Crooked Numbers (11 page)

I raised my hand. “Hi. Raymond Donne.”

A woman came up to me. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place from where. Until she spoke.

“You’re the man from the wake the other night.”
Hello, Wanda.
“The one who upset Gloria so.”

“Nice to see you again, Wanda.” She seemed shocked I knew her name. “This is Allison Rogers.”

Allison offered her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Wanda looked at Allison’s hand like it was a questionable piece of fish. To her credit, though, she took it, politeness winning out.

“The man from the papers.” Another woman was coming our way, saving us from further conversation with Wanda. “Mr. Donne,” she said, taking both my hands. “Sarah Dutton. From the phone yesterday.”

“Of course. Thank you for having us, Ms. Dutton.”

Ms. Dutton turned to Allison. “Mrs. Donne?”

Allison laughed. Hard. “No,” she said. “I’m just a friend.”

“Oh, darlin’,” Ms. Dutton said, taking Allison in. “You are not
just
anything. You are gorgeous.” Then to me she added, “Don’t you think so, Mr. Donne?”

“Absolutely,” I said, not missing a beat.

“Yes,” Ms. Dutton said. “Yes, she is. Have you two eaten?”

“We just got here,” I said.

“Well, let me show you where the food is.” She took me by the hand. I took Allison the same way, and we followed Ms. Dutton into the next room, which was also filled with people. This was the dining room, and there were two tables filled with all sorts of homemade and store-bought foods, and one table loaded with bottles of soda, water, and more than a few bottles of wine. “You two go on ahead and help yourselves.”

“I’m not hungry right now,” I said, looking at Allison, who nodded her agreement. “We’d really like to say hello to Mrs. Lee.”

“Not hungry?” Ms. Dutton gave me a look as if she’d never heard that sentiment before. “Maybe later then. I believe I saw Gloria in the back. This way.”

We followed her again, deeper into the apartment.
This was a lot of rooms for two people
, I thought. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Lee would be staying here now that her only son was gone. We were in the kitchen now, and through the window over the sink I could see into the small backyard. There were a couple of men out there smoking, maybe the same two from the other night outside the funeral home.

“There she is,” Ms. Dutton whispered, pointing into the adjacent room. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Lee in quiet conversation with another woman. “You two go on ahead and pay your respects. I’m gonna make sure the kids’ve eaten. They’re probably all down in the basement playing those video games. Those kids forget to eat, and they got a long drive ahead of them. Recipe for disaster.”

“Thank you, Ms. Dutton,” Allison said.

“Oh, thank
you
for coming
,
darlin’.” She touched me on the arm. “And don’t you let this one get too far away, now.”

Allison looped her arm around mine, and I was reminded of the previous day’s stroll with China. “I’ll do my best,” I said. As Ms. Dutton walked away, I turned to Allison. “You ready to pay your respects?”

She looked around. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Just remember, no questions.”

“I’m not a reporter twenty-four seven, Ray.”

We walked over to Mrs. Lee, and she stood up when she saw us coming. She put her hand on the shoulder of the woman she was talking with for support. She even managed a small smile for my benefit.

“Mr. Donne,” she said. “I knew you would come.” She looked at the other woman. “Didn’t I say he’d come, Marilyn?”

The other woman smiled. “You did, Gloria. You most surely did.”

I reached out to take Mrs. Lee’s hand, and she turned the gesture into a hug. I could feel her take two deep breaths as she held me. “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Thank you for everything.”

I gave her back a pat. “You’re welcome,” I said. “And, again, I am so sorry for your loss. This … should never have happened.”

“No,” she agreed. “It should not have.” She stepped back from the hug and looked at Allison. Another look of approval. “And who is this?”

Allison took Mrs. Lee by the hand. “Allison Rogers,” she said. “And I am so sorry we have to meet like this.”

“Thank you, Allison.” Mrs. Lee’s face turned pensive and then a thought hit her. “Allison Rogers? The reporter from the paper who wrote the story about my Douglas?”

