The Missing Chapter

“Just a long shot.” I thanked him and said he’d be hearing from us as soon as something was worth hearing. He wanted to string out the conversation, but I insisted that I had pressing duties related to the case, which was more or less true.

It was a splendid morning, spring in Manhattan at its absolute blue-skies-and-soft-breezes best, and I would have liked nothing more than to take a long, leisurely stroll Downtown. But I reminded myself that the faster I could keep events moving, the more likely that Wolfe wouldn’t lose interest in the proceedings and begin feeling sorry for himself by dwelling on such mundane matters as his nonfunctioning elevator. So I walked only as far as Ninth Avenue, where I flagged a southbound cab. “One Police Plaza,” I told the driver, giving him the immodest address of the blocky, brick headquarters building, which sits behind the Municipal Building on Centre Street near the approach ramps to the Brooklyn Bridge.

I’m not complaining when I say that I don’t have a lot of friends inside the New York Police Department. Oh, I’ve got a couple of dozen acquaintances on the force, which is impossible to avoid, given my line of work. There’s Inspector Cramer, of course, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins, both of Homicide, and both of whom I respect for their honesty and their devotion to duty. But I can’t call them friends any more than they would refer to me that way; there simply is too much adversarial baggage in our longtime relationship. Let’s not forget the earlier-mentioned Lieutenant Rowcliff, also of Homicide, whom I neither like nor respect — and the feeling is mutual. And there are others Wolfe and I have crossed paths with through the years, men — and a couple of women — I know by name. But friends? No — with one exception.

He is LeMaster Gilliam, and I have known him for at least fifteen years, maybe a few. more. Gilliam is as honest as Cramer, as dedicated as Stebbins, and infinitely more civil than Rowcliff. He battled his way up and out of one of the poorest and roughest ghettos in the Bronx and into college, CCNY, from which he got a degree. I first met him when he was an energetic young patrolman and I was working with Wolfe investigating the apparently accidental death of a dockworkers’ union official.

Gilliam had found the guy’s body floating just off a Hudson River pier and was the only member of the NYPD who thought he’d been murdered. Wolfe, who had been hired by the union, listened with interest to this rookie cop’s theory as to why the accident explanation didn’t wash, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, after weeks of digging, and with Gilliam’s unofficial help, Wolfe nailed the murderer, making sure Cramer knew that one member of the force had been of invaluable help.

LeMaster Gilliam still swears that was the beginning of his rise through the ranks. Maybe, but with his smarts, he was going to rise regardless. Our paths have crossed periodically since then, and once he mentioned with pride that he had a high school daughter who played the violin “like an angel.” I passed her name along to Lon Cohen. After some nosing around, Lon ordered up a feature story on Sharelle Gilliam, who was described in a Sunday Gazette piece as “a brilliant prodigy with a great future.”

The article, so Gilliam says, was a major factor in Sharelle’s getting a university scholarship, and she has gone on to play with a number of big-time symphony orchestras. Her father was so grateful that he told me if I ever needed a favor, I should but ask. Attempting to take advantage of that gratitude, I invited him to sit in on our Thursday poker games, where he joined Saul and Lon in helping to lighten my pockets until he got switched back to a night watch.

I didn’t mean to go on so long, but the man needed an introduction, especially because it was him I was going to see at One Police Plaza; Lieutenant LeMaster Gilliam now is head of Missing Persons for the department. “Archie Goodwin!” he roared when he’d been told I was waiting in the anteroom. “How the hell are you?” He pumped my hand with a meaty paw and steered me into his spartan office, which at least had a view of the small park in front of the building where flowering trees were showing off their blossoms.

“No complaints,” I told him. “What’s Sharelle doing these days?”

The smile got almost as wide as his broad chest. “Living in Chicago, and for a musician, that’s the best of the best,” he boomed. “Their ball teams may not always be so hot, but they’ve got the world’s finest damn orchestra, and she’s in it. Joined just last year. They’re coming to Carnegie for a concert next month, and guess whose proud parents are going to be fifth-row center? But I don’t think you ventured all the way Downtown just to ask about the world’s most-talented young violinist, did you?”