Dead Red (18 page)

“It’s not important,” I said. “Let’s focus here.” I turned to Jimmy. “Do you know if the cops have interviewed Ricky’s cousin yet?” To Edgar, I said, “Ricky’s cousin co-owns the fleet Ricky drove for.”

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “But we can find out.”

“I’m not asking my uncle again. I’m gonna be missing a chunk of my ass as it is for that last phone call.”

“I’ll call a buddy over at the nine-oh,” Jimmy said. “I’m sure they’ve spoken to the guy. He was Ricky’s boss.”

“But have the cops thought about checking the GPS?” I asked.

“That,” Jimmy raised his glass, “is a good question.” He touched my glass with his. “Good call, Ray. You’re still good at this shit.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Edgar said.

“And he doesn’t need to know now, Edgar.” To Jimmy I said, “I’ll tell you some stories over a bunch of beers another time.” I looked at my watch. “In the meantime, why don’t you seal the deal with Sammi there.” I pulled a twenty out and placed it on the bar to cover Edgar’s and my drinks. I wasn’t planning on sticking around to see if Sammi cleavaged it. “Edgar. Swing me home? I got an early day tomorrow.”

He finished his drink and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”

“Same here, Edgar. Keep up the good work.”

“You bet I will,” Edgar said.

“Let’s touch base tomorrow,” Jimmy said to me. “Put our heads together again.”

“I’ll do my best to call you.”

He looked over at the bartender and back to me. “Not too early, okay?”

“Enjoy responsibly.”

“I always do.”

*   *   *

Edgar double-parked in front of my building and kept the engine running. I would have asked him up, but I was tired and looking at an early morning.

“Thanks,” I said. “For the ride and the lesson.”

“Always glad to be of service, Ray,” Edgar said. “That Jimmy guy seems pretty cool, huh?”

“About as cool as they come, Edgar.” I opened up the car door. “I’ll talk to you in a day or two.”

“Looking forward to it.”

As I watched him pull away, I got my keys out and my cell phone rang. It was my uncle’s personal phone.

“That was quick,” I said.

“It’s what I do, Raymond,” Uncle Ray said. He waited for a few seconds before speaking again. “Turns out at least part of your theory is correct.”

“Two different bullets?”

“The one they took out of Ricky’s head was a thirty-aught-six. It’s consistent with the Springfield, a sniper rifle commonly used in law enforcement and the military. That, by the way, was the only wound Ricky suffered.”

I could hear the shots again, the windows coming apart.

“And the others in Ricky’s cab?”

“Beretta Px4 semiautomatic pistol. Crime scene found fifteen in and around the vehicle. I’ll say this again, Nephew: You are one lucky fuck.”

I’ll keep that in mind when the dreams come back tonight.

“Did you find anything out about the other shootings? The other cabbie in Long Island City—Michael Dillman, was it?—and the kid next to the semiautomatic in East River Park?”

“You’re pushing it, kiddo.”

“Damn it, Uncle Ray. I was there. This is not just me sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Easy there, Raymond. Three separate shootings means three separate detectives for the moment. We’ll coordinate tomorrow and get it all together.”

“Just tell me: that kid they found in East River Park the other night?”

“What about him?”

“Was he killed with a thirty-aught-six?”

Uncle Ray was quiet, so I continued. “The gun he had. Was it a Beretta Px4 semiautomatic pistol?”

“Yep. Magazine holds fifteen. If he was the second shooter, he blew a whole mag on you and didn’t stop to reload.”

“If he was the second shooter,” I said, “someone really wanted him dead.”

“See now, Nephew. That’s something for the
cops
to figure out, not for you to concern your
civilian
self with.”

“I hear you, Uncle Ray. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“You always hear me, Ray. It’s the thinking that worries me.”

“Well, don’t.” I put my key into the lock. “I’m just going upstairs now and calling it an early night.”

“You with the lady friend?”

“No, but that might change.”

“Good night, Raymond.”

“Good night, Uncle Ray. And thanks,” I said before hanging up.

I was halfway up the stairs to my place when the phone rang again. Allison.

“If you’re calling to come over, the answer’s yes.”

