace, then sauntered by the brownstone, noting the address. Kane was not in the vestibule or lobby. Calazo took up his patrol across the street, lighting a cigar, and walking heavily up and down to keep the circulation going. He wondered how many miles he had plodded like this in his lifetime as a cop. Well, in another month it would be all over.
Kane came out of the brownstone about 10: 15. He was no longer carrying the package. Calazo tailed him back to his 78th Street home. When Isaac was inside, the detective went home, too.
He was out early the next morning and parked near the neat brownstone on West 83rd Street a few minutes before 8:00 A.m. He figured that most people would be home at that hour on a Saturday. He went into the vestibule and examined the bell plate. There were twelve apartments.
He began ringing,-starting at the top and working his way down. Every time the squawk box clicked on and someone said, 'Who is it?,' Calazo would say, 'I'd like to talk to you about Isaac Kane.' He got answers like 'Who?'
'Never heard of him.'
'Get lost.'
'You have the wrong apartment.' And a lot of disconnects.
Finally he pushed the 4-B bell. A woman's voice asked, 'Who is it?,' the detective said, 'I'd like to talk to you about Isaac Kane,' and the woman replied anxiously, 'Has anything happened to him?' Bingo. The names opposite the bell were Mr. amp; Mrs. Judson Beele and Evelyn Packard.
'This is Detective Benjamin Calazo of the New York Police Department,' he said slowly and distinctly.
'It is important that I speak to you concerning Isaac Kane. Will you let me come up please? I will show you my identification.'
There was a long silence. Calazo waited patiently. He was good at that.
Then the door lock buzzed, he pushed his way in, and clumped up the stairs to the fourth floor.
There was a man standing in the hallway outside apartment 4-B. He was wearing a flannel bathrobe and carpet slippers. A Caspar Milquetoast with rimless glasses, a fringe of fluff around his pale scalp, and some hair on his upper lip that yearned to be a mustache and didn't quite make it. Calazo thought a strong wind would blow the guy away.
He proffered his ID and the man examined the wallet carefully before he handed it back.
'I'm Judson Beele,' he said nervously.
'What's this all about? You mentioned Isaac Kane to my wife.'
'Could I come in for a few minutes?' the detective asked pleasantly.
'It shouldn't take long.'
There were two women in the warm, comfortable living room. Both were in bathrobes and slippers. A hatchet-faced blonde, smoking a cigarette in a long holder, was standing.
The other, younger, with softer features, was in a wheelchair.
There was an afghan across her lap, concealing her legs.
Beele made the introductions. The blonde was his wife, Teresa. The girl in the wheelchair was his wife's sister, Evelyn Packard. Calazo bowed to both women, smiling. Like most veteran detectives, he knew when to play Mr. Nasty and when to play Mr. Nice. He reckoned niceness would do for this household. That wife looked like she had a spine.
'I want to apologize for disturbing you at this hour,' he said smoothly.
'But it's a matter of some importance concerning Isaac Kane.'
'Is Isaac all right?' a jittery Evelyn Packard said.
'He hasn't been in an accident, has he?'
'Oh, no,' Calazo said, 'nothing like that. He's fine, as far as I know.
Could I sit down for a few minutes?'
'Of course,' the wife said.
'Let me have your hat and coat. We were just having coffee. Would you care for a cup?'
'That would be fine. Black, please.'
'Judson,' she said, 'bring the coffee.'
Calazo made a few comments about the weather and what an attractive home they had. Meanwhile he was taking them in, trying to figure the tensions there, and also eyeballing the apartment. The first things he noted were five of Isaac's pastels on the walls. Someone had done a nice job framing them.
'Good coffee,' he said.
'Thank you. Well, about Isaac Kane… I notice you have some of his drawings here. Pretty things, aren't they?'
'They're beautiful!' Evelyn burst out.
