The Storm Killer Read online

  I flipped through the rest of the articles. Ruth Havarette’s body was found by a group of sailors who were cutting through the park on their way back to the docks. They saw someone running away from the body and police speculated the sailors had interrupted the killer. He was never caught and eventually the police moved on to other cases. The Post ran an obituary. It listed Daniel and Mildred Havarette of Brooklyn as her parents. Since she was a New Yorker who was murdered while working in a different city I decided to look a little more closely into her death. I took out my notebook and wrote down her parents’ names before turning to the next file.

  I ruled out the next three files. One girl was shot by her lover, another hit by a car, and the third fell from a balcony during a party. The final murder was twelve years old and took place before I came to work for The Post.

  An actress, Anna Ingerson, and her husband Patrick were murdered in their home. There was no sign of a break-in. Police speculated the couple knew their assailant or assailants. The fact that the actress was married and that her husband was also murdered would have led me to believe this murder had no connection with Helen’s or Ethel’s murder, except for the way Anna Ingerson was murdered.

  After shooting the husband in the head, the killer had hacked off his genitals and stuffed them into his wife’s mouth. The Medical Examiner stated that Anna Ingerson had been stabbed no less than two hundred times. She was not raped. There were enough dissimilarities between this case and the others that I was about to rule it out, until I came across the final paragraph of the article where the reporter listed Patrolman Michael Boyle as the responding officer. I’ve never much believed in coincidence.

  I smoked two Luckies while I thought about what to do next. I couldn’t go to the coppers. If I did, word was bound to get back to Boyle. I ended up doing what any good reporter does when he needs information. I opened the drawer and pulled out the white pages.

  The article had mentioned that Anna’s mother, Elinore Molinaro, discovered the bodies when she stopped by to pick up her daughter to go to church. Unfortunately there was no listing for any Molinaro in the directory.

  I hoped I would have better luck with the Havarettes. The number was a listing under Daniel, but a woman answered. She spoke with a thick Italian accent and when I explained who I was she didn’t want to speak with me. I was persistent, and she finally said, “You talk to my husband,” then she called out, “Danny, you take.”

  The male voice that took over was not as accented. He wasn’t pleased when I asked him about his daughter.

  “My daughter died long time ago,” he said. “Why you want to bring this up again?”

  “I just have a few questions for you if you don’t mind,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “My sister was murdered this past week. She was an actress too. There are some similarities in the way they died.”

  “I can’t help you,” he said.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “My daughter, she was good girl, beautiful girl. One day she decides she wants to be actress. Her mother and me, we forbid it, but Ruth very headstrong. She leaves home and we no see her until she dead.”

  I told the man I was sorry for bothering him, and then I hung up the phone and looked up the number for the parents of Ethel Bloomberg. Mrs. Bloomberg answered the phone. She listened while I explained about Helen and the similarities of the two murders. To my surprise, she agreed to see me around two that afternoon. I jotted down their address, reaffirmed the time, and hung up the phone.

  I put away the phone book, emptied my ashtray into the trash can, and carried the files over to Betty’s desk.

  “Would you mind checking to see if there’s anything else in the files on either of these two women?” I laid the files for Ruth Havarette and Anna Ingerson in front of Betty and set the others on the corner of the desk.

  “How far back?” she asked.

  “Whatever it takes,” I said. “Oh, and if you could also pull any articles we have on Detective Michael Boyle, I’d like to see those too.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I read that he was one of the detectives assigned to investigate your sister’s murder?”

  “That’s right.” I threw her a wave and headed for the door, calling out over my shoulder, “I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Beekman Place runs along the south bluff from Mitchell Place to East Fifty-First Street. Modern high-rise apartments bumped up against worn cold water flats and tough-looking kids in cast off clothing wandered the area as if they owned it. I was glad I’d taken a cab to my appointment.

  Not everyone lost all their money in the crash. The Bloombergs lived in a three bedroom apartment with a garden terrace that offered a spectacular view of Welfare Island and the docks at East Forty-Ninth and East Fifty-Third Street.

  A Negro maid who could have been sixty or eighty met me at the door and led the way through the living room with its eight-foot ceilings and stark French modernistic furnishing to the terrace where William and Margaret Bloomberg awaited me. Below us a gravel barge was docked near a yacht, and gulls skimmed along the river in search of garbage. They had a view, but it came with a price; the sharp, unpleasant odor of sewage mixed with fuel oil permeated the air and felt as if it was seeping into the very fabric of my clothing.

  William Bloomberg was well into his sixties, tall, and portly. He still had all his hair and wore a thick handlebar mustache that might have been in style when his grandfather was young. He was smoking a cigarette in a gold holder and leaning against a small bar on the other side of the terrace. He looked like a pompous ass, but when I saw the bottle of Johnny Walker Red peeking out from behind an etched crystal ash ball, I thought he might become my best friend.

