Sacrifice Fly (3 page)

I went back into the living room and crossed over to the other side of the apartment.
There were two doors to choose from. I tried the one on my left. It was the bathroom,
and it was in the same shape as the kitchen. The medicine chest had been tossed, towels
were on the floor, and the shower curtain ripped from its rod. A litter box was on
the side of the toilet, untouched and clean. I backed out and shut the door.

The door to my right was shut. I knocked, maybe because it had to be the bedroom and
a certain amount of privacy was expected. I turned the knob and slowly pushed. An
orange cat sprinted out between my legs followed by the smells of shit and piss. Beneath
those odors was another smell, and I knew what I’d find when I fully opened the door
to Rivas’s bedroom.

It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. I let the
bedroom door swing all the way open, allowing a little more light into the room. I
could make out a lump on the bed, almost like someone had dumped a pile of dirty clothes.
Almost.

I moved toward the bed, reached out with my umbrella, and poked the lump on the bed.
It didn’t give. Another step—my eyes able to make out more than just shapes now—and
I could tell that the lump of clothes on the bed had a person inside.

I stumbled back a few feet and hit the wall. Instinctively, I reached over, found
the light switch, and flicked it on.

The dead guy looked as if he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed and just fell back,
his legs dangling over the side. And there I was—like a fucking rookie—standing stupid
in the middle of a crime scene. The last two things I noticed before stumbling out
of the room were a dark stain on the floor below the dead guy’s feet and that he was
clutching a child’s book bag with a bright yellow flower painted on its back pocket.

The next thing I know, I’m knocking on the neighbor’s door with my umbrella.

Loud enough to wake the dead.

Chapter 3

“MR. DONNE?”

I turned and looked up into the face of the patrolman who earlier had instructed me
to wait outside. He was standing on the step above the one I was sitting on. The shine
on his belt and holster told me he’d been on the streets for maybe three months. A
bright red zit was forming above his lip among the facial hairs he hoped would one
day grow into a mustache.

“Detective Royce wants me to tell you that he appreciates your patience,” he said.

“Big black guy in the suit?” I asked.

“That would be him,” the cop said. He raised his hand to show me a five-dollar bill.
“He wants to know if you’d like a water or something from the corner.”

“How much longer before I can go?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Crime Scene guys are almost done.”

“They notice the flower?”

He looked at me like I was starting to lose it in the heat.

“Sir?”

“The flower,” I repeated. “On the book bag. There was no blood on it.”

“I’m sure they did.” He took the steps down to the sidewalk. “Something to drink,
sir?”

“Yeah. Water would be good. How much more time did you say?”

“They gotta finish up in the apartment, and the detective needs you to talk to the
youth officers.” Youth officers, when they were available, dealt with crimes committed
by—or against—juveniles. “They should be here in a few minutes.”

“A few minutes real time?” I asked. “Or a few minutes police time?”

He smiled. “A few minutes, sir.”

*   *   *

About an hour later—after finishing my water, watching the Crime Scene people leave,
and telling the youth officers everything I could about Frankie—I was leaning against
the railing on the steps outside Rivas’s apartment when Detective Royce came out of
the building. He walked right past me, over to a car that was parked across the street.
He took off his jacket and, before tossing it through the open passenger’s window,
removed something from one of the pockets. As he crossed back over, he was slapping
a pack of cigarettes against his palm. When he got to the steps, he looked up at me
and said, “D.O.N.N.E.?”

“That’s how it’s spelled,” I said.

“First name … Raymond?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” He opened the pack of smokes and stuck one in his mouth. “We got a chief by
that name over at One Police Plaza.”

“Yeah. I’ve got an uncle by that name who’s a chief over at One P.P.”

“Shit.” He thought about that for a moment, took the unlit cigarette from his mouth,
and let out an imaginary plume of smoke. After putting it back between his lips, he
sat down, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a small notepad and a pen. “You’re
Chief Donne’s nephew?”

“Sorry.”

He looked at my umbrella and said, “You used to work out of the Nine-Oh, right?”

I nodded. If he knew my story, he knew enough not to mention it.

