Sacrifice Fly (35 page)

“I will, Elaine. Really.”

After she had gone, I went back to the table with Edgar’s fax. One more piece of the
puzzle. Edgar had confirmed not only who resided in the buildings Ape and Suit had
visited the other night, but also who owned them. Some company called ATH Holdings,
and immediately I thought of Around the Horn—ATH. Roberts owned the buildings. Ape
and Suit made pickups from the buildings. Somewhere in front of me was the answer—or
answers—I was looking for, and pretty soon those answers would show up on Royce’s
desk in an unmarked envelope.

Edgar had sent me a separate sheet for each building: addresses and a list of the
individual units, broken down by floors. There were either one or two names next to
each unit identifying the residents by last name and first initial. It was just a
matter of time and patience to match the residents with the initials on the papers
from Roberts. I did that successfully for about twenty minutes and realized I wasn’t
learning anything much beyond who lived in what apartment and most of the residents
had Hispanic last names. According to the dates of birth, most of the residents were
senior citizens.

I walked around the room a bit, pushing in a few chairs, straightening some desks.
I picked up the sheets of names and went back to pacing. I read them in the order
Edgar had sent them and then backward. I mentally tried to put them in alphabetical
order, which proved to be difficult, as there were over seventy-five names. I even
read them out loud by first initial and last name, and that’s when my mind clicked.

“M and F Villejo,” I said to myself a few times. “Villejo.” The name on the credit
cards I had found in the truck rented by Rivas. “First name was … Felix.” F Villejo
had to be Felix Villejo, and I had his address right in front of me. Now what? I could
give that info to Royce, but then I’d have to explain how I found out about the credit
cards and addresses. I didn’t want to do that. And it wasn’t enough. There was only
one viable option I could come up with.

I went to my closet and put on the jacket and tie I kept back there for parent/teacher
conferences. I also took off my sneakers and slipped on the black shoes I wore for
the same occasions. I found my unused Department of Education ID badge, attached to
its chain, and put it around my neck. I grabbed a fresh legal pad, some blank DOE
forms, and the papers from the travel agency and clipped them to my clipboard. I took
the ones Edgar had faxed over and locked them in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet
under empty folders.

I went back to the closet, took a look at myself in the mirror, and straightened my
tie. There. I looked like a decently dressed employee of the City of New York, and
I was going to make a house call to one Felix Villejo.

*   *   *

The building I was standing in front of had been an empty lot five years ago. Before
that, it was a bodega, a cleaners, and a video store that sat below three floors of
apartments. The businesses had all failed, and when the apartments fell vacant, the
squatters moved in. About four years ago, the city took ownership, “relocated” the
squatters, and decided to sell off the land. That’s when the fan got dirty and smelly.

One paper had played it up as “New vs. Jew” and others as “Latino Against Black.”
Everybody felt they had a bigger stake in the community than the next group, and everybody
had a sign and a chant to prove their point. The Hassidim were being pushed out, the
Latinos kept out, and the Blacks left out. The yuppies? Well, they were already taking
over the Northside, so why didn’t they just leave the Southside alone? In the end,
the city chose to sell the land to a developer for low-income housing. For all. Which
really meant for the Latinos and the Blacks, because the Hassidim got another deal
on the other side of the bridge and the yuppies don’t do low-income housing. Somewhere
along the line, this building became senior housing.

The developers had done a nice job. Six stories of light orange brick-face with double-sided
windows and white trim. A pair of potted trees by the entrance announced the residents
of this building lived with dignity. The buzzer marked “F Villejo” was one of thirty
in a patchwork. Five apartments per floor. It took three attempts at the buzzer before
a female voice responded.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Villejo?” I said. “Raymond Donne.”

“Yes?” came the response.

“From the City, ma’am.”

A five-second pause, then, “—ep over.”

“Excuse me?”

“Step over,” slower this time, as if she were talking to a kid.

