Dead Red (40 page)

“That where your buyers are?”

“Yep. Some good ol’ boys from upstate.”

“And you don’t care what happens after that?”

“Upstate? I assume they’re gonna go hunting with them.”

“With TEC-Nines?”

“That’s the beauty of the Second Amendment, Ray. Doesn’t say what you can or can’t
do
with them. Just says you have the right to
bear
them.” He pushed the basement door open farther with his foot. “Now, before your boy Jack comes back to fetch you.…”

“I’m not his boy,” came a voice from below.

Jimmy spun around, his gun held high and the other hand grabbing Marissa by the neck. We all watched Jack come up from the basement, his own gun in the ready position. Had the music not been playing, we would have heard him coming.

Without being asked, Jack said, “Someone built themselves a fantastic … what do ya call them? A dumbwaiter? Goes all the way from the top to the bottom. A real selling point. I guess when ya got girls fucking on all floors, some things are must-haves.”

“Far enough, Jack,” Jimmy said. He placed the gun against Marissa’s head. “Drop the piece or I drop the girl.”

“You heard Ray, Jimmy. Fuck the girl.”

They stared at each other, checking each other’s eyes for a bluff. I measured the space between Jimmy and me. It didn’t look good.

Jimmy squeezed Marissa’s neck, and she let out a moan. Jack continued to stare at Jimmy.

“Okay then,” Jimmy said. He swung the gun in my direction. “What about Ray? You wanna fuck him—?”

Jack fired, putting one right between Jimmy’s eyes, interrupting the rest of his sentence and pretty much everything else. Jimmy collapsed to the floor and Marissa spun away, moaning and crying. She ran out of the kitchen, and I could hear her crying in the other room.

“Holy fuck, Jack.”

“I know,” he said, trying to sound calm, but I could tell he was shaken up. He looked down at Jimmy, his eyes wide, and kicked his gun across the floor. “Had to take the shot, right?”

“You could’ve killed Marissa.”

“Like we said, Ray: Fuck the girl.”

Yeah,
I thought.
But I didn’t mean it. Did I?

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out the car keys, and tossed them to me. “Get on over to Golden’s,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

“What does that mean?”

“Go, Ray. I’ll call you later.” He gave me his best movie star smile and added, “Trust me.”

I stood there, stupidly, quietly—in the kitchen of a whorehouse with two dead guys in it—and realized I had no other choice.

*   *   *

After the ten-minute drive to Golden’s condo, I was a little less shaken up. The guy behind the desk called upstairs and got permission for me to head on up. I knocked on the door, and Tony Blake opened it. If my hand weren’t still hurting from Joseph, I would have punched him in the face, too.

“Come in, Mr. Donne,” he said as if he owned the place. After I entered he peered out into the hallway, checking to see if anyone had seen me.

Sitting in the living room were Charles Golden and Joseph, who held an ice pack on his face. I almost pitied Mr. Golden, the only one in the room who didn’t know Tony Blake had raped his daughter.

Just then a door down the apartment hallway opened a crack. Angela Golden peered out at me behind glassy eyes. “Marissa’s safe, Angela,” I said. After a moment, she closed the door till it clicked.

“Where’s Jack?” Golden asked.

“Cleaning up a mess,” I said. I walked over to Joseph and thought I saw him flinch ever so slightly when I held out his car keys. He took them, avoiding my eyes.

“That’s not an answer, Mr. Donne. Jack is still in my employ. As are you.”

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get, Mr. Golden.”

“Boys, boys, please,” Tony Blake said. “Let’s play nice, shall we? Angela is back here and safe. That’s what matters.”

I looked at Golden and Joseph. “You told him about the guns?” I asked. They nodded. I looked back at Blake. “I’m not in the mood for any spin, Mr. Blake. A lot of shit has gone down over the last twenty-four hours, and you show up when it’s all over.”

Blake gave me the nobody-talks-to-me-like-that look. I didn’t care.

“Thank you for returning Joseph’s vehicle, Mr. Donne.” Blake said, moving to escort me out.

“I’m waiting for Jack. I’m working for
him
”—I emphasized for Golden’s sake—“and I’ll go home when he tells me the job is done.”