  His wife, Margaret, was seated at one of four cocktail chairs arranged around a small glass table. A fragile looking teapot sat in the middle of the table and she was drinking from a china cup. Her lavender dress rustled in the breeze, and she looked to be closer to my age than his. I knew that couldn’t be. She had to be on the upper end of the scale in order to have been Ethel’s mother. She wore her blond hair short and lacquered into place, and when she turned her head to meet my gaze I felt an aura of sadness clinging to her like black crepe. I didn’t have to be a genius to realize she had never recovered from the death of her child, and I felt an instant kinship to the woman.

  Mr. Bloomberg took a sip from his glass but didn’t offer me a drink. It wasn’t very hospitable of the man. Just as well, I thought. I wouldn’t have refused it right then.

  “Margaret said you have some information about Ethel’s murder,” he said. “Are you a policeman?”

  “I told your wife. I’m a reporter.”

  William Bloomberg dropped the casual façade and glared at me. “We went through this bullshit already. Reporters, police, curiosity seekers, you’re all a bunch of vultures. It’s been two fucking years now. Isn’t there someone else out there you can torment? My wife still cries herself to sleep at night. We don’t need this.”

  “The man isn’t trying to hurt us dear,” Margaret Bloomberg spoke with a hint of a Southern drawl. “His sister was murdered. He thought perhaps there was a connection to Ethel’s death. We should hear him out. Help him if we can.”

  “I will not have this household disrupted again.” It was obvious from William Bloomberg’s response, and the way he looked at his wife, that he was in love with her and wanted to protect her. I liked him for it.

  “I insist, dear.” She rose from her chair and seemed to float over to where I was standing. “We’re very sorry for your loss, Mister Locke. I read about your sister’s murder in the paper. It was troubling news.” She glanced at her husband and smiled. “William tried to hide the paper from me. He thinks he can protect me from the bad memories. I’m afraid the article didn’t explain how your sister died. I didn’t make a connection between her death and Ethel’s. Had we kno
wn, we would have contacted the police.”

  Thank God she didn’t call the coppers, I thought. She took my hand, gave it a little tug, and led me across the terrace to the table. She guided me over to the chair next to her’s, and sat back down.

  “I don’t understand how we can be of any help,” William Bloomberg began. “Our daughter was living on her own in Boston when she was killed. We didn’t know many of her friends.”

  “That’s not quite true dear,” Margaret reminded her husband. “I don’t know if I could have made it through this whole thing without Doctor Greeley’s help.”

  It took me a minute to connect the name to the man with a limp who had introduced himself as Helen’s psychiatrist at her funeral.

  “Doctor Henry Greeley?” I asked.

  “That’s him,” William said. “Do you know the good Doctor?” he added with a touch of sarcasm.

  I was too stunned to answer. I hadn’t really expected to find a connection between Greeley, the Bloombergs, and Helen.

  “Are you all right Mister Locke?” Margaret asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that a Doctor Greeley approached me at my sister’s funeral and told me he was a psychiatrist and he was seeing Helen professionally. It must be the same man.”

  “Thin man with half a mustache who thinks he’s Clark Gable?” William asked. “Walks with a limp. That’s how we met him too. Walked up to us while we were mourning and had the nerve to suggest our Ethel had something wrong up here.” He slammed his glass down, made a fist, and rapped the top of his head. “Ethel was self-assured and passionate about her work, but she was not crazy.”

  “Doctor Greeley never suggested Ethel was crazy,” Margaret said. “He was trying to help Ethel, and us. You refused to give him a chance.”

  “I’ve dealt with men like him all my life. He wanted something, and he was using us to get it.”

  “I think my husband was jealous of the man,” Margaret said. “Doctor Greeley never took anything from us. In fact he never charged me to see him. I spent many hours talking with him.”

  “Too many hours,” William said. “You’d come home from your appointment drained. Each time you saw that quack you were a mess for days afterward.”

  “What did you expect, William? My baby was dead and you wanted to act like she never existed.”

  “You’re not being fair,” William said. “I felt we needed to go on with our lives, no matter what happened.”

  Below us an engine clattered to life somewhere along the docks while a hawk floated above us. I wondered what it was like to live as the Bloombergs did, halfway between two worlds. On the one hand they were touched by nature. On the other, they were bombarded by the sounds and the blight of industrial New York City. Closing my eyes I could smell the flowers on the terrace and the scent of sea water, only to have the harsh bite of sulfur and the rattle of machinery attack my senses. I suspected the Bloomberg’s relationship was balanced just as precariously as the surrounding environment.

  It was obvious to me the death of their daughter had torn this family apart. Now I’d placed myself right in the middle of their battleground. I needed to take control of the conversation if I hoped to gather any more information. I cleared my throat. “Would you mind telling me what you talked about with Doctor Greeley, Mrs. Bloomberg?”

  “Good luck,” William said. He picked up the scotch bottle from the bar, refilled his glass, and again failed to offer me a drink.

  Margaret ignored her husband. “He was very professional. He made me feel as if he cared about me, and Ethel, and even you William.”

  “How did he do that?” I reached for my cigarettes, but decided I could wait for a smoke. The only ashtray I could see in the room was the crystal ball on the bar. I was afraid if I stood Bloomberg would use it as an excuse to order me to leave.

