Galileo

by Ann McMan

  “Reed,” she said.

  “Evan? It’s Tim.”

  “Tim? What the hell?” She struggled to sit up. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe 6:30.”

  Evan blinked at the window blinds. Not a trace of light yet. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “I’m . . . in your driveway. I didn’t want to bang on the door and wake everyone up.”

  Julia stirred beside her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sleepily.

  “It’s Tim,” Evan whispered. “Give me two minutes to grab some clothes,” she said into the phone. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Evan tossed her phone back on the nightstand and turned to face Julia. “He’s out front, in the driveway.”

  “The driveway? What time is it?”

  Evan was already up and grabbing the clothes she’d worn last night off a chair. She glanced at the clock. “Nearly 6:30. Get dressed and come down when you’re ready.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t think so.” Evan struggled into her sweatshirt and headed for the door.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Julia said.

  When Evan reached the front door, Tim was already standing there. Sunrise was still a ways off, and in the fading light cast by the setting moon, his pallor looked downright ghoulish.

  Evan took him by the arm and hauled him inside.

  “What the hell is wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s Joey Mazzetta. He called me last night after I got home. He wanted to meet—to talk with me about . . . things. About Father Szymanski.”

  Evan ushered him toward a chair so he could sit down. She perched on the arm of the sofa facing him.

  “Joey from the photograph Joey?” she asked.

  Tim nodded. “I went to see him that night after you showed me the picture.” He looked at her morosely. “I didn’t tell you that. I wanted to talk with him. To apologize.”

  “Tim . . .”

  “He threw me out. He told me I was no better than the rest of them.” Tim ran a shaky hand across his face. “He was right.”

  “Hey. Hey, man.” Evan rested a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy.”

  Julia came softly down the stairs and hesitated before approaching them where they sat.

  “Julia is here,” Evan said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Yeah.” Tim raised his head and looked toward the doorway where Julia stood. “We’re family.”

  Evan squeezed his shoulder.

  “Honey?” she addressed Julia. “Would you please get Tim a glass of bourbon? No rocks.”

  “Of course.” Julia headed for the kitchen.

  “Hold tight, Sunny. We’re right here with you,” Evan said.

  Tim looked up at her. “I know you are.”

  “Wanna take your coat off?”

  Tim nodded and shrugged out of it.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a first.” She gave him a faint smile. He actually tried to smile back, but didn’t quite succeed.

  Julia joined them with a big tumbler of bourbon. She sat down in the chair beside Tim and handed it to him.

  “Drink this,” she said, gently.

  He took the glass from her and took a swallow. “Joey called me at midnight last night, and said he was ready to talk—to be done with it all. We were going to meet at the Melrose Diner.”

  “What happened?” Evan coaxed him to continue.

  “I went there and waited. He never showed. I waited for him. Called his cell phone a few times. No answer. Finally, I drove over to their house on South Bouvier. And . . . ” He stopped.

  “And . . . what?” Evan asked.

  “There were police cars all over the place. A detective talked with me outside the house. Joey had been killed. Shot in some alley off 15th Street.”

  “What?” Evan was stunned.

  “Yeah. It was horrible. Surreal.” Tim met Evan’s eyes. “They took me inside to see his mother. She was . . .” He couldn’t continue. Julia reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “I don’t know what’ll happen to her. Joey was out of work. They have no money.”

  “Did this detective say what they think happened to him?”

  “Robbery, maybe? Detective Ortiz said Joey’s wallet was found on the ground beside his body. His body . . .”

  “Drink your bourbon, Sunny.” Evan smoothed her hand over Tim’s unruly red hair. “Was that J.C. Ortiz?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. Once you’re finished with that, we’re gonna go into the kitchen and make some breakfast.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good.” Evan nodded at him. “Stevie will smell the bacon and be down here in two seconds. You wanna go splash some water on your face? Put your game face on for the kid?”

  “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Tim drained his glass and got shakily to his feet. Julia stood up, too, and without asking, stepped in to wrap her arms around him. Tim hugged her back. “Don’t get carried away,” he said into her hair. “I might not let go.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  Tim patted her back and released her. “I’ll be okay,” he said.

  “I know you will,” Julia added, “because you have to be.”

  Evan understood that Julia’s observation had a double meaning. When Tim kissed the top of her head, Evan saw that he knew it, too.

  “I’ll be back in just a minute,” he said. He left them and headed for the downstairs bathroom.

  Julia faced Evan. “This isn’t good.”

  “No,” Evan agreed with her. “None of it is.”

  “You think this was related to Cawley and those pictures, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She gave Julia a half smile. “Probably. You know me and coincidences.”

  “Evan . . .” Julia didn’t finish her statement.

  “Sweetie? There’s no reason to jump to any conclusions here. We just don’t know enough.”

  “Yet?” Julia asked.

  “Yet.”

  Julia lifted her chin. “I’m going to ask you the same question I asked last night.”

  “Will I tell you if I find out?”

  Julia nodded.

  “I don’t know. Ask me later today.”

  “Why later today?”

