Crooked Numbers (18 page)

“I don’t know,” I said, then pointed to the empty search field in the upper-right corner of the screen. “Why don’t you tell me?”

As Edgar was typing John Quinn’s name into the box, Mikey came over with my chicken sandwich. He looked down at the plate and shook his head. “Just doesn’t look right with no fries or rings.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “you can bring Edgar and me another couple of beers.”

“Yes,” Mikey said. “That would make me feel better.”

As he left to get our beers, I took a bite of my sandwich and looked over at the computer screen. Edgar was frowning and shaking his head.

“Too many
John Quinns
,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m gonna put in the middle initial and the
Sr.
and see what pops up.” He did, and his frown quickly turned to a grin. “There we go.
John R. Quinn Sr
. Looks like he’s a big wheel for some pharmaceutical company in Jersey.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“Ward Fullerton.”

“Never heard of it,” I said.

“Me, neither. Probably because they don’t advertise during baseball games.”

“Which means they don’t treat erectile dysfunction.”

Edgar laughed. “Wanna check out their site and see what they do make?”

“Absolutely,” I said and took another bite of my chicken. Mikey came over with our beers and a small can of tomato juice for Edgar. He gave me an up-and-down wiggle of the eyebrows.

“You two enjoying yourselves?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Edgar said, his fingers practically dancing across the keyboard. “Give me my computer and a few beers, and I can stay here all night.”

Mikey grimaced. “No need to make threats, Edgar.”

“Give us a minute, will ya, Mikey?” I said. “Edgar and I are right in the middle of something.”

“Yeah,” Edgar said, his eyes glued to the screen. “Right in the middle.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, but took the hint and went to the other end of the bar. I glanced over at Edgar’s screen and watched as an impressive web page came to life. The faces of children—all different colors—scrolled beneath the heart-shaped corporate logo of Ward Fullerton Pharmaceuticals, the company name written in green capital letters. Under the pictures of the kids floated various words and phrases, including
Childhood Cancer
,
Rare and Neglected Diseases
,
Attentional Issues
,
Juvenile Vaccines
.

“These guys are involved with a lot of heavy stuff,” Edgar said.

I nodded. “Is it all kid-related?”

“I don’t see any pictures of grown-ups. Maybe that’s why we’ve never heard of them. Who advertises kiddie drugs on TV?”

I looked at links at the top of the page and pointed. “Click on the one that says
Board of Directors
.”

As he did, he said, “You think…”

“I don’t know, Edgar. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Within seconds, the screen was filled with pictures of Ward Fullerton’s Board of Directors. It didn’t take long to recognize John R. Quinn Sr.’s face in the middle of the pack. Without having to be told, Edgar clicked on Quinn’s name so that his bio came up. We both read silently for a bit before Edgar said, “This guy’s pretty impressive. Head of research and development.”

“I guess he does pretty well for himself,” I said. “Got his own driver—and a lawyer—who come when he calls.” I read more of his bio. “Master’s in International Relations and Biology.”

“Smart guy.”

“Not smart enough to keep his wife’s drugs away from his daughter. But, yeah, I guess he’d have to be pretty sharp.”

I took another bite of my sandwich and followed it with a sip of beer. Edgar continued to navigate around the website but didn’t seem to find anything that held his interest for more than a few seconds.

“You wanna hear about their corporate citizenship or how their stock’s been performing over the last financial quarter?”

“Not really,” I answered. “Just wanted to see who the guy was.”

“Okay.” Edgar closed out of the site, and the screen returned to Upper West Academy’s page. “We done here, too?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” My cell phone rang. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the number I had dialed three times that day. I got off my stool and walked away from the bar for a little privacy. “Dennis,” I said. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

“Something on your mind, Raymond? I got three missed calls from you this afternoon. Who is Jack Quinn, and why should I care?”

“He’s—
was
a friend of Dougie’s,” I said. “He’s in the ICU over at New York–Presbyterian. He was also a friend of Paulie Sherman.”

