Crooked Numbers (Raymond Donne Mysteries)

by Tim O'Mara

  He couldn’t do that, I knew. What I said was, “That’s a good question for the detective. That’s why we need to go see him. He’ll know what to do.”

  “He was going to tell on us, you know.” Now he sounded like he was five.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Dougie. He was gonna tell on us: that we’d stolen the drugs and we were taking them, and they were making us act all different. He was gonna get us in a lot of trouble.” He stamped his feet, and yelled, “You don’t rat out your friends, Dougie!”

  Shit. This kid was going off the deep end fast. I needed to get him out of the park and into a cab two minutes ago.

  “Paulie and I wouldn’t have told on him. We were buddies. We … Paulie’s dead now, too, you know. Fuckin’ skateboarded into a bus. The fuck was that about?” He took a step toward me. “Can ya tell me what the fuck that was about, Mr. Donne?”

  “It was the drugs, Jack,” I said, taking a step toward him. “Maybe that’s why Dougie felt the need to stop you guys. That’s why you ended up in the hospital, right? The drugs?”

  He nodded his head yes.

  I took another step closer. “You ready to go talk to the police, Jack?”

  “He’s not going anywhere with you, Mr. Donne.”

  I turned around as Jack’s sister, Alexis, stepped onto the bridge from the same direction he’d come. Again, no jacket. Just a volleyball hoodie.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jack stage-whispered. “It’s my sister.”

  Alexis walked around me and took her brother by the arm.

  “It’s time to go home now, Jack.”

  Jack didn’t resist. He just hung his head and stared at the snowy ground.

  “Alexis,” I said, moving in front of the twins. “Jack just confessed to killing Douglas Lee.”

  A voice from behind me said, “My son did no such thing, Mr. Donne.”

  I turned. It was John Quinn Sr.

  “Hey, Dad,” Jack said. “Where’s Mom?”

  Ignoring that, the father looked at me. “He’s obviously still feeling the effects of his medications. He left the house without telling us. We came to the park, heard him yelling, and found him here with you.” He looked over at his kids and back at me. “If you leave now, we’ll just take Jack home and consider this matter closed.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. “What world do you people live in?”

  “The kind of world,” he said, “where grown men don’t meet with young boys late at night in the park, Mr. Donne. What world do you live in? First, you harass my daughter, and now I find you doing the same to my son?”

  “Your son asked me to meet him here.”

  He looked at his son. “Is that true, Jack?”

  Jack gave that a lot of thought before answering. “No,” he said, obviously scared to death to give any other answer.

  “You see, Mr. Donne. My son contradicts your version. I suggest you leave.”

  “I have a witness,” I said. “Elliot Finch.”

  “Who?” Alexis said, finally speaking. “The retard?”

  Oh, fuck these people. I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

  “Either way,” I said, “I’m contacting Detective Murcer. I’ll tell him Jack told me he killed Dougie, and he and his friends stole drugs from you. The drugs Jack had Dougie hide in his closet. Those drugs were responsible for Paulie Sherman’s death.”

  Mr. Quinn looked surprised. It was clear this was the first time he’d heard that Dougie was in possession of his drugs. He recovered quickly.

  “First of all, Mr. Donne, Jack will deny having anything to do with Douglas’s death. And from what I understand from Jack, it was Douglas who stole the drugs.” Already, he was spinning the story in his favor. “Jack just told me the boy was up there the weekend the drugs were taken.”

  “Is that the card you’re going to play, Mr. Quinn. Blame it on the black kid?”

  “It doesn’t matter what color Dougie was, he—”

  “Your daughter’s boyfriend, Mr. Quinn? It didn’t bother you he was black?”

  For the second time that night, Quinn senior blinked. He turned to face Alexis.

  “It’s not true, Daddy,” she said.

  “Wanna see a picture, Alexis?” I asked. “One that Dougie’s mom gave me?”

  “Shut up, Mr. Donne,” she said, the fear and agitation in her voice almost palpable. “Daddy, I swear…”

  “We’ll talk about this at home, Alexis,” he said. “We are leaving, Mr. Donne. I think you should do the same.”

  I knew I couldn’t let them leave the park with Jack. I needed to stir the pot that was this fucked-up family.

  “I think you should go ahead and call the police, Mr. Quinn,” I said. “I’ll do the same and take my chances with my story against yours. I have your drugs now. You can explain how they got into the hands of your son’s murdered friend. And your daughter can explain how she was not all … hot and heavy with the murdered black boy from Williamsburg.”

  “I told you to shut the fuck up!” Alexis screamed. I watched as her hand came out of her jacket pocket, holding a knife. She raised it and came charging at me. I was about to sidestep her, when she lost her footing on the thin layer of snow and barreled into me, sending us both to the ground. My knees screamed out in pain as they hit the cold bridge. Alexis’s weapon flew out of her hand and onto the snowy ground a few feet away. I could see now it wasn’t a knife. It was a lock pick. I put that together with the hoodie she was wearing.

  “You,” I said to Alexis as I struggled to get to my feet. “You killed Dougie.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You said so yourself.…” she said, barely able to catch her breath to get the words out. She started crying and pointed at her brother. “You said Jack did it. That he confessed.”

