Don't Look Twice

by Andrew Gross

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bridgeport was just twenty minutes up the thruway from Greenwich, but it might as well have been in a different century.

  The last fifty years had not been kind to Bridgeport. Once home to factories for companies like Underwood Typewriters, Singer Sewing Company, and Bassock Tool and Dye, it was always a blue-collar town, home to blacks and Hispanics and Portuguese. By the 1980s, its downtown had decayed and its factories had been abandoned. It had a lagging school system with clashing minorities living in throwback 1960s projects.

  Artie Ewell was the head of the Gangs and Street Crime Unit. Hauck had worked with him several times on cases and at Fairfield County youth conferences where their interests overlapped.

  Ewell was already familiar with Josephina Ruiz. An imposing black man, he had been a lane-clearing forward at UConn before it became a national power, and his office was covered with photographs of the charter school basketball program he ran each summer. He had interviewed the Ruiz family after the tragedy and decided not to pursue any charges.

  “Good family,” Ewell said, motioning to Hauck and Munoz to take a seat in his small office at the central police headquarters on Congress Street. “What could I do? The father’s back in Guatemala somewhere and the mother held down two jobs. There’s an older sister studying to be a nurse, I think, or something. Another brother somewhere. They live up in the Tombs…” Ewell sighed. “We looked it over two ways to Sunday, but we couldn’t find anything other than some awfully bad decision-making on the part of the kids involved. The DA decided not to charge. I heard about what happened down there today, Ty. You think this is connected?”

  “The brother,” Hauck said, still in his jeans and pullover, “someone said he was in a gang?”

  “Gang?” The burly detective linked his thick hands together, leaned back, and crossed his ankles. “The Ruizs live in the Tombs, Ty, a housing complex over on Pembroke. You’re familiar with that part of town, are you not, Detective Munoz?”

  “I’m familiar.” Munoz, who was from neighboring Fairfield, nodded.

  “If we brought in everyone who was part of some gang”—Artie Ewell laughed—“we’d have more kids in jail than in school. Everyone connects to the gangs up here. Every neighborhood has its own colors. The Cobras, they’re over on Grove; 9-Tre, they’re over on Sherman. Even the Crips and the Bloods have set up chapters now. You know what they say…Bridgeport’s a third black, a third Hispanic, and the rest just plain poor.”

  Hauck knew he was right. The high school graduation rate was something like 70 percent. There were twenty murders committed last year. The crime index was twice the national average, ten times that of Greenwich. Like a sore on the perfect complexion of Fairfield County, Bridgeport was the town all the hedge funds and market booms forgot. The place you passed on the thruway, where the people who washed your linens and mowed your lawns went home every night.

  “Any of them decked out in red bandanas?” Hauck asked him.

  “Red bandanas…?” Ewell pursed his thick lips. “DR-17, maybe. Why?”

  “Because that’s what the shooter was wearing, Artie.”

  The heavy-set detective let out a cynical breath and rocked back in his chair. “Someone sees a black dude or a guy in a bandana in Greenwich and they immediately finger it for us…Must be something else you’re holding, Ty.”

  Hauck glanced at Munoz, who took out the newspaper article, still in the evidence bag. “We found this in the getaway vehicle. Which was dumped about a mile away.”

  The Bridgeport detective read the bold headline through the plastic.

  “The manager of the Exxon station where this occurred was Sunil Gupta, whose son was one of the kids involved. The girl had a brother, Artie, who’s reputed to be in a gang. The shooter yelled out the victim’s name as they drove away.”

  “So you’re thinking it was revenge?”

  “I happened to have been there, Art. My daughter was with me. When it occurred. I guess I don’t know what I’m thinking, other than we’re lucky to be alive.”

  Art Ewell shook his head with a disgusted air. “Yeah, I understand.” He pushed his large frame out of the chair, reached into his desk drawer, and took out his gun. “C’mon, let’s find that kid,” he said. “Just remember, keep your eyes open, Dorothy…You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The place known as the Tombs was actually the Harry Larson housing project on Pembroke in Bridgeport’s East End, two tall gray towers built in the sixties amid a neighborhood of run-down single-family homes.