Silence from the other end and then, “The kid killed on the skateboard?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t that strike you as too much of a coincidence?”

As I waited for an answer, I looked over at Edgar, who was giving me a “What’s up?” look. I held up my index finger to let him know I’d be done soon.

“It does,” Murcer finally said. “How’d you hear about the Quinn kid?”

“I got a call from a friend of Dougie’s,” I said. Then I told him about my visit to Dougie’s school and how I met Elliot.

“You’ve been busy again, Raymond. Anything else you think I should be made aware of while I have you on the phone?”

I paused for a bit and figured he’d probably find out anyway.

“I went to the hospital today,” I said. “To see Jack Quinn.”

“Please tell me you are shitting me.”

“I felt like I had to do something. I did try to call you first, though.”

“Fuck, Raymond.” Dennis went silent again, struggling for the right words. Before he could find them, I went on.

“I met the sister and the father,” I said, then gave him the rest of the details up to and including my conversation with Dougie’s uncle.

“He’s right, y’know,” Dennis said. “This Quinn guy can charge you with harassment. Shit,
I
can charge you with interfering with an investigation. What the hell were you thinking? No, no. Forget I asked that. I know exactly what you were thinking. You’re not police anymore, Ray.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But if I were, I’d have known enough to check Dougie’s laptop and talk to his friends and teachers at the school.”

“How’d you know about the laptop?”

“I was at the Lees’ the other day. The reception after the funeral.”

“So you had the mom call me to—”

“It was her idea,” I lied. “I agreed with her.”

He mumbled something I didn’t quite get. I think I made out the word “asshole.”

“So,” I said. “You’ll go to the hospital and speak with Quinn?”

“Are you hearing me, Raymond?”

“Yes, Dennis,” I said. “I’m hearing you. When I got to the hospital I realized I shouldn’t have been there. I was about to leave when the sister came out.”

“And then you just couldn’t help yourself, right?”

“I figured, what the hell? I’d come all that way. What harm was there in talking to the kid’s sister? Shit, they’re lucky I was there. The condition she was in, she was another tragedy waiting to happen.”

Dennis laughed. “Careful there, Ray. With all the spinning you’re doing, you’re gonna get dizzy. And, yes,” he said, the lightness in his voice disappearing, “I will take a ride up to the hospital and speak with the family. What you did was stupid, but I do think you’re right about this being too much of a coincidence.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“I never said thank you. I just said you were right. See the difference?”

I didn’t care about the difference. I was just happy he was going to look into Jack Quinn.

“Thanks, Dennis.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” I thought he was going to hang up, when he said, “Just out of curiosity.”

“Yeah?”

“You still doing those Thursday night dinners with Rachel?”

“You’ve got a good memory, Dennis.”

“Helps with the job.”

“Yeah, we’re still getting together. Why?”

“Just asking,” he said.
Liar.
“Hey, Ray?”

“Yes, Dennis?”

“You mind if I give her a call?”

“Why would I mind?”

He laughed. “I believe you referred to me as, quote, ‘A shitty boyfriend.’”

I thought back to my last conversation with Rachel. The one where she’d told me I’d overstepped my bounds and that she could handle things herself.

“You go ahead, Dennis. You’re both grown-ups.”

“Thanks, Ray,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“And stay the hell away from my case.” Now he hung up.

I put my phone into my front pocket and went back over to Edgar. Before he could ask, I said, “Murcer’s going to the hospital.”

“So he appreciated your help?”

“
Appreciate
is not the word I would use, no. Let’s just say he reluctantly agreed with me and made sure to remind me of my obligation to stay out of his way.”

“He’s just afraid you’ll show him up.”

“No, Edgar, he’s right.” I sat down and grabbed my beer. “I was out of line this afternoon. I’m lucky that—”

My cell rang again.
Mr. Popularity all of a sudden
. I saw it was Allison and stepped away from the bar again.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey back.” She seemed to be in a good mood. “You at The LineUp?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Taking the night off.”

“And spending it at the place where you should be working. I know I’ve only known you for less than a week, but you are a creature of habit.”

