Sacrifice Fly (7 page)

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Cruz,” I said, slipping the card into my back
pocket. “I’m concerned that she called you and not the police.”

“But not surprised.”

“Excuse me?”

“Senora Santos trusts me, Mr. Donne. She does not trust the police. You were a policeman
for how long?”

“Long enough,” I said. “Why?”

“Would it offend you if I suggested that this is the first time you were ever in a
Puerto Rican woman’s apartment without the authority that comes with the uniform?”

“I’m not easily offended, Mr. Cruz.”

“Good.” He smiled. “If you give
la abuela
the choice between calling the police or her church, she will choose the church every
time, Mr. Donne.”

“I understand that, but—”

“If I felt that Senora Santos was in real danger, I would call the police myself.”

“You don’t think her apartment being broken into puts her in real danger?”

“I am considering the very real possibility,” he said, lowering his voice, “that her
apartment was not broken into.”

“Excuse me?”

“You looked around,” he said. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“And the front door?”

“Seemed fine,” I said. “But then why are you so quick to replace the lock?”

“Because it will make her feel safer, Mr. Donne. Do you want to be the one to tell
her that her imagination and stress of the past few days has gotten the better of
her?”

“No.”

“Then we have the lock changed, and she feels a bit more secure. She told me when
she returned home, her front door was open. I believe that in her hurry to get to
Las Mujeres,
she may have neglected to close her door. She has had a lot on her mind the past
few days, yes?”

“This women’s group,” I said. “
Las Mujeres
. They meet every Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is also a very real possibility that if someone did break into her apartment,
they knew she’d be at the church for a few hours.”

He nodded. “That is true.”

“It’s also true her former son-in-law was murdered and her grandchildren are missing.
Whoever is responsible may be behind her apartment being broken into.”

“That is possible.”

“But you won’t offer that possibility to Mrs. Santos?”

“No,” he said. “I will not.”

“Then I think I should.”

“She will not accept it coming from—”

“A white guy?” I said.

“An outsider,” Cruz said. “During your years as a policeman, how many times were you
welcomed into the home of a Puerto Rican?”

“I wouldn’t say I was ever
welcomed.
I went where I was needed.”

“Our people do not look at it like that.”

“Then why do they call the police?”

“Most have no one else to call,” he said. “Senora Santos does. You have to understand,
Mr. Donne, the Puerto Rican is not comfortable asking for help from outsiders. It
is our experience that no one knocks at our door without wanting something. It is
part of our history. Part of who we are and where we come from. You have to knock
many times before you are invited inside.”

“I’ve just been inside.”

“You were not invited by Mrs. Santos. Nor welcomed, I’m afraid. I will handle this.”

“You can ensure her safety?”

Before he could answer, his cell phone rang. He took it from his belt, flipped it
open, and said, “I have to take this. Excuse me.” He walked a few steps away and lowered
his voice. “Yes. I have told them that many times. They are to go ahead with the procedure
and they will be reimbursed. Yes. Call me when it is done.” He closed the phone.

“So,” I said, “I pretty much wasted my time coming over here?”

Cruz stepped back over and touched me on the elbow, a little gesture reminding me
who was in charge here. He was good.

“Your willingness to help has not gone unnoticed. I am sure that Elsa appreciates
your coming over.”

“You know that she called me?”

“I suspected as much. She looks out for Senora Santos.”

“And so do you,” I said.

“Yes. And this time will be no exception. Senora Santos will stay downstairs tonight.
Now, this may be a good time for you to say good-bye to her.”

“Why don’t you do that for me, Mr. Cruz? I’m not sure she wants to see me again.”

“Even though she did not invite you, Mr. Donne, I believe she would appreciate the
respect of your saying good-bye.”

We stepped back into the apartment, and this time, when I got to the pictures on the
wall, I stopped to look at them. There were some old photos, black-and-whites of palm
trees and beaches. Puerto Rico. Most of the newer ones, the ones in color, were of
Frankie: in his baseball uniform, graduating from elementary school, with someone
I guessed was his sister, Milagros. They were standing in front of the big, white
house I recognized from the picture in Frankie’s notebook. Next to that one was a
picture of a pregnant woman standing next to a young Frankie. The woman had the same
dark eyes, the same hopeful smile.

