Antonio had jumped from a window and fractured both his legs, but lived to tell about it. Hopefully he’ll tell us about it. He proves easy to find, mainly because his last known address is listed in the police reports. He doesn’t live there anymore, but it provides a simple way for Sam to track him down.
Antonio, who Sam learns is not surprisingly called “Tony,” lives in Clifton but works at a Taco Bell in Elmwood Park. I decide that I’ll talk to him at work, since if I go to his home I’ll have less chance of having a steak quesadilla after the interview.
Laurie insists on going with me for another reason, though she is also a major Taco Bell fan. She thinks that whenever I go off to interview a witness it could be dangerous, and she has no confidence whatsoever in my ability to deal with danger. It doesn’t matter who the prospective witness is; I could be questioning Mother Teresa, and Laurie would fear for my safety.
Laurie and I arrive at the Taco Bell, which has recently added a small Pizza Hut menu, apparently for diversity. “See, I don’t approve of that,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because tacos are tacos and pizza is pizza.”
“Wow, that is profound,” she says. “Have you got a pen? I want to write that down.”
We’ve gotten here at ten-thirty in the morning, the time that they open, to reduce the likelihood that Tony would be too busy to talk to us. There is one car in the drive-thru lane, but we are the only ones in the restaurant itself.
We ask the young woman behind the register if we could speak to Tony, but she doesn’t take the time to respond. All she does is immediately yell out, “Tony!” It’s obviously a fast-talk, as well as fast-food, establishment.
A young man comes out from the back, and says, “What’s up?” The young woman, perhaps afraid she’s going to use up her word quota for the day, simply points to us. So Tony comes over to us and asks, “What’s up?”—a phrase he has apparently mastered.
“My name is Andy Carpenter,” I say. “This is Laurie Collins We’re investigating the fire.”
Tony physically pulls back from the words. “Oh, man, again? I told that cop everything I knew. All of a sudden everybody wants to talk to me.”
“I’m sorry, but someone has been arrested, and we need to determine if they have the right person.” I’m skirting the issue, trying not to identify myself as Noah’s attorney. Since three of Tony’s relatives were killed in the fire, and he himself was injured, he might not be too inclined to talk to someone on Noah’s side.
“It may not be him?” Tony asks.
“We’re just trying to make sure,” I say.
We go over to a table near the window, and I ask Tony to tell us whatever he remembers about that night.
He takes a deep breath and says, “I was asleep; it was after midnight. This really loud noise woke me up; it sounded like I was in a wind tunnel, or something. Or maybe one of those big storms, like a tornado.
“But when I looked around, everything seemed to be okay. I thought I heard yelling over the noise, but I couldn’t be sure. So I went to open the door, and the handle … the doorknob … burned my hand. But it was too late, the door opened just a little bit, and all these flames and air came flooding into the room. I think the air was hotter than the flames.
“I wanted to go through the door, my mother and two sisters were in there, but there was no way I could. I swear, there was no way. By then my room was on fire; there were flames everywhere. So all I could do was jump out the window, and hope they had made it out okay.
“They didn’t.”
He says all this without much apparent emotion, almost as if he’s reading the words from a script. Some self-preservation instinct has enabled him to deal with this and continue to function in society.
“We’re so very sorry,” Laurie says, and I echo those sentiments. It’s almost impossible to imagine what this young man has been through.
“Did you know a lot of people in that building?” I ask.
“No … not too many. A lot of people would move in and out, and then there were some people my mother warned my sisters and me to stay away from.”
“Who were they?” Laurie asks.
“There were two apartments on the first floor; my mother said they were drug dealers.”
“Do you think they were the targets of the fire?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I guess. No way for me to really know.”
“Who did you know?”
“There was a kid my age on the second floor … I forget his name—maybe William something. I was in his apartment a few times. I met his mother, but I don’t think he had a father, at least not one that lived there.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not really. I met the lady who lived across the hall a couple of times. You know, just to say hello in the hallway. She only lived there about a year. Once she had the baby, I didn’t see that much of her. But people came to see her, sometimes they were dressed in suits.”
“Do you know her name, or what the people wanted?” I ask.
“No. And then there was a lady on the second floor, Charisse. My mother warned me about her too. I didn’t know why at the time, but now that I know more…” He looks at Laurie, as if trying to decide to continue. “I think she was probably a hooker, you know? Maybe the lady across the hall was as well.”
“Is there anything you can think of, anything at all, that would lead you to believe that someone in the apartment building had terrible enemies who might have done this?”
“No. I’m sorry, but no.”
“Where did you go after the fire, Tony?” Laurie asks.
“Well, I was in the hospital for a while, maybe a month, and then I went to live with my aunt.”
“Are you still with her?”
“I’m in her apartment. She died a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Laurie and I both say it simultaneously. We could say we’re sorry to Tony for the next ten years, and it wouldn’t cover it. Nor would it help him any.
