by Tim O'Mara
“Good for you,” he said. “Douglas used to talk about you. Said you helped a friend of his a couple of years ago. A runaway kid or something?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How well did you know Dougie?”
“Damn shame about Douglas.” He took his phone out again to check the time. “You mind if we walk and talk? I gotta tutor a kid downtown in forty-five minutes.”
“Not a problem,” I said, and we headed west.
“Why are you here, Mr. Donne?”
“I was returning a walkie-talkie that belongs to one of your students. Dougie’s mom asked me to get it back to the kid,” I lied then realized it was still attached to my belt. “Wow. We had a whole conversation, and I forgot to give it to him.” I handed him the walkie. “Would you mind?”
“That would be Mr. Finch, I assume. Our bird-watcher.” He slipped the radio into his bag.
“It would be.”
“Interesting young man, Elliot.” Rivera gave me another look as we crossed Columbus Avenue. “So why are you still here, Mr. Donne?”
“Raymond. I also promised Mrs. Lee I’d ask around a bit. See if I could find out anything the cops should know about. That was before I knew Detective Murcer had come up this way.” I wanted to keep this guy talking. “Were you able to tell him anything useful?”
He paused before answering. “I don’t know. He asked how Douglas was doing in school, how’d he’d been acting before he was killed, who his friends were. Stuff like that. Kinda questions the TV cops ask, y’know?”
“The same questions I would have asked.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I told him. Douglas was doing great in school. Top of his class, as a matter of fact.”
“How many kids are in a class?”
“Fifteen. We’ve got four grades, two classes per grade, and fifteen kids in each class. He was becoming a standout. You prepared him well.”
“Thanks.” I thought back to the group of boys I’d seen coming out of the building. “One hundred and twenty kids,” I said. “How many non-whites?”
Rivera grinned. “You picked up on that, huh? Not many,” he said. And then with a joyless smile added, “It’s time for ABC.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“ABC,” he repeated. “Another Black Child. We’re a private school, Raymond. Come fund-raising time, we can’t be too white, you know what I mean?”
“It’s a different world from what I know,” I said. “I understand Dougie hung out with the popular kids. Any best friends?”
“Elliot tell you that? ‘The popular kids?’” I nodded. “Yeah. Dougie was tight with…” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “The not-so-special kids, as we call them in the faculty lounge.”
“Because…”
“This is the Upper West Side, Raymond. Parents do what they can to give their kids any advantage over their friends’ kids. Let’s just say their idea of a ‘learning disability’ is not the same as yours and mine.”
“Don’t kids have to be evaluated to get into the school?”
“Pay six thousand bucks for a private eval up here, the evaluator will pretty much tell you what you want to hear.”
I ran that concept through my head. “So the parents get their kids tested and then placed in a school for kids with special needs…”
“… And Junior does better than his cohorts at the other private schools. When it’s time for the college application game, who do you think gets more attention? The rich, white kid with decent grades at a non–special ed school or the rich, white kid who has struggled to overcome his learning disability to succeed at Upper West Academy?”
“Shit,” I said.
“Of the bull variety.”
We were silent for a while, as a group of young girls giggled their way past us. We got to Broadway, just across from the subway station. As we waited for the light to change, I said, “So. Dougie’s best friends?”
“Probably…”—he paused to think—“Jack Quinn and … damn, I guess Paulie.”
“Why ‘damn’?”
“Paulie Sherman was the boy who got hit by the bus.”
Shit. I’d met Paulie and Jack outside Dougie’s funeral home.
Rivera zipped his jacket against the cold breeze coming from the Hudson River a few blocks away. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks around here,” he said.
“Yeah, Elliot told me about that. Sorry.” I gave him a minute. During that time, the light changed, but he made no move to cross the street. “Jack and Paulie,” I said, “you’d consider them … nondisabled?”
“Unless you count overprivileged and overanalyzed as disabilities,” he said. “And in their cases, you probably should. I was their advisor. Douglas’s as well. Jack and Paulie were both on ADHD medication, when all they really needed was their folks to step up and realize the word parent is a verb, too. Paulie…” His words caught in his throat. “I’m not blaming the victim, but what the fuck was a sixteen-year-old doing out after eleven o’clock on a school night … skateboarding?”
I nodded. “I hear ya.”
“The three of them,” he continued, “the last few weeks, I swear, it looked like they hadn’t been sleeping at all.”
Mrs. Lee had said something along those lines. “They say what that was about?”
“Gave me a load of crap. Staying up late to study, reading. I wasn’t buying it. There’s tired,” he said, “and then there’s wired and tired, you know what I mean?”
“You think they were on something besides their meds?” The thought of Dougie taking drugs was not something I could get my mind around. His mother didn’t say anything about him taking prescription medications, either.
