Brooklyn Bones Page 17

  “Consider this. His ex-wife is a golf-playing debutante with an MBA. Maybe he likes you because you aren’t?”

  “Assuming he does like me.”

  “I say this with the greatest possible affection: you are a dope. You underestimate how interesting and fun you are, and you know something else? I admit his surface is very smooth, and a little stiff, but there’s more to him. He can be fun when he relaxes but there is loneliness, too, I think. But of course if you’re sure he’s a waste of your precious time…”

  The sarcasm floated right through the phone wires, loud and clear.

  “Ok, mom, I get the point. Maybe.”

  “Do you like him? Isn’t that the question?”

  “I don’t know! I didn’t, at first. Then, now, maybe, sort of, he’s growing on me. He’s kind of…I guess, kind of nice. And, he’s not hard on the eyes though he’s not really my type. I don’t think.”

  She laughed. “Just so you keep an open mind and let yourself have a little fun. Keep in touch, honey.”

  I watched the block, hoping my visitor could find parking. I noted that the double-parked plumber’s van from earlier was still here and was now parked at the curb, right in front of my house. Some part of my brain wished he would move the damn van and give me the spot. When my visitor arrived, he double-parked without hesitation. Cops can get away with that.

  “Nice to meet you in person, Ms. Erica Donato.” He offered his hand. “You look just like the photo on Rick’s desk, only without the black cap and gown.”

  “High school? I can’t believe he still had that one. Well, I’m surely a little older looking now.”

  He looked at me with squint and a smile. “Not that much.” He came in, and we settled into the living room.

  “How well did you really know him?” He was not looking at me while he waited for my answer.

  “That is the question, isn’t it, the one that’s keeping me up at night. I thought I knew him as well, at least almost as well, as I know my own father. I don’t think that anymore. It’s shaken me.”

  “Let’s say,” he said, still not looking at me, “let’s say he had a few sides to his personality and he didn’t show them all to everyone.”

  I nodded. That made sense. I don’t really know everything about my dad, and Chris certainly doesn’t know everything about me. And that’s a good thing too.

  Why should it be different with Rick?

  “He was a good friend, as I’m sure you know from your dad, and yeah, he was always as good a cop as he was a friend, citations, promotions, well thought of. He did like to have a hell-raising good time though, all through the years. That’s what busted up his marriages.”

  I thought about Wanda, and his house, so neglected except in the places where his comfort was the issue, and I nodded again. “He never showed that side to me, but I can sort of see it now.”

  “Even the years he was on the job, we all knew there was some betting. He liked trips to Atlantic City and Vegas, he liked more than a few drinks, but he kept it to his off time. You couldn’t ask for a better cop, better back-up, better friend, altogether.”

  “So how can they even think that? Those detectives…”

  He shook his head. “He was doing something that made someone angry enough to kill him. Come on. It doesn’t look like some juiced up kid with more testosterone than brains.”

  “So you’re saying no questions can be off the table for the detectives?”

  “Rick always said you were smart.”

  He held up a hand to stop my next indignant questions. “There’s more. What I hear—and my sources are good—they found a gym bag stuffed with cash in his closet. So first, what’s a recently retired cop running a small private security business doing with that? And second, they found pictures in a desk drawer.” He responded to my shocked look. “No, not that kind. The fully dressed but wrong people kind. In his retirement, yeah, Rick was hanging out with some extremely questionable associates. The kind the FBI takes an interest in.”

  “Someone else sort of told me that,” I said slowly, “but I haven’t wanted to think it could be true. It makes him someone else, not the good man I knew.” And loved, I thought.

  “Understandable, but that cash isn’t imaginary, and neither are the pictures. We don’t know what they mean. That is, not yet. And there’s no physical evidence. Not YET.” He stopped. “I should clarify that ‘we’ means ‘we, the department.’ I’m not personally involved in the investigation.”

  “What if someone wanted the pictures…”

  “To be found? Could be. Nevertheless, he was associating with, let us say, known felons and persons of interest. And don’t say ‘what if they were faked?’ We’ve got experts for that.”

  “But these little pieces are all only pointing to things. What do they know? Really know?”

  “They know the names of a lot of people in the pictures. They know a woman he was seeing pretty steadily has fled to Montreal.”

  “Wanda?”

  “You met her?” He looked surprised.

  “No, I found her.”

  “Nice work. I hear they’ve got some Canadian cops checking on her exact whereabouts, so they can bring her back if they need to.”

  I thought about how scared she had been, and had a fleeting hope that they would not find her.

  He looked at me with a somewhat sympathetic expression. “I can’t help thinking I’ve given you more questions than answers.”

  “I don’t know. Dammit, yes. I feel like I know Rick less than ever. I wanted to know why they’re asking so many off the wall questions. Now I kind of wish I hadn’t asked.”

