Dead Red (7 page)

He stood up. “That’s definitely the concussion talking.” He looked at his watch. “The girls’ll be back up with the food any minute. Why don’t you hit the head, wash your face, and powder your nose? I’ll get the plates and stuff.” He looked around my apartment. “I’m guessing, what with the absence of a dining table, we’ll be eating in the living room?”

“You’re a damned fine detective, Chief Donne.”

I went into the bathroom. The face in the mirror was definitely mine, but it seemed to have aged ten years since yesterday. I leaned in to get a better look at my eyes. The pupils were dilated—a result of the blow to the head—but not as bloodshot as I would’ve guessed. I ran the cold water for fifteen seconds and then splashed it on my face. With dinner about to show up, it would have to do for now. I remembered Allison’s earlier offer of a shower, and hoped for a quick dinner and exit by my uncle. His words to my sister came whizzing at me through space:

“We all have hopes, kiddo.”

Chapter 6

RACHEL HAD TO LEAVE FOR HER dinner with Dennis, and thirty minutes later the only remnants of dinner were half an egg roll, an unopened box of rice, and an assortment of plasticware, plates, and bowls. Allison and I cleaned up and decided not to mention dessert or the possibility of one more drink to my uncle. When we got back into the living room, Uncle Ray was leaning back, eyes closed.

“Damn,” he said, rubbing his belly. “That hit the spot. You guys wanna watch a movie or something?”

Allison grabbed my hand and squeezed. I gave her a silent look that said I’d take care of it. My uncle opened his eyes.

“I’m just messin’ with ya. Told my driver to meet me outside at six.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost that now. I’ll see myself out.”

He got himself up off the futon with more than a little effort. He grabbed his jacket and stepped over to Allison. “Thank you again. I’m glad my nephew’s got someone in his life who cares.”

“So am I,” Allison said and kissed my uncle on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Uncle Ray turned to me. “Keep your head down, Nephew.”

“I will, Uncle Ray.”

“Any symptoms,” he said, “right to the ER and call me.”

“Absolutely.”

He pulled me into one of his manly hugs and then eased up out of fear of hurting me. His hugs could do that even when I didn’t have a concussion.

“Call your mother.”

“As soon as you leave.”

He looked at Allison and winked. “You better. I don’t want you getting yourself all distracted and leaving it ’til the morning.”

“I won’t.” I walked him to the door. “You and I will talk soon, I guess.”

“Soon,” he said and exited my apartment.

When I got back into the living room, Allison was coming out of the kitchen with a new beer. She raised it to me. “You can have
one
sip. Then call your mom.”

“And then…?”

She handed me the beer with one hand and reached around and squeezed my ass with the other. “Call your mother, tough guy.”

*   *   *

I woke up in a cold sweat hearing gunfire and the sound of metal creaking. Allison and I were on top of my comforter—we’d never made it under the covers—and she was wearing my Brooklyn Pilsner T-shirt and little else. My mind kept flashing back to twenty-four hours ago: Ricky’s face in the steering wheel, the sound and smell of his cab being shot up, the lights of the emergency room. There was no way I was getting back to anything resembling sleep tonight.

I rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom. I popped three more ibuprofens and chased them down with some cold tap water. My throat hurt, so I went to the freezer and treated myself to a couple of spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream. I let them slide down as I looked at the darkened skyline outside my kitchen windows. The city may never sleep, but it does rest its eyes every once in a while.

On my way back to the bedroom, my cell phone started ringing. In the dim light, it took me a few rings to find it hiding on the coffee table. I didn’t recognize the number, but given the events of the last day, I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Ray. It’s Jack.”

“What the—Jack. It’s…” I looked at the digits on my DVR. “… Not even three in the morning. I told you, I’d call—”

“Shut up, Ray, and get dressed. We both know you weren’t sleeping.”

“How do you know that?”

“This your first time being shot at, right?”

“Yeah.”

“My
first
time? I slept like a baby for days.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep. Woke up every two hours, cried for a bit, and then hit the bottle.”

In spite of my fatigue and nightmare, I laughed. “That’s good.”