  Just stepping into the decrepit, paint-chipped lobby, the smell of disinfectant and island cooking, the sense that he was stepping into hostile territory, took Hauck back to when he used to work for the NYPD or to Gangland documentaries on TV. He felt safer since Artie had brought along two uniformed patrolmen.

  They took the jerky, urine-smelling elevator up to Anna Maria Ruiz’s apartment on the fourth floor. Outside, Ewell motioned to them to check their weapons. He rapped his knuckles against the door.

  “Mrs. Ruiz? Please open up. It’s Detective Ewell of the Bridgeport police.”

  There was no reply.

  Ewell knocked again, louder. “Mrs. Ruiz…? This is the Bridgeport police.”

  Finally a woman’s voice came back. “One meenit, please…”

  A lock opened and the door came ajar slightly. Through the chain, a face peeked out. It was Ruiz’s older daughter. Rosa. The one in nursing school, Hauck recalled.

  “Do you remember me?” Ewell said. “I’m Sergeant Ewell. We’re looking for Victor, Rosa.”

  She shook her head. “Veector’s not around.”

  “You mind if we come in? Is your mother at home? It will only take a second.”

  “Mamá, es la policía,” Hauck heard the daughter say. She opened the door.

  It was a small two-bedroom apartment with chipped plaster walls and a large crucifix on the wall over the small wooden table in the dining area. It was clean and well kept, with a wear-worn patterned couch and plants in the corner near an outmoded console TV. Hauck noticed an arrangement of photos on the wall. A young boy in his confirmation suit who he took to be Victor. On a console was a larger, framed photograph: a pretty, dark-haired girl in a pink gown at what looked like her middle school graduation.

  The TV was turned to the local news channel.

  Anna Maria Ruiz was a tiny, small-boned woman with fearful dark eyes. She spoke Spanish, punctuated with a little broken English. She explained she was only home because she had been recently laid off and was about to head to her night job as a housekeeper at the Hyatt in Stamford. Rosa translated.

  “My mom wants you to know that my sister was a good girl. She wasn’t into trouble. She was preparing to go to college. She hoped to be an accountant.”

  “Tell your mother we’re all very sorry for her loss,” Ewell said, “and for having to be here today…” He introduced Hauck and Munoz. Mrs. Ruiz’s eyes drifted to the stains on Hauck’s blood-speckled jeans.

  “You can tell her I’ve lost a daughter too,” Hauck said. “I understand what she may be feeling…”

  He waited while Rosa translated. The mother’s small, slightly wary eyes showed life in them. “May God shine his love on you…,” she said softly, in Spanish.

  Hauck put up his hand. “Tell your mother I understand.”

  “Él comprende, Mamá…” Anna Maria Ruiz forced a tight smile.

  “But something bad happened today that might be related to your daughter.” Hauck went through the events as Rosa translated. The red truck at the station, the guy in the red bandana leaning out, shouting. The guy in the green vest.

  Anna Maria Ruiz shook her head.

  “He was a very important man,” Hauck said to her. “There will be a lot of attention on this…”

  “We need to talk to Victor, Mrs. Ruiz,” Artie Ewell interjected.

  “Victor no está aquí.”

  “You
think my brother would ever try to kill a federal attorney?” Rosa said, her dark eyes lit with both anger and outrage.

  “No,” Hauck said. “I don’t think that’s what he was trying to do at all.”

  Munoz took out the newspaper article they had found in the abandoned pickup. Rosa read, and the mother took one look at it and her eyes stiffened in fear. She shook her head.

  “Victor would no do something like this.”

  “The person who did do it shouted out your daughter’s name,” Hauck said. “I was there, Mrs. Ruiz. With my own daughter.”

  “Su niña?” the woman said, wide-eyed.

  “Where is Victor?” Artie Ewell pushed.

  The mother looked at Rosa and shook her head again. “Victor no está aquí.”

  “He made statements to some of the other families after the accident,” Hauck said. “Some of them interpreted them as threats…”

  “No, no threats,” the mother said in English, seeming to comprehend. “I always feel bad, for those children. I never hold it against them, never, what happened. They were foolish. Foolish children. They were my daughter’s friends.”

