Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D. (20 page)

“Let me ask you something else,” Mike said. “Do you think Gary O’Reilley would kill his stepmother?”

“That’s what the reporters were asking me before. Jesus, I don’t know. I mean I know the kid was hotheaded, but I hope he didn’t do something like that.”

“What do you mean, ‘hot-headed’?”

“I don’t wanna bad-mouth the guy, but let’s just say he had a problem with the way Debbie treated Frank.”

“For example...”

“He’d say things to me about how much he hated her. I mean, I don’t know if you heard, but Debbie was a real slut. She’d come in here all the time with guys, shooting her mouth off in front of Frank, and Gary wouldn’t do anything, but you could tell it was pissing him off. Then he’d say things to me, about how he wanted to kill her, get rid of her, shit like that.”

“He said he wanted to kill her?”

“Yeah, I guess he did. I’m not saying I think he meant it. I mean a lot of people say shit like that when they’re mad. But he did say it—a couple of times.”

“How many times?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. Two or three. Maybe it was more than that.”

“Did he tell you anything specific? I mean did he say he had a weapon of any kind?”

“No, nothing like that. Like I said, it was just talk.”

“Did you see Gary O’Reilley yesterday?”

“Nah, I haven’t seen him since Monday night, when he stormed out of here.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“He had a fight with Frank. Frank wanted to make me manager of the bar when he moved to Arizona and Gary was pretty pissed off.”

“Detective Edwards here tells me that you were the one who saw Gary outside the bar the night the safe was robbed.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“What about Frank O’Reilley?”

“What about him?”

“You think he could’ve killed his wife?”

“Frank? No way.”

“How could you be so sure?”

“First of all, whoever killed Debbie was an animal and Frank doesn’t have a sick bone in his body. Second of all, the guy loved his wife.”

“You said Debbie O’Reilley was always showing him up to his face. Maybe it got to him and he snapped.”

“I guess it’s possible,” I said. “I mean you know what they say—you never know people. But I’d really be surprised.”

Mike finished writing in his notepad.

“Well, that about takes care of it for now. You know, you better give me your phone number and address because I got a feeling we’re gonna need some more info from you.”

I gave him my info then I said, “So you got any hot leads?”

“We have your boss down at the precinct in Brooklyn right now and some colleagues of mine are talking to him. Most likely, one of her lover boys rubbed her out. The wrong guy answered one of her ads and she got whacked—it happens all the time.”

“Sick fucks.”

“You got that right.”

Mike went back across the bar to talk to the other detective. The two cops who came in before—including Cheryl—were gone. They must’ve taken off while I was talking to Mike.

The next hour or two were pretty boring. Mike and the other detectives were sitting at a table talking and Gil was sitting at the bar, reading some book. Kathy hung out awhile, then she went home. Rodrigo and the other guys from the kitchen took off too. I wanted to leave, but I knew that wouldn’t look good. It would be better to stick around—make it look like I had nothing to hide. Mike said that Frank was going to be escorted back to the bar, after he was through at the precinct in Brooklyn, and that’s another reason I wanted to stay. Frank seemed like he was in pretty bad shape before and I wanted to be around when he came back, just in case there was anything I could do to help him.

I brought over a round of Cokes for the detectives, then I turned on the TV and watched hockey highlights on ESPN. I watched a basketball game on TNT—the Suns and the Sixers—even though I hated pro basketball and I didn’t care who won.

Frank walked into the bar at around eleven o’clock. His eyes were red and swollen and his thin gray hair was a mess. He sat down with the detectives for a while, answering more questions. He wasn’t crying anymore but he looked out of it. After about a half hour, the detectives got up to leave. Mike came over to the bar and shook my hand. He said he might be in touch, if not he hoped we ran into each other again sometime. Then he leaned over the bar and whispered in my ear, “You might want to make sure your boss gets home all right tonight, buddy.”

When the detectives were gone I went over to the table and sat down across from Frank. “You want me to put you in a cab?”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I could use a nice stiff one though.”