Golden got to his feet. “Your job
is
done,” he said. “I’ll cut the checks tomorrow, and that will conclude our business.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ll wait to hear that from Jack.”

Now Joseph stood. “Mr. Golden asked you to leave.”

I laughed a nervous laugh. But after seeing two dead bodies, having a gun pointed at me, and dealing with these three guys, any laugh would feel good today.

“You really want to have this discussion, Joseph?”

Before he could answer, Golden’s phone rang.

“Yes, Jack,” he said, looking at me. “I think he needs to hear that from you. Hold on.” He handed me the phone.

“Yeah?” I said.

“You can go home now, Ray,” Jack said. “We’re good.”

“You still at the house?”

“Waiting on the cops, just like we said.”

“What about the guns?” I asked.

“All taken care of,” he said. “Make sure you read the papers tomorrow. Now go home.”

“Okay,” I said and handed the phone back to Golden. I left without saying another word or looking back.

Chapter 34

JACK WAS RIGHT: THE WHOLE STORY—BOTH stories—were in the papers the next day. At least the stories fit to print.

Now that it was safe to return to my place, Allison and I had all three papers spread out in front of us on my coffee table as we ate breakfast and watched the muted news on a local station. She seemed mostly okay that none of the stories had her byline on it. I think she felt uneasy about needing to independently verify what I had told her, so she stepped away from being a reporter and fell into being my girlfriend.

Story Number One announced that, more than a month after her disappearance, the missing Golden Girl had been found safe through the relentless efforts of Charles Golden’s investigator, Jack Knight. Jack did not mention my name, but he did concede that it was a “team effort involving my entire firm.” Jack had learned much from Charles Golden.

There was a picture of a now-very-blonde Angela Golden in an oversized NYU sweatshirt as she and her now-very-pregnant-looking mother entered a black town car. It seemed that mother and daughter were going to Europe to escape the publicity, and to rest and recover. Mrs. Golden had family in Sweden, and there was a distinct possibility that her daughter would go to school there for a while. The Golden’s second child—“an unexpected blessing”—would be born overseas, away from the New York media, and Charles Golden would join them soon. Holding the car door for the expectant mother was the unidentified Joseph, who sported a bandage on his forehead and sunglasses hiding black eyes. My guess was that he would be accompanying mother and child to Europe.

“Wow,” Allison said. “The guy’s good.”

“What?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Mom’s not pregnant, Ray. It’s a cover story. They’ll go to Sweden—or wherever—stay until Angela has the baby, and then return to the States one big happy. Golden keeps his family’s name and his daughter’s rep clean and, in the bargain, gets looked at like a stud.”

“How do you know she’s not—?”

“Remember you told me she said she was three months pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“It took a while for me to get it, but I’ve had plenty of pregnant girlfriends, Ray. They don’t say they’re
three months
pregnant. They talk in weeks, right up until the birth. It’s all weeks, not months.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Why would you?” She squeezed my leg: the sweet ignorant male.

Story Number Two reported the discovery of two dead bodies and a cache of assault weapons at a brownstone in Brooklyn. One of the dead—unidentified as of publication—was in his early twenties and heavily tattooed. The other one was temporarily identified as Jimmy Kisparadis, a security consultant recently back from the Middle East. Chief Raymond Donne of the NYPD explained to reporters that this was the unfortunate end to an investigation involving the recently assassinated Richard Torres, who was working undercover with the NYPD’s Joint Terrorist Task Force. When pressed for more details, Chief Donne said, “Mr. Torres was a true American hero, both at home and abroad, and his family will be accorded all benefits earned by his efforts.”

“How much of that is true?” Allison asked me.

“Enough.”

A twenty-two-year-old woman, Marissa Rodriguez, was also found at the scene and was presently being treated at Woodhull Hospital. Chief Donne told reporters that investigators were looking forward to interviewing the young woman and “putting more pieces of this complicated puzzle together.”

“Your uncle has a way with words, Ray.”

“It runs in the family.”

“I’m beginning to find that out,” said Allison without humor.

On my way to the kitchen for more coffee, I stopped to look out at the skyline and found myself wondering where Allison and I would go for the last week of my vacation.

