Crooked Numbers (Raymond Donne Mysteries)

by Tim O'Mara

“Right,” I said. “Any ideas who committed the break-ins?”

  “A few,” he said. “But as this is an active investigation, I have told you all I am allowed to tell you—more than I’m allowed to tell you. I’m sure you understand. Garage doors and trunks opened, nothing taken. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Donne?”

  I couldn’t think of a thing. “No,” I said. “You’ve been quite helpful, Deputy…?”

  “You’re welcome, sir. Good luck with your investigation.”

  “Thanks.”

  We both hung up. I turned back toward Edgar.

  “So?” he said.

  “Nothing was taken from any of the houses that were broken into.”

  “For real?”

  “That’s what the deputy told me.” I told Edgar about the car trunks.

  “Shit,” was his response. And then, “You know what I think?”

  “Yeah,” I said, coming to what I believed was the same conclusion he’d arrived at. “A bunch of kids having a little fun.”

  “And what bunch of kids do we know for sure—?”

  “Dougie, Paulie, and Jack. Who were up there,” I added, “seemingly without adult supervision.”

  “Nice kids,” Edgar said. “Fucking richies.”

  “Dougie was not a ‘richie,’ Edgar.”

  “No. He just hung around with them.” He took another sip of beer. “I tell you, Raymond. I read about this stuff all the time. The biggest influence on kids’ behavior is their peer group. Parents and—no offense—teachers can do all they want, but when it comes right down to it? Kids’ll do what their friends’ll do. Nine times out of ten.”

  I had no answer for that. Edgar was right. It was my job to know that kind of stuff. I just always thought Dougie would be the one out of ten.

  “Hey, barkeep!” The guy behind me. I’d forgotten about them.

  I spun around and walked over. “Another round?”

  “Yes,” the guy said. “Please.”

  I got them two more drinks, apologized for the wait, and told them the round was on me. That got a smile out of both of them, and they touched glasses. I’m a decent bartender, and I didn’t want them thinking I was unaware of my mistake. This way, especially if they were new to the neighborhood, they’d be more likely to come back. God knows we needed folks like them on nights like these. “Hardly worth turning the lights on,” the owner, Mrs. Mac, would say. But she’d never think of closing this place. The LineUp meant too much to too many people—many of them cops and ex-cops—so she was willing to weather through the slow times. “Besides,” she’d told me more than once, “what am I gonna do? Sell the bar and move to Florida?”

  I checked on the retired cops, and they both agreed they were fine and really should be heading home soon. I offered to buy them a round, and suddenly their plans had changed. It looked like they’d be staying a bit longer. The golden years.

  Edgar got my attention and waved me over.

  “So,” he said, barely over a whisper, “whatta you thinking?”

  “About what?”

  “The break-ins. The boys. The Quinn house.”

  “I told you what I thought, Edgar. The boys were pulling a stupid prank. I think that’s what the deputy was alluding to, but didn’t have the authority to share it with me. The kids were smart enough to make sure it looked like the Quinns’ garage was also broken into. Just a group of bored kids having fun.”

  Edgar’s face registered disappointment. “So you don’t think it’s important?”

  I patted his arm. “You did good work. Not every piece of information turns out to be helpful. The trick is figuring out which pieces are.”

  “I gotcha,” he said, nodding his head. Another lesson learned.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, and I didn’t think we’d be getting an unexpected rush anytime soon.

  “Half hour, folks,” I said to the small crowd. “Early night tonight.” They all nodded in agreement. I got the guy and his girlfriend one more drink and closed out his credit card. The two ex-cops were okay, and Edgar asked for one more round.

  “Y’know,” Edgar said, “it’s kinda like putting together a jigsaw puzzle that has too many pieces.”

  I smiled at my pupil. “That’s as good a simile as I could’ve come up with.”

  “Look at me,” he said. “I’m talking in similes.”