“I wish I could, Ray,” she said. “I’m still working. I’m getting my notes together on the shootings, and I still have an author profile from last week to do.”

“Maybe tomorrow then. Dinner?”

“Pencil me in. How’re you feeling?”

“Had a … bit of a slight dizzy spell this afternoon, but I’ll give you all the gory details tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Don’t work too late.”

“Tell that to my boss.”

“Good night, Ally.”

“Good night, Ray.”

I stepped into my apartment and checked my landline. No messages.
Good.
I went to the fridge, took out a can of Diet Pepsi and two slices of cold pizza from three days ago. I took it all outside and sat at my table. The sky behind Manhattan was orange, the sky above me filling with clouds. I ate my dinner silently and thought about Ricky T, automatic weapons, and all the ways we’ve come up with to kill our fellow humans.

And how lucky I was supposed to feel.

Chapter 16

BY THE TIME WE GOT OFF the Meadowbrook Parkway, it was pushing eight thirty, and Jack was growing increasingly worried about pissing off Mr. Golden by being a few minutes late. During the ride out, I told him about the ballistics reports on Ricky T and the dead kid in East River Park. He told me he was waiting to hear back from his guy at the nine-oh regarding the other cabbie’s shooting.

Jack made a hard left off Sunrise Highway and drove deeper into suburbia. I gathered up all our breakfast junk, placed it in a bag, and tossed it in the backseat.

“It’s not a garbage dump, Ray,” Jack said.

“You wanna walk into Golden’s house with it?”

He answered by stepping on the gas and running a red light. After a few lefts and a couple of rights, he drove onto a dead-end street.
Excuse me, a cul-de-sac.
The houses here were markedly larger than the ones we had passed just a few blocks ago and were varied in style. With a little more effort, one of them could have been the world’s largest Taco Bell. Each one looked out onto a canal or off to the Atlantic. The one Jack parked in front of might as well have had a big sign outside that read:
WE HAVE MORE MONEY THAN YOU
.

Across the street was a red Dumpster filled to the spilling point in front of a house under repair. I got out of the car, walked over to the Dumpster, and tossed the remains of our breakfast into it. I was sure it was against some ordinance or other, but now my trash was mixing with better company.

Jack locked his car electronically and looked at his watch.

“Okay,” he said. “Eight twenty-eight. Not bad.”

“Good job.” I took in a lungful of ocean air. “Smells like money to me.”

Unlike the neighbors’ houses, the Goldens’ did not have a circular driveway. It did, however, have two impressive Japanese maple trees bordering the front steps. The house was painted gray and had a widow’s walk on top. We started walking up the stone path that led to the massive front door, when Jack put his hand on my elbow.

“Let me do the talking. If he asks you something directly, obviously you can answer, but you’re here as my support personnel, you got that?”

“Can I ask for a ride in his boat?”

“That’s funny, Ray. Let’s make that the last funny thing you say for the next hour or so, okay?”

“I’m cool, Jack. I’ll be good and quiet.”

He spread his arms out, palms up. “All I’m asking.”

After pressing the doorbell, we waited. I took the time to run my hand across the wood. This thing would take a bullet. The small windows in the door were a combination of stained and smoked glass. I couldn’t see through them, but I picked up some motion on the other side and stepped back.

A sturdy woman of about fifty opened the door. She wore a blue polo shirt neatly tucked into a pair of freshly ironed khakis. She had on a nice pair of boat shoes and was wiping her hands on a towel. She looked like one of the Polish women I see around Greenpoint, and when she spoke, I was pretty sure I had my geography correct.

“Mr. Knight?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Mr. Golden is expecting us.”

“Come,” she said, and ushered us quickly inside. Either she was afraid of letting the air-conditioning out or didn’t want the neighbors to see us. When she closed the door, she said, “Follow.”

We followed her up two steps that led into what I think people who live in these kinds of houses call the main room. It was almost all windows and provided a stunning view of the waterway out to the ocean. In the distance, I thought I could make out the Jones Beach Theater. I’d seen my share of concerts there, having grown up about twenty minutes away. This, however, was my first visit to a mansion.

