Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  I remembered the exhausted look I’d seen an hour ago on Douglas Lee’s face.

  “I guess that makes sense,” I said. “It’s one of the biggest businesses in the country, and one mistake could put you under. What was that drug a couple of years ago? Caused heart attacks when it was supposed to be lowering blood pressure?”

  “Yeah,” Edgar said. “I don’t remember the name, but I remember the story.”

  “I imagine suing these companies is pretty lucrative, too.”

  “Big-time. There’s less info on that, though, because most of the time the drug companies settle out of court and that stuff’s all hush-hush. The only time they want to see their name in the papers is when they’re introducing a new product or in a full-page ad for their latest cholesterol-fighting drug.”

  “Did you find anything on lawsuits against Ward Fullerton?”

  “Not much. They seem to know what they’re doing.” He flipped through his papers. “Their specialty seems to be psychopharmacology.”

  “Drugs that deal with psychological problems?”

  “That’s an oversimplification.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t have five and a half hours of spare time to do my research, Edgar.”

  “Not to worry, Raymond.” He patted my arm. “That’s what you got me for. Psychopharmacology deals with how drugs affect our moods, the way we think, even how we behave. It’s fascinating stuff, really. The big bucks come from antidepressants and ADHD meds.”

  “And that’s what WFP does?”

  “For the most part, but in a limited way. They have a few drugs currently on the market and a few more under development. They’re not one of the big boys—which explains why they have outside counsel—and they seem to be comfortable with that.”

  “Okay,” I said, getting a bit bored with the conversation. “Looks like that was five and a half hours well spent.”

  Edgar picked up the pages. “There’s more, Ray. Lots.”

  “I’m sure there is, Edgar. It’s just been a long day, and I don’t think there’s any more room in my brain for new information. But it’s good stuff. Thanks.”

  Ignoring me, Edgar went on. “I couldn’t find much about that kid, Paulie Sherman. I figured a story like that would have gotten more coverage, but I only found two days’ worth.”

  “Probably because he comes from a well-to-do Upper West Side family who values its privacy. If it was suicide-by-bus, you think they want it spread all over the tabloids in this city?”

  Edgar nodded. “You’re right. It’s a different world up there, huh?”

  “Families with lawyers generally get what they want.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Oh, by the way, I contacted that little friend of yours.”

  “Who am I? Mr. Rogers? I don’t have ‘little friends,’ Edgar.”

  “The bird kid,” he explained. “Elliot Finch.”

  “You contacted him?” Edgar nodded. “How? And why?”

  “I reached out to him through his website. I liked what I saw the other day and wanted to give him a few tips on security and graphics. Hope you don’t mind, but I dropped your name. He seems to like you.”

  “I’m a raven.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. So, what, you left a message for him?”

  “No, Ray. We IM’ed for about forty-five minutes.”

  “IM’ed?”

  Edgar gave me another one of those looks, as if he were talking to someone who didn’t know how to program a DVR.

  “Instant-messaged,” he explained. “Instant messaging is like talking on the phone, but you just send text messages back and forth in real time.”

  “I know what IMing is, Edgar. But why don’t you just talk on the phone if you’re going to have a forty-five-minute conversation?”

  “Because we have computers now.”

  “We also have cell phones.”

  He was growing more exasperated with me. “It’s just … it’s … it’s a way of communicating that some of us feel more comfortable with. I like this kid.”

  “He gives good IM?”

  “Ha.” Edgar was getting the fake laugh down real good. “We,” he went on, “are planning to collaborate on a website.”

  “Sounds like he’s your little friend now.”

  “He’s really into bird-watching, as you know. And, like me, he agrees there’s an untapped market out there screaming for a halfway decent bird-watching site.”

  “I didn’t know you were that into it, Edgar. I thought your uncle was the bird-watcher in the family.”

  “I used to go out with him a lot,” Edgar said. “But then I got interested in video games, computers, and technology.” He looked off into space for a moment and said, “I spend way too much time inside. But now, I can combine all that and maybe make some money in the process.”

  “How do you make money off a bird-watching site?”

  “Ads,” he said. “Binoculars, clothing, high-tech birding equipment. We figure the people who subscribe to our site all need the same kinda stuff. We’ll start with Central Park and then build from there.”

  I nodded approvingly. “I got to hand it to you, Edgar. You’re always thinking.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Cuts into my sleep, but whatta you gonna do? We’re gonna meet up this weekend and go over the details.”

  “Meet up?” I asked. “Like, in person?”

  “Yes, Ray. Like, in person. I hope it goes well. He’s a nice kid and all, but he struck me as a little … off.”

  “He remind you of anyone?”

  “No. Did he remind you of anyone?”

  I smiled. “Nope. Just asking.”

  “We’re gonna have coffee at Starbuck’s.”