  “Yes,” I said, and took a sip of beer. “Look at you.” A thought hit me. “Hey, Edgar. While you have your laptop all warmed up, would you mind looking up another name for me?”

  His face lit up. “Not at all. Shoot.”

  “Matthew Sherman,” I said.

  His fingers danced along the keys. “Related to Paulie?”

  “His dad. He’s a money manager. A financial advisor. Something like that.”

  “Okay,” Edgar said, punching a few more keys. “Matthew Sherman, Real Estate. Matthew Sherman, DDS. Matthew Sherman, Riverview Management?”

  I thought back to the Shermans’ apartment and the wall of windows overlooking the Hudson. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s probably it.”

  “Okeydokey.” Edgar clicked on something and turned the screen around. “This your guy?”

  It was. Right next to the company name and slogan—“Private and Personal Financial Services”—was a picture of Paulie’s father. His arms were folded across his chest, and he had a serious look on his face. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his red power tie was loosened. Ready for battle. Exactly the kind of guy you’d want protecting your family’s assets. I clicked on Services and got a list of what you’d expect: Portfolio Management, Trust Funds, Inheritance Strategies, Stocks and Bonds Investments, Commodities. The guy seemed to have it all covered.

  “Anything about him in the papers?” I asked. “Trade journals?”

  Edgar spun the computer back around and worked the keys. He had that look on his face that told me he’d be a while. I took the time to clean some glasses and wipe down the bar. By the time I was done, so was Edgar.

  “Whatcha got?” I asked.

  “Nada,” he said, his voice registering surprise.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nada much.” Edgar smiled at his joke. “This guy takes the ‘Private and Personal’ for serious. I checked a few services, some investment websites, and the name Matthew Sherman comes up less than half a dozen times. That’s pretty impressive. He must be very careful and very good.”

  “That’s rare, I guess? Someone in that business?”

  “Yeah,” Edgar agreed. He took another minute and punched a few more keys. “He’s not even named in the initial stories about his kid being killed. Papers just say ‘The victim’s parents were not available for immediate comment.’ Low profile.”

  “Seems like it,” I said. “I wonder why he agreed to be interviewed by Allison and without a lawyer.”

  “Maybe he got past his initial grief and wanted his kid’s story out there.”

  “Maybe. Thanks, Edgar.”

  “No problem. Anything else before I shut down?”

  I thought about that. “No,” I said. “I think that’s it for the day.” I looked behind me: my four customers had already left. Great. I never said good-bye. This case was turning me into a crappy bartender. I turned back to Edgar. “I think it’s time to go home.”

  “You’re right.” He shut down his laptop. “I got an early morning.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m heading uptown to see our friend Elliot.”

  “Going bird-watching?”

  “There’s a … I don’t know what he called it … a club fair? All of Academy’s clubs are having an open house. Recruiting members for the second half of the year.”

  “How does that involve you?”

  “Elliot said he could use an extra hand with his bird-watching club, so I volunteered. I gotta meet with the headmaster first. Get cleared.” Edgar’s face turned serious. “Elliot’s the only member
, now that … y’know.”

  Dougie. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  “Anyways, since we’re gonna be business partners, I figured I’d head up there and see what the kid’s got.”

  “You mean face-to-face?” I teased. “You’re not going to IM him?”

  “That’s funny.” His face told me it wasn’t. “Hey, you wanna come along? You know how I am with meeting new people.”

  I did know. I was surprised Edgar knew.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I got kind of a busy day tomorrow.” I didn’t.

  “Ahh, come on, Ray. I’ll pick you up. We’ll be there in no time.”

  It would be something to do, I thought. I walked with Edgar to the front doors, shut the lights, and we stepped outside so I could lock the place up.

  “Maybe,” I said, turning the key. “What time are you leaving?”

  “I can pick you up at eight thirty.”

  I gave that some thought. “All right, but can you get me back by one? I need to hit Muscles’s tomorrow, and I have a date with Allison tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It starts at nine. All over by noon.”