“Andy, make a right into that 7-Eleven.”
“Why? What do you need?” I ask, but Laurie doesn’t answer. She seems to be focused on something in the mirror.
“Laurie?”
She still doesn’t answer, at least not right away, and I pull into the strip mall parking lot and turn off the car.
“Go in and buy something. Take your time about it.”
“What am I supposed to buy?” I ask, more confused than normal.
“Doesn’t matter. I think we’re being followed, and I want to make sure.”
I get out of the car and go into the store, and I notice that Laurie is starting to make a call on her cell phone. Once inside, I start to wander the aisles, pretending to be looking for something. Since there are only two aisles, and since I’m the only person in the store, the cashier starts to look at me a little strangely.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
I give her my most charming smile, for which there is no known defense. “Just browsing; everything looks so good.” The fact that I’m standing in front of laundry detergent and bleach may be one reason why she doesn’t return the smile or seem at all captivated. Instead, she stays silent and keeps watching me.
I look through the window and see that Laurie is off the phone. She and I make eye contact, and she shakes her head slightly, telling me she’s not ready for me to come back to the car.
I’m not feeling too significant to this process, but there’s really nothing I can do about it right now. I take a bottle of bleach and a loaf of whole wheat bread, and bring it to the cashier. “How’s it going?” I ask, pulling out all the conversational stops.
“That it?” is her response, referring to the two items I’m getting.
“You know something, give me a minute. I should get some sodas … to wash down the bread.” I leave my items there and head back to the refrigerator case filled with drinks. I pretend to agonize over them, but don’t take any because Laurie finally
nods to me that it’s okay for me to come out. I go back to the cashier, pay for the original items, and leave.
When I get back in the car, Laurie says, “What did you get?”
“Bread and a bottle of bleach. You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“There’s somebody following us; the car is parked diagonally across the street … don’t look in that direction. I think it’s just one male in the car, but I can’t be positive.”
“Are you sure about this?” I ask.
“Andy…” is how she admonishes me. She has spent most of her life as a police officer; this is her area of expertise.
“Okay, I believe you. What are we going to do about it?”
“It’s already done. Marcus just got here; he’s going to follow the guy following us. And then he’ll learn whatever there is to learn.”
“How?”
“By being Marcus,” she says.
“So I should just drive home?”
“Yes. Normal speed. Don’t look in the rearview mirror any more than you normally would.”
“It’s under control,” I say. “You can count on me.”
“We really didn’t need any more bleach.”
“I was under a lot of pressure.”
It takes us another fifteen minutes to get home, during which time I don’t see any sign of the car following us or Marcus. Neither Laurie nor I can think of any reason why we’d be under surveillance by anyone.
“But it’s got to be related to the Galloway case,” I say. “That’s the advantage of having only one client; it’s easy to narrow these things down.”
Once we get into the house, Laurie peeks through the window to see if our stalker is on the street, but if he is, he’s nowhere to be found.
Now all that there is left to do is wait for Marcus to call. I’m anxious for him to do so, but not so anxious that I’m going to answer the phone when it rings. One thing I don’t need now is a conversation with Marcus, during which he utters undecipherable one-word grunts.
I’ll leave that to Laurie.
Loney got lucky.
He was uncharacteristically late in arriving at the motel for the meeting with Camby, and therefore was able to see Carpenter’s investigator enter the room. The guy didn’t knock, or pick the lock; he just lowered his shoulder and almost casually forced the door open. As someone who had bashed in a few doors himself, Loney was impressed.
But more than lucky, Loney was smart. He was smart enough to have researched Carpenter and his team thoroughly, and he knew all about Marcus Clark. And one thing he knew for sure; Ray Camby was not going to stand up to him.
Recruiting Camby was a mistake; Loney had felt that from the moment he met him. But Camby had been recommended, and he did have some virtues. He would do what he was told, he had no hesitancy whatsoever to break the law, and most important, he was expendable.
Loney could see through the window, and it was easy to tell that Camby was scared. Clark was going to force him to talk, and the problem was that Camby had plenty to say. At the top of that list were the dealings that he and Loney had had with Danny Butler.
Loney had the ability to remain calm and think clearly in a crisis, and it served him well here. His first idea was to shoot Clark; he had a clear view into the room, and a weapon that could easily bridge the distance.
But Clark seemed to be smart enough to stay out of the line of sight, and Loney could only get brief glimpses of him. Also, killing Clark would attract a lot of unwanted attention to Carpenter and the Galloway case.
The other option was to kill Camby before he could talk. Camby was visible through the window and Loney could pick him off with ease. Certainly, Camby’s death would not be a significant loss to the operation, especially since his identity was now compromised.
The other key factor that Loney considered was that he was soon going to have to kill Camby anyway. He knew far too much, and when the ultimate task was accomplished, it would be far too risky to let him live. A lot of people would be dying, and Camby was to be one of many.
Now he would lead the way.
