Crooked Numbers (29 page)

I took his glass and filled it up with Bass. I also grabbed a small can of tomato juice and brought it over to him.

“On me,” I said. I must have been bored because I heard myself say, “What’re you looking at?”

“Thanks.” He held up a finger, telling me to let him finish. It took him less than a minute. He sipped a bit of his ale, opened the tomato juice, poured a small amount into his glass, and took another sip. “Ahh.”

I pointed at his laptop. “More about bird-watching?”

“Nope,” he said. “Did you know the Quinns have a house up in Rhinebeck?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Paulie’s mom said the boys were up there recently.”

“Well, I entered the name ‘Quinn’ into a search engine I’m fond of, along with ‘Rhinebeck.’ After a few more clicks, I was able to get his address.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” I said. “Is that legal?”

“I don’t use the popular search engines,” he said, as if that explained whether it was legal or not. “Then I punched in the address.” He paused, making me wait.

“And?”

“And,” he said, pleased I had taken the bait, “it seems there was a rash of home invasions on his block a few months ago.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Local paper has a ‘Police Beat’ column. The usual for a town like Rhinebeck. The occasional loud-party-noise complaint, DWIs coming off the bridge, small stuff like that. The one interesting item was this.”

He spun his laptop around so I could see the screen. He pointed to the item in question. Five homes had been broken into. The article did not mention what—if anything—had been taken from the houses or if anyone had been hurt. In fact, the article mentioned very little.

“Notice anything interesting, Raymond?”

I read it slower this time. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Look at the addresses.”

I did and realized what he was talking about. The addresses were consecutive even numbers. All the break-ins took place on the same side of the block.

“That
is
interesting.”

“Thought so.” Edgar turned the screen back around. “And one of those five houses is owned by Mr. John R. Quinn Sr.”

I gave that some thought. Someone—probably more than one person—had broken into five houses in a row in the same evening. That took either some set of balls or very little brains.

“How’d they get into the houses?”

“Article doesn’t say. A lot of times, people in a town like that get complacent, leave their doors unlocked.”

“What was the date of the break-ins?”

“October tenth,” he said.

A lightbulb went off. “That’s when the boys were up there. Columbus Day weekend.”

“That’s when everyone who owns a home in Rhinebeck is up there, Raymond. Second week of October is primo leaf-peeping season.”

“So the homes had people in them.” I realized something else I had neglected to notice. “They say what time the break-ins occurred?”

“Sometime after midnight. All the homeowners were tucked safely in their beds. No one heard a thing.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder what was taken.”

“There might be a way to find out.” Edgar punched a few more keys and then turned the laptop back around to me. “Here’s the sheriff’s office number,” he said.

“I can see that. What good does that do me?”

“Call ’em up.”

“Edgar,” I said, “they’re not going to give me that kind of information. It looks like they don’t even want the local paper to know.”

“They might,” he said, “if they thought you were … you know … a cop.”

“Great idea, Edgar. Impersonating an officer. You want me to lose my job?”

“You call ’em up. Say you’re investi—
looking into
—a homicide down here in the city and need some info on the break-ins because your victim had visited one of the homes broken into. You never have to say you’re a cop. Maybe you’ll luck out and get some Barney Fife who thinks he’s talking to NYPD and will read off the report.”

“Don’t call them ‘Barney Fifes,’ Edgar. Small-town cops have to be just as sharp as the ones down here. Especially in a town like Rhinebeck. All that money.”

“I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to make a phone call.” He paused for a second. “If that doesn’t work, have your girlfriend call. Or your detective buddy.”

“Oh, yeah, Dennis would be all over that.”

“Your girlfriend, then.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

“Okay. Whatever she is, she’s press, and they may give her the four-one-one.”

I looked over at the screen, at the number for the sheriff’s department. Edgar was right: a phone call wouldn’t hurt. Maybe they’d tell me, maybe not. Worst case was, I’d be right back where I started.