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “He was a good cop and a good guy for a lot of years. I’d bet my shield on that. We don’t know exactly what happened in his life the last few. We, meaning all of us this time, you, me, his friends and the detective team. Whatever, it doesn’t take away from all the years before. Me, I’m sticking with that thought. You should too. And whatever deep waters he got into, bottom line, someone killed him and left him there to be found and that person will get his. Count on it. It’s not your job, but it is going to get done.”

  “Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “It isn’t working that well.”

  I had one more important question to be answered. At least it was important to me.

  “I have a reason to think he worked in my neighborhood, right here where I live now, when he was young. I saw a photo. And I don’t get it. He never told me that, not after visiting me here a million times. Is there anything you know about that? It’s here, Park Slope, the 78 precinct.”

  He looked at me oddly.

  “Wow. That goes back a real long way. Real long, before I was married. I was just a kid then and he was too.”

  He shook his head. “As best as I recall, Rick wasn’t there very long, and he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t seem like his old self, and every once in a while he’d say something about getting out of there.”

  “And didn’t he ever…?”

  “Nope, never said why. Young cops in those days, we didn’t exactly have these soulful talks. I figured he had a screw-up partner or a hardass sergeant. Like that, you know? Then, he got a transfer and was back to being his old self again.” He looked puzzled for a moment. “I always felt like something happened to him there. A girl? Something? Man, this takes me back a long way!”

  He shook his head again. “He wasn’t like scarred or anything like that. If anything, he was even more like his old self? I don’t know how to say it better than that. He was harder in some way. Still a joker but not a goofy kid at all. Harder, like he learned something and didn’t like it.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Ahh, we all probably did. A few years on the
job and you stop being a clueless rookie. You’d better. I don’t remember any more and probably never knew any more even back then.”

  I had to be satisfied with that, though of course I wasn’t at all satisfied. His words, that it was not my job, rattled around in my mind. It wasn’t but it was. Perhaps I would have to settle for frequent phone calls to Sergeant Simms. How could I let it go entirely? I knew I couldn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wrote up everything about the meeting and then forced myself to put the pages, and Rick, away for now. I had to get some work done. Maybe I could pursue it later. Work would be a challenge, because hammering had begun downstairs. Someone was building something in my house. Or perhaps tearing something down. I went to investigate.

  The workmen looked up, waved, went back to the job. They were building vertical structures around the appliances.

  “Yes, you’ll have your new cabinets tomorrow,” a voice behind me said. “Tell me I’m your hero.”

  I turned around to face Joe. My smile told him that he was my hero.

  “Sorry it’s taking so long.” He looked a little sheepish. “You know I’m fitting you in around other jobs. That’s why we’re here so late today.”

  “I know. It’s finally starting to seem real now!”

  “Amazing, isn’t it, how it’s a mess and then it’s still a mess, and then it all comes together? Best part of the job, seeing that. Those bleached cabinets will be nice in here, nice and bright. We’ve got the counter tops. We’ll get them in as soon as we can, I promise.”

  “Bathroom next? Please?”

  “Lady, you are getting pushy.”

  “Of course. That’s my Brooklyn attitude coming through. But seriously, I’d love to have it all done when Chris comes home.”

  “Chris? Now that’s upping the pressure.”

  I stopped smiling, though, remembering the event that would probably bring her home for a visit, well before the end of camp.

  “She seems to like camp, except for worrying about you.”

  “What?”

  ‘Yeah, she wrote to me.”

  “She’s never mentioned that to me.” I could hear my own grumpy voice. “What could she possibly have to write to you about?”

  “We got close when she was working for me. We talked. She’s a great kid and I think maybe she likes having a man’s point of view.” He patted me on the shoulder. “I can be that man, and even better, not come on as anyone’s parent. I’m an independent adult friend. No need to be miffed.”

  “I’m not miffed!”

  “Oh, sure. I can see that you’re not.” He had a perfectly straight face when he said it. “How are you otherwise? Life settling back down? Any new information about Rick?”

  Suddenly my eyes stung. “It would take all evening to tell you, so much has happened.”

  “Remember I’m my own boss?” he said gently. “I can take all evening if I want to.”

  “But I can’t.” I blinked the tears away. “I have things to do. And I bet you’re lying, anyway. It’s your busy season. You probably have a whole list of stops to make after me…”

  He nodded. “True. Only one or two hundred. How about over a late dinner? I’d even step us up from pizza. Steak frites and a bottle of Beaujolais?”

  I was unnerved by the offer, and the kind expression on his face. He was the closest I ever had to a big brother, and I knew I could trust him with everything on my mind. He might tell me I was doing something stupid—in fact, he had already done that, and more than once—but he would be in my corner no matter what.

  “Sorry.” I had some real regrets. “I have work to do tonight. A lot of work. I’m getting into some serious trouble on that.”

  “Another time,” he replied without undue disappointment. “You know, one of the things Chris has confided is that she wishes you would have more of your own social life.”

  “What? No way.”

  He nodded slowly, with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “She seems to feel you need more to think about than her.”

