Sacrifice Fly (26 page)

“Yeah,” I said as he biked away. “I’ll do my best.”

When Muscles picked me up, I told him what had happened on the bridge. He was not
happy with me. But it was the truth, and that’s what I had promised in exchange for
his driving services. He was less happy when I told him I had no intention of notifying
the police.

“What am I going to tell him?” I pictured Detective Royce’s face. “We had a meeting,
I didn’t bother to call the cops, and then let the kid slip through my fingers?”

Muscles started the car. “So the kid’s talking to his dad one minute, and thirty minutes
later the guy’s dead, and all it looks like he’s got is a bloody nose?”

“That’s how I’m hearing it.”

“Interesting.”

He took me back to the office where he insisted I soak in the hot tub, undergo a not-so-deep-tissue
massage—which hurt like hell just the same—and an icing down of the knees with another
round of electric stimulation. When it was over, it still felt like a truck had run
over me, only a slightly smaller truck. Muscles offered to drive me home, but I was
starving and in no mood to fend for myself, so I asked to be dropped off at The LineUp.

Chapter 21

MIKEY GREETED ME WITH THE
wave of a towel. “There he is!”

“Cheeseburger,” I said. “Fries and a pilsner. And Tabasco.” Muscles had told me about
the capsaicin in the hot sauce easing the pain. I pointed to the empty pint glass
next to the can of tomato juice. “Set me up next to Edgar, and get him another round
on me, Mikey.”

“If you say so.”

I headed off in the direction of the men’s room and ran into Edgar as he was coming
out.

“You okay, Ray? You’re walking a little funny.”

“Too much horseback riding,” I said. “I’ll be right back. I gotta hit the head.”

“Hey,” he said, “you hear about—”

“I’ll be right back, Edgar,” I repeated. He got the message and went over to his stool
as I entered the men’s room.

As I was washing my hands, I took a long look in the mirror. I didn’t completely fuck
up on the bridge. I had Frankie coming home until that cop and those kids got in the
way. I couldn’t control everything, couldn’t foresee every possible way a situation
like that could go south. I did a decent job, got some new bruises for my troubles,
and now it was time for some food and a few beers. Just like old times. Almost.

When I got back to the bar, Mikey had the Yankee game on. As I slid onto the stool,
Edgar picked up right where he’d left off.

“You hear that the kid’s—Frankie’s—sister came back?” he asked.

I took a long sip from my pint glass and said, “You think I live in a vacuum?”

“Nah. It’s just you’re at work all day and then … well, whatever else you do when
you’re not at work. I thought maybe you missed the news.”

“No, Edgar. I didn’t miss the news. In fact…” I went on to tell him everything about
Milagros’s return up to the point of my leaving the precinct last night.

“Holy shit, Raymond,” he said. “That makes you like some kinda hero, don’t it?”

“No, Edgar. It makes me some kinda delivery boy.”

“So what’d she say about Frankie? Where is he?”

“She didn’t say. Just that he’s fine.”

“Well, why didn’t he come in with her? Didn’t the cops ask her that?”

“Yes, they asked her. She didn’t say.”

He poured a little tomato juice into his Bass and watched it make its way down the
inside of the glass. After it had settled, he took a sip. “Did she say who killed
her old man?”

“She doesn’t know, Edgar.” Mikey came over and put my burgers and fries in front of
me. “Thanks,” I said, and then to Edgar, “Let me eat a bit, huh? It’s been a long
day. If you’re good, I’ll tell you another story when I’m done.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,” he said. “I get enough of that from the other guys.”

I poured some ketchup onto my plate and some hot sauce on top of that. “You’re right,
Edgar. I’m sorry.” I pointed to the TV. “Watch the game. Then we’ll talk.”

He did, and I was able to make it through my dinner and start a second beer in peace.
I convinced myself the combination of red meat, carbs, beer, and Tabasco aided in
my recovery efforts. I relaxed and let my attention drift up to the TV, and when the
Yanks ended the second inning with a bases-loaded pop-up, Edgar cleared his throat.
I went right to the highlight.