“I am?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a bad thing.” She paused, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t, she said, “And how was your day?”

“Not bad,” I said. I told her about the trip to the hospital and my phone call with Murcer. “So all in all, a productive day.”

“Maybe I should head over to the hospital myself tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t expect much cooperation from the family, Allison.”

“No, probably not, but maybe I can find a chatty nurse or doctor. It’s amazing what people will tell you when they think they’re going to be quoted in the paper.”

“On or off the record?”

“Both. Mostly off, but I can get around that by quoting a ‘hospital spokesperson’ or a ‘source close to the family.’ Either way, my editor’s going to dig this new angle. Two dead kids and another on the edge.”

“You guys really get off on other people’s tragedies, don’t you?” I said.

“Don’t start with that, Ray,” Allison said. “You were the one who called me and asked for the piece on Douglas. Mom wanted something in the papers, and you were more than willing to oblige her.” She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, she continued. “This is a good story. Shit, it’s turning into an actual mystery. You know how often that actually happens in a reporter’s career? Excuse me for getting excited, but this is what I do for a living. Do you really want to debate this, Ray?”

She was right. She did me a solid when I asked for one. It wasn’t her fault the case got complicated. I was the one who called
her
about Jack Quinn. “No. I don’t.” I rubbed my eyes. “I want to find out what happened to Dougie.”

“The same thing I want,” she said. “And the info you just gave me is going to help me to do that. If we have to put up with a few flashy headlines to get there, that’s the price of the ride, tough guy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”

“I hope you do. I wouldn’t want this story to get in the way of…”

I smiled. “No. Neither would I. Speaking of which…”

“Let me call you tomorrow, Ray. Between the basketball player paternity story and now Jack Quinn, I’m not going to have a lot of time for socializing, I’m afraid.”

“Right.”
And here I am with nothing
but
time.
I looked over at Edgar. “Let’s talk soon,” I said to Allison.

“You bet, Ray. Thanks for understanding. See ya.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

After we both hung up, I stared out the front window for a while, watching the headlights of the cars and trucks heading toward the entrance ramp of the BQE. My phone started to vibrate in my hand. I again recognized the number and looked over at the bar. “What do you want, Edgar?” I said into the phone.

“Hey, Ray,” he said, laughing. “Just thought it’d be funny if I called you.”

“And how’d that work out?” I hung up and walked over to him. “I was trying to get my thoughts together.”

“Sorry. You just looked like you needed a laugh.”

I got back on my stool. “It’s okay, Edgar. It’s been a long day.”

“I hear ya, brother.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the working man.”

I picked up my glass and tapped his. “Here’s to him,” I said. “That was Allison,” I explained. “She’s going to follow up on her end with Jack Quinn.”

“Excellent,” Edgar said. “Between her and your detective friend, you’ve had a pretty good day, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I have.”

“You guess? You got the newspaper and the cops backing your play, Raymond. You are the man.”

I shook my head. “Don’t make too much out of it.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But, Jeez, don’t
you
make too little out of it.” He raised his hand to get Mikey’s attention. “At the very least, it deserves another round.”

“It’s a school night, Edgar.” I thought back to the morning’s hangover. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Ray.” Edgar looked at me and gave me what I guessed he thought was his all-knowing smile. “Yes, you do.”

I looked back at him and had to admit it. He was right. This did deserve another round. “All right,” I said. “One more.”

“Cool.” He got Mikey’s attention and motioned with two fingers that we needed another round. “Besides,” Edgar said, pointing up to the TV, “they’re playing the Yankees–Red Sox game from 2003. Clemens against Pedro?”

I looked up at the set. “Pretty good game.”

“Yeah.” Edgar’s smile got bigger. “Remember? Roger put one up high and tight to Ramirez, and Manny almost went nuts.”

“Nothing like a little chin music to back a guy off the plate,” I said.

“Yeah. Pitch wasn’t even that close, but it did its job. Got things going, all right. It was a different game after that.”