“Holy shit,” Allison called in from the living room. “Get in here, Ray!”

I ran over to the couch as Allison turned up the volume on the TV. A red
BREAKING NEWS
sign was at the top of the screen, which showed an aerial view of several small boats in a river. The news ticker beneath the picture read
CITY COUNCILMAN TONY BLAKE FOUND NEAR HUDSON RIVER.

Holy shit was right.

“… unconscious Blake and an unidentified female companion were discovered by city workers who were completing minor repair work along Clinton Cove Park in Manhattan. After the workers called nine-one-one, police quickly identified Tony Blake, businessman, city councilmember, and hopeful 2017 mayoral candidate. Here’s what Chief Raymond Donne of the NYPD had to say at a press conference earlier today.”

“We got the call around six this morning,” my uncle explained to at least a half-dozen microphones. “It’s obviously too early to make a definitive statement, but we’re not ruling out any possibilities.”

“What about the report that Tony Blake’s company owned the building in Brooklyn where several guns and two bodies were discovered this morning?” a reporter shouted out.

My uncle smiled. “You know I can’t comment on rumors, Annette. Right now, all I can say is we’ve contacted Mr. Blake’s family, and we’re conducting a complete and thorough investigation.”

They cut back to the reporter. “A spokesman for Councilman Blake’s office showed up shortly after Blake was identified.”

The shot was now a close-up of Charles Golden’s face above the title, “Blake Spokesman.” Someone’s head would roll for that description.

“There’s not much I can add at this moment,” Golden said. “We are all obviously confused and concerned by this situation. The family would appreciate the respect of the press and the public at this time. Thank you.”

“How will this affect Mr. Blake’s mayoral ambitions?” the reporter asked.

Golden just smiled at the camera. “Thank you.”

The camera switched to a shot of the reporter again. I muted the TV, trying to hide how much my swollen right hand still hurt from punching Joseph.

“He found out,” I said.

“Who found out what?” Allison asked.

I told her about Blake impregnating Angela, and she made the leap to the end of the story all on her own. “Charles Golden set up Tony Blake?”

I sat down next to her, leaned back, and closed my eyes.

“You know I can’t comment on rumors, Allison.”

She stood. “Fuck it, Ray,” she said. I opened my eyes to see a look on her face I’d never seen before. “How much of this did you know, and how long have you known it?”

I sat up. “I found out yesterday about Blake and Angela. I had no idea that Blake’s company owned the building in Brooklyn. As for Golden’s role in Blake’s … current ‘situation,’ I don’t know.”

She tilted her head at me. “Except that you do.”

“What do you want me to say, Ally?” I stood, went to the window, and looked out at my neighbors’ rooftops. “I know
some
of the truth,
a lot
of the bullshit, and a few probabilities.” I turned to face her. “You mad because
I
didn’t tell you or because you didn’t know?”

She thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m just mad.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too, Ray. Me, too.” She went into my bedroom, and when she came out she was holding her bag. “I think I need to go.”

I went over to her. “You’re kidding me. Because…”

“Because I don’t know how I feel about … about this. And I don’t want to get into a conversation with you when I’m feeling this way.”

“So you’re just going to go home?”

“I think that’s best right now.” She kissed me on the cheek. “I love you, Ray, but I need to go home.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re still taking the week off, right?”

“Yeah.” She squeezed my elbow. “You love me, too. Right, Ray?”

“Of course,” I said. “Why would you—?”

“Because you didn’t say it, Ray.” She stared into my eyes and squinted. “You’re supposed to say it right after I do.”

She was right. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

I watched as she turned and walked out of my apartment. If I could have thought of something else to say, something to stop her from leaving, I would have. But right then and there, I was coming up empty. At least I had twenty-four hours to come up with something before I called her tomorrow.

Yeah,
I thought.
Tomorrow.

ALSO BY TIM O’MARA

Crooked Numbers

Sacrifice Fly

About the Author

TIM O’MARA, author of
Crooked Numbers
and the Barry Award–nominated
Sacrifice Fly,
is a teacher in the New York City public school system. He lives in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen with his wife and daughter.
Dead Red
is his third Raymond Donne mystery.