Sacrifice Fly (14 page)

I hated the grin he had on his face. It was the same one my dad used just before telling
me where, and in how many ways, my thinking had been wrong.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Uncle Ray turned to Jackson again. “I ever regale you with the story about my nephew
and Lassie, Jackson?”

“No, sir,” Jackson answered. “I don’t believe you have.”

“What was the name, Raymond,” my uncle asked, “of that crazy guy used to live around
your block? Security guard for Grumman.”

Crazy guy around the— “Borrelli?” I said, the name coming from somewhere in the back
of my head. What the hell did this have to do with…? Oh.

“Borrelli, that was it. The wacky wop.” Uncle Ray chipped the ball into the air. “I
forget the name of his big old collie, but I just called him Lassie.”

“Bandit,” I said.

“Whatever. Old Man Borrelli used to treat that dog like a red-headed stepkid. Anyways,
Jackson, one day Lassie—Bandit—shows up on Raymond’s front lawn, lying there like
it’d been hit by a truck. Raymond’s dad is away on business, so Raymond takes the
mutt in. Gets a bunch of old pillows and blankets and sets up his own veterinarian’s
office in the back shed.”

“I was just trying to take care of him,” I explained.

“Right,” Uncle Ray said. “Too bad you never got your dad’s okay, huh?”

Yeah. Too bad.

“Well, my brother finds out what’s been going on in the backyard for the past few
days, and he loses it. Takes the dog—which by now was looking a world better, but
still can’t walk too good—puts him in a wheelbarrow, and brings him back to his master.
Borrelli goes nuts. Screams bloody murder, threatens to have the boy arrested for
dognapping. Christ.”

It was up there with the angriest I had ever seen my father. I wasn’t sure what he
was more furious about: that he didn’t know about it, or that my mom kept it from
him. Maybe if he’d been home more often.

“Two days later,” my uncle continued, “the dog shows up again on the Donne Family’s
front lawn. Only this time, he’s dead. Ray’s mother, bless her Catholic heart, calls
the animal control folks, and they take it away. I thought the old guy dumped it on
the lawn like that, but Ray here explains to me that dogs know when they’re going
to die and find a safe place to spend their final moments.”

I used to believe that. I remembered looking out the living room window at Bandit
and wanting to go to him. But between my dad and Borrelli, I was too scared to do
anything. It wasn’t until my mom made the call that I knew for sure the dog was dead.

“You wanna tell the rest of the tale, Nephew?”

“What’s left to tell, Uncle Ray? Bandit died. I cried for a couple of days and then
got over it. That about covers it.”

“Not quite. What about the part about Old Man Borrelli’s house?”

“I never knew anything about that,” I lied. “Even Dad said—”

“I know what your dad said. I was there.”

“So,” I said to Jackson, “end of story.” To Uncle Ray, I said, “Thanks for the trip
down Memory Lane.”

“Not done until we get to the good part,” he said as he chipped another ball off the
green surface. “What happens next, Jackson, is that a few days after the dog’s taken
away, Old Man Borrelli comes a-knockin’ at the Donne Family door—screaming bloody
murder again—only this time, seems that sometime during the wee hours, when Borrelli
was off guarding airplane parts or some such, somebody busted every window on the
old fuck’s house. Every. Single. Goddamned. Window.” Uncle Ray used his club again
to accent the last four words.

Officer Jackson looked at me and said, “You?”

I shook my head.

“Bullshit,” my uncle said. “Borrelli starts screaming he’s gonna have the boy arrested
and sue my brother for everything he’s got. Now, I’m over there having a cup of coffee
on my way out to Montauk, and I’m watching and listening, and finally I ask my brother
does he want me to badge the guy, threaten to kick his ass. And my brother gets this
look in his eye I swear I never saw before. Tells me, no, he’ll handle it, and walks
across the front lawn toward Borrelli—I mean John Wayne walks—goes right up to the
guy, grabs him by his shirt, and pulls him in real close. Then he whispers something
into the guy’s ear and pushes him away like he’s nothing. Borrelli’s standing there,
trying to come up with something, but he can’t. After about a minute of this, he skulks
away like the douche-bag dog beater he was. Remember that, Raymond?”

“Yeah,” I said. Good times.

“What did he say to the guy?” Jackson asked.

