Dead Red (32 page)

“What?”

“Ask somebody where you are.”

“Why?”

“So I can get you some help. You’re in trouble, right?”

“I don’t know. I guess, yeah. Hold on.”

She must have put the phone down to her side and started moving, because I could hear her talking as the phone moved, catching the wind. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it sounded like she was asking a man.

“New Baltimore,” she said to me. “Never heard of it.”

I had. It was up in the Catskills, just south of Albany and not far from where the Thruway meets Interstate 90 into Massachusetts. I’d taken that route a few years ago to catch the Yankees in Boston. It was almost a three-hour ride north of the city. If Marissa was in real trouble, I wasn’t sure how much help I could be.

“Marissa,” I said sternly. “You need to call the Thruway Police.”

“Why?”

“You said you’re in trouble. I’m down here in—”

“I said I
might
be in trouble,” she snapped.

It was like talking to an eighth grader. “Either way,” I said. “You need to call the cops. Tell them what’s going on. They can help you better than I can.”

“Ricky said to call you if we needed help, not the cops.”

Shit.
“Who are you with, Marissa?”

“I didn’t say I was with anybody. Why do you think I’m with someone?”

“Are you?”

“… A friend,” she said. “I’m with a friend.”

The daughter recently hooked up with a new friend. Puerto Rican, Dominican, they’re not sure.

“Okay. Can you put your friend on the phone?”

“No. Why? No! Why do you wanna talk to my friend?”

“So I can get a better idea of the … situation you’re in. If you’re in immediate danger, I need you to call the cops. Your friend might be—”

“Smarter than me?” she said. “You think I can’t tell you what kind of trouble I’m in? You gotta hear it from my friend?”

I took a slow, deep breath. “Then tell me, Marissa. What kind of trouble are you in?”

More silence. Maybe she was taking a few breaths of her own. I kept quiet, not wanting to risk her hanging up on me. I pulled the phone away from my ear quickly to check the caller ID: Blocked. Figured. “What kind of trouble are you in, Marissa?” I repeated calmly.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “Big?”

“Define ‘big,’” I said.

Another long pause, followed by an audible, shallow breathing.

“I think someone shot Ricky’s brother, Robby.”

Chapter 27

I WALKED BACK TO EDGAR, WHO WAS staring at his laptop screen. “Call the Highway Patrol and tell them to get some troopers to the service station at New Baltimore. Tell them there’s been a shooting.” He gave me a look. “Now!” I spoke into the cell again. “Marissa, you need to get inside the restaurant area and wait there. Go up to the counter, have someone call nine-one-one, and do not leave. You and your friend stay at the counter. Do you understand?”

“I think sho,” she said. “Yeah.”

She no longer sounded like an eighth-grader to me. She sounded as if she were going into shock: rapid breathing, her words slurring. “How did you get there?” I asked.

“To the gas station?”

“Yes, how did you get there?”

“My friend drove me.”

“Is she still there with you?”

“Yeah. We took Robby’s car and drove here.”

And now she’s telling me Robby might have been shot?

“Why do you say you
think
Robby’s been shot? Did you see this happen?”

“We heard a gunshot,” she said. “From behind the house.” She took another deep breath. “Some guy came to the house, and Robby told us to hide in the garage. When he didn’t come back after a while, we were about to go out. That’s when we heard the shot. So we just got in the car, got on the highway, and pulled into the first place that looked safe. Do you think that guy from the house followed us?”

Damn it.
“What’s the address of Robby’s house, Marissa?”

Silence. “I don’t know. We just got here—there—yeshterday and … I don’t know.…”

I turned to Edgar again, who was explaining something to someone on the other end of the phone.

“Are they on their way?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “But they’re not—”

“Can you get an address off a cell number?”

“Yeah. It might take a few—”

I held up a finger to shut him up and went back to Marissa. “Marissa, are you inside yet?”

“I’m at the counter.”

“Tell the guy behind the counter you’re in trouble and to call 911.”

“It’s a girl.”

“Stay there and do not hang up. I’m going to put you on Hold for a few seconds. Do not hang up.” I pressed the buttons that brought me to my recent incoming calls. I scrolled down and read Robby’s number to Edgar.

