Atmosphere (12 page)

Frank hadn't wanted to raise Jaimie—who was only an infant at the time—in Manhattan, and he had been most assertive in his grounds against moving. Quite familiar with the public school system, with the arrests and the drugs and the crimes that popped up all too often even in the elementary schools, he didn't feel her chances for an education—much less her safety—were equaled to those in Nassau County. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he didn't know how to please Diane—whose arguments, although exceeding and cutting, were justifiable and attractive—other than to simply give in.

So he did just that, and they moved to the upper west side into a townhouse apartment where the maintenance was virtually nil, a cleaning lady could be hired for thirty bucks a week, and the groceries could be delivered. Additionally, without the commute, Diane had three extra hours a day at home raising Jaimie, whom they eventually enrolled into a private school.

After many initial arguments, life in the city had ended up suiting them just fine, until their separation years later.

"Yes, Melville. Nice area," Frank said as they briskly walked along the sidewalk.

The sun had taken refuge far behind the skyline, veiling everything in dusk. Just as Frank realized how quickly the day had turned to night, the sodium-vapor street lights lining the sidewalk came on, lending illumination to the growing darkness. A young couple approached from the opposite direction, snuggling arm in arm, both wearing leather jackets and jeans. Frank felt a chill and shivered as they passed. It seemed the evening brought along some cold weather with it.

"You know the area?" Ernie asked.

"Sure, used to live in Plainview—years ago."

"Too bad. We could've been neighbors." A short plume of cool breath spewed from his smile.

Ernie Barba reminded Frank of himself when he was that age, nice Italian kid, wife, house, kid. The young cop seemed to have a promising life ahead of him. Hopefully none of those years would be spent alone like Frank's last five had been.

Well
, Frank thought,
as long as he doesn't suffer the same problem I do, his wife won't leave
.
  

Frank thanked God every day that he still had Jaimie living with him, and although he didn't see her very often, her company brought a smile to his face, reminding him that someone in this world still loved him. He would have gone nuts a long time ago if she hadn't been around.

The three of them continued their pace along the sidewalk, passing iron fences and gates riddled with ivy. Halfway up the block, Hector slowed his pace, then stopped in front of a home with a brass '
456
' attached to the Elizabethan eave above the doorway.

"This is it," he said. He reached through the gate bars and pressed a button on a metal box attached to a post just within reach.

A tinny, somber voice returned his beckon. "Yes?"

"Captain Rodriguez, NYPD."

After Frank and Barba had been seated in Hector's office, Hector quickly briefed Barba as to the status of the investigation, that they were going to have Patrick Racine's Parents interviewed at once before any funeral arrangements were made. By the quizzical look on his face, Barba seemed genuinely surprised that Captain Rodriguez had elected to take on the investigation himself, and that a senior officer from another precinct would be coming along, but he stayed in line, never questioning his captain's decision on the matter. They left moments later, Frank commenting to Hector that he should look into having the depressing gray walls painted over. Hector ignored the comment, not so much as flinching, and Frank giggled inside.

The gate buzzed, allowing them entrance to the steps leading to the door.

Leonard Racine appeared at the threshold. He wore a pair of khakis and a long sleeve sweatshirt that both looked as if they had been slept in. Red streaks laced the whites of his eyes like tiny tree branches, and his light brown hair had messy tufts jutting at out odd angles. No doubt he spent the last twelve hours running his hands through them in frustration.

"Mr Racine?" Hector said, climbing the steps. "I'm Captain Hector Rodriguez from the thirteenth precinct. This is Detectives Ballaro and Barba." They exchanged handshakes and entered the house.

The three of them were led down a hall past the living room, into the dining room. Frank took notice of the oak table, the Louis XIV chairs, the glass cut chandelier. The Racines were collectors of antiques it seemed. Expensive ones too, and Frank was immediately impressed. They sat at the chairs, Leonard Racine at the head, Frank and Hector facing Ernie.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?" Mrs Racine walked in, a handkerchief knotted in her hands. She too looked disheveled, as though she had been spent wrestling on the floor with her husband. Judging by the fine decor and cleanliness of the place, the two of them without question hadn't looked this unkempt in years.

"This is my wife Amanda," Leonard said, barely looking up from the polished grains in the table. Everyone nodded, pleasantries were exchanged, but nobody offered a handshake—Amanda Racine included. This wasn't a welcoming situation, only painful, and amiable congenialities became unnecessary. The three of them kindly declined her offer, and she sat down opposite her husband at the other end of the table.

"Mr and Mrs Racine," Hector said, "We'll try our best to make this as short and as painless as possible, but please let me make this be understood. We need your utmost cooperation if we are to find your son's killer."

"Yes, of course."

Amanda forced a weak nod, dabbing the tissue at her nose.

Barba placed a micro-cassette recorder on the table, pressed 'record'.

Hector stated, "For the record, let this be known: Friday, October 21, 1998. Time, seven-fifteen PM."

Frank took out a small notepad from his jacket pocket, prepared to record any observations.

"Mr Racine, your son was how old?"

"Nineteen."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"No, no. He was a good kid, never had any trouble with anyone."

"Friends?"

"Some, but not a lot. Seemed to get along with them fine."

"Had he any other kind of trouble that you know of? With the law, school, or someone else?"

"No, of course not."

"Definitely not," Amanda Racine added, shaking her head.

"He work?"

"Part time, two days a week in the garment center as an assistant designer. He just started bartending on weekends maybe three weeks ago."

"Where'd he tend bar?"

