Dead Red (8 page)

“Shit,” I said, not wanting to believe where Jack was headed with this. There were too many illegal assault weapons floating around the five boroughs. It was a bit of a leap to say this was the one that had killed Ricky. But Jack had a point about recent and local. “Anything interesting on the DB?” I asked Roy.

“He’s got some outstanding ink work running from just below his right ear down to his little finger. They’re processing his prints now. If he’s in the system—and that’s not a very big if, if you ask me—they’ll have him ID’d not too long after the mayor gets to the hospital.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“Livery driver. He heard a shot while enjoying a late-night beverage along the waterfront. He was halfway over the bridge before he called nine-one-one.”

“So no wits?” Jack asked.

“Nada.”

Jack and I looked at each other. Neither one of us came up with anything else to say. Officer Roy White took the bag and boxes off the hood of the car and said, “Better get these over to the scene before they get cold.”

“Good looking out, Roy,” Jack said. “You’ll let me know when anything else comes up?”

“Yeah.” Roy looked over his shoulder then back at Jack. “Same deal, right?”

Jack took Roy by the elbow and walked him away from me, back toward the scene. They stopped before reaching the sidewalk, Jack said something I couldn’t hear—which was the point of putting some distance between us—laughed, and patted his buddy on the back. Roy turned to leave, then stopped as if he suddenly remembered something. He said one more thing to Jack, then headed in the other direction. Jack stood there for at least twenty seconds. When he came back to where I was, he said, “Didn’t wanna bore you with the details of my business, Ray. You understand, right?”

“Yeah, Jack. Private means private.”

“I appreciate that.” He looked at his watch. “Well, too late for a drink and too early for breakfast. I guess you want me to drop you at home, huh?”

“What was that last thing Roy said to you?”

“Just something he noticed about the vic.”

“Something interesting enough to ponder in the middle of the street?”

Jack considered whether to share this last bit of information with me. He walked around to the driver’s side of the car and leaned over the roof. “You remember what Roy said about the tattoos on our dead kid?”

“Yeah?”

“He noticed some more ink on the palm of the kid’s left hand.”

“Another tat? Gang shit?”

“No. This was real ink, like from a pen.”

“What’d it say?”

“Could be nothing,” Jack said, sounding like it was anything but.

“That’s not an answer, Jack.” I leaned on the roof of the car. Our eyes met over the top of his fancy Mustang. “What did it say?”

Jack looked down at the roof of his car. He licked his forefinger and made a circular motion along a spot in front of him. He then took his sleeve and buffed out whatever he thought was there.

“… Jack?”

“He had the letters KT written on his hand,” he finally said.

“That’s it?”

“They were followed by a slash and the number seven.”

KT/7?
“Some gang code?”

“You still think like a cop, man.”

“So you don’t think it’s gang-related?”

“Remember where Ricky T was shot?”

“Do I remember where—?”
Shit.
“God damn it,” I said, a bit too loudly. “Kent and North Seventh.”

“Underneath KT/7 was written DJ2S,” he said. “And I’ll betcha another bag of donuts that was—”

“The medallion number of the taxi Ricky was driving.”

“Bingo, Officer Donne!” Jack slapped the roof of his car. “That dead scumbag killed Ricky T, Ray. We don’t need ballistics to tell us that.”

“
We
don’t need ballistics to tell
us
shit, Jack. Did Roy share this with Detective Royce?”

“Yeah,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m sure he did.”

“We need to be more than sure, Jack. We have to know that Royce makes the connection. Sooner rather than later.”

“You wanna go walk over to the crime scene and tell him, Ray? Maybe go out for a beer later and take a trip down Memory Lane?”

He had a point. “Text your buddy. Tell him what we just figured out, have him tell Royce. Officer Roy White’s gonna look like a genius.”

Jack smiled again and pointed at me. “That’s good, Ray.” He took out his phone. “That’s real good.”

“I know.”

“Now, Roy’s gonna owe me big-time.”

Good for you
,
Jack
, I thought.
Good for you.

