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“Yeah, I know, but …” he sighed. “Actually, I’m kind of happy to see the case get some attention. It was one of those cases that get a hold of you and don’t let go.” He paused at my expression. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “Like I said, I’m a little surprised. But it’s good to know that you welcome my interest.”

  “Ritchie and me, we tried. Boy did we try. But we couldn’t find that one thread that would unravel the knot. We got together a task force. We gave it four months. Full-time, working round the clock. We tracked down just about every contact she had, going up to a year before the robbery. We talked to her pastor, her relatives, friends and co-workers. We checked her mail, her bills, her church donations. We even checked out the books she got from the damn library.”

  They ended up, he said, with an extraordinary amount of information on a woman who’d apparently led a very ordinary life. None of it contained a clue to the reason behind her disappearance or an answer as to her ultimate fate.

  “We could tell you every step she took from birth to that night, but the page stayed blank after she left her sister and friend. She walked into the darkness ... and stayed there.”

  He did sound as though he cared. For a moment my skepticism weakened. Then I remembered that three years earlier he’d been more intent on jailing Esther than on setting her free. I took a moment to check my notes.

  After four months, the only evidence Bellamy and Ritchie had to show for their efforts were the thirty-two bullets and shell casings collected after the shoot-out. Some of this evidence would be helpful in a trial, once they had their suspect collared and cuffed, but none of it was helpful in finding the suspect to begin with.

  He shook out a cigarette and offered me one. I declined and he lit his own.

  “We wondered if the thieves were foreigners,” he said, emitting puffs of smoke. “Everyone noticed how silent they were. Maybe they didn’t want to talk ‘cause they had accents, and that would’ve helped nail them.”

  Then the two cops got a lucky break. Bellamy and Ritchie had circulated a list of the stolen jewels to gem dealers and pawnbrokers likely to carry jewelry of high caliber. Months after the robbery, one of the jewelers called in to report. A man in his late twenties had come in and pawned a sapphire and emerald bracelet that matched the description of an item on the list of stolen goods. Bellamy and Ritchie went to work. The identification and personal information the young man had given turned out to be false. That was no surprise. What was a surprise was that the young man apparently knew nothing about fingerprints. He had leaned on the counter and left a perfect set of five. The bracelet itself also yielded partials, some matching the prints taken from the countertop, some not.

  “We didn’t dare hope the guy’s prints would be found downtown. I mean, they got hundreds on file at police headquarters. But there’s thousands of crooks.” He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “My feeling was that if we was gonna find them, then great. If not, we still had a new witness, the pawnbroker. He’d given us a whale of a description. In thirty years of police work, I’d never seen nothing like it. That guy sat down with Jerry, our artist, and what the two of them came up with—it was better than a photograph.”

  Bellamy scratched his knee.

  “So, to make a long story short, we soon had a name to go with the prints. And within two days, we had a body.”

  “A body?”

  “Yeah. A guy by the name of Johnny Knox. A truck hit him. Deader than a bedbug under a fat man’s ass. Happened down on 14th and Broadway. We figured it was the others—the thieves, I mean. Maybe they’d told him to lay low till the stones cooled. But Knox couldn’t wait. He jumped the gun, so they killed him. The thing is, Knox had a brother. They always worked together. Redheads, both of them. Once we knew it was Johnny, it was easy getting a bead on his brother, Jude. Caught up with him in a pool hall over on East 73rd. Unfortunately, he tried to shoot his way out. He didn’t make it.”

  What followed was a barrage of embarrassing publicity.

  “To hear the newspapers tell it, we’d messed up every chance of solving the crime.”

  The brief hope that had flared up and illuminated the investigation died down. A grim determination set in.

  Bellamy ground out his cigarette. “We could’ve broke this case—if they’d given us time. If they’d just … But the higher-ups decided otherwise. “

  Bellamy’s task force was disbanded. Each investigator resumed his share of taking on other cases. Bellamy was given to understand that he could work the Todd case on the side, but it was no longer his prime responsibility.

  “Ritchie and me, we tried to keep it hot. But there was no way. The cases were coming hard and fast, other cases we’d neglected so we could work on this one. And then...” He shrugged.

  Then came the day when a prisoner transport went wrong. I’d found a clipping about the officer shooting in my file. The story was short and to the point.

  * * *

  ESCAPING PRISONER KILLS COP

  NEW YORK August 10 (AP)—Famed Detective Jack Ritchie was killed yesterday during a shoot-out with an escaping prisoner, police officials said. Ritchie was rushed to St. Luke’s Hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival. He was 58.

  The gunfight erupted during a prisoner transport in Lower Manhattan when convicted murderer Armand Douglas, 32, originally of Bayside, Queens, got hold of Ritchie’s gun and shot him with it, police officials said. Ritchie’s partner, Detective Frank Bellamy, shot and killed Douglas, who died at the scene.

  Normally, a paddy wagon is used for prisoner transport, but Douglas was being transported in a police car. According to Bellamy, Ritchie did not want to wait for the paddy wagon to arrive from the station.

