Read Online Murder in Alphabet City by Lee Harris - Free Book Online Page B

below that. She could see a dog, a leash, and finally a woman passing from left to right. You had to bend a little to see the woman’s face, but the girl would have been much smaller, maybe only waist high. Jane sat in the chair she had taken two days ago. From the lower perspective she could see heads as well as feet.
    Back in the foyer, she thanked Vale.
    â€œYou came all the way up here to ask me that?”
    â€œLooks like it,” Defino said.
    Out on the street, he said, “That guy brings out more hostility in me than my daughter does.”
    Jane laughed. His daughter was a teenager and gave her parents periodic agony. “That’s why he does it. We’ve still got some time left before the psychiatrist. Want to walk through the park?”
    â€œYou like living on the edge.”
    â€œIt’s not as bad as it used to be.”
    â€œThat’s not saying much.”
    The most recent trouble in the park had been in the late eighties. The park had been taken over by street people and anyone who survived the muggers could buy almost any drug in existence. In the surrounding area, squatters had occupied empty buildings, and when asked to leave, refused vehemently. They claimed the buildings as their own since they considered themselves residents who improved the property by living there. As far as they were concerned, the legal owners had abandoned them. They managed to steal utilities from nearby buildings so they had gas and electricity that they didn’t pay for. After several violent confrontations between the police and the activists, the buildings were cleared of squatters and the park emptied in a hats-and-bats operation—helmets and nightsticks.
    The park still wasn’t the kind of place where you sat on a bench in the sunshine and read the paper, but at least one didn’t sense the nearness of an incipient riot. Jane had slipped her Glock into her coat pocket before they set foot on the grass and she noticed that Defino touched his chest, where his holster rested.
    They didn’t stay long. If she had thought she might find a local who would remember Stratton, she was wrong. They walked out near the Avenue B corner and continued north to Fourteenth Street to catch the subway to the psychiatrist’s office.
    â€œI’m Dr. Handelman.” Graying and bespectacled, his image projected warmth. “Sit where you’re comfortable.”
    They both avoided the couch, choosing instead heavy wooden chairs that faced the desk. The doctor was in his fifties, a tall man in a brown suit and a blue shirt.
    â€œI’m afraid I must eat my lunch while we talk. I have a patient at one.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” Jane said. “We’re here about Anderson Stratton.”
    â€œI’ve reviewed his file and there’s very little I can tell you. He moved to New York about ten years ago from a private clinic and took up residence in what they call Alphabet City these days, Avenues A and B down on the east side. His sister, Mrs. Constantine, looked out for him. I can’t call her a caregiver as she didn’t live with him, and he refused to have anyone come in and see him, check up on him, give him his medications. He was very firm about living independently.
    â€œI had an extensive talk with Mrs. Constantine before her brother was released. She promised she would see to it that he kept his appointments. I believe she sent a car for him. He came twice, then didn’t come for a few weeks, then came again. That was the last time I saw him.”
    â€œDid you think he was a danger to himself?” Jane asked.
    â€œThere was no record of his ever harming himself or attempting suicide. The clinic sent me his records and I reviewed them before his first visit. However,” he paused and bit into his sandwich, “he didn’t keep his appointments and that might be construed as self-destructive.”
    â€œDo you think he could have