“Is this Frankie’s mother?” I asked Cruz.

“Yes,” he said.

“How did she die?”

“Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” he said.

“Cancer?”

“Cancer of the blood, yes. The lymphocytes turn malignant and start to crowd out the
healthy white blood cells.”

“You a doctor, too?”

“I spent two years in medical school before I chose another path. It helps to understand
what afflicts the people I help.” He touched the photo. “Christina was diagnosed just
before she became pregnant with Milagros. She could not undergo treatment while pregnant,
and by the time Milagros was born the disease had spread too far.”

“How long did she live?”

“Another three years. A credit to her strength.”

I looked again at the photo, this time focusing on the smile that would be gone too
soon. She was putting forth one hell of a front for her son.

“When you grow up in the projects,” Cruz said, “and experience the hardships that
Christina faced, you don’t consider that it will be your own body that betrays you.”

We stood there for another moment before he said, “Come. Say good-bye.”

Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s mother were at the table, drinking their waters. Elsa stepped
out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.

“Mr. Donne,” she said, so the ladies would realize I was back. “Thank you for coming.”

“I wanted to say good-bye.” I looked at the two women. They didn’t look back. I nodded
and said, “Good-bye.”

Elijah Cruz took my hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Perhaps you will knock on Mrs.
Santos’s door again someday.”

I gave him a small smile. “Perhaps.”

“I will walk you out, Mr. Donne,” Elsa said.

“Elsa!” her mother hissed.

“Mommy, shhh!” She waved her hand at her mother. “I’ll be right back.” She led me
out into the hallway. “I am sorry about that, Mr. Donne. They don’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s okay, Elsa. And please, call me Raymond.” She nodded. “That photo on the wall,”
I said. “The large, white house?”

“The ‘mansion’? It’s Anita’s. She lives upstate.”

“Ulster County?” I asked, remembering the real estate ads from Frankie’s book.

“Highland, yes. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

She pressed the Down button for the elevator. As we waited, she said, “Anita is Frankie’s
mother’s cousin. The house was a wedding gift from her husband.”

“She married well.”

“She married rich. She wanted that life. I guess we all did. Anita, Christina, and
I would talk for hours as kids about the life we would have after getting out of here.
Anita’s dreams came true.” She drifted off for a few seconds. “Anita’s husband, John,
owns the travel agency where Frankie’s father works—worked.”

“That’s a long commute from Highland.”

“They have an apartment here in Williamsburg. John owns some buildings in the neighborhood.”

“You see her much?”

Elsa snorted. “Only during the holidays. If her husband allows her to visit the projects.
‘Slumming,’ they call it and expect me to laugh along with them.”

“Is that what Anita calls it?”

“She pretends to mimic him, but I can tell it makes her a little uncomfortable. I
think she is beginning to feel the same way he does.”

“Some people have a problem with where they came from.”

“Some people,” Elsa said, “have a problem with where they end up.”

The elevator arrived. I reached over and held the door before it could close.

“Thank you, Mr.—Raymond.”

“For what?” I asked. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You came because I asked you to. Even though Mrs. Santos does not appreciate it,
I do. I feel better knowing that someone besides her church was here.”

“It’s not your church?”

“No. My mother and I are Catholics. And you?”

“Raised Catholic,” I said. “But I got over it.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

I stepped inside the elevator, pressed the button for the lobby, and tipped an imaginary
cap. “Ma’am.”

As the door closed, Elsa’s smile got a little bigger. Maybe this wasn’t a complete
waste after all.

Down in the lobby, Harold was pushing a wet mop across the floor. When he spotted
me coming out of the elevator, he took the opportunity to stop his work and meet me
at the exit.

“Still no sign of Lefty, huh?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “You see any strangers around here today, Harold?”

“Strangers? Nope. Why you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Then why you ask?”

“See ya around, Harold.”