“I’ll be outside your apartment in five.”

Maybe I was still dreaming?
“Jack, I’ve got my girlfriend over. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I just got a call from that buddy of mine at the nine-oh.”

“Okay…”

Pause. I could hear that he was in a car. “You dressed yet?”

“Jack, you’re not making much sense. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is you and I are heading over to the Southside.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“My buddy just told me they found a DB in the East River Park.”

Please, I hoped I was dreaming.
“How does that concern me?”

“Because this particular dead body,” Jack said, “used to be a teenager, and next to this teenager the cops found a bike and a Beretta Px4 semiautomatic pistol. It’s also less than two blocks from where Ricky T was shot.” He paused for effect. “You dressed
yet
?”

“I’ll meet you out front.”

*   *   *

It took me a few minutes to convince Allison that I had not, all evidence to the contrary, lost my mind, and that I’d call her from the crime scene. Of course, she wanted to come, and of course, I said no. She seemed to go along with it, but I knew she didn’t approve. I promised I’d be back for breakfast. This whole conversation took place as I was getting dressed, so I was able to keep my word to Jack and was out front in five minutes.

“Any shit from the missus?” he asked as I slid into the passenger seat of the vintage Ford Mustang he must have bought to complete the image of a PI. To his credit, this question was asked as he handed me a large cup of coffee.

“A little,” I said, taking a sip. “She’s on the phone with her paper now.”

“I forgot she’s a reporter.”

“Your buddy say who caught the case?”

Jack smiled. I didn’t like it when Jack smiled. “You’re gonna fucking love this, Ray.” He made an illegal left at the light, and I remembered I needed to buckle up. “Remember Detective Royce?”

“You’re shitting me, right?” I said. Royce was the detective in charge of the Frankie Rivas case a few years ago. He knew he never got the full story of my involvement in getting Frankie home, but chose not to pursue it. It was one of those times where my last name—and another’s willful ignorance—helped me out.

“I am shitting you not.” Jack made a quick right and headed toward the river. “He’s gonna flip when he sees your white ass, huh?”

“He’s not
going
to see me, Jack. I don’t know who your buddy is, but there’s no way either one of us is stepping foot on that crime scene.”

“Don’t need to.” He turned around and pointed with his thumb at the Dunkin’ Donuts bag and two boxes of coffee on the backseat.
Promoting the stereotype.
“I’m bringing refreshments in exchange for the possibility of some inside info that just might be pertinent to one of the cases I’m working on.”

I took another sip as I deciphered that latest bit of information. When I was done, I didn’t like the conclusion I’d come to and was about a centimeter away from getting real pissed off.

“You told me that Ricky’s death had nothing to do with any case he was working with you.”

“I said I didn’t
think so,
Ray. I’m a big enough man to admit that there’s an outside chance I could be wrong.”

I chose my next words carefully. “You’re a dick.”

“Oh, get off the fucking high horse, Cowboy. I’m still not sure if there
is
any connection, but when I hear that a body’s found dead with a semiautomatic pistol by his side, and then I remember that my old buddy Raymond Donne stated that the last thing Ricky T may have heard was automatic gunfire, I’ve got to check it out.” He took a sip and another left turn. “I know your sister was busting my balls before, but she was right: Ricky may not’ve been my
partner
partner, but we were working together, and I’m gonna check this shit out.” He screeched to a stop in the middle of the street. Some hot coffee flew out of my cup and landed on my jeans. “You want,” he said, shifting the car into Park, “I can let you out here and you can walk back home to the little lady.”

We stared at each other for maybe ten seconds as I waited for the burning sensation on my leg to subside. “Okay,” I said, taking some napkins out of the bag and wiping my leg. “Drive.”

Jack shifted the car back into Drive. “Thought so.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Jack pulled over to the curb and took out his cell phone. He spent the next few seconds typing, and then pressed a button.

“I just sent my buddy a text that we’re here.” He leaned into the back and reached into the Dunkin’ Donuts bag. “You wanna donut before the cops get their hands on them?”

“I’m good.” I pulled out my own phone to call Allison to see if there really were any hard feelings from my not inviting her to tag along.

