Sacrifice Fly (27 page)

I inserted the pick into the lock and let it catch. When it wouldn’t move anymore,
I gave it a turn and the lock opened. That was easy. Almost easy enough to make me
forget that what I was prepared to do was called breaking and entering. I thought
again about just going into Royce’s office the next day with what I knew, but what
I knew wasn’t enough.

I thought of Frankie’s grandmother and sister. Frankie finding his father the way
he had. Royce ready to put this one on the bottom of the pile. How far was I willing
to go to get this kid home? The answer came when I took the lock off the gate and
slipped through to the other side of the fence.

I relocked the gate on the off chance some bored cop or security guard might come
by and check things out. I pocketed the lock pick and took out Edgar’s flashlight.
It was no problem finding the truck Frankie’s dad had rented. I had committed the
plate number to memory. It was about the size of a mail truck, and the rear was facing
away from the street. Nice bit of luck there.

There was enough light coming off the streetlights for me to check out the back door
of the truck. It had one of those security hooks that looks like a pick ax inserted
into a U-ring. I focused my attention on the actual lock. It was of decent quality
and would keep out most people. I stuck the pick in and waited for the catch. This
time it took a bit more maneuvering, but I got it, turned it, and lifted the hook
out of the way.

The door rolled up without a sound—I hadn’t considered an alarm until then—and the
smell of hot air laced with artificial pine wafted out. I turned on the flashlight
and looked inside. There were a dozen or so boxes along the right side, neatly stacked.
On the left were a rolled-out sleeping bag and a suitcase. I used the bumper to help
me get up onto the floor of the truck, and I swung my legs over so I was completely
inside. When I figured out the headroom situation, I stood up slowly and then lowered
the door.

I went over to the boxes. They all appeared to be factory-sealed and contained brand-name
electronics: a large-screen TV, DVD/VCR combination, two identical videogame systems,
some stereo equipment, a convection oven, phone and answering machine, computer, printer,
a minifridge, and two air conditioners. All the right stuff for someone who was planning
to start a new life in Florida.

The suitcase was an older model, the kind my mother still used, with the hard shell.
I bent over and opened it. Inside were a pair of blue jeans, a hooded sweatshirt,
some boxer shorts, and two pairs of socks. All clean. The sleeping bag looked well
worn but in decent shape.

I went up to the front and tried the glove compartment, where I found the truck’s
registration and insurance info. Nothing under the passenger-side seat, and the door’s
storage pocket contained only a map of Florida. I slid over and sat behind the wheel.
There was nothing in the door and nothing in either of the sun flaps. I reached under
the seat and pulled out a manila envelope. I opened it. A bunch of receipts and some
credit cards wrapped in a rubber band. I took the envelope, got up, and made my way
to the back of the van. One more sweep with the flashlight. I’d seen all there was
to see and decided not to push my luck any further.

I exited the truck and the lot as easily as I had entered, and when I opened the side
door of Edgar’s car, he pressed a button on his watch and said, “Eight minutes, thirty-seven
seconds. That was quick and easy.”

He couldn’t feel my heart beating. “Let’s go.”

“Anything good in there?” he asked, looking at the envelope.

“I’ll let you know when I check it out, Edgar. Right now, just go.”

*   *   *

Edgar and I were too juiced to call it a night, so after he parked his car outside
my apartment, we ducked into the McDonald’s on the corner. We grabbed a couple of
large decafs and sat at one of the tables in the back, away from the windows. An employee
came by with a mop and explained in a mix of Spanish and English that the area where
we were sitting was ready to be closed for the night. I told him we’d only be about
ten minutes, and put a five-dollar bill on the table. He smiled and headed to the
front. I opened three packs of sugar and dumped them into my cup. Then I told Edgar
about what I had seen in the van.

“You gonna open that?” Edgar asked, staring at the envelope on my lap.

“Relax,” I said. “Enjoy your coffee.”

As he took a sip, I put my hand under the table and opened the envelope. I pulled
out the receipts and credit cards, placed them on my lap and glanced down at them.

“What?” Edgar asked.