  “Okay. Cool. Eight thirty.”

  “I’ll bring the coffee and bagels,” Edgar said.

  “I’ll need them both,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Chapter 25

  SATURDAY MORNING TURNED out to be surprisingly pleasant. The temp was in the low forties, and if there was a cloud in the sky, I didn’t see it. Except for a few small, gray mounds melting along the streets, the snow was pretty much gone. Edgar and I were driving over the Williamsburg Bridge. With little humidity and smog, and the early-morning sun shining on the skyscrapers, Manhattan looked like it was in high-definition. One of those mornings when I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Then I remembered we were driving right past the same tennis courts where Dougie had been killed. Maybe there were other places to live.

  “What did I tell ya, Ray?” Edgar said. “No traffic on the bridge, we cruise up the FDR, exit at Ninety-sixth, cross the park, hang a louie, and we’re at the school in just over twenty minutes.”

  I raised my coffee cup in a nonchalant salute. “When you’re right, you’re right.” To get my mind off Dougie, I said, “You think you’ll find parking by the school?”

  “You nondrivers are all alike.” He took a bite of his bagel. “Betcha we find a spot along the park less than three blocks from Upper West.”

  As it turned out, if I had bet him I would have lost. Fifteen minutes later Edgar pulled into an empty space along Central Park, and we finished our coffees and bagels on the short walk to the school.

  We saw a few people on the steps leading up to the school building. Most of them walked indoors, but two small groups had formed off to the side. One boy, about sixteen, held a sign attached to a stick that read, UPPER WEST ROADRUNNERS. He was talking to two boys, a girl, and a couple of grown-ups. The other sign read, FOR THE BIRDS, and was held by none other than Elliot Henry Finch. He had a box at his feet and was talking to no one.

  “Elliot,” I said, as Edgar and I climbed the steps.

  “Ray,” he said. “This is a surprise. I was expecting only Edgar.” He turned to face my friend. “It is nice, as I have heard people say, to finally put a face with the name, Edgar. I am Elliot Henry Finch.”

  “Edgar Martinez O’Brien,” Edgar said, shaking Elliot’s hand. Edgar looked around the steps and the front of the building and said, “Where’s the group?”

  “It appears we are the group. I would like to wait a few more minutes before we head off into the park.” He reached into the box and pulled out two pairs of binoculars. He handed one to Edgar and one to me. “I am hoping for a few more people.”

  I couldn’t tell if he believed that or not. It was hard to read this kid’s face.

  “Great day for it,” I said, going for optimistic.

  “Actually,” Elliot began, “I would have preferred to introduce newcomers to the group’s activities in October or April. Those are the peak bird-watching months along the Ramble, but I am not in charge of scheduling the open house.” He looked up at the sky. “Although today is a good day weather-wise, I am not sure how successful we will be when it comes to spotting the more interesting birds.”

  We stood there on the steps in awkward silence for almost a minute. It was broken by Edgar.

  “In the meantime,” Edgar said, “I’ve had a few ideas for the bird-watching site. Potential advertisers. Logo design.”

  “Excellent,” Elliot said. “As have I.” He reached once again into his box, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and handed it to me. “Ray, I have to introduce Edgar to the headmaster, and then I would like to speak with Edgar privately. Is that rude?”

  I shook my head. “No, Elliot. I understand completely.” I turned on my walkie-talkie and put the strap of the binoculars around my neck. Look at me, I’m a bird-watcher. “I’ll take a walk over to the park. Radio me when you two get there.”

  Without a word, they walked off in the other direction. I headed toward Central Park. I got about a half block, when I recognized the man walking my way. It was Mr. Rivera, the computer teacher. He looked at the walkie-talkie in my hand and the binoculars hanging from my neck and smiled.

  “You joining Elliot’s bird club, Mr. Donne?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’m here with a friend.”