  Of course you are, I thought. Before I could tease him a little more, my phone vibrated in my front pocket. I’d forgotten it was there. I checked the caller ID and recognized Allison’s number. I squelched the urge to say “hurray” and took the call.

  “Hey,” I said, hiding some of my enthusiasm.

  “Hey, yourself. You busy?”

  “Just chatting with Edgar here at The LineUp. Creature-of-habit stuff. You?”

  “Finishing off the latest—and hopefully last—piece on the basketball daddy.”

  “You don’t call him that in the paper, I hope.”

  “Give me a little more credit, Ray. Besides, it seems the woman making the accusations—the baby mama—has done this before. Most of the major sports, too. This is the first time she’s gone down to the college level, though.”

  “Well, good for our basketball star.”

  “Yeah. I know it’s a better story the other way, but it’s nice to see one of these go this way once in a while. He seems like a decent kid.”

  It was good to hear Allison say that. She was a sharp reporter, but I had concerns about her desire for a good story getting in the way of her being a good person.

  “So,” I said. “Does that free you up a bit? I was thinking maybe we could do dinner tomorrow?”

  “That’s a real possibility,” she said. “But”—her voice got low and sexy now—“I’ve got something that might be more interesting.”

  I spun my stool away from Edgar.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Paulie Sherman.”

  “What about him?”

  “Okay,” she began. “I went to my editor today with the info on the Quinn kid being in the hospital. I sold him on the idea there at least seems to be a connection between the three boys and what’s happened to them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s given me the go-ahead to make the connection.”

  “Beyond the fact they were all friends, attending the same school?”

  “The same private school, Raymond. These are families of more than a little influence. Including Dougie’s. His uncle being a lawyer and all. The last thing my bosses want is a pissed-off lawyer making trouble for the paper. I’ve been instructed to tread lightly.”
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  “So what’s the deal?”

  “I’ve set up an interview for tomorrow afternoon with Paulie’s parents.”

  “They agreed to an interview?”

  “Reluctantly,” Allison said. “I told them the piece might not even publish. They knew Dougie, and they’re friendly with the Quinns. I spoke with the father. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he’s curious about what might be going on. They’ve agreed to give me a half hour.”

  “Good.”

  “It gets better.”

  “How so?”

  “I need a photographer.”

  “And your boss said yes?”

  “No, my boss said no.”

  “How’s that better, Allison?”

  She paused for a few seconds and said, “You own a camera, Raymond?”

  Holy shit.

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking of the digital one I use at school to take pictures of graffiti or injuries to students. “But I’ve been told by Murcer, Douglas Lee, and my uncle to stay away from the case.”

  “You afraid of getting into trouble with your uncle, Raymond?” She did a pretty good imitation of a middle school girl.

  “I’m concerned about stepping over the line—again—and impeding an active investigation, Allison. I’ve probably done that already, but my name has kept me out of trouble. I don’t think I can push it much more.”

  “Okay,” she said. “If you don’t want to do it…”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want to do it.” I took a deep breath and listened to the silence on the other end of the phone. “Half an hour?”

  “Thirty quick minutes,” she said. “We’re in, we’re out, and then I let you take me to dinner, tough guy.”

  Another pause. I spun around just enough to grab my beer. Edgar gave me another of his “What’s up?” looks. I ignored him and finished off my pilsner. I wasn’t sure why I was making a big deal over this. I knew what my answer would be.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

  “There you go,” she said. “Tomorrow at one.”

  “I’ll have to leave work early.”

  “I think you can come up with something to tell your boss.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Where am I meeting you?”

  She gave me the Shermans’ address. Riverside Drive. Nice neighborhood, three blocks from where their son was killed. I wondered if they’d move.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Looking forward to working with you, Raymond,” she said. “And to dinner.”

  “Me, too. Thanks, Allison.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Donne.”

  I hung up and slipped the phone back into my pocket. A brand-new beer was waiting for me when I turned back to Edgar.

  “What was all that about?” he asked.

  “Allison and I are going to meet with Paulie Sherman’s folks tomorrow. He was the kid killed on his skateboard. Friend of Dougie’s.”

  “Right. Good for you, Raymond. Nice to see you being your own man. The heck with what the detective, the lawyer, and your uncle tell you to do.”

  “No, Edgar. They’re right, but…”

  He gave me a few seconds, and when he realized I had no end to that sentence, he repeated himself. “Good for you, Raymond.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 22

  “SO, OLIVIA,” I SAID TO THE girl seated to my right, “does your mother have sex with people in order to support her drug habit?”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. “’scuse me, Mr. Donne?”

  I picked up the statement she had just signed, took my finger, and touched the phrase in question. “Is,” I said, “your mother—and I’m quoting here—‘a crack ho’?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.” I picked up the other paper and turned to its author, seated on my left. “Devona. Is your mother a”—I used my finger again to find what I was looking for—“a ‘big fat black bitch’?”