I leaned away from the buzzers and looked at the door. I hadn’t noticed it at first,
but there was a small video camera about two feet above the entrance behind the heavy-duty
glass. I put on my best I-work-for-the-City smile and lifted my ID, careful to keep
my fingers over everything except my picture. It was ten seconds before the front
door buzzed. I entered the building and walked directly to the elevators on a freshly
vacuumed carpet. On the elevator door, there was a sign in English and Spanish reminding
the residents of Saturday morning’s bus trip to the Fulton Mall. A short time later
I was outside the Villejo apartment, being appraised by an elderly female.

“Everything is okay,” she said.

Unsure if that were a statement or a question, I said, “That is the reason for my
visit, Mrs. Villejo.”

She considered me for a while longer, her eyes barely above the chain that connected
the door to the wall. I gave the impression I had nothing better to do than wait outside
her apartment all afternoon. She eventually let out a deep sigh, the door closed,
then reopened. Mrs. Villejo stepped aside, allowing me—the City of New York—into her
home.

What a week I’ve had, I thought. Withholding evidence from the police, impersonating
a cop, breaking and entering, stealing. Now I was lying to a little old lady, because
I wanted to talk to her husband about his relationship with a dead guy.

The room was sparsely furnished with a recliner, sofa, coffee table, and a small entertainment
center in the corner. There were two lamps in the room, but both were off at the moment,
as a good amount of sunlight came through a double window. There was one painting
on the wall: a landscape of the sun setting over a tropical forest.

“I call and I call,” Mrs. Villejo said, her faint accent becoming a little more pronounced.
“
Pero
, I get no answer. Just recordings, and then I am asked to press many buttons. After
a while, I stop calling.”

“I hope I can answer your questions, ma’am.” I tucked my ID badge inside my shirt,
in case she thought of getting a closer look. “And I have a few for you and your husband,
as well.”

“Felix?”

I smiled and pretended to look for something on the clipboard by flipping through
the papers. “Yes,” I said. “Felix.”

“
Pero…”
she began. “… but he is dead.” She took a breath. “Two years now. But the checks…”
She stopped herself, making me think she had said more than she had wanted.

“I’m very sorry.” I wrote Felix Villejo’s name on the top sheet. “I’ll check our records,
Mrs. Villejo.” I faked a cough. “Can I bother you for a glass of water?”

“Si,”
she said. “Is no bother.”

She went into the kitchen, and I took the opportunity to open what I guessed was the
bedroom door and peek inside. There were two beds: a regular one and the kind you’d
see in a hospital room. There was also an oxygen tank and motorized wheel chair, with
Elijah Cruz’s decal on it, tucked away in the corner. The way that Mrs. Villejo had
just moved to get my drink, I doubted the chair was for her. I closed the door and
stepped back into the living room before she returned with two waters.

“Thank you,” I said, as she handed me one. “Your medical equipment. Is everything
in proper operational form?”

She took some time decoding my bureaucratic speech. “Yes. Is all working. All proper.”

I wrote “Proper” on a piece of paper in the area reserved for Student’s Name and said,
“The oxygen tank. The wheelchair? The bed?”

“That is why I call,” she said. “The bed was for my husband. Two years now, and I
no need the bed. Two years. You can take it away?”

I smiled. “I’ll make a note of it.” And I did.

“Yes. I tell Mr. Jerry, but he say there is nothing he can do.”

“Mr. Jerry?” Jerry Vega, the name Royce had mentioned. Suit.

“The man from the building. The landlord’s…?”

“Representative,” I finished for her. “Of course. Did you contact Medicare directly?”

“
¡Ay Dios!
Those are the ones with the pressing buttons and not calling me back. Mr. Jerry said
he take care of. I give him all the mail, and he say he take care of it. Not for me
to worry. Every month, the same thing.”

“And Mr. Jerry takes care of it?”

“That is what he says, but still the bed … is bad luck.”

“How often do you see Mr. Jerry?”

“The end of the months. I give him the mail, and sign for him the checks.”

“The checks?”

“
Si
. Still with the name of my husband. Two years now. I sign for him and he makes for
me the bank deposits.”