The front door opened and two customers walked in. A young couple, early twenties. Good. That gave me something to do while I pondered the wisdom of making the call. I took their drink order and the guy’s credit card, which I placed on the register. I stepped back over to Edgar, who was giving me his whatta-ya-got-to-lose look. I pulled out my cell phone, looked at the number for the sheriff, and dialed. Edgar’s grin went around to the back of his neck. I turned so I didn’t have to look at him.

“Sheriff’s department,” the voice on the other end said.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound official. “This is Raymond Donne, New York City. Whom am I speaking to, please?”

“The Sheriff’s department,” he repeated, and then waited for me.

“My name’s Raymond Donne. I’m … looking into a homicide down here in New York City.” I paused to let that sink in, maybe impress the small-town cop. “Which may be connected to a case your department is involved in.”

“And which case are you referring to, sir?” He didn’t sound too impressed, but he wasn’t blowing me off, either.

“Series of home invasions. Columbus Day weekend.”

I heard the sound of computer keys being punched and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Who’d you say you worked for?”

“I’m looking into the case on behalf of the family of a murder victim down here in the city.” That was close to true. “He was visiting one of the homes on the block where the break-ins took place.”

“You private?” he asked.

“You could say that. Yes.”

Another pause. “What’s the address of the home he was visiting?”

I told him and heard the computer keys again.

“That,” he said, “was one of the homes that was broken into, so I guess there’s not much more I can tell you, Mr. Donne. Is that all?”

I was about to get hung up on. “No,” I said. “I was wondering if you could tell me if anything was taken from the homes.”

“Why would you need to know that, sir?”

Good question. No Barney Fife, this guy. With nothing brilliant coming to mind, I said, “Just filling in the details for the family.”

“Of your murder victim?”

“Yes.”

“Whom you say you’re looking into this for?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity, sir?”

I thought we’d established that. “In a
private
capacity, Officer.”

“Deputy,” he corrected me. “So, basically you want information from an incident report, but can’t actually tell me why?”

“It’s privileged information,” was the best I could come up with.

“As opposed to an official incident report?”

“That’s not what I meant, Deputy. I just—”

“The garages,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Garages,” he repeated. “Nothing was taken from any of the homes.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s what I said, sir. According to the homeowners, there was nothing taken from any of the residences. However, they all reported their garages had been entered sometime during the early morning hours, and the trunks of the cars had been broken into.”

I waited. “What was reported missing?”

“They all reported their trunks had been broken into, but nothing had been taken.”

“Really?”

“Yes. All the residents were quite clear on that point.”

“Right,” I said. “Any ideas who committed the break-ins?”

“A few,” he said. “But as this is an active investigation, I have told you all I am allowed to tell you—
more
than I’m allowed to tell you. I’m sure you understand. Garage doors and trunks opened, nothing taken. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Donne?”

I couldn’t think of a thing. “No,” I said. “You’ve been quite helpful, Deputy…?”

“You’re welcome, sir. Good luck with your investigation.”

“Thanks.”

We both hung up. I turned back toward Edgar.

“So?” he said.

“Nothing was taken from any of the houses that were broken into.”

“For real?”

“That’s what the deputy told me.” I told Edgar about the car trunks.

“Shit,” was his response. And then, “You know what I think?”

“Yeah,” I said, coming to what I believed was the same conclusion he’d arrived at. “A bunch of kids having a little fun.”

“And what bunch of kids do we know for sure—?”

“Dougie, Paulie, and Jack. Who were up there,” I added, “seemingly without adult supervision.”

“Nice kids,” Edgar said. “Fucking richies.”

“Dougie was not a ‘richie,’ Edgar.”

“No. He just hung around with them.” He took another sip of beer. “I tell you, Raymond. I read about this stuff all the time. The biggest influence on kids’ behavior is their peer group. Parents and—no offense—teachers can do all they want, but when it comes right down to it? Kids’ll do what their friends’ll do. Nine times out of ten.”

I had no answer for that. Edgar was right. It was my job to know that kind of stuff. I just always thought Dougie would be the one out of ten.

