End of Watch (24 page)

Frank took an unoffered chair and Cammayo perched on the sofa.

“How old was he when he started using?”

Cammayo frowned. “I was twelve so he must have been sixteen. I tried
to
get him to stop but he’d just laugh and tell me not to worry. Which of course I couldn’t do, so I prayed for him. I prayed for all of us. With our father passed on, Pablo was the head of the household. My mother worked two, sometimes three jobs, so you see, it was Pablo who raised us. Until the drugs became more important and then it was my turn to wear our father’s shoes.”

“Is that why he came to you that last night?”

“I suppose. And he knew I’d help him. I loved Pablo. I’d do anything for him.”

“And you did. For a long time.”

“Yes.”

“I never had a brother or sister,” Frank volunteered, “but if I loved them I’d have probably done the same thing.”

“Maybe, maybe not. We’re all different. I wrestled with my conscience a long time. For me, in the end, blood was thicker than water. It’s ironic.”

“How so?”

“I wanted to be a priest so I would be freed from all corporal attachments yet I am bound to my brother by this invisible chain.”

“And you never told anyone?”

“Only God.”

“Why didn’t you tell?”

“The better to protect him. I chose the lie that he owed a dealer money. It was certainly believable. It explained why he left in such a hurry and it protected him from harmful speculation. It was easily assumed he was in trouble over drugs and that was what I wanted everyone to think.”

“Where do you think he might have gone?”

“He didn’t have any money. I managed to find a little over twenty dollars but I imagine that was quickly used on dope. He couldn’t have gone far. I remember he said he might go to Panama and that he’d call me. But of course he never did.”

“What’s in Panama?”

“Our grandparents were there. Our mother and father were from Panama City. They came to the United States when Pablo was seven. My mother always talked of going back…”

“Of everyone in your family, who do you think Pablo was closest to?”

“My mother. Well, before that, my father. I know it was hard on him. He didn’t laugh a long time after my father died. None of us did, but with Pablo you noticed such a thing.”

“So if he was closest to his mother why didn’t he go to her that night? Why didn’t he ask her for help?”

Cammayo shrugged, stared at the carpet. “Because he knew I’d help him. That I’d do whatever he asked. I don’t think he wanted to hurt my mother any more than he already had. The drugs hurt her. He’d beg money from her and when she finally realized where it went each time, no matter how elaborate the story, she finally stopped giving it to him. Then he’d steal it. She had to hide whatever she had from him.”

“He was still living at home with you and your family, so what was he doing in the East Village that night? Why so far away?”

“I couldn’t tell you. There were many nights Pablo didn’t come home. More nights than not.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

Cammayo smiled for the first time. “For a while he went with a beautiful girl named Alma. She was very quiet, very shy. Everyone called her Conejo—that means rabbit in Spanish. She was just like one. Soft and shy.” His smile faded. “She started using when Pablo did. I heard she died about a year after he left. She was pregnant and went into premature labor, but the baby was crooked or something. It wouldn’t come out right and she died in labor. Her heart stopped. I heard she weighed eighty-five pounds when she died.”

Frank couldn’t help comment, “For such a kind young man your brother sure spread a lot of misery.”

“Satan comes in many guises, Detective. For our family he came in the form of white powder. I wish you could have met him before the drugs. You couldn’t have helped but like him. Ask anyone. He was a good person until the drugs took him.”

“Drugs don’t take people. People take drugs.” Hearing the hypocrisy in her anger she changed the subject. “What did he take with him when he left? Besides money.”

“Nothing. He came in through the fire escape. I knew because the window was open and all the cold air was blowing in. Then he left the same way after I gave him the money.”

“Why didn’t he use the door?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he heard the TV on and didn’t want my mother to see him.”

“Who was watching TV?”

“My mother had it on. She was asleep on the couch with my sister.”

“So who else saw Pablo that night?”

“Nobody. Just me.”

“What did he look like?”

Cammayo closed his eyes. “Scared. Sick. Junkie sick. He was sweating and shaking. He smelled. He was dirty. He was sick.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t know. Dark clothes, maybe. I can’t remember. Nothing stands out.”