“I saw Frankie today,” I said, and for the next two minutes, Edgar
was
a kid. His mouth practically hung open, his eyes the size of shot glasses. It was
the longest I could remember him keeping silent. When I was done, it took him a full
minute to speak.

“Cheese and crackers,” he said. “You had him.”

“I know.”

“Damn kids and that cop. What the hell was he thinking?”

“It wasn’t his fault. He had no idea about Frankie and me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess, but still … Whatta you gonna do now?”

“Not much I can do,” I said. “At least I know he’s okay. For now.”

Edgar nodded and closed his eyes. He did that when he thought about something deeply.
Usually it was figuring out someone’s batting average or who had the majors’ lowest
ERA in 1957. I took the opportunity to sip some more beer.

“You said he gave you a truck rental receipt,” he said, his eyes now open. “Still
got it?”

I pulled the receipt out of my pocket. “Yeah.”

He took it and studied it for a bit. “I know these guys. They’re good. We rent from
them at work when we’re short on fleet.”

“Okay.”

“They use a GPS to track their vehicles. Global Positioning System.”

“I know what GPS means, Edgar. I’m just wondering why you’re telling me this stuff.”

“The company can keep track of their vehicles. They say it’s in case they get stolen
or something, but it’s more Big Brother than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“They use the GPS to see if you’ve gone out of state without telling them or if you
violated any speed limits. I’ve heard some places use that info to pad their bills.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“The Supreme Court said so.”

“This is all very interesting, Edgar, but…”

“But how does it help you?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Well,” he said, taking a sip from his beer and teasing me with the pause, “we could
probably locate this truck. If you were interested, that is.”

“Let’s say I was,” I said. “I don’t have access to their GPS system, and I sure as
hell can’t just walk into their offices and say, ‘Hey, can you find this truck for
me?’”

Edgar leaned into me and whispered, “Tell me you’re interested.”

“What?”

“Tell me,” he whispered again, “that you’re interested.”

I probably should have sat at the other end of the bar. “Okay,” I whispered back.
“I’m interested. Now what?”

Edgar straightened up. “I’ve got this friend,” he said. “And my friend’s got this
computer, and this really cool software.”

“Your friend got a name?”

“Deadbolt.”

“Deadbolt,” I repeated. “Is that his first or last name, Edgar?”

“Just Deadbolt,” he said.

“And he can tell us where this truck is?”

“If he can’t, I don’t know who can.”

I didn’t ask about the legality of all this, because I already knew the answer. It
would be nice to have something to take to Royce, though. Maybe Frankie really did
catch a clue.

“Okay, Edgar,” I said. “When can we meet with Deadbolt?”

“What’s today?” Edgar asked.

“Monday.”

He looked at his watch and said, “How’s fifteen minutes sound?”

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in Edgar’s car at the East River. The pier we
were parked in front of was fenced off. The city had finally had enough of large chunks
of aging concrete crashing into the water while Grampa was trying to teach Junior
how to fish and cut bait. Deadbolt was sitting in the backseat with a silver laptop
on his knees. He reached into the front pocket of his overalls and pulled out a device
about the size of a stick of gum. He inserted it into the side of his computer, pressed
a few buttons and said, “This’ll take a few.”

He leaned forward and stuck his head between the headrests. It was the first good
look I got of him. Even in the early evening light, I could tell this man did not
get enough sun. His skin was two shades too pale, and he had bags under his eyes big
enough to pack a lunch in. His breath smelled like fresh bread.

“I remember you now,” he said to me. “Emo said you used to be a cop. You were the
one took that plunge about four or five years ago. Didn’t a kid get killed?”

“And you were the one,” I said, “who was suspected in about a half dozen break-ins
over at the industrial park.”

“Suspected,” he repeated. “Never charged.”

“Nothing was ever taken in those break-ins. Detectives had a hard time figuring that
out.”

“Maybe someone was trying to teach the businesses the importance of high-tech security
systems.”

“And you’re in what legitimate business now?” I asked.

“I design and install high-tech security systems.” His computer started beeping. He
put it back on his lap and punched the keys for a few seconds. “Read me the redge,
Emo.”