  “I have plenty to think about. Too much. School, house, supporting us, my future, her future. How could she….”

  “What have you told her about that slick looking guy I met the other day?” Now I could see he was teasing. “See what she says then. Yeah, yeah, I know you said it was just business.”

  “It is. So I have nothing to tell her.” Was my face turning pink? “And how is your current social life?” The best defense is to turn the tables.

  He only smiled mysteriously. “I’ve got to get going.”

  His crew left shortly after and the house was quiet. I dug myself in for a long evening of work, trying to smother any questions I had about Rick. Or anything. By the time my weary eyes started to cross, I had written a long memo for my boss, with attachments. I thought—I hoped—I had redeemed myself on that front.

  ***

  The phone rang and rang, but when I finally got to it, it went dead. I squinted at my clock, three a.m., and looked in panic at the caller ID. Brooklyn. Leary I thought, but he did not answer when I called back and the machine did not pick up. I tried again. It rang and rang, and still no machine pick up. Then there was a kind of click and a hard breathing sound.

  “Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

  More gasping.

  “Leary, is that you? Come on!”

  More gasping and I finally realized he was groaning.

  “Leary? Is that you? Are you all right?”

  A whispered “Not all right.”

  “Do you need help? Should I call 911?”

  “No. Please come….” and the line went dead.

  I swapped jeans for my pajama shorts, pulled a shirt over my tank top and was pointing my car toward his block almost before the thought had formed in my mind. Luckily for me some idiot had left the outside door of his building open a crack and I slipped in. Last time, pounding on his apartment door worked but this time I had no response to my fist or my shouting.

  I heard a faint sound, a moan.

  “Leary? Is that you? Open the damn door!” I was already fumbling for my phone, ready to call 911.

  Another moan, then a whisper. Something I could barely hear. Door? Is that what he said?

  I shoved the door and it opened. He was lying on the floor, his face bruised, his skin the color of paper and clammy to the touch. 911 it was

  I was already dialing as I knelt beside him, ignoring the filthy floor. “Help is coming.” I said it softly but very clearly. “What can I do for you?”

  He opened his eyes, seemed to struggle to focus and whispered, “Orange juice.” I jumped up to get it and he gasped, “Wait.” He finally forced the words out. “Add sugar.” He closed his eyes again.

  Was he going to die right there? I poured the juice with shaky hands, ripped open coffee shop packets of sugar lying on the counter, and was back in the living room, holding up his head to drink, in a fast minute.

  Holding onto consciousness by a thread, it seemed, he sipped slowly, and slowly, his color returned from this death-like pallor to something more like his normal unhealthy tone. His eyes began to focus. He gradually moved from looking almost dead to merely looking exhausted. It was a substantial improvement. I talked to him, trying to keep him from drifting off again, talked about anything I could think of. I asked questions and when he couldn’t seem to respond, I babbled. The weather, the park, my new kitchen.

  He finally said something back, in a shaky whisper. “There were men. They wanted something. Don’t know….” He stopped, seeming too tired to continue. He flinched when the downstairs buzzer broadcast static into the room. I pushed the intercom button, a voice barked, “EMS” and I pushed the button that would unlock the lobby door. Thank you, I whispered to someone and went
back to Leary.

  He was trying to tell me more. “Just took my shot and didn’t get to eat. They got in—shoved me around. Hit me. Dunno…. something happened. Too much insulin.”

  The ambulance crew burst in, I told them who he was, who I was, how I had found him, and then had to get out of their busy way. A few medical procedures later, they told me orange juice was what the doctor would have ordered.

  “Lady, you might’ve saved his life,” were the exact words. They asked me a few questions I could not answer, but Leary was able to mumble, “In my wallet,” and they were off, talking to me over their shoulders as they wheeled him out. “Kings County Hospital.” “Don’t follow. You can call later.” “You’ll be in the way, and if you’re not family, no one’s talking to you anyway. We got HIPPA rules.”

  I managed to tell them this had maybe been an assault and they said, “We already figured that.” Their voices disappeared as they entered the elevator, and suddenly all was quiet.

  I sat down—no, I collapsed—onto his scary couch. When my heart finally stopped pumping so loudly I could hear it, I began trying to understand what had happened here.

  Leary had a medical episode because some men interrupted his bedtime routine? He had too much insulin in his system, because he needed a snack? The men did something to him—the bruises on his face could not have come from a fall—and then what? Fled?

  Or was he imagining some of it? All of it? Were hallucinations part of this kind of diabetic situation? I had no idea. But the EMS team had seen something to make them think there was an assault. Would the hospital report that?

  I wanted to do something useful. Clean up here? I had a pretty strong feeling he would not like that. Pack him a bag for the hospital? I flinched at rummaging in his clothing. I could at least lock up when I left. Where were his keys? They did not seem to be near the door. I could try his dresser top.

  The room was the same disaster as the rest of his apartment, and no keys were in sight. I would try his office.