Allison hesitated. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“You are most welcome in our home, young lady.” Mrs. Lee grabbed Allison’s hands as her eyes filled up. “You kept my boy’s story alive. I will be forever grateful to you. Forever grateful.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Lee.” Allison looked at me. “It was really Raymond’s—Mr. Donne’s—doing, though. He would not let it go, in fact.”

“I know that, Ms. Rogers. I know that.” She turned to me. “Have you eaten, Mr. Donne?” Before I could answer, tears fell from her face, and Marilyn was there with a fresh tissue. Mrs. Lee wiped her eyes. “That’s a silly question, I know, but we do find some comfort in food, don’t we? In feeding others?” She handed the tissue back to her friend, who tossed it into a wastebasket that already held quite a few others. “Maybe it’s because it’s something we can control. We cook it, we serve it, and then we clean up after it’s been enjoyed.” She took a breath. “The illusion of control, at least.”

“Makes sense to me,” I said. “Seems to be universal.”

“Yes, it does. Yes, it does. It brings us together.” She put her hands up to her lips as if she were about to pray. Instead she said, “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Donne? A big favor, I’m afraid. Feel free to say no, if you want.”

Right. Just like the other night at the wake.
“Tell me what you need, Mrs. Lee.”

“I need”—she took another breath—“to go into Douglas’s room.” She let out the breath. “I need to go into Douglas’s room. I have not … gone in since…” She trailed off.

I watched again as her eyes filled up with tears. This woman’s strength did not come easily. It was impressive to watch.

“Are you sure you want to do that now?” I asked.

“I am not going to be one of those women who can’t … can’t bear to be reminded of their loved ones. The sooner I go in there, the better. The longer I wait, the stronger its control over me and then … I become one of those women.” She took me by the hand. “I will go in with you.” She turned to Allison. “Would you mind if I borrow him for a few minutes?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Lee,” Allison said. To both of us, she added, “Take your time.”

“Are you ready, Mr. Donne?”

“If you’re absolutely sure.”

“Don’t try and talk me out of it. If you do—.” Whatever words were to come out next got stuck somewhere in her throat. I let her pull me in what I assumed was the direction of Dougie’s room. I looked back at Allison, who mouthed, “Good luck.”

The room was down yet another hallway.
How big was this place?
As if hearing my thoughts, she said, “My brother-in-law owns the building, Mr. Donne. He has generously given us the entire floor, the basement, and the use of the backyard. He himself lives up in Rockland County and has an office up there as well as down here. He rents out the other floors and does quite well by them.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“Yes. It is.”

We stopped when we got in front of Dougie’s room. The door was unadorned with the normal teenager door stuff: no
KEEP OUT—THIS MEANS YOU
! signs, no stickers of athletes or musicians. Just a door. Mrs. Lee put her hand on the knob and turned. Before pushing it open, she bowed her head.

“You’re okay with this?” I asked one more time.

“I am.”

She pushed open the door. The room was dark and had the slightly unpleasant smell a small space acquires when it has been closed up for a week. From the doorway, it was hard to make out anything for half a minute. That’s how long we stood there before Mrs. Lee said, “The shades are pulled. The light from the neighbors’ always bothers—” She stopped when she caught herself using the present tense. The loved ones of recent victims do that all the time. “There’s too much light at night if you don’t pull the shades. Makes it hard to sleep.”

“Would you like me to go in and open the shades?” I asked.

“Please. And open the window a crack, as well. Please.”

I walked to the window, careful not to step on anything on the floor. A sneaker almost tripped me, but I moved it aside with my foot. I raised the shade and pulled up the window two inches. Mrs. Lee was still in the doorway.

“Take your time,” I said. “There’s no rush.”

“Thank you.”

The floor looked like a normal teenager’s floor: two mismatched sneakers lying on a rug; a pair of underwear near the bed next to a pair of balled-up socks and a few sports magazines; the bed itself unmade, the blanket shoved to the foot end, and a sheet hanging over the side.

His desk was remarkably well kept. He had a laptop, a holder for his pens and pencils, and something that looked like an “in” box, which held some papers. A printer rested on a side table, the desk too small to hold it. This was the space of a kid who took his work seriously. I couldn’t help but feel a bit proud and a deep ache for the kid I’d had in my class two years ago.