“Some credit cards and receipts,” I said.

I removed the rubber band and checked out the cards. There were five of them, all
from different companies, and all had the same name on them: Felix Villejo. I could
tell they had all been issued recently. They had that new shine on them that only
lasts for a few weeks. I put the rubber band around them again and dropped them back
into the envelope. Then I took out the receipts. They were from four different stores.
The electronic equipment I’d seen in the truck. All had the same date on them, a few
days before Frankie’s dad was killed.

“You’re killing me here, Raymond. Whatcha got?”

I put the receipts back, folded the envelope in half, and stuck it under my left leg.
After taking a sip from my cup, I said, “Credit cards, all issued to a Felix Villejo.
The guy used them at four different stores. Why not just use them all in the same
place?”

Edgar put on his serious face—complete with squinty eyes and furrowed brow—as he contemplated
the question. He was loving this and was going to make it last as long as he could.
I was about to repeat the question when he said, “And what’s all that stuff doing
in a van rented by a dead guy?”

“There is that,” I agreed. “Rivas holding for Villejo? No, Rivas was getting ready
to move himself and his kids down to Florida.”

“So … let’s say Villejo buys the stuff and sells it to Rivas.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but why go to four different places and pay with four different
cards? And if Frankie’s dad was walking around with the kind of cash Frankie said,
why’d he need someone else’s credit cards to help him out?”

Edgar bit his lower lip while he made little circles with his stirrer for ten seconds.
“They weren’t his cards, and either Villejo or Rivas was afraid of maxing them out.
It’s a bit less obvious to spread the purchases out over a few stores and not run
up too much on any one card.”

“Edgar,” I said, “your next four beers are on me. That’s pretty good.”

After a little beaming, he added, “That still leaves the question as to why Rivas
has—had—the stuff with him.”

“It’s possible,” I said, “that Rivas bought the stuff off Villejo because Villejo
needed the cash. If he were afraid of maxing out the cards, it’d make sense he was
low on money.”

“I guess,” Edgar said, sounding a bit disappointed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Ahh. Just hoping for a more exciting alternative, I guess.”

I took a final sip of coffee. “Edgar,” I said, “I just committed a felony. That’s
excitement enough for me.” I walked over to the trash can and deposited my cup. “I’m
going home.”

“You going to work tomorrow?”

“I’ll see how I feel in the morning.” I was reluctant to admit how jazzed up the events
of the evening had left me. I doubted I’d be going to work tomorrow.

“See ya at The LineUp then?”

“You bet,” I said, giving him a slap on the back. “I owe you four beers.”

Chapter 22

AN ANGRY GARBAGE TRUCK HAD
interrupted a dream where I was locked in a dark room, my sister and Frankie screaming
and banging on the other side of the door. According to the church clock, it was five
minutes after six, and now I was drinking coffee and watching the sun rise over Brooklyn.
Maybe it was the way the hazy, orange sky was slowly changing to yellow that made
me think of the first—and only—time my dad took me fishing.

*   *   *

I was seven years old, thrilled to be riding in the backseat of my Uncle Ray’s convertible
Caddy with the top down, driving toward Robert Moses State Park while it was still
dark. My dad and my uncle were in the front seats drinking coffee out of extra-large
to-go cups, while I drank orange juice from a pint container. We got to my uncle’s
boat just as the sun was coming up. Within minutes I was decked out in a bright red
life preserver, and we were pulling away from the dock. Just the guys. After a breakfast
of hard-boiled eggs and doughnuts, it was time, Uncle Ray said, “to get our dicks
wet.” I loved it when he spoke that way in front of me, but I was careful not to let
my dad see how much.

We baited the hooks and got our lines in the water. My dad and uncle sat back in the
comfortable chairs while I sat on the side, checking for any bites. After about a
half hour of nothing, I started to get bored. I said something to my dad and uncle,
who proceeded to lecture me on the virtues of patience as they sipped from their whiskey-laced
coffees.

“Look over the side,” Uncle Ray said. “See what’s going on down there.”

