Dead Red (31 page)

Jack called Mikey over and gave me a look.

“I’ll have the same.”

“A round of fish and chips.” Jack made a circling motion, pointing to our drinks. “And more of these.” When he saw me taking money out of my pocket, he waved it back. “It’s on the agency. Charles Golden, actually.”

Now we were all smiling.

*   *   *

Halfway through our meal, Edgar announced that he had taken last week’s GPS records for all of Fred’s working cabs and put them in a PDF. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he explained he could now print out the GPS records.

“Mikey,” I said, as he brought us another round. “You mind if we print something out to Mrs. Mac’s office?”

“Sure.”

“Edgar?” I said.

“I am sending the info to the printer—
now
.” He accented that last word with the flair of a concert pianist. Jack shook his head and smirked.

“Mikey,” I said. “You mind?”

“Mind? Your man Edgar set the system up.” He headed off to the office.

The three of us finished our fish and chips. I looked at the TV above the bar; the Yankees were just about to start. With a beer in front of me and no school for the next week, a rush of late-summer joy came over me. Then I remembered the dead body I’d seen a few hours ago, and what had led Jack and me there.

“Here ya go,” Mikey said, placing a quarter inch of paper in front of us. “Happy reading. Another round?” he asked rhetorically, and left to get them.

Jack shoved the stack of printouts over to Edgar. “I wouldn’t know what to look for, man. You mind?”

“I’m on it,” Edgar said. He grabbed the pile and got off his stool. “No offense,” he said. “But I think better over there.” He motioned with his head toward a booth in the corner.

“None taken, Edgar,” I said. “Thanks.”

When he was gone, Jack said, “Weird guy, but I like him. Sure he won’t take any cash for this?”

“Not for this. Not for me. But if you have any private business, I’m sure he would.”

Jack nodded. “Guy’s got skills.”

“That he does. When can you reach out and see what the cops know about Mike’s murder?”

“I thought you could do that. Your uncle?”

“My uncle’s the last one I’d ask about this. He’s already none too thrilled about me working with you.”

“Because it’s me?” he asked. “Or because it’s PI shit?”

“Both, but mostly the PI shit. He’s still hurting that I never went back to being a cop. Now that he thinks I’m playing at it, he gives me shit.” I took a sip. “Talk to one of your guys at the nine-oh. Detective Royce will obviously get called in on Dillman’s case as soon as they connect it to Ricky T.”

“That info doesn’t usually trickle down to the uniforms, Ray.”

“A phone call wouldn’t hurt, Jack.”

He spun his glass. “Guess you’re right, but I wouldn’t expect much.”

“More than we got now.”

“True that.”

We went back to our beers in silence for a while. The Yanks were already in a hole with the A’s getting their first two batters on base and their RBI leader at the plate. I watched as he moved them both up a base with a warning-track fly ball. With their cleanup guy stepping up, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a concerned look on Edgar’s face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He took a sheet of paper and put it between Jack and me. I looked at it and noticed he had outlined in yellow what looked like an address.

“Shit,” I said.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked.

Edgar pointed at the yellow outline. “That address,” he said. “It’s right around the block from Raymond’s apartment.”

Jack shrugged. “So? It’s probably a coincidence. Cabs go all over.”

“Look at the time and date,” I said.

He did. “Yeah?”

“That,” I said, “is the day and time someone shot up my bedroom wall.”

Jack looked at it again. “‘Shit’ is right.”

Chapter 26

“CHANGE YOUR MIND ABOUT GOING to your uncle now?”

I was still staring at the yellow line on the printout, thinking about the look on Allison’s face when she considered, temporarily amused, what the hell had made two sharp holes in the wall above my bed. Royce said Uncle Ray would get the ballistics report on those bullets this afternoon.
Could I call Uncle Ray about this?

“Yeah,” I said, coming to my senses. “I’ll just tell him I got this GPS information after I illegally entered an apartment, stepped all over an active crime scene, and stole a flash drive with evidence. He’ll be more than happy to help.”

“Hey,” Jack said, tapping his finger three times real hard on the highlighted area. “This ain’t no coincidence, Ray. Whoever drove this taxi—Ricky T’s fucking coworker—was somehow involved in shooting up your crib. I think Chief Uncle Raymond Donne will forgive your transgressions when he hears that.”