"Honestly, I don't even know. I never asked. He just said he was tending bar, and I really didn't think anything further of it. I assumed it was at one of the college places he hung out at with his friends. He had talked about doing it so he could see his friends, and still make a buck. Like I said, he only started three weeks ago." Leonard stood up and pulled a napkin from the baker's rack in the kitchen, wiping his forehead. "Obviously now, I wish I knew. You think it could have been someone from the place he worked at?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." Hector leaned over to Frank. "You thinking the same thing I am?"

Frank scribbled on the page:
Designer + Bartender=Gay?
Hector's theory had suddenly come to mind, that the two boys indeed may have been having a homosexual rendezvous in the alley when the bald guy attacked them. Perhaps the bald guy could have been gay himself and attacked the boys in a jealous frenzy. Or just the opposite: a gay basher.

Hector pulled back from Frank, rubbed his chin. "Mr and Mrs Racine, was your son gay?"

Both their mouths dropped, either in surprise or due to being appalled. Regardless, their shock at the question was unquestionably evident in their faces.

Mrs Racine spoke up, her mouth trembling at the effort. "Do you know something about our son that we don't?"

"Right now we don't know much of anything. That's why we're here."

She nodded, looking at her husband, who sat back down and shook his head in an affirmative.

"Yes, of course," Leonard said. "No. Our son is not gay."

"Girlfriend?"

"Not at the moment, that we know of."

Hector said, "If you'll both pardon my saying so, it seems that you aren't up on a good deal of his personal life."
   

Leonard blew out, lines of guilt furrowing his brow. "My wife and I have been very busy. I'm a broker, Amanda's an antiques dealer. I've been spending big hours at the office of late, and Amanda, she travels quite a bit with her job. So to answer your question straightforwardly, no, we haven't spent as much time as we would've liked to with Patrick. But to be frank, I'm not too sure he had much time for us either. Between school and work, he was as busy as we were."

Motioning with his hands at all the expensive furniture, Hector said, "It doesn't appear that Patrick really needed to work two jobs."

Amanda replied, "We made a deal with him. We would pay for school, but he had to earn his spending money. Leonard and I agreed that we really didn't want him becoming too dependent on us."

Hector nodded, so did Frank. They understood, and were in agreement. The Racines were honest, hard-working parents, and although quite well-off, never spoiled their son to any extreme.

"Does Patrick have any siblings?"

They both shook their heads. "He was an only child."

A tremendous darting pain ran through Frank's body, a burning sensation that felt as if a hole had been seared right through his chest to the center of his heart. He had forgotten that they were talking about the sudden death of this family's child. But the harsh reality of it struck him like a boxer's unexpected blow to the midsection when he became aware that Patrick had been their
only
child.

Like Jaimie was to him.

Dear God-forbid. If he ever lost Jaimie to something as tragic as this, drastic sickness and devastation would consume him to a point highly unfathomable, incalculable, and surrealistically nightmarish. Without doubt he knew he would never be able to live through a single minute in such dire agony. His body would collapse, completely distressed, in shock. Amazing the fortitude the Racines had, to be able to sit here and converse about this tragedy just twelve hours after its taking place.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, he felt a slight twinge of anger rise up in his blood, as if something had indeed happened to his daughter. It was Frank's irrational side, starting to swell from within. He took deep, calculated breaths, quietly calming himself, finding the willpower to suppress the emotional outrage, the fear. Thankfully, his inquisitive-detective self had reassumed control, had become the stronger identity at the moment. No battle would be waged—for now.

"Do you know where Patrick may have gone last night?" Hector continued.

They both shook their heads. "We were out to dinner with clients of mine," Leonard said.

"Working maybe? At the bar?"

Leonard shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think he had class until later on Fridays. So sure, he could have worked. But he also could have gone out."

"Did either of you notice any strange behavior of late? Him becoming reclusive, withdrawn?"

"No," Leonard answered.

"'No', you didn't notice, or 'No' he hadn't changed?"

"No, he was fine," Amanda offered. "As a matter of fact he was spending more time out. I assumed he was either working or studying at the library."

"When was the last time either of you spoke to him?"

Amanda and Leonard traded gazes with one another, and it appeared to Frank that they were both trying to figure out exactly when they
had
last spoken to their son. Leonard said to her, "You saw him Monday, right? Remember? You told me he came home late from the library, looked like hell? You said his eyes were all watery and bloodshot."

"So it was Monday night then? Three nights ago."

"Yes," they both said in unison. Amanda, suddenly asking to be excused, stood and shuffled off to the kitchen. They heard her run the water and blow her nose. She quickly returned with four glasses and a pitcher of ice water. Frank helped himself as did Hector. Barba remained stoic and silent, watching the counter on the tape recorder.

"Did your son use any drugs?" Hector rubbed his thumb in the condensation forming on his glass of water.

Again the Racines looked shocked. "No," Leonard responded.

"Are you positive?"

Leonard leaned back in his chair. His face went red and he looked across at his wife who dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"I won't say for sure that Pat hadn't experimented socially simply because I'm aware that most kids do it nowadays. Pot, some coke maybe, although I doubt Pat did anything more than puff on a joint."

"You said his eyes were all bloodshot and watery. Sounds like drug use, no?"

Leonard clenched his fists. Jewels of sweat beaded at his brow. "Captain Rodriguez, my son was not a druggie. If my wife believes he was just tired, then he was
just tired
. Nothing else."

"Mr Racine, please, I only ask for investigatory purposes. We're simply looking to rule out certain possibilities, one being whether his murder could be drug-related."