Dead Red (24 page)

“I understand.”

“Good.” After another sip, she said, “Ricky had a family over in Iraq.”

I was glad I had swallowed my coffee. “Excuse me?”

“He met a civilian. A young Iraqi woman. Fata. Against just about every directive the Marines had drilled into him, he had a relationship with her that led to her becoming pregnant. Obviously, no one over there, besides the girl’s family, knew about this relationship. He would have faced disciplinary charges that would have followed him back to the states.”

“Probably. So this … Fata? She stayed behind after his tour was over?”

“She was killed, Raymond. Ricky wasn’t sure which side was responsible, but her village came under attack and she was one of the victims. She was five months pregnant. With Ricky’s baby.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yes. As I’m sure you can understand, Ricky was carrying around a lot of grief on top of a lot of anger. We were working on both. The grief was easier for him to deal with. He had lost someone he had strong feelings for. It was the anger we needed to focus on. Not knowing who was responsible for Fata and the baby being killed confused his emotional state. He felt he needed someone to blame.”

“Who was he leaning toward?”

She put her elbows on the table and made a therapist tent with her fingers. “Ricky was a very patriotic man, Raymond. He was proud of his country and proud of his mixed heritage. He told me more than once he felt his family represented what America stands for. When he joined the reserves, he did so out of a great responsibility to his country.”

“That sounds like Ricky.”

“Like many young people in the same position, he never thought he’d be drafted into combat. But when he was, he went willingly. I wouldn’t describe him as gung ho, but he felt he had a duty. Once he was over there—after a few months, he said—he started to question the mission and our military’s presence in Iraq.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t alone.”

“No. And after Fata’s death, he became increasingly disillusioned with America. For someone like Ricky Torres, that was akin to a devout Catholic being angry with God.”

I thought of my mother after my dad’s death. My whole family went through a time of serious doubt and questions. My mom got over it; I never did go back to believing; and Rachel struggles with her own beliefs to this day.

“I think I understand,” I said.

“Although we still had lots of work to do,” Dr. Burke went on, “he was clearly directing his anger toward the country he loved.”

I picked up my coffee cup and used a napkin to wipe away the ring it had made on the table. Dr. Burke gave me a look that told me she knew I was stalling.

“You think he was angry enough to act on this anger?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The mistake he wanted to talk about. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and haven’t come up with anything. The Ricky I knew before he was deployed would never do anything harmful to anyone, but with this level of anger you’re talking about and the PTSD … I don’t know.”

She leaned back and stole a glance at her watch. “Constant stress and anger can change a person. It
will
change a person. Whether it can make a normally peaceful person into one prepared to act upon his anger is an individual issue. There’s no set rule. I
can
tell you Ricky was struggling with his identity since he returned home. When you’re a soldier, you are doing what you’re told to do for the good of the whole. Many soldiers, when they return, feel the loss of belonging to something like that. Ricky was no exception.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Doctor. Was Ricky a threat to others?”

“I
can’t
answer your question, Raymond. I’m a clinical psychologist. You sound as if you want me to be a fortune-teller.”

I had no answer. She was right. I was grasping at straws, wanting to figure Ricky out. I looked at my cell phone and realized my fifteen minutes were up.

“You’re right, Dr. Burke. I appreciate the information you were able to share with me. It does help.”

“That’s why I agreed to meet with you.” She took a sip of coffee. “Can I ask you a question now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Are you seeing someone? A therapist, I mean?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not. Why do you ask?”

She smiled. “Allow
me
to play detective for a moment?”

“Why not? People let me do it all the time.”

She looked at my hands. “You pick at your thumbs and forefingers. I have patients who suffer from anxiety who engage in that type of behavior.”

“It’s a nervous habit.”

“Nervous habits shouldn’t make you bleed. It’s a form of self-mutilation. A small example, but still.”

“So I should be in therapy because I pick my fingers?”

“You also chose to sit facing the street, with your back to the restaurant.”

“I wanted to make sure I saw you when you came in.”