“Hey, barkeep!” The guy behind me. I’d forgotten about them.

I spun around and walked over. “Another round?”

“Yes,” the guy said. “Please.”

I got them two more drinks, apologized for the wait, and told them the round was on me. That got a smile out of both of them, and they touched glasses. I’m a decent bartender, and I didn’t want them thinking I was unaware of my mistake. This way, especially if they were new to the neighborhood, they’d be more likely to come back. God knows we needed folks like them on nights like these. “Hardly worth turning the lights on,” the owner, Mrs. Mac, would say. But she’d never think of closing this place. The LineUp meant too much to too many people—many of them cops and ex-cops—so she was willing to weather through the slow times. “Besides,” she’d told me more than once, “what am I gonna do? Sell the bar and move to Florida?”

I checked on the retired cops, and they both agreed they were fine and really should be heading home soon. I offered to buy them a round, and suddenly their plans had changed. It looked like they’d be staying a bit longer. The golden years.

Edgar got my attention and waved me over.

“So,” he said, barely over a whisper, “whatta you thinking?”

“About what?”

“The break-ins. The boys. The Quinn house.”

“I told you what I thought, Edgar. The boys were pulling a stupid prank. I think that’s what the deputy was alluding to, but didn’t have the authority to share it with me. The kids were smart enough to make sure it looked like the Quinns’ garage was also broken into. Just a group of bored kids having fun.”

Edgar’s face registered disappointment. “So you don’t think it’s important?”

I patted his arm. “You did good work. Not every piece of information turns out to be helpful. The trick is figuring out which pieces are.”

“I gotcha,” he said, nodding his head. Another lesson learned.

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, and I didn’t think we’d be getting an unexpected rush anytime soon.

“Half hour, folks,” I said to the small crowd. “Early night tonight.” They all nodded in agreement. I got the guy and his girlfriend one more drink and closed out his credit card. The two ex-cops were okay, and Edgar asked for one more round.

“Y’know,” Edgar said, “it’s kinda like putting together a jigsaw puzzle that has too many pieces.”

I smiled at my pupil. “That’s as good a simile as I could’ve come up with.”

“Look at me,” he said. “I’m talking in similes.”

“Yes,” I said, and took a sip of beer. “Look at you.” A thought hit me. “Hey, Edgar. While you have your laptop all warmed up, would you mind looking up another name for me?”

His face lit up. “Not at all. Shoot.”

“Matthew Sherman,” I said.

His fingers danced along the keys. “Related to Paulie?”

“His dad. He’s a money manager. A financial advisor. Something like that.”

“Okay,” Edgar said, punching a few more keys. “Matthew Sherman, Real Estate. Matthew Sherman, DDS. Matthew Sherman, Riverview Management?”

I thought back to the Shermans’ apartment and the wall of windows overlooking the Hudson. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s probably it.”

“Okeydokey.” Edgar clicked on something and turned the screen around. “This your guy?”

It was. Right next to the company name and slogan—“Private and Personal Financial Services”—was a picture of Paulie’s father. His arms were folded across his chest, and he had a serious look on his face. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his red power tie was loosened. Ready for battle. Exactly the kind of guy you’d want protecting your family’s assets. I clicked on
Services
and got a list of what you’d expect:
Portfolio Management, Trust Funds, Inheritance Strategies, Stocks and Bonds Investments, Commodities.
The guy seemed to have it all covered.

“Anything about him in the papers?” I asked. “Trade journals?”

Edgar spun the computer back around and worked the keys. He had that look on his face that told me he’d be a while. I took the time to clean some glasses and wipe down the bar. By the time I was done, so was Edgar.

“Whatcha got?” I asked.

“Nada,” he said, his voice registering surprise.

“Nothing?”

“Nada much.” Edgar smiled at his joke. “This guy takes the ‘Private and Personal’ for serious. I checked a few services, some investment websites, and the name Matthew Sherman comes up less than half a dozen times. That’s pretty impressive. He must be very careful and very good.”

“That’s rare, I guess? Someone in that business?”