  “Because,” Evan stated, “after breakfast, I’m gonna go see my old pal, Detective Ortiz.”

  Chapter Eight

  Evan and Julia had been pretty insistent that Tim head upstairs and try to sleep for a few hours.

  “There’s no way we’re letting you drive back to St. Rita’s right now,” Evan insisted. “Not until you prove that you can stand up straight without assistance.”

  He tried to protest, but it was pointless. He knew she was right.

  And Stevie chimed in, too.

  “C’mon, Papasan. When you get up, you can take me driving. I’m going to Dad’s later today, and he won’t let me near his precious Bondo bucket.”

  “For good reason,” Evan added.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Stevie demanded. “I never hit anything.”

  “Oh, really?” Evan asked. “What about that row of mailboxes at his condo?”

  “Hey. That was totally not my fault.”

  “Right.” Evan crossed her arms. “Lemme guess. They ran right out in front of the car?”

  “Like anyone would even know if that happened,” Stevie complained. “That Chrysler is, like, nine miles long.”

  “Okay, okay, you two.” Tim raised a hand to halt the discussion. “Retreat to your corners. I’ll stay, already.”

  Stevie brightened up at once. “And take me out for a lesson?”

  “Yes, God help me. That, too.”

  “Sweet.” Stevie resumed her perusal of the sports pages in the morning paper. “Yo? Timbo? I see here
that Villanova is playing St. Joe’s tonight. Up for a little wager?”

  “And,” Evan began, “while we’re on the subject of your shared new lives of crime, maybe it’s time for the two of you to come clean about all of these little wagers?”

  Stevie and Tim exchanged glances.

  “No,” Tim said. “I really don’t think it is.”

  Julia laughed. “Give it up, Sergeant Friday. These two canaries are never gonna sing.”

  “Why does it seem like I fell asleep and woke up in a Dashiell Hammet novel?”

  Julia patted her hand. “Drink your juice, dear.”

  Tim appreciated Evan’s obvious attempt to lighten the tone. The easy banter worked to push some of the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him off to the periphery—at least for a little while.

  “On that note,” Tim got up from the table. “I’m going to go take a shower and lie down for a while.”

  He went upstairs after making them pledge to come get him if he didn’t reappear after a few hours. They all promised they would—so he wasn’t surprised when he woke up a little after 10 a.m. to find Stevie perched on the end of the bed.

  “Are you awake?” she asked, when he opened one eye.

  “I am now.”

  She smiled. She looked so much like Evan had at that same age, he felt almost giddy inside. He figured it probably was an emotional response to the events of last night—and being so overtired.

  “Did you get your shower?” Stevie asked.

  “Yeah. Before I came in here to nap.”

  “Cool. So? Ready to go driving?”

  He laughed. “No flies on you.”

  “I just don’t wanna waste time. Dad gets here at two.”

  Tim yawned. “Are your mom and Julia still downstairs?”

  “Nope. Julia went to Wegmans in Glen Mills, and Mama Uno had some kind of errand to run in the city. She said she’d be back before Dad and Kayla get here.”

  “Okay. Looks like it’s just you-n-me, kid. Lemme go use the facilities and I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “Sweet.” Stevie took off for the stairs.

  When Tim joined her, she was already strapped into the driver’s seat. He climbed in and adjusted the seat to give himself a bit more leg room. He handed her his keys. “Where are we headed?”

  “I thought maybe we could drive over to St. Cornelius School and practice three-point turns and parking in their lot.”

  “Anything going on there today?” Tim put on his seatbelt.

  “I don’t think so. It’s Saturday.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Fortunately, Tim had backed into Evan’s driveway that morning, so that took any immediate drama off the table. Stevie started the Subaru and did a good job negotiating the turn onto Ring Road. When they were underway, she asked him how he was feeling.

  “Mom didn’t say much about why you showed up at our house this morning. I figured that meant I wasn’t supposed to ask.”

  “You can ask,” he told her.” There’s a stop sign up ahead.”

  “I see it.” She slowed the car down but didn’t quite come to a complete stop before rolling on through the intersection.

  “Hey,” he said. “You have to actually stop—even if there’s nobody coming.”

  “That’s kind of a stupid rule.”

  “Most rules are. But they exist for a reason.”

  “Now you sound like Mama Uno.”

  “Who, as far as I know, has been driving for twenty-nine years without ever getting ticketed for a traffic violation.”

  Stevie held up a hand. “Okay, already. I’ll stop next time.”

  “Stop every time,” Tim added. “Stop and count to three before rolling on. Trust me. This is exactly the kind of stuff they ding you for when you take your driving test.”

  They approached the turnoff for St. Cornelius. Stevie dutifully put her left blinker on.

  “Do I have to stop here, too?” she asked.

  “Not if there are no cars coming,” Tim said.

  “Duh.” Stevie made the turn. “I was joking.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Stevie drove along the access road to the school parking lot, promptly pulled into a space, and stopped.

  “Before we start,” she said, “could you tell me what was wrong this morning? Or am I not supposed to know?”