She ignored that. “You’ve looked over my shoulder at least a dozen times since I sat down and seem to be quite interested in the buildings across the street. Is it the people passing by? The windows?” She paused. “The fire escapes?”

Damn, this woman was good.

“Ricky told you about my accident?”

“Yes. He didn’t go into detail, but he did mention it.”

“I fell from a fire escape while chasing a kid. The kid was killed, and I seriously injured my knees. It’s the main reason I’m not a cop anymore.”

She nodded and smiled. “The
main
reason,” she repeated. “And you never saw a therapist after the accident?”

“Does a
physical
therapist count?” I asked, going for humor.

“No,” she said, not going for the humor. “Are you in a relationship now?”

“Yes.”

“The first one since the accident?”

“Can you tell that from my fingers and the fire escapes?”

Now she laughed. “I’m not that good,” she said. “You bought a new suit today. Judging from the name on the bag, someone advised you where to shop. That is the same store where I tell my husband to get his suits, and they’re not exactly known for their schoolteacher customer base. So, I just assumed a girlfriend felt you needed some fancy clothes. That fits with a fairly new relationship, probably less than a year.”

“I’m impressed. Nine months.”

“You have this very guarded side to you I’m sure you don’t let most people see. Your concern for your friend, even after his death, shows a sense of responsibility and loyalty. But you don’t seem to take care of your own needs.” She looked at her watch and stood. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t come here for a five-minute analysis, and I do have to go.”

I got up and offered my hand. “Thank you very much, Dr. Burke. For the info on Ricky
and
the five-minute analysis.”

“You’re welcome,” she said and then added, “You have my card.”

“It’s at my girlfriend’s apartment.”

That made her smile. “Please thank Muscles for the referral. Have a good rest of the day, Raymond, and take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best, Doctor.”

Chapter 21

“DAMN, MR. DONNE.” ALLISON RAN HER hands over my new suit. “You clean up real good.”

“
Well,
” I said, looking at my reflection in her full-length mirror. I turned sideways and flashed back to my mother shopping with me for my confirmation outfit. I was thirteen and that was the last suit I had owned. “You like the color?”

“Light blue. The salesperson chose wisely.”

“What? You don’t think I have the sense to pick out the right color?”

“You’ve got a lot of sense, Raymond. But I’ve never seen you exercise any in the way you dress.” She turned me around, kissed me on the cheek, and appraised me again. “Now you look like somebody loves you.”

There
was a word neither one of us threw around easily. Or often. I changed the subject by pulling her into a real kiss. “I’m very fond of you, too.”

She smacked my butt and went over to her bed to pick up her handbag. She looked beautiful in a black cocktail dress.

“Let’s go down and jump in a cab,” she said. “I don’t wanna miss those jumbo shrimps wrapped in bacon.”

“Now you’re talking.”

*   *   *

The Top of the Strand was as ritzy as Allison had said it would be. We were outside enjoying the view of the Empire State Building while we balanced our drinks and the jumbo shrimp. As we drank our beverages—Stoli martini for Allison and a Chelsea Blonde for me—I had to stifle the urge to take out my cell phone and snap pictures. After all these years, I still got a kick out of feeling like a tourist in my own city, but this was not the place or the crowd to let that show. The cold ale and frequent rounds of appetizers would have to be my secret, guilty pleasure.

“What do you think?” Allison asked, slipping her arm through mine.

“It’s great.”

“… But…?”

“I can’t help thinking about how much this soirée is costing.” I looked around at my fellow partygoers; I could almost smell the affluence. “Wouldn’t it save a lot of time and money just to write a check directly to the charity and pass on the festivities?”