  Leaning forward in her chair Mrs. Bloomberg looked past me and spoke to her husband. “I talked with Doctor Greeley about my feelings. We talked about life without Ethel. Yes, William, we even talked about you. But all we did was talk. Let me restate that. I talked, he listened. How long has it been since you really listened to what I have to say.”

  Bloomberg shifted his weight on his feet and studied the whiskey in his glass. I suspected he was uncomfortable having his wife open up like she did in front of a stranger, but not as uncomfortable as I was being a witness to her outburst. There was doubt in his eyes and I sensed they’d had this argument before.

  Then it dawned on me what this was all about. It wasn’t what she was saying that bothered him. He was afraid of losing her. I was beginning to understand the dynamics of what held these two together, at least since the death of their daughter. I wanted to get out of there, leave them to their problems, but there were a couple more questions I needed answered.

  As I listened to Mrs. Bloomberg extol the doctor’s virtues, I was hit with an epiphany. It felt as if a horse had kicked me in the solar plexus. Was it possible that Henry Greeley and Helen’s Hank were one and the same?

  “Did Doctor Greeley ever refer to himself as Hank?” I asked.

  Margaret shook her head no and then looked away from me. I got the feeling that there had been more of an intimacy between her and Greeley than she was admitting.

  Pushing myself out of the chair I nodded to William and faced his wife. “Mrs. Bloomberg, I hate to ask you this, but did you ever get the impression there was anything more going on between your daughter and Henry Greeley? Besides a doctor and patient relationship?”

  Margaret Bloomberg jumped up from her chair. Her eyes were wild and her lips were pressed so firmly together they were turning white. “You’re a vile man to suggest such a thing, Mister Locke. I never would have invited you in if I knew you were going to abuse our hospitality.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said. “I only asked because I found evidence there might have been something romantic going on between my sister…”

  She didn’t give me a chance to finish. She drew back her hand and slapped my face, and then she pushed her way past me and ran into the house. Bloomberg refused to meet my eyes. I knew then that he was having the same thoughts I was having. Margaret Bloomberg was in love with Doctor Henry Greeley. I’d worn out my welcome, so I followed Mrs. Bloomberg into the house and found my own way out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning I arrived at the office a little before nine. That morning’s paper had been put to bed and delivered hours earlier, but there were still twenty or twenty-five people sprinkled around the city room. A never dissipating layer of tobacco smoke as thick as a storm cloud hung over the room. Rumor had it that some of the smoke had been hanging around since the turn of the century.

  The city room took up most of the first floor. The six offices in the back of the room were reserved for the top earning critics and columnists. The city editor, the night city editor and the sports editors’ desks were situated in the middle of the room while the reporters and rewrite men worked on wooden tables bolted along every bare space of wall in the room.

  As a staff reporter I had my own table, and my own typewriter. Mine, like most of the others, was an L.C. Smith, but there were a few Remingtons and even a couple of outdated Underwoods peppered into the mix. Some of the typewriters had wooden lids which could be pulled down to lock them, but many of these disappeared years ago and the ones still in place were rarely used. Alternating work stations shared a phone, and I was glad Rick Haywood, who used the desk next to mine, wasn’t in.

  Robert Dunlop, the city editor, was at his desk. He glanced my way and I recognized the look. He had something he wanted me to work on. Avoiding direct eye contact, I headed over to my workspace along the east wall.

  I sat down, tossed my notebook onto the table and lit a Lucky. There was a note on my desk from Betty Anderson reminding me she’d pulled the files I wanted. I put it aside and reached for the phone.

  City room policy was that the ph
ones were to be used for business only. I knew Dunlop would ignore me for as long as I was making calls. I dialed Ruth Havarette’s parents’ number and hoped the mother would answer. I figured she’d be easier to browbeat into giving me some information. I was in luck.

  “Hello, Mrs. Havarette? This is Jim Locke. I spoke with you yesterday. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I have a couple of questions.”

  “My husband is not home. He say no talk to you.”

  “Don’t you want your daughter’s killer caught?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Then you need to help me. I think the man who killed your daughter may have murdered my sister and another woman in Boston. I’m trying to find this man so we can keep him from killing again. You don’t want him to kill some other girl, do you?”

  There was silence on the other end and I hoped she wasn’t going to hang up on me. I feared that I might have pushed her too hard, and when I heard her crying I got a heavy feeling in my chest.

  “Mrs. Havarette, are you still there?”

  “Ruth was not a bad girl,” she said through her sobs. “My husband not mean what he said the other day. He was angry with her for getting killed.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” I said. “Any more than it was my sister’s fault. We need to find the man who did this and make sure he’s punished.”

  “Ask questions,” she said. “I answer if I can.”

  “Did Ruth have a boyfriend?”

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Havarette said. “She very pretty girl.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “She live far away.”

  “Did she ever mention a man named Hank?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know a Doctor Henry Greeley?”

  She went quiet and once again I wondered if I might not be on the verge of losing her. I decided to wait her out, not push her anymore.

  When she finally spoke there was a hint of resignation in her voice. “Some doctor talk to Daniel at funeral. It make him very angry and he tell doctor leave.”