  Devona looked at me and then over to Olivia. “Not the bitch part.”

  “But she is big?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “And, of course, she’s black?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So your objection to Olivia’s statement is, your mom’s not a bitch?”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay.” I took both statements, turned around, and put them on my desk. The three of us were seated in a triangle in the middle of my office. “And this all jumped off because … tell me again, Olivia.”

  Without even thinking about it, she got right into it. “What happened was Devona was talkin’ smack about me on the playground.”

  Devona was about to interrupt. I raised my finger and said, “Let her finish.”

  “Sayin’ I’m a two-timer and I let boys feel me up.”

  “You heard her say this?”

  “No,” Olivia admitted. “Veronica told me ’bout it.”

  “So you didn’t actually hear Devona say anything?”

  “She called my moms a crack ho.”

  “She admits to that, but that was after you called her mom a big, fat black bitch.”

  Olivia looked down at her feet. “Okay.”

  “Devona,” I said, “did you say those things about Olivia?”

  “No.” Devona folded her arms across her chest.

  “Why would Veronica make that up?”

  “I don’t know. Ask her. She always instigatin’ and shit.” She realized the word she had just used. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I looked at the two girls. “You two ever have a beef before?”

  They both shook their heads no.

  “So this all got started because you”—I motioned with my head at Olivia—“heard Devona said something you didn’t actually hear yourself.”

  Olivia shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Let’s be clear here, then. You two almost got into a fight and risked getting suspended because of some he said–she said crap?” I paused to let that sink in. “If Ms. Levine hadn’t been there and stepped in, we would be having a completely different conversation right now. With your parents. They got nothing better to do than take time out of their day because somebody said something somebody else didn’t say?”

  I wasn’t quite confident of my grammar there—but I think I got my point across, because both girls shook their heads and whispered, “No.”

  “Okay then. Let’s all be glad this didn’t get out of hand. Olivia, you have something you want to say to Devona?”

  Olivia looked at me. “Sorry.”

  “Tell her, not me.”

  She faced Devona. “Sorry I called your moms a big, fat black bitch.”

  I looked at Devona as she fought back a smile. “I’m sorry I called your moms a crack ho.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What happens now?”

  “Whatta you mean?” Devona asked.

  “How do I know this is over? That you two aren’t just blowing smoke in my face and this jumps off again after school?”

  “Nah, it won’t, Mr. D,” Olivia said, then held her hand out to Devona. “We cool.”

  Devona gave it a light slap and held hers out to Olivia, who returned the gesture. “Yeah,” Devona said. “We cool.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to trust you two.” I stood up and walked over to my desk. “I’m also going to have a talk with Veronica. Her name’s come up before in things like this, and she never seems to be the one sitting in my office apologizing. Let me talk to her, not you two.”

  “Okay, Mr. D,” Olivia said. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah,” Devona said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. When you get the chance, you might also want to thank Ms. Levine. You’re lucky she was there.”

  They both nodded. After I wrote them late passes to class, they left my office.

  *

  I gave my principal some bullshit excuse about having some personal business to take care of on Long Islan
d, and he didn’t push it. Ron was too busy looking at his computer screen to have a conversation, and that was okay with me.

  I grabbed a buttered bagel and a coffee by the subway station. The subways were running great, so a little more than thirty minutes later, I was outside the Shermans’ apartment on Riverside Drive. Allison got there about a minute after I did.

  “You are prompt,” she said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “And courteous.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out the camera.

  “And prepared,” Allison said. “Like a Boy Scout.”

  “Not exactly.”

  She looked at my camera. “You know how to use that?” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Remember, you are a photographer today. After I introduce you, you are to take a few pictures and remain silent. Got it?”

  “What if I have a question?”

  “You won’t. Photographers don’t have questions, reporters do.” She reached out and grabbed my arm. “Promise me. No questions.”

  “Okay,” I said. “No questions. I promise.”

  “It’ll be good practice for you. Sitting and listening.”

  “Are you implying I talk too much and don’t listen enough?”

  “Oh, please. Not just you. Most men.” She touched my face and lowered her voice. “Consider this a test. If you pass, there might be something in it for you.”

  I got that warm feeling in my chest again. “Okay,” I said.

  “Good boy.”

  We walked inside and were greeted by a uniformed doorman. Allison took out her newspaper ID and explained to him that we were expected by the Shermans.

  The doorman stepped over to the house phone, told someone on the other end we were here, then pointed to the elevators.

  “Be nice to them,” he said. “They’ve been through a lot.”

  “Do you know the family well?” I asked, and got slapped on the arm by Allison. I looked at her. “You said no questions for the Shermans. You didn’t say anything about the doorman.”

  After giving us a confused look, the doorman said, “Known ’em since they moved in. Knew Paulie since he was just a pup.”

  “What kind of kid was Paulie?”