Dead Red (23 page)

He nodded. “I like that. Don’t take any shit from me, and definitely don’t let me control the conversation. Not completely, anyway.” He pointed his finger at me. “I like you, Mr. Donne. I was right about you.”

I stayed silent and looked out his glass wall. The meeting across the way was breaking up, and I wondered what time those folks had started their day. Thirty seconds more of this bullshit runaround, I told myself, and I was out of here.

“Did Mr. Torres mention anything to you regarding me and the search for my daughter, Mr. Donne?”

Finally.
“No,” I said. “He did not.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you I had a deal with Mr. Torres, separate from the one I have with Mr. Knight?”

“Yes, it would. That doesn’t sound like Ricky.”

“So he did not mention this deal to you?”

I shifted in my seat. “I think I just answered that, Mr. Golden.”

“You did.” He took another bite of croissant and seemed to be studying the uneaten part. “Would you care to know what the deal was?”

“I
am,
” I said without missing a beat, “a curious motherfucker.”

Golden laughed, loud enough for a few of his employees to look in from the other side of the glass. I figured he didn’t laugh that often, especially these days. Behind the glass wall, I felt like an exotic fish in a tank.

“Excellent,” he said. “You do not disappoint, Mr. Donne.”

“I’m sure that depends on whom you speak to.”

“Yes.” He got up out of his chair and went to his window, which looked out—between two other buildings—on the Hudson River. His shoulders went up and down as if he were taking a deep breath, considering how much information to share with me. “Mr. Torres made it clear to me he had an approach to finding my daughter that Jack Knight did not. I assumed it had something to do with his knowledge of the neighborhood in which he grew up.” He turned to face me. “He led me to believe that he had a ‘line on’ this mysterious friend of my daughter’s, who claimed to be from Williamsburg.”

“Claimed?”

“We only have my daughter’s word that this girl was from where she said she was from. Verification, Mr. Donne, is quite important in my business.”

“The business of finding your daughter,” I said, “or all this?”

“Both,” he said, his voice turning cold. “Make no mistake. I have to show a strong front while I’m with my employees and my clients, but my little girl is missing, and I will do anything to ensure her safe return.”

“Including cutting a deal behind the back of the guy you hired to find her?”

Golden placed his hands on the back of the chair. “And so much more. This is my daughter.”

I watched his hands grip the back of his chair as if he were trying to rip it apart. This was the primal side of him: the side of a father unwillingly separated from his child. I stood up.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I do not have the same ‘line’ Ricky had. I have a picture of her friend and whatever other information Jack has. I do know the streets of Williamsburg rather well and may have a connection or two I can share with Jack.” I thought of Tio. “That’s all I can offer you.”

Golden looked me in the eyes and slowly released his grip on the chair. He stepped around his desk and offered me his hand.

“Fair enough.” He looked over my shoulder and smiled. “My next appointment is here.” He led me toward his office door. As he opened it, I recognized his next appointment. These days, it would be hard not to. The slicked-back blond hair, striking blue eyes, and that toothpaste-commercial smile. Tony Blake, city councilman and maybe the next mayor of New York City.

“Chuck,” Tony Blake said as he stepped over to us. “Nice to see you so early on this beautiful day.” He turned to me. “And who is this prospective voter?”

I stuck out my hand. “Raymond Donne, Councilman. A pleasure.”

He pumped my hand. “You don’t know me yet,” he joked. I could tell he was thinking about something and, sure enough, the next thing out of his mouth was, “Chief Donne’s boy, right?”

“Nephew.”

“Yes, of course. The schoolteacher. Thank you for doing what you do, Mr. Donne. The New York City public schools are what’s going to help bring this city back to its former glory, and nobody’s more vital to that than our teachers.”

“The kids have a part in it,” I said. “And the parents.”

He laughed. “I’m going to remember that.”

“He means,” Golden joined in, “he’s going to steal it.”

“How did you know I was a teacher, Mr. Blake?”