  “It was close to the end of the shift,” Bellamy said. “He just wanted to be done with it.”

  Douglas sprang from the backseat, grabbed Ritchie’s gun and shot him in the throat, Bellamy said. Sources who prefer anonymity said the prisoner’s hands were not cuffed behind his back, a violation of accepted practice.

  * * *

  Ritchie’s death drove the last nail into the investigation’s coffin. Bellamy buried himself in retirement and any interest in the Todd case went with him.

  “What about the people who helped set up the auction?” I asked. “Who knew which jewels would be up for bid? Which families would be invited, how many guards there’d be and where they’d be stationed?”

  “I thought you didn’t think Esther had anything to do with the robbery.”

  “I don’t believe she did—but I do believe her disappearance did.”

  “What?”

  “I think it was part of a scheme to send the cops looking for a way to place blame where blame was unjustified.”

  “You people,” he said, shaking his head. “You and your conspiracy theories.”

  “It’s quite possible that even one of the guests was behind it. Maybe one of the families had hidden financial trouble.”

  “No,” he said, “No, no, no. We checked all that out. It was the first thing we checked. Those families were in the black, every single one of them.”

  “All right, then. Maybe there’s something else. What about the case files? Did you take them with you when you retired?”

  “Thought about it, but I decided not to. I thought some hotshot kid might reopen it. You know, try to break it and make his career.”

  “But that’s a long shot.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “The files—could you get them?”

  The thought amused him. “What if I could? Would you expect me to give them to you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Think you can just step in and solve it when we couldn’t?”

  “Not to insult you, but maybe a pair of fresh eyes would—”

  “I’m not insulted. I’m just telling you it won’t happen.”

  “Please. I need details, enough new information to reawaken public interest. Maybe even spark a new
effort to find her.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” he said without a trace of regret. “Even if I had them, I wouldn’t let you see ‘em.”

  “Department regulations?”

  “You said it.”

  His gaze held mine. A smile played about his lips.

  “I thought you said you were glad the case was getting new attention,” I said.

  “I am. But that don’t mean I’m prepared to break the law to make it happen.” He gave me a friendly grin full of brown teeth. “You don’t need those files anyway. I got it right up here.” He tapped his gray-haired temple. “Everything worthwhile, it’s all here.”

  “Is it really?”

  “Hm-hmm,” he nodded. “And to show you what a right guy I am, I’m gonna give you a tip.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart, right?”

  He liked that. “Yeah, out of the goodness of my heart, a bit of information that wasn’t released to the public. You interested?”

  I was skeptical, but curious. “Okay, sure.”

  “Then listen carefully.” He slid forward in his chair, leaned toward me and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “You remember hearing about the car being found, right?”

  I nodded.

  “We got a call after that. As a matter of fact, it came because of all the publicity about the car. You know, the car was, like, proof that Esther ‘kidnapped’ herself? Well, this guy was real pissed over it. Said he’d yanked her. That she had nothing to do with the heist. And that it was useless to keep looking for her. She was dead, very dead. I remember his words like I heard ‘em yesterday. He said he’d warned her and that he’d killed her ‘cause she lied to him.”

  The caller said he’d followed Esther by car from the theater. He’d watched her park and followed her on foot to the hospital. He waited outside the hospital, and then stalked her as she walked back to the Packard. He approached her and asked her about her “cheating ways.”

  Bellamy winked two fingers to indicate quote marks.

  “He told her he had pictures of her loving somebody else. She said he was crazy, so he slapped her. She fought back and things went from there.”

  The image he painted was chilling. I could see it happening just as he described.

  “What makes you think the call was genuine?”

  “He knew about the earring.”

  The match to the one I’d found at the crime scene: Only the kidnapper would know about it.

  Bellamy lit himself another smoke. “So yeah, she had a man friend, all right. We just couldn’t get a bead on him.” He looked regretful. “The fact is, we didn’t try. But getting the punk who did Esther was not my job. Getting the guy who did the heist was.”

  I was amazed, on several levels: by the image he’d conjured, by the magnitude of NYPD’s blunder and by his candor. That call had merited serious attention. How could they have ignored it? And that he would tell me….

  Bellamy gazed off into the distance, through his room’s small window. The canary was quiet for the time being, worn out, I suppose. It would rest until frustration or instinct—or both—drove it to try for freedom once more. The old cop cleared his throat.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think things over. And I see things differently than I saw ‘em back then. I mean … I hate to say it—and I trust you’re not gonna go repeating it—but we went wrong early on.”

  They fell into the trap of trying to create evidence to match a theory, he said. They couldn’t see the importance of details that didn’t match their expectations, details like the notes and the phone calls. They weren’t overlooked, but their importance was interpreted to fit the theory.

  “We talked to all those people—and never once considered the possibility that any one of them might’ve had a sick fix on her. And that’s what bothers me. That’s why I’m talking to you. It bothers me that he might’ve been one of the ones who sat across from us, and talked about what a wonderful person she was, all the time knowing he was the sick fuck who took her, and maybe even still had her, buried in his basement, for all we know.”

