Murder in Alphabet City Read Online Free PDF

pressure comes from high up. Maybe you can put it to rest this time.”
    Wally had a warm, firm handshake. He walked them to the door and said it had been nice meeting them.
    â€œThe apartment’s not there, the tenants have moved, and we have to put in two weeks trying to make like it’s the old neighborhood.”
    â€œYou have a way with words, Gordon.”
    â€œYeah, like Stratton. Ready to visit the crime scene?”
    â€œThe nonexistent scene of the nonexistent crime. Why not? But let’s have lunch first. I could use something hot.”
    The day was blustery. Hot sounded like a good idea. They found a place that had soup on the menu for Jane and some kind of pasta for Defino. After they ordered, Defino called in for both of them. Graves was big on making rings.

4
    A NDERSON S TRATTON HAD died in an old building that looked out on Tompkins Square Park in the bulge of Manhattan on the east side below Fourteenth Street. Here, First Avenue, which stretched to upper Manhattan, no longer ran at the eastern edge of the island as it did farther north. Four avenues, A through D, ran north to south in the area east of First between Fourteenth Street on the north and East Houston Street on the south.
    The bulge included part of the Lower East Side south of Houston, home to waves of immigrants that changed every generation or two. West of Alphabet City the area was called the East Village as it lay due east of the Village or the West Village. As every New Yorker knew, Fifth Avenue was Manhattan’s east-west dividing line.
    Tompkins Square Park, lying between Avenues A and B and from Seventh Street to Tenth Street, had a long and often colorful history. In the sixties and seventies it was a haven for flower children, drug dealers, and, of course, users. It was a real problem for the NYPD; no matter what the cops did, a sizable number of vocal people condemned them for it. The park and the streets surrounding it were part of the Ninth Precinct. The Nine had one of the highest Line of Duty death rates and one of the highest Medal of Honor rates, too many of them awarded posthumously. Not all the people who hung out in the park were strangers to the Nine.
    They changed to the Fourteenth Street–Canarsie local and got off at First Avenue, the last stop in Manhattan. From there the subway went to Brooklyn, crossing the East River through a tunnel.
    â€œHaven’t been here in a while,” Defino said, pulling his coat collar up as they reached the sidewalk. “Freezing cold.”
    â€œGets worse near the river.”
    â€œYou work the Nine?”
    â€œNo, but I worked Chinatown. It’s almost as bad.”
    â€œAnd lived to talk about it.”
    â€œIn the end it’ll be the weather that kills me. Let’s walk down to Tenth.”
    It was too cold to talk. They walked briskly, Jane wishing she had brought a scarf for her head. Defino had pulled a small, wool visored cap out of his pocket and put it on, the first time she had seen it. By the time they reached Stratton’s building, her ears were burning with cold.
    The building had several outside stairs up to the first floor. They went inside the small lobby and stood there for a moment to warm up. Jane was almost shivering. Defino folded the hat and stuck it in his pocket. The super, it turned out, was in the apartment under the stairs, so they went back out again and rang the bell next to his door.
    No one answered. “There’s a note here,” Defino said. “ ‘One to four, emergencies only.’ ”
    â€œRing again.”
    The door opened. The man staring at them was tall and lanky, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair might once have been light brown but now it was a faded noncolor, brushed straight back from his face. His cheekbones were prominent, his nose a little too large, and his mouth firmly set. There would be no sweet-talking this one.
    â€œThere are no vacancies,” he said.