Dead Red (22 page)

We all shook hands, and Royce excused himself to confer with his colleagues. My uncle grabbed me—hard—by the elbow and guided me over to the kitchen windows.

“You are telling everything you know, right, Raymond?”

“I don’t know all that much.”

“You’re making that clearer every day.” He let go of my elbow. “I asked around about your new friend, Jimmy Key.”

“What? Why’d you do that?” I asked.

Ignoring me, Uncle Ray went on, “Did a lot of Personal Security Detail over in Iraq. Hung around with the VIPs. He’s good.”

“Seemed that way to me.”

“Well, after all, you’ve shown such good judgment lately.”

“Give me a break, Uncle Ray.” I rubbed my tired eyes. “Yes, I was with Ricky the night he was killed, and I headed over to the scene with Jimmy Key. Which, you’re welcome, resulted in some pretty good info. Besides that, I’ve kept my nose out of it.”

“What about your work with Jack Knight?”

I told him about interviewing the accident witness and some vague details about our trip out to the Island—leaving out, for now, the part about Ricky T’s and my search for Angela Golden and her Latina friend. As if to compensate for my deception, I also mentioned that I had an extra six hundred bucks in my pocket.

“Let’s hope you live to spend it, huh?” He patted me on the back. “Okay, pack some clothes for the next few days. I’m gonna have one of the squad cars take you to Allison’s. Where is she again?”

“Manhattan. Lower East Side.”

“Good. You got an extra set of keys to this place?”

I reached into the junk drawer, pulled my spare set out, and handed them to my uncle. They were attached to a Brooklyn Brewery bottle opener, which did not escape my uncle’s keen sense of detection. He shook his head.

“You should expand your horizons, Nephew. Try some nice wine every once in a while.”

“Maybe when I get to be your age, Uncle Ray.”

“Let’s hope that happens,” he said. “Now, go pack.”

*   *   *

The two uniforms, Allison, and I pulled up to Allison’s apartment building in a squad car less than half an hour later. I was about to open the car door, when the officer in the passenger seat said, “One minute, Mr. Donne.”

Allison and I watched while he got out of the car, scouted out the area, and gave a look at the neighboring buildings and their roofs. When he was satisfied, he opened Allison’s back door and asked us to step out. He took Allison’s key, opened the front door to her building, and asked Allison which floor her apartment was on.

“Fifth. Is this really necessary, Officer…?” Allison asked.

“Carney, ma’am. Chief Donne’s orders. So, yes, it is necessary.”

Allison was about to argue, when I put my arm around her. “Shh.”

We rode the elevator up in silence. When we reached Allison’s floor, Officer Carney held up his hand, stepped out, and looked left and right. I guessed the halls were clear because he waved us out. “Apartment number, ma’am?”

“Allison,” she corrected. “Five H.”

We followed him to her apartment, and the whole thing played out again. Carney opened the door, directed us to stay outside as he went in, and a minute later allowed us to enter. He stepped over to the window that took up most of her living room wall and looked out. He then pulled the curtain shut.

“Bedroom?” he asked. Allison pointed and he went off.

“This is a bit much, Ray,” she said after Carney left the room.

“I’d agree with you except for the two bullet holes above my bed.”

She had no answer for that. Carney stepped back into the living room.

“Anybody else have keys to your place, ma’am? I mean, Allison.”

“Just Ray. And the super.”

“Good. Keep the shades drawn at all times, and do your best to keep away from your windows.” He pulled out a card. “My partner and I will be outside. You need us, call.”

“Is that nec—” Allison stopped herself, realizing the obvious answer. “Can I get you guys anything?”

“No, thank you. I noticed the bodega on the corner. We’ll be fine.” He tipped his hat. “You two have a good night.”

“Thanks.” I walked him to the door. After locking it, I turned to Allison. “I don’t know about you, but I feel pretty safe now.”

“And hungry,” she added. “Lemme see what’s in the fridge.”

*   *   *

It turned out that she had some leftover Thai, baked ziti, and half a six-pack of decent Mexican beer. We ate our international makeshift meal in front of the TV, where nothing on the all-news channels rivaled what had happened during the past few hours of our lives. We turned off the set and cleared away our mess.