I finished my doughnut, brushed the powder off my life jacket, and leaned over the
side of the boat. “I can’t see anything,” I said.

“Keep looking,” my uncle said. “Patience.”

I did as I was told, leaning a bit more over the side when I felt a hand on my back.
The next thing I knew I was in the water looking up at the two men I admired most:
my uncle laughing his ass off, and my dad, also laughing, but not quite as hard as
his brother.

“Lesson to be learned, Nephew,” Uncle Ray said as my father helped me up the ladder.
“Patience is a beautiful thing. But always watch your back.”

*   *   *

I thought back to last night and considered myself lucky. Breaking into the van was
a stupid chance to take, but I did learn Frankie’s dad really had been planning on
moving to Florida, and he’d been using someone else’s credit cards to help him get
there. Another question answered, another question posed.

Sometimes, Uncle Ray taught me later in life, you don’t know enough to know what questions
to ask. I wanted to know more.

After calling school and informing them I was still too shaken up to work, I showered
and put on my suit. A call to Information told me Around the Horn Travel was located
a block from the Williamsburg Bridge and would be open for business at nine. I had
another cup of coffee and a bagel while wasting another hour flipping through the
channels. Time to go.

I popped a piece of gum in my mouth outside the office. I had decided not to call
ahead, so John Roberts wouldn’t be expecting me, and I didn’t need bad breath adding
to the list of my offenses. The hazy sky and humid breeze coming off the river got
me thinking maybe today would be the day it finally rained. I was glad I’d thought
to bring my umbrella. As I chewed away the coffee taste, I watched the traffic come
off the Willy B and negotiate its way around the construction that was still in progress
on this side of the bridge.

I straightened my tie and entered the travel agency. It was about twenty degrees cooler
inside, and there was a slight flowery fragrance. The smell of someplace one might
wish to go to on vacation. The agency was one long room with four desks, two on each
side, and lots of posters of places far away from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Only two
of the desks were occupied, both by women: one middle-aged, white, and talking on
a headset phone; the other one young, black, and seemingly free at the moment. She
took off her headset, stepped out from behind her desk, and walked toward me, her
white skirt floating around her.

“Now, you,” she said, with a smile and a hint of the Caribbean in her voice, “look
like a gentleman in need of a vacation.”

“You read minds,” I said, taking her well-manicured hand.

“And faces,” she said. “Come, sit and tell Caroline all about it.”

“Actually, Caroline,” I said, very aware of her smooth, dark fingers and orange nails,
“I’m here on a different kind of business. I was hoping to speak with your boss.”

“John,” she said, taking her time slipping her hand out of mine. “Mr. Roberts will
not be in until later this morning. Was he expecting you?”

“Only if he shares your gift of mind reading. I’m here about his nephew … his wife’s
cousin. Frankie.”

“Oh. Have you found him?”

“No,” I said. “No, we ha—he’s still missing. I wanted to talk to Mr. Roberts about
Frankie’s father, Francisco, Senior.”

“He’s dead,” Caroline blurted out. “But I guess you know that.”

“Of course.”

“I read in the paper they got his sister back.”

“Yes, she’s staying with her grandmother for the time being.”

“Thank Jesus for small blessings,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Raymond.”

“Well, Detective Raymond, I can tell you a thing or two about Francisco.” Just as
she finished the offer, I heard the door open behind me, and Caroline’s eyebrows shot
up. “Oh,” she said, her hands smoothing out her skirt, “you’re in luck. Mr. Roberts
is early.”

I turned to see a man who already seemed to be in the middle of a very bad day. John
Roberts’s hair was slicked back by sweat, the same sweat that was soaking the upper
part of his light gray dress shirt. He had given up on the tie and jacket, and held
them in the same hand that carried his briefcase. He was shorter and heavier than
I had expected and about ten years older than his wife. To his credit, when he noticed
me talking with Caroline, he put on his game face, grinned, and said, “Next time I’m
gonna skip the bridge all together and jet-ski on over. I’d get here earlier and drier.”
He put down his briefcase. “Morning, girls.”

“Good morning, Mr. Roberts,” the two women said.