Once he had made the decision, Loney didn’t hesitate. He took out his gun and in one smooth motion aimed and fired. The bullet made surprisingly little noise as it went through the motel room window, and it hit Camby square in the chest. The unnecessary second bullet went through his skull, and he went straight back and down.
Loney didn’t see Clark after the shooting; he was obviously taking cover in anticipation of more shots. Loney retreated to a position farther from the motel, from where he would be able to see Clark’s car leave, without being seen himself.
It was only three or four minutes before the car went by. Loney had not detected any other commotion; it seemed likely that the shooting had gone unnoticed.
Loney headed back to Camby’s room for what would be a cleanup operation. He was not unhappy with how things turned out, and recognized the element of luck that had helped in the process.
But he also knew that intelligence and resourcefulness were the qualities that had prevailed. They would continue to do so, right up to the time that the goal was reached, and everyone in the way was dead.
We wait almost five hours for Marcus to call us.
I’m so bored that I actually go on Facebook, something I probably haven’t done in six months.
I understand that it’s a social network, and that people feel it brings them together, but I just don’t get it. People fill it with boring, uneventful moments in their day, I assume believing that other people care about it.
Why should I care if Sylvia Swathouse is “having a cup of tea”? But as dreary as that stuff is, the responses are even worse, and completely cloying. “Oh, Sylvia, that sounds so warm and wonderful.” Or, “Is it chamomile, Syl? That’s my favorite.”
But everybody is doing it, even Hike. Though last time I looked, I was his only friend.
Laurie answers when Marcus finally calls, and for the next three or four minutes, just listens, not saying a word. Since I know from past experience that Marcus is not exactly verbose, it’s possible that the line has gone dead and neither of them knows it.
Finally, Laurie says, “Marcus, are you all right?”
Another minute goes by, and she says, “Okay. Right away,” before she hangs up.
“The situation has taken a somewhat surprising turn,” she says.
“Surprising good, or surprising bad?”
“You can make up your own mind about that. The guy tailing us waited down the block from here for about an hour, probably making sure we weren’t going to leave. Finally he left, and made some stops around town, with Marcus following him all the way.”
“Not too surprising thus far,” I say.
“I’m getting there. Eventually he stopped at a motel on Route 4, where he apparently was staying. Marcus decided to intercept him at that point, and he entered the guy’s room to question him.”
“The guy let him in, or he broke the door down?” I ask
“I don’t know, but one way or the other he got in. He was conducting an interrogation when two bullets came through the window and hit the man. Marcus took evasive action and was unharmed, and the sniper apparently fled the scene.”
“Dead?” I ask.
She nods. “Very much so. Marcus was quite impressed with the killer’s marksmanship.”
“So what did Marcus do?”
“He grabbed some of the deceased’s stuff, and then left. The room was in the back, and there was significant noise from the highway. The bullets went smoothly through the window, and no one seemed to notice. Marcus said there was no sign of the police being called.”
“Where is Marcus now?”
“On the way here.”
I suppose if I had normal human emotions, I would be reflecting on the tragic loss of life I just heard about. Fortunately, I’m not burdened with them, and I’m going to assume for the time being that the loss will be something that society can successfully r
ecover from.
Instead I’m worried about Marcus, and whether he left traces of himself in the dead man’s room. Those traces could be fingerprints, DNA, or a witness who saw him enter the room. I don’t want to have to defend Marcus in a murder trial; juries would take one look at him and decide this is a person who should be taken off the streets. The trick would be to try and get twelve wardens on the jury, all of whom would greatly prefer Marcus stay on those streets and out of their jails.
Marcus arrives at the house, and indicates that he wants to talk to us in the kitchen. This allows him to be close to the refrigerator, which he clearly intends to empty. Marcus has the most amazing capacity to eat of anyone I’ve ever seen, and he’s going to demonstrate it now.
If Marcus is shaken by today’s events, he’s hiding it well. The stress of the ordeal has him babbling at the rate of one word every few minutes, and his relating of the story takes what seems like a couple of days, with extra time for chewing.
Marcus is positive that he left no trace of himself at the scene, and seems slightly put off that I would suggest such a thing. Since Marcus is the person in the world I least want mad at me, I resist asking, “Are you sure?” If he’s wrong, we’ll find out soon enough anyway.
Marcus had looked around the room before he left for papers that might identify the dead man, but could find none. The guy was also not carrying a wallet; obviously his identity was to be kept a secret.
Marcus took the man’s cell phone, which he places on our kitchen table, since that gives us the opportunity to know who he has been in touch with. He also took an empty beer bottle that was in the room for possible fingerprints. Marcus’s mother did not raise a stupid child.
The man was carrying two handguns, which Marcus left at the scene. It scares the hell out of me that a heavily armed person was following Laurie and me, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. To Laurie and Marcus, this is just another day at the office. I was clearly born with a defective courage gene.
One Dog Night Page 10