He was right. This was information that could not be withheld; it was crucial to the investigation, and Detective Royce had to know about it. That didn’t mean he had to hear it from me.

“You gotta do it,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“You have to bring this information to Royce.”

“So
I
can explain how
I
illegally entered an apartment?” he said. “Any idea how easy it is for the NYPD to pull my license, Ray? Any idea how many cops would love to be around for that?”

“You don’t have to tell him how you got it. Make some shit up. You got it in the mail or something.” A light bulb went off. “Better yet, you asked Ricky’s cousin for it, and you noticed the address and brought it right to Royce’s attention.”

Edgar chimed in. “That’s good, Ray. That’ll work.”

“Because it’s so believable that I’d cooperate with the cops,” Jack said, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“You know a better way, Jack? I’m all ears over here.”

Jack considered that. We both took another swallow of beer. Edgar put his hand on my shoulder and glanced up at the TV. I looked up and saw that the Yanks had gotten out of the bottom of the first with no damage done.

“I’ll have to work it out with Cousin Fred,” Jack finally said.

“Of course.”

“If he doesn’t go along with it…”

“He’s scared shitless the cops are going to implicate him in this mess. Look, we believe him, you said it yourself. I’m sure Fred just wants to find out who really is jamming up his business and who killed his cousin. He’s scared now, but Robby says he’s a good guy.”

“Yeah. He did seem real eager to get himself in the clear, didn’t he?”

I looked at my watch. Too late to do anything now.

“So you’ll swing by Fred’s tomorrow?” I asked Jack. “Make sure he’s on board?”

“
We’ll
swing by there tomorrow. Early. I got some paperwork to do, and Golden wants to see me again for some reason.”

“He didn’t seem so good at the benefit last night. He’s not doing as well as he wants people to think.”

“What benefit?”

Shit. I hadn’t told him about that or my meeting with Golden yesterday.

“Something Allison dragged me to,” I lied. “A fund-raiser for wounded Marines back from the Middle East.”

“Thanks for the update, Ray. Anything else you want to share?”

“Golden called me to his office early yesterday.”

“I know,” Jack said. “Golden called me after you left. Said he approved.”

“That’s nice to know. Sorry I didn’t mention it.”

“You should have, but.…” He finished his beer. “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow. Again, I’ll pay you for the day, and you bring the coffee.”

“You don’t have to pay me. I want to talk Fred into this as much as you do.”

“Not paying you for that, Rockford.” He stood and pulled some bills from his pocket. “You’re coming with me to Golden’s.”

“He ask for me again?”

“No.” Jack peeled off five twenties and placed them on the bar. “But since you guys are so buddy-buddy now, it wouldn’t hurt to have you there.”

“Okay,” I said. “Cool.”

“Edgar,” Jack said. “Let me have those papers.”

“I’m not done going through them yet,” Edgar said.

“Doesn’t matter.” Jack put his hand on Edgar’s shoulder. Edgar flinched at the gesture. “You done good. I’ll take it from here.”

Edgar studied Jack’s hand as he considered that. “Okay.” He went over to the corner booth to gather the printouts. When he returned, he gave them to Jack without saying anything.

Jack took the papers and looked at the money on the bar. “That’s enough for dinner, tip, and one more round of drinks. Thanks for a lovely evening, boys.”

After Jack exited the bar, Edgar gave me a look.

“I can see why you guys didn’t get along too well when you worked together back in the day, Ray.”

“Yeah. Believe it or not, he’s better.”

“If you say so.” He looked back up at the game. “Wanna hang for a few innings? I’ll drive you home.”

“Yeah.” I pulled out my stool. “I can stay for a bit.”

“Cool.”

We drank a bit more and watched the game for a while. At the end of the inning a thought came to me. I looked over at Edgar’s laptop.

“Arrests are a matter of public record,” I said.

Edgar gave me his “Duh” face, but was too polite to say that, so he said, “Yeah?”

“Can you pull up Michael Dillman’s arrest record? A.K.A. ‘Little Mike’?”