  Tim was surprised by her question. Not that she asked it—but that she thought he didn’t want her to know what was happening.

  “No. You can always ask me anything. I was really rattled because a man I was going to meet with last night ended up getting shot in an apparent robbery.” Tim hesitated. “He was killed.”

  “Oh, man. That totally sucks.” Stevie turned off the engine.

  “Yeah,” Tim nodded. “It does.”

  “I’m really sorry, Papasan. Are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “I guess I should’ve asked you about that before we came roaring out here. We didn’t have to do this today.”

  “It’s okay.” Tim did his best to sound reassuring. “It’s good to talk about it.”

  Stevie nodded. “I’m like that, too. Talking about stuff makes it easier to deal with. Mom almost never talks about stuff—even though she always makes me do it.”

  “She’s pretty bossy,” he agreed.

  “Who was this man? A friend?”

  “He used to be. He was a guy I went to school with at St. Rita’s.” Was a guy? Tim was having a hard time talking about Joey in the past tense. “He was . . . having a hard time with some things, and he asked me to meet him to talk. That happened last night, after I got home.”

  “Last night?” Stevie asked. “He called you pretty late, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He did. He’d been out someplace, and whatever happened there made him decide to call me. I went out to an all-night diner to wait on him, but he never showed up. I went by his house on my way home and saw all the police cars there. That’s when I found out what’d happened to him.”

  “Wow. That’s a nightmare. Was he married?”

  “No. He lived with his mother. Joey was an only child.”

  “That’s a drag. Will she be okay?”

  Tim never ceased to be amazed by Stevie’s ability to ask exactly the right questions.

  “I hope so. I’ll make sure the Church looks after her.”

  “Meaning, you’ll look after her, right?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll both look after her.”

  “Yeah? Well, I think the Church is pretty lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Tim didn’t quite understand her observation. “Lucky how?”

  Stevie started the car. “To be married to such a good guy.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Jesús Correa Ortiz was the younger brother of a girl Evan had dated off and on in high school.

  It actually was mostly off—at least as far as the actual “dating” part went. They really were more like occasional fuck buddies than anything else. Sofia wasn’t really queer—or so she said. According to her, her interest in Evan was more exploratory than anything. But they spent enough time together that Sofia’s mother, who once caught them mostly naked in the back seat of the family station wagon, never stopped blaming Evan for making her son “turn” gay.

  Evan never quite understood Mrs. Ortiz’s calculus on that one. But Jesús, who wisely changed his name to J.C., never let Evan forget it, either. Especially when he got beat up every other week at school because he tended to wear pirate shirts and kept posters of Prince tacked up inside his locker.

  How any of that was her fault never exactly became clear to her.

  She knew J.C. had joined the Philly P.D. after college, but didn’t realize he’d made detective until Tim had mentioned him this morning. That was quite an accomplishment for a kid from J.C.’s background—particularly in a south Philly precinct not known for its tolerance.

  It didn’t take her long to locate J.C.’s desk on the second floor of the 1st D
istrict Station on 24th Street. She knew he’d be working. Homicide detectives didn’t tend to get weekends off. Not in this town, anyway.

  She crossed the big, noisy room toward the desk where he stood, scowling at something he was reading. When he looked up and saw her coming, she could tell that he recognized her right away.

  He tossed whatever he’d been reading down on his desk, which was covered with papers, photographs, and about five empty coffee cups, all emblazoned with logos from sports teams and different area restaurants.

  He took a moment to look her up and down. Normally that would piss her off, but she hadn’t seen J.C. in a while—not since he’d been a rookie beat cop. She was pretty sure he already had an idea about why she was there.

  She fluttered the fingers of her right hand at him in her best pantomime of a feminine salute.

  “Evangeline Reed.” J.C. knew that using her full name would piss her off. It was clear this interview was going to be . . . fun. “What’re you doing in this neighborhood? Your Lexus break down or something?”

  “Very funny, Officer. You should try out for Spring Frolics again. Bet they’d finally let you in—what with that big gun and all.”

  “Yeah? Suck my dick. You see this gold shield?” He pointed at the badge hanging from his belt. “It’s Detective now. You got some actual business here, or is this strictly a social call?”

  Evan pulled out a chair and sat down beside his metal desk.

  “I don’t recall asking you to sit down,” J.C. said.

  “Funny. I don’t recall asking for permission.”

  “Look. You lose your Pomeranian or something? If so, file a report downstairs. We do real work up here.”

  “Who fucking pissed in your corn flakes, J.C.? I just need some help with a case I’m working on.”

  He continued to stand there, glowering at her.

  The ambient noise around them was ridiculous. Phones were ringing off the hook, and nobody in his shared bullpen of an office appeared to be breaking a sweat to answer them.

  Their little standoff gave Evan time to make her own assessment of how the years had treated J.C. She was impressed. He was a good-looking kid—always had been. Muscular build—looked like he probably worked out four or five times a week. He still had those ridiculously long eyelashes that any woman would kill for, amber eyes and perfect, white teeth. Evan supposed he was a very popular boy these days—at least, in his off-duty hours.