“Wanna tell me what you were doing here?”

“Like I told the officer upstairs,” I said. “Looking for Frankie Rivas.”

“I heard that. But why you? Don’t they have folks for that?”

“Attendance teachers, yeah. And after the kid’s out for two weeks, they put him on
their list of homes to visit.” I told him about Frankie’s scholarship to Our Lady,
how it was contingent upon his grades and attendance, and how waiting two weeks wouldn’t
work.

“That the only reason?”

“Yes, Detective,” I said. “That’s the only reason.”

“Grandma hasn’t seen the boy in ten days, huh?” he asked.

“That’s what she told me.”

Royce wrote that down. “Guy across the way says that he hasn’t seen anybody around
for the past coupla days.”

“He didn’t strike me as the type who gets out a lot.”

“Picked up on that, huh?” The detective grinned. “Guy had all his windows open and
the AC going full blast. Think he mighta been hiding something?”

“Crossed my mind,” I said. “How fast before you start the mobilization?”

“It’s started. Officers should be over at the grandmother’s, and they’ll canvas the
neighborhood—both neighborhoods—and work their way out from there.”

“Right,” I said, knowing the mobilization would have to include the East River. The
news will be all over this, I thought.

“Any idea where they might have gone?” Royce asked.

“Assuming they’re not with whoever killed the father?”

“Assuming that, yes.”

“No. I don’t. Any idea exactly what happened up there, Detective?”

“Exactly? No. Crime Scene seems to think it’s a combination of a blunt instrument
to the head and some sort of blow to the face. Nose is where all the blood came from.
There’s also a decent-size dent just above the left ear.” He paused. “You say the
kid was a baseball player?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no bats in the apartment.”

“He probably keeps them at his grandmother’s.”

“Yeah,” Royce said. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Detective,” I said. “Frankie did not kill his father.”

“Gotta check out all possibilities, Mr. Donne.” He was studying my reaction. I tried
not to give him one. “You know that. Neighbor said the kid’s in special education.”

“Yes, Detective. Frankie’s a grade or two behind in reading and math. I teach a small
group of kids. Right now I have eleven. None of them is violent.”

Royce took the still-unlit cigarette from his mouth and rolled it between his thumb
and forefinger. It was a full thirty seconds before he spoke again.

“You noticed the book bag the victim was holding?”

“I did.”

“And the lack of blood on the flower?”

“Yes.”

“Means two things,” he said. “One: you were a bit too involved in my crime scene.
I’ll let that go, considering you discovered the DB and got a bit edgy.”

“Thanks.”

“Two: the bag found its way into his arms after the bleeding was done. Bag was empty,
by the way. There’s a lot of blood at the feet of the vic, who we are presently identifying
as Francisco Rivas, Senior. You ever meet the man?”

“No. I only dealt with the grandmother.”

“Looks like the book bag belongs to the sister.” He looked at his notebook. “Milagros.
You wouldn’t have a contact on her, would ya?”

“No,” I said. “Her school should.”

“Have to wait until morning then.” He stood up and flicked the cigarette into the
street. Then he pulled a card out of his shirt pocket. “You think of anything useful,
give me a call.”

“That’s it?” I took the card. “I can go?”

“Unless there’s something you left out of your statement. You came. You saw. You called
it in. And you don’t strike me as the type who would enjoy waiting around for the
newspapers to show up. I can have Officer Sikes take you home if you want.”

I thought about the cop with the zit. “He’s got a driver’s license?”

Royce laughed. “Pre-req for the job.”

“Thanks, but I could use the walk.”

“You sure? You don’t look too good.”

“My first dead body in a while,” I said, easing myself up. “Another water, I’ll be
fine.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Donne.”

With that, Detective Royce went back to his crime scene, and I made my way home.

*   *   *

Halfway home, my knees had just about given up, so I took a seat on a bench just inside
McCarren Park, more than a little angry with myself. I knew before I pushed the bedroom
door all the way open what I’d find on the other side. I knew it would take me somewhere
I’d been before and hoped to never go again. I should have turned around and gone
home. I opened the door anyway.