Edgar looked at the rental slip and read off the numbers. Deadbolt keyed them into
the computer and after five seconds said, “Voy lah.” He turned the screen around so
Edgar and I could see it. Deadbolt pointed at the red circle on the screen. “That’s
right in the neighborhood.”

After I got my bearings on the grid map, I could see that the truck was five blocks
from where we were sitting. Not far from where Frankie’s father used to live.

“I know that corner,” Edgar said. “It’s an old gas station. Owner let the thing run
down, and now he makes his nut by letting people park there.”

“Which means it’s locked,” I added.

Deadbolt leaned forward again and let out a deep breath. If my eyes were closed I
would have sworn I had walked into a bakery.

“You’re not a cop no more, right?” he said.

“Right.”

“And you don’t go telling on people to the cops, right?”

“Not if they don’t tell on me,” I answered.

Deadbolt reached into his computer briefcase and pulled out a small tool. “You know
what this is, right?”

I took it. “Sure. It’s a low-tech security device.” I turned the lock pick over in
my hand. “Took a lot of these off a lot of people back in the day.”

“I use it in my work sometimes. Consider it a gift.” He leaned back and turned off
his computer. “Use it in good health. It’s a good one. Made in China.”

“Says here,” I said, looking at the side of the lock pick, “it’s from Japan.”

“What’s the diff?” Deadbolt had his computer all packed up and he was ready to go.
“Always a pleasure, Edgar.” They shook hands, and then he offered his to me. “Officer.”

“Whatever.”

“Thanks, DB,” Edgar said. “I owe ya one.”

“Please. This is one of the ones I owed you.”

I slipped the lock pick into my front pocket and said, “Good night, Deadbolt.”

“Gentlemen.”

After Deadbolt was gone, Edgar turned the key and started the car. “Where to now,
Ray? Back to The LineUp? Home?”

Both of those were excellent ideas, I thought. Beer, baseball, and bed. Tomorrow after
work I could head over to the precinct and tell Royce that not only had his murder
victim rented a truck before he died, but that I knew where it was parked.

Then I heard myself tell Edgar, “Let’s go check out that truck.”

*   *   *

We were parked about a hundred feet off the intersection. One corner housed the parking
lot, the other three consisted of an old automotive repair shop that had been out
of business for about ten years, a defunct bar with a nautically themed exterior,
and a five-story apartment building that had seen its best days about forty years
ago when this part of Williamsburg was known more for meatpacking than for being the
next area ripe for picking by real estate developers. With a little imagination, I
could picture a pair of ten-story condos rising into the Brooklyn night with an upscale
coffeehouse across the way. In two years, this corner will look as unfamiliar to me
as some town in Iowa.

After waiting for about three minutes, seeing no pedestrians and only a handful of
cars and trucks go by, I turned to Edgar. “You ready?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, a little too eager. “I’m ready.”

“Remember, Edgar,” I said. “You are a lookout. Any sign of trouble—cops, whatever—give
me one long honk of the horn, and you get out of here. No use both of us getting screwed.”

“I got it, Ray. You notice the lot’s full?”

Three medium-sized trucks and five cars. Probably netted the landlord over three thousand
dollars a month, maintenance-free. A full lot meant I wouldn’t be bothered by someone
coming in to park. I looked at my watch. Just after nine. I doubted anyone would be
picking up a vehicle at this hour.

“Okay,” I said. “I don’t expect to be in there that long. Ten minutes, tops.”

“How about I give the horn a couple of toots when ten minutes have gone by?” Edgar
asked. “In case you lose track of the time.”

I gave that some thought. “Yeah. Good idea.”

Edgar opened his glove compartment and pulled out something that looked like a cigar
holder. He twisted the end, and the front seat of his car filled with light. He handed
it to me. “This’ll help, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, taking the flashlight and twisting it into the off position. “It’ll
help.” I opened the car door and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

I got out of the car, walked to the corner, and waited. There was nobody coming from
any direction, so I crossed over to the parking lot. I glanced up at the apartment
building. All the windows that faced the lot were covered with curtains. I took the
lock pick out of my pocket and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. The padlock
on the gate was a good one, but it was designed more to keep away the casual troublemaker
looking for kicks. Not someone determined to get in. Someone with a lock pick.