“How was he wearing his hair?”

“I don’t know. He had a cap on. A ski cap.”

“Anything unusual about his face?”

“Yes,” Cammayo answered right away. “His eye was swollen almost shut.”

“Which one?”

Cammayo touched his face. “The right one.”

“From top to bottom, tell me everything you remember about that night.”

Cammayo cooperated. His story was consistent with his statement. Unwavering. Frank had hoped to find some inconsistencies and her frustration turned to anger.

“Do you think your brother loved you?”

“What does this have—”

Holding up a palm, Frank interrupted, “Yes or no. Did Pablo love you?”

“Yes.”

“And his mother?”

“Yes.”

“And his sister and his other brother.”

“Of course.”

“Then explain to me, how in all this time, your brother hasn’t once contacted you or Flora or your mother or Edmundo. Can you explain that?”

“No. I can’t.”

“You must have wondered about it.”

“Every day,” he admitted.

“So what’s your best guess?”

“I already told you. My brother was a junkie. He’s probably been dead a long time. I hate the idea but I take a pitiful comfort in it.”

“How so?”

Cammayo shrugged. “I hate that his life was wasted on poison. He was a wonderful young man. He was kind and generous and he loved to make people laugh. I hate to think the gift of his life was taken so early. But then I find comfort in that as an explanation for his absence and silence. Surely death could be the only thing keeping him from us. If he were alive he would certainly have reached out to one of us by now. I like to think it would be me. That he trusted me before he left, and that he would trust me again. That he would know how well I’d kept his secret. For all these years. Until you came along.”

“Tell me about Leavenworth.”

“Leavenworth,” Cammayo repeated.

Frank lied, “Pablo called you from there. We have the phone records.”

“You have phone records of Pablo calling from
Leavenworth}”

She nodded. “What did he want?”

Cammayo was either completely dumbfounded or a great actor. The way he held Frank’s stare indicated the former. “Pablo was in Leavenworth?”

“What did he want?’ Frank asked again.

Cammayo sputtered. “When was this?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know?”

“Of course I don’t know. He never called me from
anywhere.
I’ve told you! I haven’t heard from him since he left. When was he in Leavenworth?”

“You tell me.”

“
I don’t know!”
Cammayo bolted off the couch. “Why are you doing this? For God’s sake, woman, when was he there?”

Frank relented. ” ‘Seventy to ‘seventy-three. On possession. Busted in Topeka.”

“Topeka}”
Cammayo marveled. “He said he was going to Panama. What else do you know?”

Cammayo had come alive, hungry for more than Frank could provide, and suddenly she felt sorry for him. “That’s it. Paroled in ‘seventy-three and then he disappears off the face of the earth.”

“What about before that?”

Frank shook her head. “Nothing between here and Topeka.”

“What about cellmates? Surely you can get records of that. We can talk to them. Maybe he told them where he was going.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But this is hardly a high-priority case for anyone but me. It’ll take time. Mostly my own.”

“I can help,” Cammayo insisted. “I have connections in prisons. Surely between us we can find him.”

Frank nodded. “He’s gotta be somewhere. Even if it’s in a shallow grave at least we’d know, right?”

Cammayo crossed himself, dipped his head. “Yes. I’d rather know even that than not know. Please. Help me find him.”

“I will,” Frank said. “One more time. Tell me everything about the last time you saw him.”

Cammayo retold the story, but this time with animation. Frank saw him grasp for each detail but his story was identical to the others.

He finished with a sigh. “You’d have liked him. I know you would. Everybody did. He was just that kind of boy.”

Crossing the room, Cammayo offered one of his rare smiles. He pulled a wooden crucifix from the wall and handed it to Frank. It was heavy.

He explained, “Pablo made that for me. For my thirteenth birthday. He hid it from me, working on it when I wasn’t home and late at night. He was brilliant with a knife. He could make anything. My mother has a collection of statues he made for her. Over twenty saints. Twenty-two, I think. He had so much talent.”

“Who taught him?”

“My father. He carved, too. He taught Pablo the basics, but Pablo was better than our father ever was. God definitely gave that boy a talent.” Cammayo burst out with vehemence, “I hate drugs. I hate how they cut down God’s flowers just as they’re blooming.”