  “Alexis!” her father yelled. “Don’t say another word.” He ran over to grab the lock pick off the ground.

  “Oh,” I said to Mr. Quinn. “You definitely need to call the police.”

  His self-assured arrogance was now gone. He held the lock pick out in front of him, waist-high, as if warding off an attack from an invisible enemy. For someone so skilled with words, he seemed to be at a complete loss for them now.

  His son, however, was not. He turned to his twin sister.

  “You told me I killed Dougie.”

  “Shut up, Jack,” Alexis said.

  “Yes, Jack,” Mr. Quinn said. “Shut up.”

  “No!” Jack screamed. “I will not shut up. You’re both always telling me…” He looked at Alexis. “You told me I did it.” He turned to me. “I only wanted to scare him, you know? He was gonna tell on us, and I was gonna get in trouble.” He looked at his dad. “I just wanted to scare him, but things got out of control, and I was high and shit. Alexis told me I lost it and that I killed Dougie.” Now it was his turn to cry. “I just wanted to scare him.”

  “With what?” I asked.

  “This.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocketknife.

  That was not the weapon that had been used to stab Douglas William Lee eleven times, but I would bet good money it was the weapon that had inflicted the wound under his chin—and Allison’s. The murder weapon was the lock pick in his father’s hand. Of that, I was sure.

  “Mr. Quinn,” I said. “I think you’re going to need more lawyers.”

  Alexis sat up and pulled her knees into a hug.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she cried. “Dougie was going to tell his uncle everything. About the drugs. About him and me. He was going to ruin everything.” She tucked her head between her knees and her chest. “He was going to ruin us. Our family.”

  Again, Quinn senior could think of nothing to say, so he just mumbled, “Shut up.” He looked at both his children as if deciding which one to go to. In the end, he chose neither. He moved toward me. The look on his face was primal now, the look of a father protecting his offspring. I took a step back.

  “Mr. Quinn,” I said.
“Put the lock pick down.”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, Mr. Donne. These,” he said, looking over at Jack and Alexis, “these are my children.”

  “Then get them the help they need.”

  I looked around and thought about running, but didn’t think I’d get too far on the slippery bridge with my bad knees. If I let him get close enough, maybe I could get the lock pick away from him. Judging by the look on his face, that was a big maybe.

  “You’re making things worse,” I said. “People know I’m here to see your son.”

  “No one knows Jack came here for sure,” Quinn said. “Jack’s all confused. If the police ask, we’ll say he snuck out without our knowledge.” He turned to his son. “Whose phone was used to call Mr. Donne, Jack?”

  Jack seemed surprised by the question. “Elliot’s.”

  “See?” Quinn said to me. “No record of my son calling you and only—maybe—the word of a child of limited capacity.”

  “You underestimate Elliot, Mr. Quinn.”

  He took a step closer. He could have reached down and helped his daughter off the ground. Instead, he glared at me. “And you underestimate me.”

  “Daddy?” Alexis pleaded from the snowy sidewalk.

  “Just shut up, Alexis,” he said, wiping some snow from his face. “You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”

  “Daddy,” she repeated.

  He looked down at her with disdain. “I told you to shut—”

  He was interrupted by Alexis lunging at his legs. They both seemed surprised as he lost his balance, and father and daughter became entangled in each other on the snowy ground. Jack stepped over to them. It looked as if he were going to help them up. Instead, he started crying and raised the pocketknife above his head.

  “Jack!” I yelled, running over to the trio. He waved the knife in my face.

  “Get away, Mr. Donne,” he said. “Just stay the fuck away!”

  Jack looked down at his father and sister. Both were still on the ground, brushing the snow off their legs. Jack let out a scream that could only be described as primal. He raised the knife again and looked unsure as to whom he wanted to hurt more.

  “Don’t do it, son!” a voice from behind us yelled. “Drop the weapon!”

  All four of us—the three Quinns and I—looked over to see Detective Murcer aiming his gun at Jack. Behind Murcer was Allison.

  The knife still above his father and sister, Jack screamed again. “Fuck!”

  Taking advantage of Murcer’s distraction, I reached out and grabbed the lock pick from Quinn senior’s hand. I put it in my pocket and looked at his son.

  “Put the knife down, Jack. It’s over now.”

  There were three feet between us now, and he seemed clueless as to how we’d gotten there. His eyes went from me to the pocketknife in his hand, over my shoulder to Murcer, and back to me.

  “Jack,” I said. “Give me the knife. Please.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “Am I in trouble, Dad?”

  Jack collapsed to the ground in a kneeling position, all alone. He lowered the knife. I moved over and snatched it from him. Behind me I could hear Murcer talking into his radio, stating our location and requesting a squad car.

  “Am I in trouble, Dad?” Jack repeated. No one made a sound.

  “Everybody stay right where you are,” Murcer ordered.

  I looked at the three Quinns as Allison came over and put her arm around me.

  “I see you finally got through to Murcer,” I said.

  “Just covering your ass, Ray,” she said.

  Murcer came over and took the two weapons from me, then removed two plastic bags from his pockets. After securing his evidence, he turned to me and smiled.