I made Frank a gin and tonic, doubling up on the gin. I told Gil that it would probably be a good idea if he took off. He went to the back to get his jacket. On his way out, he shook Frank’s hand and said, “I just want you to know, I’m here for you if you need me.”

Gil left and it was just me and Frank alone in the bar. I sat across from him, watching him sip his drink. It was quiet and I wasn’t going to say anything until Frank did. I knew how he had always treated me like a son, and I knew that as his son the right thing to do was to just sit there and not say a word.

Finally Frank said, like we were in the middle of a conversation, “They say I might need a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” I said. “Why?”

“Why do you think? You know what they were doing back there in Brooklyn? They were grilling me like I’m a goddamn criminal. They showed me the body—it was her all right—and I almost passed out. Then they take me into a room and I think they’re gonna give me counseling or something, treat me for trauma. But you know what those sons of bitches do instead? They start laying it into me, asking me where I was last night, when was the last time I saw Debbie alive. I probably should’ve shut up and demanded a lawyer, but I was in shock. I mean those guys really think I killed my wife “

“I wouldn’t knock myself out about it if I were you,” I said. Those questions were probably just routine. Before you got here, the cops were talking to me, Gil, Kathy and the guys from the kitchen too. I wouldn’t take it personal...”

“They want my blood.”

“You mean they wanna get you or they really want your blood?”

“Both. The Medical Examiner or the coroner—or whatever the hell they’re called—they found some forensic evidence on Debbie’s body and they want to try to match the DNA.”

“No kidding?” I said, trying to stay calm.

“Can you believe that? These fucking detectives think I’m some wacko—that I’d kill my wife and then dump her in Brooklyn. I told the cops—I don’t know my ass from my elbow about Brooklyn. If I was gonna kill my wife why would I dump her there? It’s just fuckin’ crazy—crazy.”

“You should really get home and get some rest,” I said. Want me to put you in a cab now?”

“In a minute,” Frank said. “Lemme finish this drink first.” He took another sip then said, “You know what kills me—Fred Fucking Harrison, that detective I hired. If he just did his job, if he was following Debbie last night like he was supposed to—”

“Hey, you can’t look at things that way,” I said. “I mean things happen and then they’re over and you just gotta forget about them.”

“I know what you’re saying,” Frank said, “but still. I just wish there was something I could’ve done. I mean I tried to do everything, but she just wouldn’t listen to me. It’s not my fault. I didn’t want this to happen.”

Frank covered his face and started to cry.

Finally, after a couple of minutes, he got himself together. He finished the rest of his drink in one gulp, then said, “I gotta get the hell outta here. Do me a favor? Close up for me tonight, will ya?”

“No problem, buddy. Want me to get you that cab?”

“No, it’s all right. Hey, Tommy, before I go, I want to ask you one question and I want a straight answer. No bullshit, all right? I want the truth. Just look me in the eye and say it—don’t hold back.”

Jesus, not again. Just like the other night when he wanted me to tell him that I didn’t rob the safe, now he wanted me to tell him that I didn’t kill his wife. I was ready to get angry again, like anybody would when somebody accuses them of doing something they didn’t do, but then Frank said, “Do you think I did it, Tommy? You think I killed her?”

I stood there for a second then I hugged him tightly and slapped him on the back a couple of times.

“Of course I don’t think that,” I said. “I can’t believe you just asked me that question.”

“Thanks, Tommy. That means a lot to me.”

I walked him out to the sidewalk and watched him get into a cab.

Back in the bar, I chugged a pint of Sam Adams, wondering about this forensic evidence. Although I’d started to have sex with Debbie that night, I didn’t finish, so I knew they didn’t have my semen. I didn’t bleed on her either, so they couldn’t have my blood. The evidence had probably come from someone else, or maybe there wasn’t any evidence at all—the police had made a mistake. I didn’t think I had anything to worry about.

I had another beer, then I stacked all the chairs and bar stools. When the front of the bar was all set, I went back to the kitchen and made sure everything was off and put away. Then I put my coat on and went into the bathroom and put about a dozen moistened paper towels into my coat pocket. I shut all the lights, set the alarm, and went outside and pulled down the gates and bolted the locks.