“I know,” Frank commiserated. “I know.”

She admired the forlorn Jesus carved into the cross, handing it back to Cammayo.

“Let me ask you, you being a priest and all, why is that good people like your brother get taken so early? Why does God do stuff like that?”

“No one can know God’s ways. He is a mystery and none can fathom mystery’s reason. We must accept what God delivers, having faith that His reason is just, though to our simple human eye it appears anything but.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways and all that, huh?”

“And all that, yes.”

Cop and cleric stared at each other.

“Thanks for your time,” Frank finally offered. To her surprise, Cammayo placed a hand on her arm.

“You’re not going to stop looking for him?”

“No.”

“Let me help.”

“We’ll see.”

“Please.”

Frank nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

She turned but Cammayo clamped down through her coat. “On your word?”

She held Cammayo’s gaze. She owed him nothing.

“On my word,” she vowed.

“Well? So? How did it go?”

Frank let Annie wait on her cell phone. “How did what go?”

“Hello? Did you talk to Cammayo or not?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And? If I wanna talk to him am I gonna find him in a hospital somewhere?”

“I told you I’d be civil and I was. I don’t think he knows anything. I think he’s on the level.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I told him a bullshit story about how we knew Pablo had called him from Leavenworth and he went apeshit. Had no clue what I was talking about.”

Annie chuckled. “I’d a liked to seen that. So now what? I can’t spend much more time on this, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I appreciate what you’ve done so far. I’ll follow up on Leavenworth, his cellies. Told Cammayo he might go to Panama. Who knows? Maybe he got there. Probably a huge dead end but it’s my time I’m wasting. Not the taxpayers’. I’ll let you know what I get.”

“Yeah, all right. You gonna stick around to do that?”

“No. I’m gonna take a late flight home. Surprise ‘em at work tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

After a silence, Frank asked, “Can I take you out to dinner before I go?”

“Nah, we caught a stabbin’ last night. Captain’s got us all on it. I’m probably gonna be lookin’ for this mutt all night.”

“Then I won’t see you before I go?”

“Not likely. So, you take care, Franco, huh? I gotta go.”

“Wait.” Unsure how to express her sincerity, Frank blurted out, “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Aw, shut up. I was just doin’ my job.”

“A bit above and beyond.”

“Hey, it’s no big deal. You take care of yourself, cookie.”

“Yeah, you too, Annie.”

“I’ll do that.”

Holding the dead phone, Frank already missed her friend. Without enthusiasm she found the Leavenworth number. She was passed through half a dozen numbers until she hit a dead end with an answering machine. She left her message then paced the apartment.

She was anxious. Something wasn’t finished. She was clean with Annie—it was nothing there. And Cammayo felt done too. She still vacillated between anger and acceptance, but her anger was hollow. More habit than real. And although Cammayo might have missed a detail or two she was convinced he didn’t have much else to offer. She stopped to look out the window, craning to see the skyline the World Trade Center used to fill.

Everything changed and nothing changed. Tower’s rose and fell but there were always buildings. Weather changed but there was always sky. People came and went but there were always people.

“Yeah.” She tapped the windowpane. “That’s it.”

Frank got into Annie’s old coat one more time. She fired up the protesting Nova and drove east. She made a quick stop before parking in front of the Canarsie Cemetery, following the familiar path to her parents’ grave. There were visitors scattered throughout the cemetery, but none were close.

Frank hunched between her parent’s stones. She cleared her throat, looking at her father’s name. “The good news is, I’m pretty sure who killed you. Bad news is, he’s probably dead. But it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re all dead. Who knows? Maybe you already know each other. Playing cribbage on a cloud, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ll keep looking. Just in case. Mom, the good news is …” She placed a flamboyant bunch of flowers at her mother’s stone. “I know you liked pansies.” She swallowed. “But they didn’t have any. Winter, I guess. So I just took one of everything the florist had. I know you like color …” Frank ran a hand across her mouth. She stood, looking around, part cop, part distraction. She squeezed the back of her neck. Glanced up at the bloodless sky.