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Jack and Paulie, anyway. As for Douglas, sometimes he’d go along with those two when he should have known better. Nothing big, just things like cutting last period or showing up late for first class with breakfast from Mickey D’s. One time I caught them on the roof—we got a green space up there—smoking. Jack and Paulie acted like it was no big thing, but Douglas was upset for the rest of the day. Couldn’t stop coughing, either.” He laughed at the thought as we crossed to the Seventy-second Street subway station. “I wouldn’t put him in the same category as the other two, but you know how kids can change in the right—or wrong—environment.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But who’d think a private school on the Upper West Side would be the wrong environment for a kid from Williamsburg?”
“Hey, man,” Rivera said, “I grew up in Bedford–Stuyvesant.” He gave his chest a playful double thump. “Bed–Stuy. Do or Die. I’ve seen kids pull shit up here my boys back in Brooklyn wouldn’t think of doing. They eat their own in this zip code.”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. “What happened with the Paulie kid?”
He shook his head. “The hell if I know. Some of those streets over by Riverside Drive, the kids take their boards, ride down the slopes. But not at night, man. Not around those blind corners. And not alone.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his MetroCard for the train. “They go with their buddies, so they got someone looking out for them.”
“Paulie was by himself?”
“Far as I know. No one’s come out to say otherwise.”
“What did Detective Murcer have to say about that?”
“What do you mean?” Rivera asked.
“Did he think it was strange Paulie was by himself? Or did he say anything about the coincidence of two kids who went to the same school getting killed within a week and a half of each other?”
“He didn’t say anything about anything. You know how cops are: ‘I’ll ask the questions here.’ Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.” He reached out to shake my hand. “I know what I’m thinking, though.”
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Upper West Academy’s been around for, what, fifty-something years? I asked some of the old-timers. Only two kids had ever died while students there.
One in the sixties—a drug overdose—and one ten years ago in a skiing accident. To have two more killed in less than two weeks … I don’t know.”
“Too much of a coincidence,” I said, as much for myself as Rivera.
“You’re the one who used to be a cop. How do you feel about coincidences?”
I thought about that and nodded. “Thanks for taking the time, Mr. Rivera,” I said. “Dougie’s mom will appreciate it.”
“Give her my condolences again, Raymond. She’s a good woman.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
I watched as he made his way toward the busy subway entrance. He stopped and turned around. “Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“You speak with Douglas’s girlfriend?”
I took a few steps toward him, maneuvering around people coming up from the underground. “I didn’t know he had one.”
“Oh, yeah. Jack’s twin sister. Alexis. I think they were getting hot and heavy there toward … you know.”
“Does she go to Upper West?”
“Oh, no,” he said, the sarcasm practically dripping from his lips. “She’s an academic superstar. One of Dayton’s best and brightest,” he said, referring to the exclusive all-girls’ private school on the east side of the park. He took a few steps closer and lowered his voice. “With all the difficulties these kids have to face, one of the worst is an overachieving sibling. And a twin? Shit. Jack’s got a hard road ahead of him.”
Yeah, I thought. Good thing he’s probably got a trust fund to ease his way. A family with two kids in private school was not hurting for bucks.
“I gotta go,” Rivera said. “Tell Murcer to talk to the girlfriend.” With those last words, he disappeared inside the station with a few hundred other riders.
Obviously, I was in no position to tell Detective Murcer anything. But I did know someone who could drop a strong hint that might get him motivated. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Allison’s number.
“Hello, Mr. Donne,” she said, picking up after the second ring.
“Whoa,” I said. “You got me on caller ID already? I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be too flattered. You’re a source. I’m a reporter, Ray. What’s up?”
Ouch. Right down to business. “A kid was killed the other night up on Riverside Drive. Rode his skateboard into a city bus. You know the story?”
She was quiet for a bit, but I heard clicking in the background. She was pulling the story up on her computer, I guessed.
“Yeah,” she said. “We ran it. Kid was killed Thursday night. Got a half page with art the next day, a few paragraphs on Saturday about the cops not charging the bus driver. We plan on running a small piece on today’s funeral services. That’s it. Why?”
“The kid was a friend and classmate of Dougie’s,” I said. Thursday night. That’s when I met Paulie outside the funeral home. “The driver say how it happened?”
Ten seconds went by. “It’s not in the piece, but I can ask Tony. He wrote the piece, and we’re both back at the office.” Another pause. “I don’t see him right now, but I know he’s here. Let me find him and call you back.”
That was a good idea, but I had a better one. “I’m on the Upper West Side,” I said. “You want to meet up for dinner?”
“Dinner with a source, huh?” she teased. “But which one of us is the source?”
“We’ll figure that out over dinner.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be another half hour here. Why don’t we meet downtown by my place? But don’t get any ideas, Ray. You know Bar 82?”
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize it. “Second and St. Mark’s?”
“Very good, Brooklyn Boy. Be there at seven.”
I looked at my watch. “I may have to start without you.”
“Then I may have to catch up. Don’t get too far ahead. See you at seven.”
I put my phone away, pulled out my MetroCard, and headed in the same direction Rivera had a short time ago. I was looking forward to a little alcohol and more than a little Allison.
Chapter 12
I WAS SITTING AT THE CORNER of the bar, looking out at the snow falling on Second Avenue, when the door opened and Allison Rogers walked in. Without saying a word, she came over, kissed me on the cheek, and glanced down at my half-finished beer.