  “I called your sister,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “We’re getting together next week.”

  “Dinner’s on me,” I said.

  Chapter 38

  “A FEW MORE OF THOSE,” I said, “and I’ll ruin my dinner.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Donne. You go right on ahead and ruin it.”

  I took two more cookies off the tray Mrs. Lee was holding. Dinner could wait. Then she gave the tray to her brother-in-law.

  “So the drugs I found in Douglas’s closet…”

  “Were taken from the Quinns’ car up in Rhinebeck,” I said. “Mr. Quinn didn’t even know they were gone until a week or so ago. When the police investigated the break-ins, they spoke to Jack. When Mr. Quinn confronted his son about it, Jack denied knowing anything. When his father kept pushing, Jack figured the best way out was to put the blame on Dougie.”

  “The dead black kid,” Mr. Lee said.

  “Yeah. Jack knew his dad would believe that without question.”

  “You should have told me about those drugs immediately, Gloria.”

  “And the father just kept them there?” Mrs. Lee asked, ignoring her brother-in-law. “In the trunk of his car? That just sounds to me like negligence.”

  “The firm,” Mr. Lee said, “is looking into what the industry protocol is. But I’m sure that storing them in your car is not it. John Quinn is going to have a lot to answer for. To the company and the FDA. He’s also going to face charges of bringing an unapproved drug back into this country without documentation, and he’ll be looking at endangering the welfare of a child. He’s going to jail. The only questions are for how long and whether it’s going to be federal.”

  “I hope he has a good lawyer,” I said.

  “It won’t be me. The firm has relieved me of all my files and obligations regarding Ward Fullerton. As of now, I’m on paid leave.”

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “Until they let me go outright,” he said. “My firm’s going to need a scapegoat, and they have no reason to look past the lawyer in charge. I’ll wait them out for a big severance package and take some time to figure out my next move.”

  Dougie’s mom took a seat on the couch, then took a sip of hot chocolate.

  “But this drug,” she said again. “Douglas thought it would help his father?”

  “I think he did when this whole thing started. But it was designed to help kids,” I reminded her. “It’s made to work with the chemicals in the area of the brain in charge of learning and memory. The boys, led by Jack Quinn, were, to some extent, conducting their own clinical trials.”

  She shook her head. “But why?”

  “Jack could be quite convincing and clever. It was his idea to put those beads around Dougie’s neck and plant the marijuana after Alexis killed him. He sold his friends on the possibility of higher grades and a shot at the better colleges. Remember, Jack was living in the academic shadow of his twin sister. That’s a lot of pressure in that world.” I took another sip of hot chocolate. “The same drug would have been of no use to someone with a traumatic brain injury like Dougie’s dad. His issues are physical, not chemical.”

  “The booze doesn’t help,” Mr. Lee said.

  “He thinks it does,” I said. “And in this culture, if the doctor doesn’t prescribe something, you can do it yourself. At happy hour prices.”

  Mrs. Lee shook her head. “I can’t believe that the brother and sister—twins, for Lord’s sake—would go after each other like that.”

  I thought back to something Rivera, the computer teacher, had told me last week. They eat their own in this zip code.

  “As soon as they get out of rehab, they’re in for a rough ride. They’re only sixteen, but murder’s murder. They’ll be lucky to be charged as minors.”

  “And they were the ones who attacked you and Ms. Rogers?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Lee shook her head. “And what about the Sherman boy?”

  “The combination of the drugs from the Quinns’ car and his ADHD medication most likely triggered suicidal thoughts. After witnessing Dougie’s murder, Paulie was a plane crash waiting to happen. Those pills also put Jack Quinn in the hospital.”

  “Those poor child
ren.”

  “Those poor children,” Mr. Lee said, “grew up with every advantage, Gloria.”

  “No, Douglas,” Mrs. Lee said, shaking her head. “They most surely did not.”

  “Well,” I said, taking a final sip of my hot chocolate. “I have to be going.”

  “I hope,” Mrs. Lee said, “you’re leaving because you have dinner plans with that lovely Ms. Rogers.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Donne.” She stepped forward and hugged me. “Thank you again for all you’ve done for this family. Would I offend you if I said, ‘God bless you’?”

  “No, ma’am. You would not.”

  “Then God bless you, Mr. Donne.”

  Douglas Lee, Attorney at Law, stood and offered me his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Donne,” he said. “I know I wasn’t as kind to you as I could have been, but under the circumstances…”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. Lee.”

  “I never said I was apologizing.”

  “No,” I said. “I guess you didn’t.” Fucking lawyers.

  Two minutes later, I was heading for the subway into Manhattan. I planned on staying the night at Allison’s and taking the next day off.

  God bless me indeed.

  ALSO BY TIM O’MARA

  Sacrifice Fly

  About the Author

  TIM O’MARA, author of the Barry Award–nominated Sacrifice Fly, is a teacher in the New York City public school system. He lives in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen with his wife and daughter. Crooked Numbers is his second Raymond Donne mystery.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  CROOKED NUMBERS. Copyright ©2013 by Tim O’Mara. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover art by Marc Yankus

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request