I looked over at Mrs. Lee. She had taken her first steps into the room. She looked around as if taking it all in for the first time. She closed her eyes, and I got the feeling she was sensing her son’s presence. Imagining him back in the room, studying or listening to music, or sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed to read. When she opened her eyes again, she looked at me. “I apologize for the mess.”
Still Dougie’s mother
.

“You should see mine,” I answered.

I walked over to the wall by Dougie’s bed. He had a cork bulletin board, which held a few photos of some basketball players, a couple of Post-its reminding himself about upcoming school assignments, and a few photos of Dougie with some other kids about his age.

“Those are some of his new classmates,” Mrs. Lee explained. “I met a few of them the other night at the wake. Nice kids. Some of them have too much, though. If you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” I said, remembering some of the spoiled kids I had gone to high school with on Long Island. Kids who didn’t have to get the weekend or afterschool job, who applied to any college they wanted to, not having to think about tuition. I taught in the inner city for a reason. I did not want to teach the kids I’d grown up with.

Mrs. Lee went over to the desk and opened the drawers, looking for something. Then she stepped over to her son’s bed and moved the blanket and covers around.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“His phone,” she said. “The police never found it. At least it wasn’t in his…” Struggling with the words. Words never uttered in happy times. “… his personal effects.” She looked at the floor. “I thought maybe it’d be in here.” She moved over to his closet and started going through the pockets of the jackets and pants that were hanging in there. She mumbled something.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m going to have to donate all this.” She choked back the tears. “His clothes. They’re doing nobody any good just hanging here.”

“I’m sure the church will know what to do with them, Mrs. Lee. I don’t think it’s something you have to worry about now.”

“The sooner the better,” she said. “No phone. He never went anywhere without his phone. It was always either in his pocket or clipped to his waist.”

“I’ll ask Detective Murcer about that if you’d like,” I offered.

“Yes, please.” She took two steps toward me. “I watch those police shows on TV. They don’t need to have the phone to find out who called Dougie that night. They can check his cell phone records, right?”

TV made everybody a crime investigator these days.

“They did that already,” I said. I explained how the last call Dougie received was made from an untraceable disposable cell. “By the way,” I said. “I spoke with someone yesterday who has a strong connection to the Royal Family.”

“That’s the gang?” she said. “The one with the beads they found?”

“Yes. The person I spoke to said, as far as he knew, Dougie was in no way involved with the gang. And he’s in a position to know.”

“Well, of course he wasn’t, Mr. Donne.” It sounded like she was saying that as much for her own benefit as mine. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I glanced at Dougie’s desk, and another thought hit me. “Did the police ask for his computer?”

“No,” she said. “Should they have?”

I went over to it and checked to see if it was off. It was. “He was on this a lot, you said?”

“Even after his bedtime, every once in a while I’d find him … surfing the web.”

“You should call Detective Murcer and offer him Dougie’s computer.”

“Can
you
do that?”

“I can,” I said, thinking about how thrilled Dennis would be to hear from me again so soon, “but it would be more effective if it came from you.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said.

“Good.” I opened the center drawer of the desk and found the usual: paper clips, a mini stapler, some erasers, and loose change. There was also a bunch of business cards gathered in a rubber band alongside a separate, single card. I picked up the one that wasn’t part of the pack. It was for something called Finch’s Landing, with a picture of a bird in front of a computer screen, over which was printed an email address. I handed the card to Mrs. Lee. “Any idea what this is?”

She took the card from me. “The name ‘Finch’ sounds familiar. It’s probably something he got from one of his friends at school. Somebody was always starting up a new club.”

“May I have that?”

She handed it back to me. “I don’t see why not.”

I slipped the card into my shirt pocket and turned back to the desk. I opened the center drawer a little more and found a small walkie-talkie. It looked like a good one, well made and probably expensive, the kind Edgar would use. It reminded me of the kind I took off a few corner boys back when I worked the streets. They’d use them when acting as lookouts, letting the other boys know five-oh was around. Not a good sign that Dougie had one. I turned it on and got static. All the channels gave me the same.