Chapter 7

BY THE TIME I GOT THE BAGELS, cream cheese, and coffee up to my apartment, Allison was already showered, dressed—still in my T-shirt, but her own jeans—and sitting on the futon with my laptop on her lap. It was barely five thirty, and she was hard at work and looking pretty damn cute.

“Nice field trip, dear?” she asked, not looking up from the screen.

“Let me put some breakfast together and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Keep talking like that, tough guy, and I’m moving in.”

I laughed, but not too loud. Allison and I had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and to say the thought of living together hadn’t crossed my mind would be a lie. As it was, we spent two or three nights a week at each other’s places, but I was glad we hadn’t had The Talk yet. Maybe if we hit the year mark.…

I put the bagels and coffee on a tray and brought it over to the coffee table. Allison held up one finger, telling me to give her a minute. I took the time to hit the bathroom and splash my face with water for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past day. My face had been feeling hot since the ER. Probably a concussion symptom I was unaware of. When I got back, I sat beside her.

“So,” she said, rubbing her hand on my back, “what did you and your new friend find out this morning?”

I told her about Jack’s relationship with Roy White and how the cops had found a semiautomatic pistol next to the dead kid. I left out the part about the letters and numbers scrawled on the victim’s hand. As much as Girlfriend Allison would have loved that tidbit, Reporter Allison didn’t need to know that yet. When I was done, she let out a slow whistle.

“Wow,” she said. “You’ve got a career in journalism if this teaching thing doesn’t work out.”

“That’s off the record. Whatever your guy finds out on his own is fine, but I don’t know how much the cops are gonna put out there, so…”

“We had this talk already, Ray,” she said, pulling away her hand on my back.

“That was last December, Allison. I just wanted to make sure the ground rules were still in place and acceptable.”

She reached over and patted my leg. “Don’t be a dick. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not being a dick,” I said—something I usually say when I’m not quite sure if I’m being a dick or not. “What were you working on when I came in?”

She leaned away from me as if I’d burped. “That’s what this is about?” She looked down at the laptop and turned it toward me so I could see the screen. “I was researching shootings over the past five years like Ricky T and the other cabbie’s. I didn’t find much. Then I looked into how many cops are in the reserves and how many go back to the force after they get back. It’s all background, Ray, that whoever
does
cover what happened to you and Ricky is gonna need. I know I can’t cover your story, but it doesn’t mean I can’t do a little research and help out. Besides, what the hell was I supposed to do when you were out playing detective in the early-morning hours? Vacuum?”

I leaned over and put my arm around her.

“I guess you could have made the bed,” I said. “Done a load of laundry?”

She laughed. “You
are
a dick.”

“Let’s write it off as an early-morning gaffe from a guy suffering from a concussion and a near-death experience.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering much last night when I was helping with your recovery.”

“I know. It was like finding out I had
really good
health insurance.”

We both laughed this time, and she placed her head on my chest.

“You didn’t sleep much last night.”

I pulled her in tighter. “I kept hearing the gunfire,” I said. “I got up a few times thinking I smelled something burning. I was wide awake when Jack called.”

“Post-traumatic stress,” she said. “Probably why you made the extremely wise decision to go out with Jack.”

“I was so wired, I had to do something. Heading out with him was as good as anything else, I guess.”

“How you holding up now?”

“Still wired and tired. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” She reached over and grabbed each of us half a bagel. “Eat a bit.” She looked at the cup in my hand. “Coffee’s probably not the best idea, but what the hell? I’ll run down in a bit and get
The Times
and
my
paper.”

I looked at my laptop. “I was thinking about getting a digital subscription to the
Times.
”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it for my sake.”

“Problem?”

“I’m old-school that way, Ray. I need to hold the paper, turn the pages, get my fingers all inky.”

I smiled. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about that.”

“How do you feel,” she asked, “when you wanna watch a Yankees game and all that’s on is the Mets?”

“Good point.”

“Let’s eat, go through the papers, and maybe you’ll doze off for a while.”