He looked at my umbrella. “How’s the leg, Mr. Donne?”

I ignored the question and left the building. I wanted to call the cops, let them
know what might have happened up in Mrs. Santos’s apartment. I decided it wouldn’t
do any good. She wouldn’t tell them anything. When I got to the street, I went over
to the pay phone and dialed nine-one-one. When the operator asked me the nature of
my emergency, I said a crazy man was outside the Clemente Houses threatening people
with a broken bottle.

If someone were watching Mrs. Santos’s apartment, I wanted them to see some police.

*   *   *

I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Since it was pushing six, I figured I’d head over to
The LineUp, grab some dinner, and check in with Mrs. Mac about Saturday’s party. The
place was filling up with the after-work crowd—I waved to a few cops I recognized—but
I managed to get the last stool at the bar. Right next to Edgar. Lucky me.

“They get the kid yet?”

“Hello, Edgar,” I said. “I’m fine, thanks. You?”

“Good, man. How’s the case going?”

Mikey came over, placed a bottle of Bud in front of me, and said, “Thanks again for
last night, Ray. I owe ya.”

“How’d it go?”

“Let’s just say I owe ya big,” he said. “You eating?”

“Yeah. BLT with turkey.”

“Extra B?”

“Absolutely.”

“Chips?”

I nodded.

“Glad you’re still on that health kick. Be back in a sec.”

“Anyway,” Edgar said, as if Mikey had interrupted an actual conversation, “how’s the
case going? Papers said the kid might be a suspect.”

“Edgar,” I said, “I’m not involved in any case.”

“The cops didn’t call you about the missing kids?”

“His name’s Frankie,” I said. “The sister’s Milagros. And I don’t give a shit what
the papers said. He didn’t kill his dad. The cops called the school and got some background
on Frankie, that’s all.”

Edgar leaned over. “They asking you for help?”

“No. They’re not.”

“Why not, man? You found the body. You used to be a cop.”

“Used to be, Edgar.” I tapped the side of my head with my forefinger. “Think.”

“Come on, Raymond. One call to your uncle, and you—”

“The cops are not going to let me nose around because of who my uncle is. You want
to know how the case is progressing, keep reading the papers. Maybe they’ll actually
print a few facts. Or stay at home and listen to your illegal scanner.”

Edgar gave me a look, took a sip from his pint, and said, “I like you better when
you’re on the other side of the bar.” He slid off his stool and headed toward the
men’s room.

“Me, too,” I said.

“You’re too young to be talking to yourself, Raymond.”

I spun around. “And they said your husband was good at surveillance,” I said, accepting
a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. McVernon.

“Taught him everything he knew,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” I could tell she wasn’t buying that, so I added, “I was hoping that Frankie
and his sister would show up today. The longer they’re out there, the…”

“Greater the chance something bad happened to them?”

“Yeah.” Spoken like a cop’s wife.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Raymond. Probably be home for dinner tomorrow.”

“That’d be nice,” I said.

“I just got off the phone with Billy. We’re all set for Saturday. He’s tickled pink
that you’ll be here.”

Nice redirection. “Billy Morris does not get ‘tickled pink,’ Mrs. Mac.”

“Anyways, we’re all staffed, the distributor’s going to make an extra delivery tomorrow
so we’ll be stocked for the Q, and Billy’s taking care of the food.”

“Then you don’t really need me,” I said.

“Don’t even think of it, Ray,” Mikey said as he put my dinner in front of me. “You
are here Saturday.”

“What happened to owing me one?”

“I’ll owe ya two, after the Q.” He laughed. “Hey, that rhymes.” He turned away and
headed to the other end of the bar singing, “Owe ya two, after the Q.”

Edgar returned. “Easy, Mrs. Mac. Raymond’s not in a very good mood this evening.”

“He’s just fine, Emo.” Mrs. Mac patted me on the shoulder. “He’s just got a lot on
his mind these days. You boys enjoy the night. I’m going home to call my grandson.”

“I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.

“Is noon too early?”

“It’s fine, but as soon as the Q gets rolling, so do I.”