  “Maybe Victor didn’t do it,” Art Ewell said. “Maybe someone he knows did. We just want to talk with him. We know he’s involved in a gang.”

  “No. No gang…” The woman shook her head; this time fear shone in her eyes. “I tell you, we have nothing against that family. I no know them, but I know their son is good, like Josephina. He came to her Mass. This is not a thing we would ever wish on them…”

  “Where is he, Mrs. Ruiz?” Artie Ewell asked again.

  Hauck’s gaze fell on something underneath the couch. The tip of a white high-top sneaker peeking out from under the upholstered flap. Munoz noticed it too, then Artie. They looked in the direction of the bedrooms.

  Anna Maria Ruiz saw it as well, her features suddenly twisted in alarm.

  Munoz took out his gun and kept it by his side. “Victor Ruiz!” he called out. “If you’re in here, I want you to identify yourself and come out with your hands in the air.”

  “He wouldn’t do such a thing,” Rosa pleaded. She clutched her mother’s arm. “It wasn’t him, please…”

  Drawing his own gun, Hauck headed toward the bedrooms. He slowly opened one of the doors as Rosa shouted behind them, “Mama, tell them, please…!”

  It was a teenage girl’s room. Posters on the wall. Marc Anthony. Beyoncé. A baby-blue bedspread. Books on a makeshift desk. Like it hadn’t been disturbed for months.

  “Victor Ruiz!”

  No answer.

  Hauck made his way inside the larger bedroom. The mother’s room. A white work uniform was neatly draped over a chair next to an ironing board. On the dresser, there was a statuette of the Virgin Mary.

  “Victor?”

  He kicked a pair of slippers out from under the bed and glanced underneath. He looked, brushing clothing aside, inside the closet.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, Hauck pushed open the bathroom door. The room was plain, undecorated. A few toiletries crowded around the sink. A pink plastic shower curtain was drawn across the tub.

  Hauck edged off the safety from his gun. “Victor?”

  He heard a click.

  Hauck raised his Sig. “You open that curtain slowly,” he said, “and I want to see your hands out first, you understand?”

  There was silence at first, then the rustle of someone shifting on his feet.

  Hauck took a step back. “Son, if you’re there,” he said, “please don’t make me do something both of us will always regret.”

  There was no answer and Hauck’s grip tightened on the gun. From back outside, there came a cry. “Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot him! Victor, please!”

  Hauck drew back the bolt.

  A voice rang out from behind the curtain. “Okay, okay…Don’t shoot! I’m not carrying, please…”

  There was a rustle from behind the bath curtain. Two hands poked through. One had something in it. “It’s just a cell phone, man.”

  “Put it down!” Hauck said. “On the floor. And slowly step out of there! Now.”

  The curtain pulled aside, and the person climbed out from the tub. He was just a kid. Sixteen, seventeen. In an oversize gray hoodie, baggy jeans, a red Yankees cap, a thin, teenager’s mustache.

  “Okay, okay, easy, man…” He put his arms in the air. “Just don’t shoot!”

  The good news was he was staring at Victor Ruiz.

  The bad news was that he didn’t look a thing like the person Hauck had seen leaning out of the red truck.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Freddy Munoz flipped a cassette into the recorder in interview room one. “So listen, Victor, we’re gonna ask you a few questions…”

  Victor Ruiz nodded, biting his lower lip. “Okay.”

  “I’m just gonna turn the tape recorder on,” Munoz explained, “so there are no misunderstandings…And I would think on how you answer very carefully, if I were you, ’cause how you do is gonna help determine how we can help you get through this, bro. You understand…?”

  Victor nodded. Hauck, leaning against the wall, noticed the kid’s legs bobbing like crazy.

  “So where were you this morning, Victor?” Munoz began. “Around ten o’clock.”

  “I was home.”

  “No, you weren’t home, Victor. Your mother and sister don’t back that up. They told us you didn’t sleep at home last night.”

  “Well, they’re wrong. They didn’t see me. I was home.”