“That’d be good.”

“If not, I’ve got some stuff in my bag that might help.”

“Is it legal?”

“Prescription,” she said, ignoring my weak attempt at humor. “With the hours I work, sometimes a little pill helps.”

“Whatever gets you through the night, right?”

*   *   *

“I don’t know,” Allison was saying. “I’ll check with him when he gets up.”

I opened my eyes and saw Allison on the other side of the window. She was on her cell phone, pacing. I sat up, having no idea how much time had passed since I’d dozed off. As I willed my reluctant eyes to stay fully open against the sunlight behind Allison so I could make out the time on my cable box, Allison tapped on the sliding glass door to the deck to get my attention. I gave her a blank look and shrugged. She said something I couldn’t hear as she came back into the apartment. She put the phone against her thigh. “Can you talk?”

Not understanding the question, I said, “Depends.”

She moved the phone from her leg to her mouth. “Hold on a minute, Pete.” This time she put her hand over the phone. “Can you talk to my guy Pete?”

“You’ve got a guy named Pete?”

She shook her head as if talking to a drunk. “A guy from the paper. You met him at the benefit last spring. We’ve done a few stories together.”

Oh. That Pete.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess. Sometime tomorrow?”

She gave me a half smile/half grimace. “He’s kind of downstairs.”

“That was quick.”

She took a step toward me. “He was the one who covered the shooting at the river last night. He was in the neighborhood and—”

“How did he know where I live?”

“I didn’t tell him where you live, Ray. Give me a little credit. He’s waiting inside the McDonald’s on the avenue.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds, then she spoke into the phone.

“I’ll call you right back.” She ended the call and gave me her full attention. “He called earlier. I told him you were asleep, but would probably be up soon.”

“So you sent him to McDonald’s?”

“I figured it’d save time. You did say you’d talk to a reporter, Ray. You know this business. If we don’t get it now, we’ll get it later, and now is better.”

Part of me knew she was right. The other part was pissed. I went with the part that knew she was right.

“Call him back,” I said, getting off the futon. “Tell him to give me ten minutes. I need to use the bathroom and wake up a bit.”

She put her hand on my neck and pulled me into a kiss.

“Thanks, Ray. Sorry.”

“We all have our jobs to do. Tell him to bring me a large coffee. Half and half, no sugar. If he wants to talk to me, he’s gonna work for it.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I was sitting on my deck next to Allison and across the way from Pete, enjoying a coffee courtesy of their newspaper. As I only had two outdoor chairs, Pete had to stand. I know I could have told him to bring one from inside, but I didn’t want to give him the idea he’d be staying long. He looked out at the skyline, complimented me on my view, and said it was nice to see me again. I said the same even though I had no recollection of meeting him the first time.

“So,” Pete said. “How well did you know the victim?”

“Ricky,” I said. “Ricky Torres.”

“Right. How well did you know Ricky Torres?”

I gave him the quick version: we’d worked together for a stretch out of the nine-oh; after I resigned because of an on-the-job accident, we’d still see each other for an occasional beer; we’d pretty much lost touch after the Marines sent Ricky overseas; and the other night was the first time I’d seen him since he’d been back. I added that I had no idea why he had called me and that we’d barely spoken about anything before the shooting started.

He wrote that in his notepad. “Tell me what it was like being in the car when the shooting began.”

I knew that question was coming, but was unprepared for the tightness in my chest that came with it.
Caught looking at a waist-high fastball.

“You ever light up a pack of firecrackers, throw them into a garbage can, and then stick your head in the can?”

“Nope,” Pete said. “Never did that.”

“That’s what it was like. Or close to it.”

He wrote that down, apparently finding me quite quotable.

“How well did you know his family?”

“Not very. Met his mom a few times at precinct picnics. His kid brother, too. We weren’t close like where we’d hang with each other’s families.”

He made another note. “You must have asked yourself why he called you?”

“And I still don’t know. I’m sure he’s got—had—lots of other friends he could’ve called.” I thought about Jack. “Lots.”