“Got it,” he said, and started moving his fingers across his keyboard.

“As soon as you get the address, call the state cops again, and tell them there’s been a shooting, and someone may be injured.” I pressed another button. “Marissa, you still there?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my friend now.”

“That’s okay for now. Stay at the counter until the cops get there.”

“I’m getting cold,” she said. “Why am I sweating … when I’m cold?”

I thought back to less than a week ago, how I had felt in the emergency room, my body temp alternating between hot and cold, and how hard it was to breathe.

“I think you’re going into shock. Grab a seat on the floor by the counter and take some deep breaths.”

“Got it!” Edgar said.

“Make the call, Edgar!”

“Why are you yelling?” Marissa asked.

“I’m not yell—are you sitting?”

“Yes. People are looking at me shtrange.” Then, nice and loud, she said, “Like they can’t mind their own business!”

Good
, I thought. The
more attention on her right now, the safer she is
. I wanted to reach through the phone and slap her for not calling for help at Robby’s, but there was nothing to be done about that now.
Where—and who—was her friend?

“Ray,” she said. “are you still there?”

“Yeah, Marissa. I’m here.” I looked over at Edgar, who was giving me the thumbs-up sign. “Help is on the way. Do you see your friend yet?”

About ten seconds went by. “No, she’s not around. You want me to check the ladies’ room?” I heard her grunt as if she was getting up. “Maybe she’s peeing.”

“No,” I said sharply. “Stay right where you are until the cops show up.”

“Okay. I’m getting tired anyway.”

“I need you to stay awake, Marissa.”

In the background I could hear the sound of sirens.

“They’re here, Raymond. The copsh. Ricky shaid no copsh.”

“It’s okay, Marissa. When they get inside, give your phone to one of them.”

“Okay.”

After a few seconds of a conversation I could barely make out, a man’s voice came on the phone. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“Raymond Donne. The young lady you’re with, her name is Marissa. She called me because she’s in trouble and may have witnessed a shooting.”

“A shooting?” the guy said. “At the service station?”

“No.” I gave him Robby’s name and address. “I called the state cops and told them what she told me, but if you could call—”

“I know who to call, Mr. Donne.”

I waited while he radioed in the information I had just given him. After he got a response, he came back to me.

“Why did she call you, Mr. Donne?”

Excellent question, Officer.
“I’m a friend of a friend. Marissa traveled with a friend to the service station. She’s a bit confused about where she is.”

He paused, and I heard Marissa yelling in the background. “That would be putting it mildly,” he said. “Does she have a history of substance abuse?”

“I have no idea. I think she’s in shock.”

“You a doctor?”

“No. She said she was starting to feel cold and sweaty, and her speech was getting slurry. She look dizzy to you?”

“She looks high … but yeah, I see what you mean. My partner already called for a medical transport unit. They should be here any minute.”

“And you’re sending an ambulance to the address I just gave you, right?”

A pause. “Yes, sir. That’s what we do in a possible shooting situation.”

“I’m sorry. I know you know that, I just—”

“And where are you, sir?”

“Williamsburg. Brooklyn.”

I waited as he processed that. “She’s got no one up here she could call?”

“Yeah, but that’s the possible shooting victim.”

“Right.” Another pause. “All right, Mr. Donne. The wagon’s pulling up now. I’m gonna escort Miss—Marissa—to the hospital. You’ll be at this number?”

“It’s my cell, yeah.”

“Someone’ll be in touch with you.”

“Can you call and let me know about the situation at the house?”

“We don’t usually do that, Mr. Donne, unless you’re immediate family.”

“His
immediate family
was a cop who was just murdered down here in the city,” I said too loudly. “Maybe you heard about Richard Torres? The vet?”

It took him a few seconds to respond. “We get the news up here. I’ll see what I can do to keep you informed. No promises.”

“Thanks.” An idea came to me. “Can you do me another favor?”

“Make it quick, Mr. Donne.”

“I know it’s gonna sound a bit weird, but after you hang up, can you text me a photo of the girl?”

A pause. “Why do you—?”