“This guy Jack,” she said. “He sounds a bit … unstable.”

I opened my door and stepped out into the street. From where I stood, it looked like half a dozen patrol cars had responded to the call. I could also make out a few town cars; Brooklyn brass had arrived. I did not see any TV vans. Yet.

“He’s not even sure this has anything to do with Ricky, but any chance for some juice and Jack’ll jump.”

“Just don’t be holding his hand when he does, Ray.”

“I’m a big boy, Allison. You get in touch with the paper?” I asked, deftly changing the subject.

“How did you … Yeah,” she said. “They got a guy heading over. I scored a point with the graveyard editor. This is what they used to call a scoop.”

“Good. See, Jack’s come in handy already.”

“How’re you feeling, by the way?”

“I’m okay. A little dizzy, but it’s early in the morning.”

“Just get home in time for breakfast.”

“It’s on the top of my to-do list.”

As I ended the call with Allison, I noticed a patrolman half walking/half jogging over to Jack and me. When he got within five feet of us, he stopped and took off his cap just as Jack stepped out of his car.

“I thought you were coming alone, Jack,” he said, scratching his head. The cop seemed to be about my age, but the bags under his eyes made him look older and told me that he’d been pulling a lot of overtime lately.

“He’s a … friend, Roy,” Jack said. “Roy White, Raymond Donne.”

I offered my hand, and Roy looked at it like it was last week’s tuna. “Raymond Donne?” He turned to Jack. “This is the chief’s kid, Jack?”

“Easy there, Roy. Ray’s the chief’s nephew.”

“Big diff,” Roy said. “The chief know you’re here?” he asked me. “Or that I called Jack?”

“Neither,” I said. “Like Jack said, I’m here as a friend. There’s no reason for my uncle to know anything about this. How long’ve you been at the nine-oh?”

“About five years, why?”

“Because I don’t know you. I left a while ago.”

He turned to Jack. “You bring the treats?”

Jack spun around, opened the back passenger door, and pulled out the to-go boxes of coffee and a large bag of donuts and coffee fixings. He handed them to Roy. “There’s my end of the bargain.”

Roy accepted them and then looked over his shoulder. “Gotta make this quick. Some of the big boys are starting to show up.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“You want the full answer, or do I
Reader’s Digest
it for you?”

“You’re the one working.”

“Right.” He put the coffee and donuts on the hood of Jack’s car and walked over to the sidewalk. Jack and I followed.

“You read the papers,” Roy said. “Watch TV. We been getting a lot of shit about which cases get the most attention and which ones don’t. So when a … black youth shows up dead along the river, we treat it with the utmost priority.”

I had a comment for that, but decided to keep my mouth shut.

“Also, with the mayor’s war on illegal and out-of-state guns, the guys with all the stripes wanna make sure they are all over this before briefing Hizzoner, who, I hear through the grapevine, is already on his way to the hospital as we speak to meet personally with the victim’s family—as soon as they get an ID—to share their pain and express his outrage at another senseless killing involving an illegal weapon. How the family’s gonna spin what their kid was doing down by the river at this hour—possibly in possession of some serious firepower—should be interesting to watch.”

I looked at Jack and then back to Roy. “So why’d you call Jack?”

Roy gave Jack a look, not knowing how much to say. Jack spoke first.

“Roy and I have a deal. If he comes across anything he thinks might be of interest to me, he calls. It’s called the private investigation
business
for a reason.”

I knew that. Back in the days when I was a cop, I had a few PIs give me their business cards. They made decent bookmarks.

“But how’d he know to call you about this?”

“I put the word out on my way home from your place this morning. Any squeals involving automatic or semiautomatic weapons, gimme a shout. Roy did.” He turned back to his friend. “You sure on the make and model?”

“Beretta Px4,” Roy said. “Nice piece for a gangbanger. Too nice to leave behind. Worth at least three or four bills on the street.”

“So, the shooter…” I started to say.

“Wanted the piece to be found,” Jack finished for me. “And I betcha another dozen donuts that when Ballistics gets their hands on the vic’s gun, it’s gonna match one used in a very recent and very local shooting.”