It wasn’t as cold as it had been the past couple of nights. All the snow was gone from the sidewalks and there was no wind. I felt so good I opened the top couple of buttons on my coat and felt the nice cool breeze against my chest.

I turned onto my block, but instead of going into my apartment I went to my car. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching me, then I opened the door. With the paper towels I scrubbed the dry mud off the seat, the floor, the dashboard and the steering wheel. It came off a lot easier than I’d thought and after a couple of minutes it was all gone. Leaning across the seat, I was about to stand up when I heard somebody behind me. My stomach sank as I wondered if it could be a cop standing there. I stood up and turned around and let out a deep breath. It was just a homeless guy passing by, mumbling to himself.

I went up to my apartment and got naked. Then I shut the light and got into bed. I turned onto my side thinking about the outfit I’d wear for my first day as a horse owner.

On the morning news, there was footage from Marine Park, Brooklyn. Ambulance workers were carrying Debbie’s body away on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. Then there was a shot of O’Reilley’s and the reporter was talking about how Debbie O’Reilley was the wife of the guy who owned the bar and how the Super Bowl pool was robbed last Saturday night. The reporter said that the police were searching for Frank O’Reilley’s son, Gary O’Reilley, who was suspected of robbing the safe. “According to a police spokesperson,” the reporter said, “Gary O’Reilley is not necessarily a suspect in the case—police would just like to question him.” Then a detective I never saw before came on and said, “At this point we can’t rule out any possibilities. Right now all we’d like to do is find Gary O’Reilley and see if he can assist us in any way. But since he is missing at this time, and since a homicide in his family has taken place, there may also be reason to fear for his safety.” Then I came on. I was behind the bar, saying how shocked I was and how I never thought something like this could happen. But it didn’t really matter what I was saying because I wasn’t hearing the words. I was in a daze, staring at myself, thinking about how natural I looked on TV. My beard was coming in nice and thick and I looked relaxed and confident. Some people on TV looked like they didn’t belong there, but not me. I looked like a movie star.

The story ended. I got up and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, first thinking about how great I looked, then thinking about how the cops weren’t going to catch me.

I moved my car to a legal spot around the corner, then I went to the supermarket. I only had about fifty dollars to my name, but I wanted to eat some food for a change. I bought cheeses—Swiss, cheddar, and a pack of those little triangle cheeses that come in the foil wrappers. I also bought a couple of kinds of dips and boxes of crackers. My days of hot dogs, pizza and sleazy diners were over with—from now on I was going to do everything in class.

When I came home the phone was ringing.

“Tommy, it’s Costas.”

My fucking landlord.

“What’s up?” I said, still catching my breath from the walk up the stairs.

“Maybe you should tell me that,” he said. “How come you don’t return my calls? I’ve been calling you every day for a week.”

“I’ve been busy lately.”

“Busy? What about my building? I get calls from tenants—the building is a mess, it’s not being cleaned. Everybody has mice, roaches. Garbage is piled in the halls. So then I came by yesterday and I see for myself. I couldn’t believe it! You don’t think I’m letting you pay that cheap rent for doing nothing, do you?”

“I’ve
been
cleaning,” I said.

“Cleaning? Your cleaning is shit. You think I’m paying you for nothing? You think I’m giving you charity? You think—”

I hung up on him. A few seconds later, the phone was ringing again.

“What is it?” I said, ready to pull the cord out of the wall.

“Yes, I’m trying to get in touch with Tommy Russo.” It was a man’s voice.

“Who’s this?”

“Detective Scott...it’s Mike, Tommy.”

“Hey, Mikey, I thought it was...never mind. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. I was wondering if you had some time today, if we could ask you a few more questions.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” he said. “We just have some more developments. This shouldn’t take too long and it’d really help us out.”

“What’s it about?”

“Just routine—we’re talking to everybody from the bar.”

“I’m kinda busy,” I said. “I gotta be at work by five.”

“It shouldn’t take too long—an hour tops. We’re over at the 19th Precinct on Sixty-seventh Street between Third and Lex. I’d appreciate it if you came by here around two o’clock.”