“Spoken like a true liberal. This,” she swept her hand in front of her, “is how you get the well-heeled to part with their cash. The more public the event, the more zeroes at the end of their checks. See that photographer?” She pointed at the guy maneuvering through the well-dressed people and taking pictures. “He’s Booker from
The Times
. Check out Sunday’s paper. Some of these donors keep score by how many times they get their names and faces in print. If that’s what it takes…”

“I guess you’re right. But I could have taken half the money I spent on this suit and given it to One More Mission. Then you and I could’ve taken the other half and had a great dinner. It’s just—”

“It’s just the way it is, Raymond. Drink your beer, eat your shrimp, and enjoy. Don’t judge.” She kissed me on the cheek and put her lips to my ear. “Besides, the atmosphere and your suit are kinda turning me on.”

I controlled my breathing and wrapped my arm around her. “That is another worthy cause.”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arm around my waist.

“There
is
a hotel just across the street, kids.”

Allison and I turned to see my Uncle Ray behind us. He was wearing his dress blues and holding what I assumed to be his drink of choice: Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke.

“Damn, Uncle Ray. You look like a recruiting poster for the NYPD.”

“Don’t think they haven’t asked.” He turned to Allison and looked her up and down. “Once again, you prove to be out of my nephew’s league. Are you covering this event, or are you an invited guest?”

Before I could answer, Allison said, “Actually, Ray got us the invitation. Do you want to tell him how, Ray?”

As if I had a choice now.
“I met with Charles Golden this morning.”

“Really,” Uncle Ray said. “In what capacity?”

“I told you I was doing a little temp work for Jack Knight.”

“Yeah?”

“I know I should’ve told you earlier, and thanks ahead of time for not giving me any shit, but Jack was hired by Golden to look into the disappearance of his daughter.”

His mouth tightened. “You’re right, you should have told me earlier.”

“Golden asked me to his office this morning to discuss Jack’s … progress.”

Uncle Ray considered that. “Without Jack being present?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds a bit strange, Ray. Does Golden have a reason to not trust Jack?” He smirked. “Besides the obvious?”

“Nothing like that. It’s just that Golden strikes me as the kind of guy who wants to get to know all the people involved personally, and I guess he thought he could do that better one-on-one without Jack being around.”

I left out the part about Golden asking me if I could cut a separate deal with him the way Ricky had. My uncle had that look on his face, telling me he knew I wasn’t giving him the complete story, but he was willing to let it go. For now.

“How about you, Uncle Ray?” Allison asked. “Are you here officially?”

“Yes and no,” he said. “One More Mission does some great work, and I’ve supported them for years. I’ve worked with a lot of cops who’ve done their bit overseas, and I’ve seen firsthand what they go through when they come back home.” He took a sip of his drink. “I guess I’ve always felt a little guilty, to be honest. I was stationed in Germany during the last years of Vietnam. Not a lot of action in that part of the world. The biggest risk I faced on a daily basis was getting a paper cut. Don’t get me wrong. I served my country. But these guys? They
served
their country.”

Allison nodded. “But you’ve been a cop for what? Thirty years? If that’s not serving, I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t have to come home to a country whose citizens were indifferent—at best—to the shit those guys on the frontline went through. I came back and stepped into a good economy and a job I loved. A lot of today’s vets don’t have the opportunities I had. These guys are heroes and should be treated like heroes.”

“If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I would say that sounded like modesty.”

Uncle Ray grinned. “One: good thing you know better. Two: these guys
make
me feel modest.” He took another sip and finished off his drink. “Remember what your old man used to tell you, Raymond?”

“He reminded me often that I had a lot to be modest about.”

“What parenting book did he get that out of?” asked Allison.

“Fathers back then didn’t read books,” Uncle Ray said. “Ray’s dad may not’ve been perfect, but the kid turned out okay, didn’t he?”

In spite of my father
, I thought.
Not because of.

Allison grabbed my hand. “Yes. He did.”

My uncle looked at the lonely ice cubes at the bottom of his glass. “I’m gonna go mingle with the upper-class taxpayers. Give ’em the thrill of talking to a true crime fighter. You two behave yourselves.”

“We’ll try,” I said.

After he left, Allison squeezed my hand. “I like him, but every time he mentions your dad, I feel you tense up.”