“You ready for bed?” she asked.

“I’m a bit too wired to sleep, I think.”

She smiled. “I didn’t say anything about sleep, Ray.”

Now it was my turn to smile. “You still want to…?”

“It’s gonna take more than a sniper attack to get me out of the mood I was in before, tough guy.”

I wrapped my arms around her. “I’m impressed.”

She reached under my T-shirt. “You will be.…”

As we took each other’s shirts off and held each other’s shaking bodies, we both knew what was about to happen next was not entirely about sex.

Chapter 20

ALLISON’S CLOCK RADIO WENT OFF at six thirty. After texting her boss last night that she would be coming in to work late, she had forgotten to turn the alarm off. When quiet returned to her bedroom, she wrapped herself around me and—I swear—she cooed. That moment was broken by my cell phone going off. My first thought was: Who the hell would be calling me at this hour? But after the events of last night, I decided to pick up. I rolled over, found my phone on the bedside table, and checked the screen: BLOCKED.

Then don’t fucking call me at six thirty-one in the morning.

“Hello?” I said, not even attempting to sound upbeat.

“Mr. Donne?”

“Yes?”

“Charles Golden. How are you this morning?”

Fucking exhausted
, I thought.
You?

I sat up. “Fine, sir,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m on my way to my office for an early meeting, and I was hoping you’d be good enough to swing by this morning.”

Allison turned over and gave me the who-the-hell-is-that? look. I mouthed “Charles Golden,” and she sat up as if the guy had just entered the room.

“Sure,” I said. “What time is your meeting over?”

“Actually, I’d like to see you
before
the meeting, if I may. How does seven thirty sound to you?”

I looked over at Allison and weighed my options.

He detected the pause. “I assume you are on the same hourly rate that Mr. Torres was on, is that correct?”

So he knew about Ricky
. “What’s this all about, Mr. Golden?”

“Be in my office at seven thirty, Mr. Donne, and I’ll pay triple whatever Jack pays you for an hour of your time.”

I was moving up in the world.

“That’s very tempting, Mr. Golden. I’ll—”

“Excellent. I’ll have breakfast waiting for us.” He hung up.

After I put the phone back on the table, Allison said, “What did he want?”

I told her and she whistled.

“Keep this up and you can quit that day job.”

I laughed. “You don’t mind? I know you’re going in late.”

“Mind? I’m jealous. Would it be gauche if I gave you my resume?”

“You’d go to work for this guy?”

“Only if I were willing to take a pay increase and get an expense account. Are you kidding me? I told you, this guy’s the king of public relations. The people who work for him do pretty much what I do, except for a whole lot more money and in better clothes.”

I grabbed at her Brooklyn Brewery T-shirt. “I like your clothes.”

“This is your shirt.” She slapped my hand away. “And you like what’s
under
my clothes.” She rolled out of bed. “I’ll put the coffee on. You shower. If you’re meeting with Charles Golden at seven thirty, you better be there at seven twenty-five.”

I was about to say something, but like most smart boyfriends, I decided to keep my mouth shut and do what I was told.

*   *   *

Charles Golden’s office was everything Allison had prepared me to expect. It took up two floors of an old warehouse in the meatpacking district of Manhattan’s West Side. All the walls were made of glass, and the first and second floors were connected by a wrought-iron spiral staircase. The digital display behind the receptionist’s desk informed me that the time in New York City was seven twenty-seven. It also gave the time in seven other cities around the world.

Charles Golden was a man with international influence.

As I stepped over to the receptionist, she stood. “Mr. Donne. Mr. Golden is waiting for you in his office.” If Golden was trying to make a good first impression on his visitors, he had succeeded. She seemed to have chosen her light green business suit not only to match her eyes, but also to accent the amount of time she spends at the gym. She pointed to her left, where I could see the man himself on the phone. “How do you like your coffee?”

“A little half and half. No sugar. Thank you.”

“Go right on in.”