I nodded and wrote this information down.

“You will speak with Mrs. Brown, too?”

“Mrs. Brown?”

“
Si
. Upstairs. Angela. Five A. She has same things, same problems. And Mrs. Cuevas. Imelda.
On the first floor. But her husband…”—she rolled her eyes—“
that
one is still alive. We all go on the bus trip together. Every Saturday.”

I smiled and wrote those names down and put a question mark next to each.

“I will speak to them,” I said.

“Good. Thank you.”

I finished off my water and placed it on the coffee table.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Villejo. And the water. Will you be taking advantage
of the bus trip this Saturday?”

“Ah,
si.
Yes. We shop, we eat, we laugh. Very nice.”

“Yes. It sounds like it would be.”

“That is the church.”

“Excuse me?”

“The bus trips. Shopping, into the city. They take us every week to the doctors. Next
week,
Las Mujeres
, we are to go upstate.” She breathed in deeply. “For the fresh air.”

Las Mujeres
? That is Frankie’s grandmother’s group. From Cruz’s church.

“How many of you go on these trips?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“We all go. We are all of the church. The bus, it even picks us up for Sunday. Is
very nice.” She paused for a few seconds and added, “Why does the City not do such
things for us?”

“Budget cuts,” I said. “Hard to do more with less.”

“Ahh.” She waved that away. “You seem like a nice man, but the City, they no care
like the church.”

“No,” I agreed, at least sneaking in one truth before ending my visit with Mrs. Villejo.
“I guess we don’t.”

Chapter 31

ANY GUILT OVER MY ACTIONS
of the past week and a half—including lying to Senora Villejo—was overshadowed by
the feeling that I was finally putting this all together. Rivas, Roberts, and now
Cruz—the church. They were all connected. I wasn’t all the way there yet, but I figured
a lot of the missing pieces were somewhere in all that paper I had locked up back
at work. I wasn’t sure how much closer I was to getting Frankie home, but I had a
hell of an idea what I’d be sending Detective Royce’s way real soon.

I stifled the urge to whistle as I unlocked the door to my apartment building and
went over to check my mailbox. Empty. As I put the key into the lock of the second
door, I realized something. For the second time that week, the front door failed to
click shut behind me.

*   *   *

I awoke to the sound of organ music and the smell of incense.
Heaven?
It felt as if I were squeezed into a box. My back and my head—which was pounding
at the moment—were pressed up against a hard surface. I opened my eyes and gave them
thirty seconds to adjust to the lack of light. When they had, I slowly pulled my throbbing
knees toward my chest. The hard surface was a door to the very small room I was in.
A few feet above my head was a tiny window with a metal screen in front of it.

The music stopped, but the incense continued to hang in the air. I took a deep breath
and slowly got to my feet. The only light came from above, a low-wattage bulb behind
some smoky glass. I went over to the door and tried the knob. Locked. I tried looking
through the window, but the curtain on the other side prevented me from seeing anything.
Directly below the window was a small bench covered with a dark carpet.

Christ. I hadn’t been in one for so long that it took me a while to realize I was
inside a confessional. Someone’s idea of a joke?

My head throbbed on, and I had a brief recollection of getting hit real hard and then
going black. I’d never made it through the second door of my apartment building.

The organ started in again, and a small bit of light appeared at the window as someone
drew the curtain aside. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Mr. Donne,” a voice said—male—just above a whisper.

I stepped to the window. The shape of a head appeared on the other side, but the metal
screen and lack of light made it impossible to make out the face. That’s what confessionals
were designed for. Anonymity.

“Yeah,” I answered, like there was gravel in my throat. I grabbed the back of my neck
where the pain was coming from and squeezed as hard as I could.

“Good. You are awake. I was afraid you were badly hurt.”

Depends on your point of view. “What do you want?” I asked.

A short laugh came from the other side. “That is good,” the voice said. “Not ‘Where
am I?’ or ‘Who are you?’ but ‘What do you want?’ Direct and to the point, as if you
know more than you do. You do not disappoint me.”