I had no idea, so we both waited for Uncle Ray to finish.

“Told him that no one accuses a member of his family of wrongdoing unless he’s got
a shitload of evidence to back it up. And if he wanted to go ahead and press charges,
my brother would file a countersuit, call the ASPCA, and get together with his lawyer
buddies down at the county offices and see what else they could come up with.”

“See,” I said. “He knew I had nothing to do with the windows being busted.”

“Wrong, kiddo. He knew that you did.”

“If he thought I had anything to do with that, he’d have grounded me for life and
made me spend the rest of my childhood paying off those windows.”

“Unless,” Uncle Ray said, “he thought you were right.”

Whoa. “Excuse me?”

“Your old man figured Borrelli got what he had coming. Thought he deserved a little
more, actually—but what you did?—your dad figured leave it go at that and let Borrelli
make noise if he wanted to.”

“So the point of this story is…?”

“Understand what you’re getting into when you mess with strays, Raymond.”

I’d had enough of this. “Look, Uncle Ray. I need your help. Two kids need your help.”

“Save the dramatics. Whatta ya want me to do? Call Detective Royce and let him know
you’ve had another intuition, and would he please do what you say?”

I reached up and squeezed the area between my eyes, just above the nose. I’d been
going since seven in the morning and had to remind myself that Uncle Ray deserved
my respect. Especially if I was asking for his help. I pulled the bill out of my pocket
and held it at my side.

“I drove up to Highland today,” I said. “I wanted to talk to John Roberts. He is—was—Rivas’s
boss. The victim. Frankie had a picture of the house in his notebook, and I figured…”

“You might as well interfere with an active police investigation? You were out the
day they covered obstruction of justice at the academy?”

“Are you going to let me finish?” I waited for a response, and when none came, I continued.
“I spoke with Roberts’s wife, Anita. She’s Frankie’s cousin, on his mother’s side.”

“The kids’ mom?”

“Died a while ago. Anita says she has no idea where the kids are and hasn’t seen them
since Christmas.”

“So?”

“So she asked me to leave…”

“Smart woman.”

“… after I found this on her property.”

I held out the hundred, and Uncle Ray took it. He turned it over a few times. “This
your boy’s handwriting?”

“Yes.” And before he could ask, I said, “I know Frankie’s handwriting. I’ve had him
for two years now.”

Uncle Ray nodded. “This would be what we in the police academy call a ‘clue.’”

“I know,” I said. “I was there that day.”

Uncle Ray handed the bill to Jackson, who slipped it into his front pocket without
so much as looking at it.

“So your boy—Frankie?—was up at the Highland house?”

“Yes.”

“And the cousin says she had no idea?”

“That’s what she said.”

“You believe her?”

“Yeah,” I said. “She seemed genuinely surprised when I found that.” I left out the
part about the bill being found by a three-year-old girl and my dumb luck. “But that’s
when she decided she didn’t want to answer any more of my questions.”

“And now you’d like me to…”

“Show the bill to Royce. He needs to know that Frankie and Milagros were up at that
house. If I bring it to him, we’ll waste a lot of time discussing what I was doing
up there.”

Uncle Ray considered all that for a few seconds, then turned back to his golf. He
leaned the wedge against the wall and picked up the driver. He moved his hips, mumbled
something about “tempo,” and swung. I watched as the ball traveled in a beautiful
arc and landed just shy of the
250
marker.

“If you’re right, Raymond,” he said, “they’re running from something.”

“Or some
one
.”

“What’s Royce think about your boy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does he like him for knocking off his dad?”

“I don’t think so. He’s got it out there as a possibility, but I don’t think he really
believes Frankie killed his father.”

Uncle Ray grinned. “You obviously don’t.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t. Not possible.”

“Because you know him?”

“Because I know the kind of kid he is. Yes.”

The grin mutated into a laugh. “And what kind of kid is that? The kind that wouldn’t
murder his father?”

“I know
this
kid, Uncle Ray.” I wanted to get loud, but stopped myself. “You are not going to
suck me into this conversation. Let me know what you decide to do with Royce and the
hundred-dollar bill.” I stepped over to Jackson and said, “Good luck to you. I’m sure
you’ll make a good detective.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jackson said.

“Good-bye, Uncle Ray.”

“And just what conversation was I going to suck you into, Raymond?” he asked.