  I explained the relationship between Edgar and Elliot and how Edgar didn’t want to come alone for his first meeting with his future partner.

  “Birds of a feather, so to speak,” Rivera said.

  My turn to smile. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah, every once in a while the computer guy makes a joke.”

  “I’ve heard of that happening. You going to the open house?”

  “Yeah. I run the after-school computer club. I’ve got one of my seniors up in the lab giving the introduction.”

  “I won’t keep you, then,” I said.

  “No, it’s cool. Truth is, Sheila practically runs the group anyway. I’m just the mandatory faculty advisor.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Yeah. Hey, anything new on Douglas?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “You heard about Jack Quinn?”

  “Of course. It’s a small school.” He shook his head. “Lot of shit going on lately.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Seems like it.”

  We both thought about that. When we were done thinking, I spoke.

  “I met Jack’s sister last week.”

  “Alexis,” he said. “How’d that come about?”

  I told him about my trip to the hospital and running into the sister, the father, and Dougie’s uncle.

  “What did she have to say?”

  “She denied being Dougie’s girlfriend. Made it seem like they barely knew each other. ‘My brother’s best friend’ is the way she put it.”

  Rivera shrugged. “Maybe I got it wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Or she was just too out of it to give me a straight answer.”

  “She was high?”

  “Took one of her mom’s anxiety pills. To help her through the crisis.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “Sometimes it seems like everyone’s on something. How was Mr. Quinn?”

  “Appreciative, at first. His daughter could have run into a lot worse than me in that situation. Then when he found out who I was and why I was there, he threatened me with his lawyer. Who just happens to be Dougie’s uncle.”

  “Sounds like it was a fun visit.”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  He laughed. “I can imagine. Was Dad there when Alexis denied her relationship with Dougie?”

  “No. Why?”

  He nervously looked over my shoulder, up toward the school. When his eyes returned to me, he lowered his voice.

  “Quinn senior? Never struck me as the most ardent defender of racial diversity.”<
br />
  “Really? I got the feeling he was the reason Dougie attended Upper West.”

  “Like I told you the other day, we unofficially have to have a certain amount of minority students. That number falls below … let’s say ten percent—and the school looks bad. As a board member, Quinn knows that. Doesn’t mean he likes it. I would imagine he probably viewed Dougie as the ‘right kind’ of black kid.”

  “Not from the projects,” I added.

  “Right. A nice smile, no tattoos. Hardworking boy and his single mom make a great photo for the brochure, but not necessarily someone he’d want his daughter to bring home to dinner, if you know what I mean.”

  Cynical guy, Rivera. I liked that.

  He looked at his watch. “I really should head up to the computer lab,” he said. “Sheila’s good, but the parents are going to have a few questions for me about exactly where their after-school fees are going.” He stuck out his hand. “You won’t repeat any of what I told you, right? About Jack and his dad?”

  “I wouldn’t even know whom to tell,” I said. “Take it easy.”

  “You, too.”

  As we walked off in different directions, I realized the little interest I had in bird-watching had suddenly disappeared. When I got to the stone wall separating Central Park from the sidewalk, I cleared off a spot big enough to sit on and did just that. With little else to do except watch traffic make its way north up Central Park West, I put the binoculars up to my eyes and checked out the apartment buildings on the other side of the street. Damn. This was a Peeping Tom’s dream come true. Hundreds of windows, many of them with the shades pulled down and not too many on street level. But, still, if looking into other people’s homes was something you were into, book a room and head on over to the Big Apple.

  “You can get into trouble doing that, you know,” a voice said.

  I lowered the binoculars and looked into a couple of familiar faces. I couldn’t quite place them, but some time in the past week …

  “Mr. Donne,” the boy said. “Jack Quinn.”

  Right.

  “We met outside the funeral home. This is my sister, Alexis.”

  I slid off the wall and walked over to him. If Alexis recognized me, she didn’t show it. I wondered if she remembered anything from the afternoon we’d met.