I walked toward his office and passed a group of five having an animated discussion behind a glass wall. I couldn’t hear a word, but they looked like a bunch of smart people discussing something of great importance. Golden waved me in as I reached his door. He gestured for me to take a seat and made a rolling motion with his hand, telling me he was wrapping up this phone call.

“Tell Mr. Hwang that works for me if it works for him,” he said. “I’m here until six, New York time.” He listened. “Yes.” He hung up and looked at his watch. “Mr. Donne, thank you for getting here on such short notice.”

“Did you let Jack know I’m here?” I asked.

“I’ll leave that up to you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and handed it to me. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

“Thank you.” I took the bills and put them in my front pocket without looking at them. It was a power play on his part; he was letting me know he had enough pocket money to pay me for a day’s work. I wondered what I’d find if I checked between the cushions of his couch. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why you didn’t invite Jack to this meeting.”

He was about to explain when the receptionist came in with our coffees and half a dozen croissants on a serving tray. She placed the tray down on his desk within reach of both of us. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Golden?”

“Not at the moment, Natalie. Thank you.” After Natalie left, he pushed the tray toward me. “The croissants are quite good, Mr. Donne. From downstairs.”

I took one and sipped from the coffee cup I assumed was mine.

“How closely did you work with Richard Torres, Mr. Donne?”

That was a tricky question. I took a bite of the croissant and another sip of coffee as I contemplated a decent answer.

“How do you mean?” was all I could come up with.

“When you were on the job,” he said. “Isn’t that what policemen say?”

“The ones on TV mostly, yeah.”

“When you were both cops, how closely did you work with him?”

“We went through the academy together,” I said. “We were assigned to the same precinct for a few years.”

“How about during your employment with Mr. Knight?”

I watched as he took a sip of his coffee and the tiniest of bites from a croissant. His eyes told me he was a man who didn’t ask many questions he did not know the answers to.

“Something tells me you already know that.”

He smiled and tried to look embarrassed. It didn’t work.

“You caught me. I pulled some research on you after you left the house yesterday.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been researched.”

“It wasn’t hard. Especially for a man in my position.” He leaned forward. “You’re a schoolteacher, Mr. Donne. And as far as I can tell, you’ve been in Jack Knight’s employ for … exactly two days—not including today. You are a former police officer, your uncle is Chief Raymond Donne, and you were in the car when Mr. Torres was shot and killed early Saturday morning.” He held up his hand, stopping me from asking the obvious. “Information is my currency. It’s what I deal in, day in and day out, twenty-four/seven/three-sixty-five. There’s not much I don’t know or can’t find out.”

“I’ve heard as much,” I said.

“From Allison Rogers, I assume. She’s a decent reporter and an even better writer. A few years from now, she might be hearing from my human resources people.”

“She’d like that.”

“I know.” His smile was approaching glib. I liked the embarrassed one better. “Information is power, Mr. Donne, and power is money. I’m very good at what I do—and surround myself with similar people—because of one reason.”

I waited the acceptable amount of time to help make his pause dramatic and said, “And that is…?”

“I am one curious motherfucker,” he said. “And I could tell within five minutes of meeting you yesterday, we have that in common.”

“How so?”

“I could smell it. The same way I imagine you can smell a child in crisis. Judging from what I’ve read about you in the papers the last few years—and what did not make the papers—you enjoy sticking your nose into places others may not want you to. Most New York City schoolteachers do not make the papers once, Mr. Donne. It seems to be a hobby of yours.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. I just happened to be in the right—or wrong—places a few times.”

He took another sip of coffee. “You are not the kind of man who just
happens
to be anywhere. Take the other night, for example. Why were you in Mr. Torres’s cab at two in the morning?”

“He said he needed to talk to me. He needed my help.”

He slapped his desk. “Exactly my point. You didn’t just happen to be there. You were helping out a friend.” He touched the side of his nose. “You smelled a crisis, didn’t you?”

Again, I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I stalled and took another sip of coffee. I didn’t like being on this side of Charles Golden’s desk, and considered giving his money back and walking out. I chose another tactic.

“With all due respect, Mr. Golden, I’m smelling something now. You were clearly in a rush to speak with me. Maybe it’s time you got to the point. Please.”