“All you need is a smoking jacket and a dog at your feet.”
“I asked for a fire,” I said, “but they have a stupid rule about requiring a fireplace or something.”
“Damn government.” She slid into the empty stool next to mine and, as she was undoing her coat, the bartender came over. “Hello, Meghan,” Allison said. “The usual. And back up my friend here, if you will.”
Meghan tapped the bar twice. “You got it, Ally.”
“Ally?” I said, ready to give Allison a little shit.
“Yes,” she said. “Ally. And, yes, I do come here often. Any more questions?”
I shook my head. “Not at the moment.”
“Smart choice, tough guy.” Her drink came—Meghan placed an upside-down shot glass in front of me—and Allison touched her glass to mine. “Here’s to the first real snow of the season.”
“You like this weather?”
“I love when it snows in New York. Kinda quiets everything down, especially when we get one of those blizzards.” She looked out the window. “Nothing shuts this city down like a good snowstorm.”
“You’re in a good mood.”
“I am in a hungry mood. How about you?”
“I could eat,” I said, and then looked at the shot glass. “But I think I’ve got another drink coming.”
“We’ll order in.”
“Your place?”
“You wish,” she said. “Here.” She waved to Meghan, who came right over. “Can you call us in an order of ribs and onion rings?”
“You got it,” Meghan said. Then to me, “You ready for another pilsner, friend?”
I drained what was left of my first and slid the glass over. “I guess I am.”
After Meghan walked away, Allison picked up our conversation of over an hour ago. “So the bus driver said the kid who rode his board out into Riverside Drive? Paulie Sherman? …”
“Yeah?”
“Said it almost seemed like the kid was waiting for the bus.”
“I don’t get it. You mean, like waiting to get on the bus?”
“No,” Allison said. “Actually waiting for the bus to come by so he could … you know … skateboard out in front of it. He was on the corner, a block from the stop.”
“Shit,” I said, just as my second beer was placed in front of me.
“Nice mouth, friend,” Meghan said. “You can pick ’em, Ally.”
“Not now, Meg,” Allison said. “Thanks.”
Meghan raised her hands in mock defeat and stepped away to take care of some customers at the other end of the bar.
“So the driver thinks it was—what?—intentional?” I asked.
“That’s what he told us, Ray. ‘Suicide by bus.’ How fucked is that?”
“Pretty.” I took a sip of beer. Allison turned to the window. She had a look on her face that made me think she was remembering her own accident. “What’d the family have to say?” I asked.
“Nothing to us.” She turned back to me. “We—and the family’s lawyer—decided to keep that part out of the piece. Out of respect.”
“Really?” I added, not hiding my cynicism.
“Yeah, Ray. Really. Jesus. We’re not completely heartless. A lot of us have families of our own.”
I reached over and touched her arm. “Sorry.” When she didn’t pull away, I said, “Your guy talk to any of the friends? Kids from school?”
“Nope. Just the driver. Tony’s not known for his dogged pursuit of the truth.”
“But,” I said, “you are. So you’ve got to be more than curious about two friends from the same private school getting killed so close to each other.”
“Hell, yeah,” she said. “That’s why I marched into my editor’s office today and told him what I wanted to do, and he told me to run with it.”
“Just like Lois Lane and Perry White?”
“Great Caesar’s ghost,” she said. “First thing I want to do is get Detective Murcer—” A buzzing noise came from her pocket. She removed her phone, gave it a look and said, “Shit.” Then, in a much nicer voice: “Hello, Peter.” Pause. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “Yes, I can be if I have to.” Pause. “Fifteen minutes. You got it.” She hung up. “Hope you’re really hungry.”
“You have to go?”
“One of our local college basketball players is involved in a bit of a paternity scandal, and I gotta get over to the Garden and get some reaction quotes. Sorry.”
“So that was Perry White on the phone.”
She slid off her stool and put on her jacket. “Yeah.” She kissed me on the cheek. “And this is the price for marching into his office earlier. Rain check, okay?”
“I can go with you. Keep you company?”
“It’s my job, Ray. I’ll be there for a few hours. It’s harder than you think to get three or four usable quotes. And outside the Garden? Could take a while.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow?” I asked. “About Detective Murcer?”
“Yeah,” she said, leaning in to give me a quick, friendly kiss. “This is what I meant the other night about living for the moment, Ray.”
“I get the point, Allison. Again.”
Meghan came back over. “You guys done already?”
“Work,” Allison said. “Take good care of my friend here, okay?”
“You got it.”
We both watched as Allison zipped her jacket and made her way out of the warm bar onto the snowy street. When I turned around, Meghan was down at the other end of the bar, serving two customers who seemed to be arguing. One was a tall black guy with white hair, and the other was white and about a foot shorter with spiky hair. Kind of like watching Billy Dee Williams argue with Sting’s little brother. Meghan headed back to my end of the bar.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Ah, they run a reading series here every other Monday night. They’re like brothers who love each other except when they don’t. Thank God they got the third guy working with them.”