“Sit,” the woman said, and motioned to the couch and chairs in the room. I realized with a small smile that her last three sentences had been one-word commands. Maybe she trained dogs back in the old country. She went away just as briskly, I assumed to get the master of the house.

I picked a seat on the couch that allowed me to look out the windows. There was a slight mist hanging just above the water, a blanket that the sun would burn off in an hour or two. Jack went up to the window and shook his head.

“This is the shit, Ray,” he said. “This is the shit.”

“I’m glad you approve, Mr. Knight.”

Jack and I both turned to see a man in his midforties enter the room. He had on a light blue suit and white shirt. No tie. Maybe he was the kind of guy who put the tie on in his office. He was holding a large mug of what I guessed was coffee. I stood as he approached me and stuck out his free hand.

“Charles Golden,” he said.

“Ray Donne.”

He held on to my hand as if trying to check my pulse through my palm. “You are Mr. Knight’s associate?”

“Yes.”

I guess I passed his test because he turned to Jack. “Thank you for being prompt. I’m working from home this morning, but have to leave by noon.”

I wasn’t sure how anybody who didn’t know the whereabouts of his sixteen-year-old daughter could even think about work, but this was not my world.

“Eight thirty means eight thirty.”

“Excellent.” Golden motioned for us to take our seats. We did, and he did the same. “Can I get you anything?” He raised his mug. “Coffee? Juice?”

“We had breakfast on the way,” Jack said. “But thank you.”

“So…” Golden placed his coffee on the table next to him and then slapped his thighs. “You mentioned a new development. Another avenue of investigation?” He sounded almost as if he enjoyed saying that.

“Yes, sir. We’ve discovered a more recent picture of your daughter’s friend, who we believe to be from Williamsburg. We are currently making that picture available to our connections, both at the local precinct and on the street.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Golden said.

“Did you remember to ask you wife about Angela ever mentioning going to this girl’s house or apartment?”

Golden shook his head. “She just mentioned the parties. I don’t believe she ever said whose parties they were.”

Jack nodded. “And you’ve spoken with all her friends out here to see if anyone knew this girl?”

“We have, the school has—at least the kids who are around for the summer—and the police have. No one seems to have seen Angela with this girl.”

And if they had, I thought, the local youth might not be so forthcoming. This was not a neighborhood of parents who wanted their offspring associating with kids from the unhip side of Williamsburg.

Golden pulled out his cell phone, checked it, and then placed it on the table next to his coffee. He gave me a long look; I felt like an antique being appraised.

“What’s your background with Jack?”

Before I could answer, Jack jumped in. “Ray and I were NYPD together, Mr. Golden. He knows the streets of Williamsburg as well as any of my associates, and he also has quite a lot of experience with kids in crisis.”

All of that was basically true but
somehow
sounded to me like a lie.

Golden nodded approvingly. “Do you have a card, Ray?”

“You can reach Ray through me, Mr. Golden.”

Golden gave Jack a look, reminding us both who was footing the bill here.

“I like to be able to contact all the players, Jack.” To me he said, “May I have your cell phone number, Ray?”

I gave it to him. As I was doing so, a woman stepped up into the room. She was at least ten years younger than Mr. Golden. She was wearing a pink sweatsuit and had her blonde hair pulled back. Her blue eyes could have given the Atlantic outside her house a run for its money. Golden stood as she entered.

“Sweetie,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Should you be up so early?”

“I’m fine, Charles.” She looked at Jack and me. We both stood at the same time. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. “Hello, Jack.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Golden.” He noticed her looking at me and introduced us.

She nodded and took a seat next to her husband. He put his hand on her left leg and motioned for us to sit back down.

“I know you can’t tell by looking, gentlemen, but my wife is pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” Jack and I said in unison. Jack added, “You look great, Mrs. Golden. How far along are you?”

She took a beat before saying, “Three months.”

Jack and I both shook our heads like guys do when hearing details like that. The woman who let us in earlier came into the room and stood silently.

“Agnes,” Mrs. Golden said. “Coffee, please.”

“Ma’am,” Agnes said and left.

“Jack and Ray were just updating me on Angela, Jewels,” Mr. Golden said. “I’ll fill you in later.”