  * * *

  When I left, he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and accompanied me to the door. I thanked him for having seen me. He shook his head with regret.

  “You know that old saying, that there’s no such thing as the perfect crime? Well, that’s a bunch of malarkey. There’s scads of them, murders that weren’t even recognized as murders and cases, like this one, where the killer just plain old got away. Take my advice, and write about the boyfriend. If you want a new angle, then he’s it.”

  My initial plan had been to canvas the guest list, to see if any of them might’ve been tied to the robbery or had unusual contact with Esther. But now I wasn’t so sure. Bellamy’s reminder of the mysterious admirer gave me pause. His regret about not having followed up on the telephone call struck me as genuine. This business about the phantom admirer was a legitimate trail. It deserved time. I would find out as much about him as I could and put that information into my column. Someone who knew him might come forward. Better yet, he himself might be drawn into the open.

  For the first time, in a long time, I felt a tremor of excitement, one that went hand-in-glove with a sense of relief. I hadn’t been sure I could find anything that would help me help Ruth. Bellamy had given me a real starting point.

  But there was more. Somewhere deep down was a stirring of the hunter’s instinct. It had been years since I’d walked the beat, but the drive was still there, the need to ask questions, track down answers and assemble the delicate human puzzle behind every crime. My mind missed the concentrated effort. My guts missed the thrill of the result, and my nature missed the communion with darkness.

  This would be the first time I’d used my column in this way. When I joined the Chronicle, I was tired of reporting on death and misery. I believed I could achieve good by reporting inspiring, positive news about the doings of Harlem’s upper crust, but I’d consistently been reminded that the “light” news often has its dark side, too, and I wasn’t doing anyone a favor by ignoring it. My job in life was to tell both the good and the bad. I had no grand ideas about being the catalyst for lasting change, but I did want to be able to look back and say I’d done my bit to keep the record straight.

  Mentally, I was coming full circle. Emotionally, I was going home.

  Chapter 7

  That afternoon, I caught up with Ruth at Christ, the Redeemer, where she worked as a bookkeeper and taught religious studies in the church’s after school program. Ruth sat in a chair, before a semicircle of ten five- to ten-year-olds in the church’s basement. She was teaching the story of the Annunciation to Mary. When she saw me, she paused, and then finished reading her paragraph.

  “Here Jordan,” she handed her Bible to a little round-headed chubby-cheeked boy in the front row. “You read a paragraph, then pass the book to Naomi.” She gestured toward a pretty little girl with long, dark curls. “Each of you, take turns. I’ll be right back.”

  She came over, her expression anxious. “What’s wrong? Have you changed your mind about doing the column?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to double-check something.”

  “Yes?” Her frown lessened a little but not much.

  “Three years ago, you said Esther didn’t have a male friend. Are you sure?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start with that business again.”

  “No, but I am going back to the threatening notes.”

  “The notes? But they didn’t necessarily mean that—”

  “No, they don’t mean that whoever wrote them was her boyfriend. But maybe Esther was in love with somebody and you didn’t know about it. Or maybe she simply said hello to the wrong person one day and he got a crush on her. We don’t know, but we should try to find out. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course, but … I really don’t think she was seeing anybody. I can’t imagine her going out with somebody and n
ot telling me. I can’t imagine her going out with anybody, period. She was so shy. So scared of being hurt. And that scar—it made her believe that nobody’d ever love her.”

  “Maybe that was it. She was hungry, so hungry that she took what she needed from the wrong man—and didn’t realize it until it was too late.”

  “God, I hope you’re wrong.”

  A thin, little boy appeared at Ruth’s side. His intelligent face was familiar. He tugged at her skirt.

  “Oh, Job,” she said, glancing down at him.

  He nodded to me. “This is the lady, right?” Before she could answer, he turned to me. “You the lady, right? The one said she was gonna bring my mama home?”

  Ruth and I exchanged glances. I was so embarrassed, I could’ve gone through the floor, but I nodded. “Yes, I’m the one.”

  “You promised. I remember. And then you went away. Why’d you do that?” His face and voice showed more bafflement than anger.

  I swallowed. “I …”

  Ruth intervened. “Job, it’s not so easy.”

  He gazed up at her. “But she said it. She promised. You said to always keep a promise.”

  “Job,” I gently touched his shoulder and hunkered down to his eye level. “You’re right. I did make a promise and I should’ve kept it. But something happened in my life.”

  His eyes were sad. “Something bad?”

  “Yeah,” I said softly, “something bad.” I deliberated whether to tell him, and then decided to. “I lost my mama, too.”

  His lips formed an O. Ruth started, surprised and upset.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’m so sorry. When we didn’t hear from you no more, I should’ve known something happened. But I just figured—”

  “It’s okay.” I said, and then told the boy, “So Job, I know what it’s like to lose your mama. And that’s why I’m back. I know it lays a hurting on you like nothing else.”

  His eyes were large and wet. “So you gonna find my mama now?”

  “No,” I said, “I can’t promise to bring her home. I can only promise to ask questions, push for answers. You understand?”