“Tony, please,” he said. “I confess. I know much about your uncle. I can’t imagine anybody who wants to be mayor of this fine city not knowing much about Chief Donne. In fact,” he said, a light bulb going off over his head, “I’ll be seeing the chief tonight at a fund-raiser.”

“He didn’t mention it to me.”

Golden said, “It’s for a group called One More Mission. It helps returning Iraq and Afghanistan vets who are struggling to adjust to life stateside.”

I thought of Ricky T.

“You should come, Mr. Donne,” Blake said. “As my guest. It would be an honor.”

This guy was good.

“In fact,” Golden said, “bring Ms. Rogers with you.” Golden stepped over to his receptionist, whispered something, and she handed him an envelope. He came back over to me. “All the info’s in here. It’s not formal, but wear a suit and tie.”

Yes, Dad.

“I’ll give Allison a call as soon as I get downstairs.”

“Excellent. Until tonight then.” He took Blake by the elbow. “Shall we?”

Blake gave me his hand. “Do you enjoy magic, Mr. Donne?”

The Magician.
“In small doses.”

“Great.” He slipped his hand out of mine and reached up to my ear. “Would it surprise you if I pulled a coin out of here?”

“Only slightly.”

He grinned. “Then I won’t bore you.” He took his hand back and was holding two tickets to the night’s event. I couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll see you this evening, Mr. Donne.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said as I pocketed the tickets.

As I thought in the elevator about Blake’s trick, I reflexively made sure I still had the tickets … and my wallet.

*   *   *

I got down to the street and realized I had no plans for the rest of the day. Across the street having a cigarette, a limo driver leaned against his car and spoke on his cell. Had to be Blake’s. I called Allison to see if she wanted to go to the benefit.

“Are you kidding me? Charles Golden and Tony Blake give you a personal invite, and you’re asking if I’m interested in going?”

“So that’s a ‘yes’?”

“That would be a
big
‘yes,’ Raymond. I’m even tempted to call my editor.”

“Don’t. Let’s just enjoy the benefit and not bring work into it.”

“Look who’s talking, tough guy.”

I got to the corner and looked back toward the Hudson. When I turned, the limo driver was watching me. At least, I thought he was. It was probably just an after-effect from the bullet holes in my bedroom wall. I felt a walk coming on.

“Just bring some business cards, then, okay?” I said. “You can hand them out to any movers and shakers we happen to meet.”

“Deal. Where is this shindig?”

I pulled the invite out of my pocket and read it to her. She waited a moment and then let out an audible breath.

“What?” I asked.

“How much did Golden give you today?”

“Three hundred. Why?”

“Because you’re going to take that and finally get yourself a suit, Ray.”

“I was hoping to put that toward a long weekend with you.”

“That’s sweet. But that was before we got invited to the benefit.”

“I don’t even know where to buy a suit, Allison.”

“Where are you right now?”

I told her, and she gave me a list of five places off the top of her head. “They’re not the best,” she said, “but three hundred will just about do it.”

“For a suit?”

“You’re playing in the big leagues now, Ray. Time to dress like it.”

An idea came to me. “Any on the Upper West Side?”

“A few. Why?”

“Can you go to my bag and see if you can find a card for a Dr. Burke?”

“Give me a sec.” A minute later she said, “Got it.” She read me the number and I entered it into my phone. “You going to a therapist?”

“She was seeing Ricky. I was thinking of speaking with her. I can take a slow walk along the river, pick up a suit, and hopefully meet with Dr. Burke.”

It occurred to me now I did have plans for the day.

“Okay,” Allison said. “Call me when you’re done, and we’ll meet back at my place and get ready for the benefit.”

“Sounds good.”

*   *   *

After walking past Chelsea Piers, the
Intrepid,
the cruise ships docked along the Hudson, and the recently renovated Hell’s Kitchen piers, I found myself up by the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin. I looked at the houseboats, amazed that people actually lived on them in spaces way smaller than my apartment. A few yachts were docked: rich people swinging by for a visit.

I took a seat on a bench under a tree and dialed Dr. Burke’s number. She picked up after three rings.

“Amy Burke.”