*   *   *

The door to my father’s study is open. Just a couple of inches, but this door is never
open. If it were up to him, my dad would put a lock on it.
The Door
is to be kept closed.

I put my bag down and approach. I stop about a foot or two away.

“Dad?” I say into the dark space between the door and the molding. “We’re home.”

I hear my mother’s voice behind me talking to my sister, Rachel, but I’m too focused
on the open door to pay attention to what she is saying.

I curl up my right index finger and tap my knuckle against
The Door
three times.

“Dad?” I try again. “We’re back.”

At first I think the smell is some sort of cleanser. It has a bite to it that reminds
me of the stuff my mom uses on the tub. The smell gets stronger when I push the door
open a bit more, and now I’m reminded of the taste you get when you put a penny in
your mouth.

I think about reaching in, switching on the light, but if my dad is in there and napping,
he’s not going to be happy if I wake him. Mom, Rachel, and I have been out in Montauk
all weekend. Dad stayed home to get some work done, but he didn’t really want to come
anyway. He rarely does.

Maybe he brought in some food a couple of days ago and forgot about it. Maybe that’s
what I smell.

My dad is lying facedown on the floor. I turn to call for my mom, but she’s already
behind me. She pushes me aside and rushes to my father’s body. I watch as she kneels
down next to him, like she’s about to pray.

“Goddamn,” she whispers. Then she looks up at me. “Raymond,” she screams as if I’ve
interrupted a private conversation. “Take Rachel and go upstairs! Now!”

Before I can protest, she gets to her feet and pushes me out of the room. The door
slams in my face and I go to find my sister.

*   *   *

The smell of death stays with you. It doesn’t just get into your nose and lungs, it
gets deep inside you: into your blood and your gut and your dreams. If I believed
in a soul, it’d probably get into that, too. Now, under the trees of the park, the
smell of Frankie’s father’s death was mixing with the smell of my father’s.

Some doors should stay shut.

I looked out at the park and took a deep breath. No one has ever quite explained to
me exactly where Williamsburg ends and Greenpoint begins. Longtime residents of the
area still argue over which streets belong to which neighborhood. The cops, they just
cared whether it was the Nine-O or the Nine-Four. It didn’t really matter all that
much, unless you were trying to sell your house, then Greenpoint sounded a hell of
a lot better than Williamsburg. But one thing was agreed upon: right smack in the
middle was McCarren Park.

The bench I was on faced the soccer fields where a Polish team was getting ready to
play an Hispanic team, the sidelines filling with supporters talking loudly in both
languages. Behind me were the Little League fields—where Frankie would sometimes play—so
small that, with the two games going on at the same time, the outfielders from each
game had to stand side by side. Add to those the bikers, joggers, skateboarders, rollerbladers,
handball players, and families looking to grab any piece of green they could find,
you had yourself a microcosm of Brooklyn.

Sitting all by itself across the street, like a neglected step-kid, was McCarren Pool,
the largest public pool in the city system. It had been decades since it last opened
its gates to swimmers. Every three or four years the local politicians would stand
up and announce their plans to reopen and “revitalize” the pool. And after all the
votes were counted, you wouldn’t hear another word until the next election. No one
was quite willing to say out loud that the reason the pool had closed, and would more
than likely stay closed, was because it was just about impossible to secure a pool
that size that was visited by the Polish, Italians, Blacks, and the Hispanics—and
where were the Hasidim going to swim? So the pool just sits there, its walls crumbling
a bit more each year, weeds and trees growing from its floors. A reminder of a kinder,
gentler time that maybe never really was, when swimming in a public pool meant just
that.

I got up and walked over to the Avenue to grab a hero at the pizza place. By the time
I got home, the Yankee game would be on and, with any luck, I’d be asleep by the fifth
inning. As I waited by the window for my food, the old Polish man walked by. Dressed
in his usual green plaid jacket and black pants—no matter the season—he was yelling
out his usual crazy Polish rant. I used to get a smile out of his act until the guy
I bought kielbasa from told me that his loud rants were usually about the family he’d
lost to the Germans in the concentration camps. I wondered what he smelled when he
went to bed.