Edgar slid the laptop in front of him and started clicking away. In the time it took me to take another sip, he had what we were looking for.

“Voila,” he said, turning the screen a few inches so I could see it.

“Michael C. Dillman,” I read aloud. “‘Illicit interstate transportation of tobacco products.’ That’s what I’d heard.”

“Buttlegging,” Edgar said with a smile. “It’s a big business.”

I read a little more, and the picture got clearer. It seems Little Mike got pulled over four years ago, driving a truck that was supposed to contain furniture manufactured down south to be sold up north in New York City and New England. Along with the couches, chairs, and dining tables, the highway patrol found over five hundred cartons of cigarettes from Virginia.

“Tough way to make extra money.”

“You know what the excise tax is on a pack of cigarettes in Virginia?” Edgar asked. Edgar loved asking questions like that.

“No. But I bet you do.”

“Thirty cents. Know what it is in New York?” He waited for me to say something, but I stayed shut. “Five dollars and eighty-five cents.
Per pack
. Do the math, Ray.”

I nodded. “I get the idea, Edgar. Buy ’em down in Virginia, sell ’em up here, and pocket a whole bunch of money that’s not paid in taxes.”

“It’s the most-smuggled product in the world.” Edgar reads about stuff like this all the time. “They arrested a couple last year who was making five or six K a week selling to buttleggers. They owned some smoke shops down South and sold their merchandise to smugglers, and pocketed a buck a carton. Little Mike was caught with five hundred cartons, which was five thousand packs.”

This time I did do a little mental math. The potential profit was amazing.

“Ya think he was back in the smuggling biz, Ray? Maybe that’s why he got popped?”

I thought about the picture of at least twenty assault pistols presently hiding under a blanket in an upstate shed that somehow involved Ricky T. Had Little Mike moved on to transporting something a little more dangerous than cigarettes?

“Could be. Mike got any other busts? Priors?”

Edgar touched a few more keys and shook his head. “Nope. Looks like this was it. Pulled himself a deuce upstate, paroled earlier this year.”

I shook my head. “It’s like my seventh-grade health teacher told us.”

“What’s that?”

“Cigarettes will kill you.”

Edgar smiled. “Good one, Ray.”

“What about the company Mike drove for? They still in business?”

A few more keystrokes. “Yep. Paid a fine, made a donation to the American Lung Association, and kept on trucking. Is that important?”

“It’s a question,” I said, and then my cell phone rang. I answered without checking the caller ID, hoping it was Allison. “Hello?”

I waited about ten seconds, hearing only what sounded like highway traffic; the caller wasn’t saying anything.

“Hello?” I repeated.

“Is this Raymond?” A female voice, just above a whisper.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

More silence, more noise in the background. I thought I heard laughter, followed by some car horns.

“I’m a friend of…”

I lost the last part to the noise of the horns. Whoever was talking was on a cheap cell phone. One that didn’t filter ambient noise as much as amplify it.

“I can’t hear you,” I said, my voice louder than it needed to be. Edgar gave me a quizzical look. “Who
is
this?” I considered checking the caller ID now, but something in her voice made me press the phone harder to my ear.

“A friend,” she said, and five seconds later added, “Of Ricky’s.”

Whoa.
“Okay,” I said. “What can I—?”

“You’re looking for me.”

It sounded almost like she had said I was cooking for her, but I figured it out soon enough. Was this the Latina girl from the photo? Or Angela Golden? I stood up and walked over to the window, leaving a frustrated Edgar on his barstool.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

More silence from the girl, but during this round there was the high-pitched whine of motorcycles going by. Crotch Rockets. When that noise Dopplered away, I heard a truck applying its squeaky brakes. My mystery caller was at a service station along some busy highway.

“Who
is
this?” I said for the third time. “What’s your name?”

“Marissa,” she said.

Marissa?
“Are you the girl from the picture on Ricky’s phone?”

She waited five seconds. “Yeah. Ricky said I could call you if I was in trouble.”

“He was right, Marissa.”
So Shiela E was her stage name.
“Where are you?”

More traffic. “I don’t know. Some gas station … I think it’s on the highway. I don’t know the name of the town. Do these places even have names? Shit.”

“Ask somebody, Marissa.”