  “You remember what I said?” Munoz said. “Please don’t crap me, Victor. That doesn’t help things, you understand? You have any clue what you’re in here for?”

  “I don’t know what I’m in here for.” Victor tilted back his chair. “I was home.”

  Munoz nodded. He gave the kid a smirk that made it clear he didn’t believe him. “Lemme see your arm.”

  “My arm?”

  “Your arm, Victor. Your left arm. Whatsamatter, I don’t speak clearly enough for you, hombre?”

  Nervously, Victor yanked up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Munoz twisted it over. On his forearm, there was some kind of tattoo. Like a pitchfork. In black and red.

  “What’s that about, Victor? That the new fashion color scheme for fall?”

  “It’s about nothing, man. It’s just—”

  “Man?” Munoz’s eyes widened and he glanced toward Hauck. “You see a man anywhere in this room, Victor? I’m a police detective who’s trying to save your ass from this bucket of shit you’re about to step into. You understand? You want to know about a man? There’s a man dead who was shot at a gas station in Greenwich this morning, and guess who’s number one for it on our list. So you got any brains left in that little head of yours, Victor, take another look around and tell me if you see anyone named man in here, ’cause Lieutenant Hauck and me, we’re the only ones between you and spending the rest of your life in jail.”

  “No.” Victor wet his lips and rubbed his scalp underneath his cap. “I don’t see no one named man in here, Detective.”

  “Good. Let’s start over again. What’s that on your arm?”

  “Colors.” Victor Ruiz shrugged. “El Diablos.”

  “Diablos? Not Diablos, Victor. Didn’t someone see you wearing a red bandana this morning, bro?”

  “Red bandana? No way, man, that’s DR-17. Ask that cop from Bridgeport, Diablos and 17s don’t mix.”

  “I didn’t ask you if they mixed, Victor. I asked if you wore a red bandana sometimes. Like maybe this morning…?”

  “You must be kidding, ma—” Victor caught himself. “Detective. You got it dead wrong. That’s a sure way to get me killed.”

  “I know another way, Victor, and that’s by not telling us the truth. You heist a truck yesterday?”

  “No way. I never stole no car. I swear.”

  “We got the people who did it on camera. Security video, Victor. How’s it going to look if you’re in here lying to me and then
I show you that mug of yours up there on the screen winning a fucking Oscar?”

  “It’s not gonna look any way, Detective, ’cause I never stole no truck. I swear…”

  “So let’s get back…” Munoz turned a page. “What’s a big, brave boy like you, in some macho gang, hiding like some scared poodle in the shower for, anyway?”

  “I saw the news. About those guys that lit up that place. When I heard you coming, I got scared.”

  “What do you have to be scared for, Victor? Because you made some threats? Because you were heard making threats against the family of the man who runs the place that got hit? I bet you weren’t so scared when you were running around saying how you were going to even things up. What you were going to do to those kids who took off and left your sister to die. You did say those things, didn’t you, Victor?”

  Victor swallowed drily. “You got some water in here?”

  “Sure.” Munoz shrugged toward Hauck. “We got some water, don’t we, Lieutenant? You want pizza? We can send out for that too. Maybe you’d like to order in some fajitas, some guac…” Munoz leaned back over the table. “You did say those things, Victor, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I said them.” Victor nodded. He brought his hands across his scalp. “But that was months ago. How would you feel, Detective? They left my little sister for dead. But I never meant them no harm.”

  “But you understand, don’t you, Victor, given those things you said, how if you were us you might be looking your way too? You tight with any hombres that might want to make this thing right for you? Maybe DR-17…?”

  “You crazy, Detective. I told you, that’d get me killed.”

  “So then where the hell were you, boy? We’re gonna keep going back to that, Victor, and don’t keep telling me you were at home, not with me trying so hard to be your friend.”

  Victor stared back at Munoz. Worry had started to build up in the kid’s eyes. He dropped back his head, slowly shaking it from side to side. “I just can’t tell you, Detective.”

  “Can’t tell us what, Victor? Can’t tell us something that might save your life? You know at all just what you’re looking at here? You know who that was who you shot?”