“Dr. Burke,” I said. “My name’s Raymond Donne. I am—
was
—a friend of Ricky Torres. I understand he was a patient of yours.”

“He was. How can I help you, Mr. Donne?”

“I was hoping you had a few minutes to speak with me.”

“About what?”

“About Ricky,” I said.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients without their consent. And considering the circumstances, I’m sure you understand.”

I looked up at the tree I was under. A starling had landed on the branch above me. He looked down, saw that I had nothing to offer, and flew away.

“Can we just meet for a cup of coffee, Doctor? I won’t take up much time.”

I watched the boats rocking up and down while she thought about that. She didn’t make me wait long.

“I can give you fifteen minutes, Mr. Donne. But I need to remind you ahead of time, I’m very limited in what I can discuss with you.”

“I appreciate that. Tell me when and where.”

“There’s a coffee shop on Seventy-ninth, a few stores off Broadway, the south side of the street.” She gave me the name. “Let’s say one-oh-five.”

“I appreciate it, Dr. Burke.”

“Please be prompt, Mr. Donne. I have a busy afternoon.”

“One-oh-five,” I repeated. “I’ll be there.”

We hung up and I looked at my watch. I had a little over three hours and exactly three hundred dollars to get myself a suit. I set off to do just that.

*   *   *

According to my cell phone, it was one-oh-six when the woman I assumed was Dr. Amy Burke walked down the steps to the seating area in front of the café. I stood.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got a last-minute phone call.”

“Not a problem. I appreciate your meeting with me.” I looked down at the table. “I went ahead and got two large coffees. I have no idea how you take it.”

“How
would
you know?” She sat down. “This is fine. Thank you. I see you’ve been shopping,” she said, noticing the bag draped over the back of an empty seat at our table.”

“New suit.”

As she took her first sip of coffee, I got a good look at the woman Ricky T had been telling his problems to. She had reddish-blond hair, which was pulled back from her face the way a therapist’s hair should be. I put her age at about ten years older than my own. She had soft green eyes that I’m sure made her clients feel quite comfortable and supported during their sessions.

“So,” she said, “you’re Raymond Donne?”

“You make it sound like you’ve heard of me.”

“Ricky spoke of you, yes. You seemed to be someone he could trust. He didn’t have many people like that in his life.”

“I got that feeling,” I said. “How long had he been seeing you?”

“About six months, weekly. I can tell you he was suffering from symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, but I’m sure you knew that.”

“Yeah. The last I spoke with him”—I left out the part about that being five seconds before he was killed—“he seemed very anxious and told me something about making a big mistake.”

She nodded. “Did he tell you what the mistake was?”

“He didn’t get the chance.”

She remained silent, but her eyes told me she understood. After both of us sipped our coffees, she said, “How much did he talk about his time in Iraq?”

“Not much.” I explained that we hadn’t been in touch as much as I would have liked and that our last conversation was the first one we’d had in many months.

“PTSD sufferers will do that. They often find themselves unable to speak to those to whom they feel closest. I find that to be the case often in my patients who return to jobs that require a tough mental attitude.”

“Like a cop.”

“More than any other. Firefighters are a close second.”

I wondered where schoolteachers landed on that list.

“Did Ricky tell
you
what the mistake was?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is the area where I am very limited as to what I can tell you, Mr. Donne.”

“Call me Raymond, please. What
can
you tell me, Doctor?”

She looked at her coffee. “He was planning on telling you about his time in Iraq. Specifically, he was going to discuss with you what we both considered to be the major event of his time over there.”

“The cause of the PTSD?”

“There’s not
one
cause of PTSD. The disorder can be caused by a series of events that can overwhelm one’s ability to resume what he or she considers a normal life. The life they had before the trauma.”

I nodded, but felt myself getting impatient. I wanted to know why Ricky had called me that night, and this woman might have the answer.

“I want to make something very clear,” Dr. Burke said. “I am only telling you this because Ricky told me he had decided to tell you himself. During our sessions it became clear he needed to trust someone, and you were the one he chose. His own family does not know about this, and he was not ready for them to know. I need you to understand that you are not to discuss this with anyone.”