“The one,” I said a bit too loudly, but, shit, I was tired, “where you remind me that
the world is mostly black and white and I try too hard to see the gray.”

“You do,” he said. “Tell me, Ray. What kind of kid
would
kill his father? Ask any mother on the street, ask ’em if their kid would kill them.
Or commit rape. Or steal. Whatever. You know what they say? ‘Oh, never. Not my child.’
Then who’s committing all these rapes and murders and shit? Gotta be somebody’s kid,
right?” Uncle Ray took a deep breath and pointed his finger at me. “That’s what you
did on the job, kiddo. You thought too damn much.”

“And that’s a problem for a cop, right? Thinking?”

“Too much,” he said, tapping his finger against his temple. “I said thinking
too much
.”

“Make sure you’re getting all this down, Jackson.” Jackson gave me a look that said
he wanted no part of this. “I’m heading home, Uncle Ray. I’ll talk to you when I talk
to you.”

I turned to go, but I stopped when my uncle said, “Ahh, don’t be in such a rush to
head out, Raymond.” He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Give me a minute
or two to lighten my load a bit, and we’ll talk some more. In the meantime, chat with
Officer Jackson here. Hell, talk about me behind my back. I don’t mind.”

When my uncle had been out of sight for fifteen seconds, Jackson said, “He’ll do what
you asked.”

“You sure about that?”

“You presented him with a good case and a solid piece of evidence. He’s got to give
you shit about the way you obtained the evidence, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ignore
it.”

“You’re learning a lot from him, huh?”

“You know that grin he gave you?” Jackson asked. “Right before the dog story?”

“Know it? It used to send chills down my spine as a kid.”

“It took me a while to get it. I used to think it was condescending, but it’s not.
It’s him saying, ‘I’m right until you prove to me otherwise.’ You did.”

“I hope you’re right about that.”

“I am.” Jackson grabbed my uncle’s driver and set himself up in front of the tee.
He moved his hips as my uncle had and hit the ball just shy of the
200
marker. “He talks about you a lot, you know. How good a cop you were and how sorry
he was when you decided to leave.”

“That decision was kind of made for me, Jackson. I got banged up pretty good.”

“I know. He told me. He also told me that he could have arranged it so that you’da
stayed on and still moved your way up.”

“I didn’t want it that way. I wanted it to be on my terms.” I was suddenly very aware
of my knees. “My body wouldn’t let me be the kind of cop I wanted to be. I don’t think
my uncle understands that.”

“He hears ya. He’s not there all the way, and maybe never will be, but he does hear
ya.”

“How long have you been with him?” I asked.

“Three months.”

“Halfway home.”

“I guess.”

“You don’t sound too enthused.”

Jackson reached into the cooler and pulled out a soda. He took a sip and pressed the
can against his forehead.

“I’m learning a lot. Shit they’d never teach you at the academy. I want to learn it
all.”

“But…”

“I want that detective shield so bad I can taste it. But, like you said, I want it
because I proved I’m a good cop, not because I know when he wants his drinks strong
or what club he wants next.”

“Hey,” I said. “You make it through six months with my uncle, you deserve whatever
they give you.”

Jackson smiled. Damn, was this guy even twenty-five?

“Twice a week,” he said.

“What?”

“You were looking at me wondering if I was old enough to shave, and I’m telling you.
Twice a week.”

I gave a slight nod and said, “You’re going to be fine, Jackson.”

“Chief Donne’s talking about putting me in narcotics.”

“That’s a place to show what you know.”

“I know it. I just don’t think I want it that fast. Remember when you first started
on the streets? The juice. The high?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t,” he said. “Never got the chance. Chief Donne snatched me right out of the
academy. Made sure I was posted at One P.P. I never got the streets I wanted.”

“Which streets were those?”

“Where I grew up. Bed-Stuy.”

“Really,” I said, not trying to hide my surprise.

“Yeah. I’m still young enough—your uncle’d say naïve—to think I can make a difference
there. All the guys I ran with when I was younger? The ones who got their college,
they didn’t stay around the neighborhood. That’s what they got their college for,
to get out. These kids growing up there now, what do they see? Same old dealers and
knuckleheads ain’t going anyplace. I want them to see me and then … I don’t know.
I just want them to see someone who made it out and came back.”