“I need to make sure she is who I think she is. Trust me, it’s important.”

Another pause. “You ask a lot for a quarter, Mr. Donne. Next time I’m down in the city, you owe me a beer.”

“Make it five. Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry for—”

“Gotta go, Mr. Donne.” He hung up.

I stared at my phone, trying to figure out what else I could do from here. The answer came quickly enough: Nothing. Right after that, my phone dinged, telling me I had a text message. It was the photo of Marissa—Sheila E—who was, without a doubt, the girl on Ricky’s phone. Not as pretty now that she was going into shock, of course, but it was the same young woman. I must have been staring at the screen longer than I thought, because Edgar touched my shoulder.

“Ray,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, no. Robby may have been shot.” I turned the phone to him so he could see the picture. “That’s the girl from Ricky’s phone, and I have no fucking idea what’s going on.” I looked at Edgar and, for what felt like the hundredth time this week, tried to keep the anger out of my voice. “I am the
opposite
of okay, Edgar.”

Edgar looked at the picture and scratched his ear. “So she called
you
?”

Now it was my turn to make the “Duh” face.

“Means she has no one else to call,” Edgar said. “Now that Ricky’s dead.”

“Right.” I gave that some thought. Who was this Marissa, and why didn’t she have anyone else to call? Ricky had obviously told her about me, so why would she wait nearly a week after his murder before reaching out? “Edgar?”

“Yeah?”

“Feel like going for a drive?”

*   *   *

After deciding I was the more sober of the two of us, we filled up Edgar’s gas tank, bought two extra-large coffees and a half-dozen donuts, and jumped on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway heading toward the New York State Thruway with me behind the wheel. I was driving over the speed limit with the windows rolled down, the radio playing, and the fervent hope that there would be no cops on the road. There was little traffic heading out of the city, and we were on the Major Deegan and past Yankee Stadium in about half an hour. It was still at least another two hours to New Baltimore, and then we’d have to use the GPS to find Robby’s house and the most logical hospital for them to have taken Marissa. That was the closest thing I had to a plan, and I had a couple of hours to try to come up with a better one.

“First,” I said out loud, “we get to Robby’s house. Maybe he’s okay. Marissa was confused, and I don’t trust her version in the state she’s in.” I could hear the hope in my own voice. “I also want to find that shed and see if the guns are still there.”

“And if they’re not?” Edgar asked.

“I don’t know. Second, we find the local hospital. There aren’t many up there, so I’m sure they took Marissa to the same one they’d take Robby to, if he’s injured.” I turned to face Edgar. “Can you get all that info?”

He flipped open his laptop and went to work. “Already got Robby’s address. Just let me…” At least ten seconds went by. “We got it on the map.” He played with the keys a little more. “Looks like our best bet for an area hospital would be Albany Medical Center, unless they take ’em to St. Peter’s.”

I felt a wave of fuzziness coming on, so I shook my head to keep myself alert. “Let’s get to the house first. Maybe by the time we get there, that cop will call back and let us know what’s up.”

“You really think he’ll call back?”

“I don’t know, Edgar.”

*   *   *

Somewhere just before the Kingston exit, my cell phone rang. It was in the cup holder between Edgar and me, and I asked him to pick it up.

“Hello,” he said. “Raymond Donne’s phone.” He listened. “No, this is his friend, Edgar O’Brien.” Another pause and then he said to me, “It’s the cop from the service station. You want me to put him on speaker?”

Whaddaya know.
“Yeah,” I said.

Edgar pressed a button and held the phone about two feet from my face.

“Officer. This is Raymond Donne. Thanks for getting back.”

“I’m over here at AMC with your girl—calls herself Marissa, no last name yet—and the EMTs just brought your buddy in: Robert Torres.”

AMC. Albany Medical Center. Edgar would have smiled if the news hadn’t been so bad.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Don’t know exactly. He
was
shot in the shoulder. Far as the EMTs could tell, it was a through-and-through.”
That’s two through-and-throughs in the shoulders this week
. The trooper continued, “The doc I spoke to said they were gonna operate, get him some blood, and hope he wakes up sooner rather than later. Gunshots can be tricky.”