Sacrifice Fly (Raymond Donne Mysteries)

by Tim O'Mara

  I went to my closet and put on the jacket and tie I kept back there for parent/teacher conferences. I also took off my sneakers and slipped on the black shoes I wore for the same occasions. I found my unused Department of Education ID badge, attached to its chain, and put it around my neck. I grabbed a fresh legal pad, some blank DOE forms, and the papers from the travel agency and clipped them to my clipboard. I took the ones Edgar had faxed over and locked them in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet under empty folders.

  I went back to the closet, took a look at myself in the mirror, and straightened my tie. There. I looked like a decently dressed employee of the City of New York, and I was going to make a house call to one Felix Villejo.

  * * *

  The building I was standing in front of had been an empty lot five years ago. Before that, it was a bodega, a cleaners, and a video store that sat below three floors of apartments. The businesses had all failed, and when the apartments fell vacant, the squatters moved in. About four years ago, the city took ownership, “relocated” the squatters, and decided to sell off the land. That’s when the fan got dirty and smelly.

  One paper had played it up as “New vs. Jew” and others as “Latino Against Black.” Everybody felt they had a bigger stake in the community than the next group, and everybody had a sign and a chant to prove their point. The Hassidim were being pushed out, the Latinos kept out, and the Blacks left out. The yuppies? Well, they were already taking over the Northside, so why didn’t they just leave the Southside alone? In the end, the city chose to sell the land to a developer for low-income housing. For all. Which really meant for the Latinos and the Blacks, because the Hassidim got another deal on the other side of the bridge and the yuppies don’t do low-income housing. Somewhere along the line, this building became senior housing.

  The developers had done a nice job. Six stories of light orange brick-face with double-sided windows and white trim. A pair of potted trees by the entrance announced the residents of this building lived with dignity. The buzzer marked “F Villejo” was one of thirty in a patchwork. Five apartments per floor. It took three attempts at the buzzer before a female voice responded.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Villejo?” I said. “Raymond Donne.”

  “Yes?” came the response.

  “From the City, ma’am.”

  A five-second pause, then, “—ep over.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Step over,” slower this time, as if she were talking to a kid.

  I leaned away from the buzzers and looked at the door. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a small video camera about two feet above the entrance behind the heavy-duty glass. I put on my best I-work-for-the-City smile and lifted my ID, careful to keep my fingers over everything except my picture. It was ten seconds before the front door buzzed. I entered the building and walked directly to the elevators on a freshly vacuumed carpet. On the elevator door, there was a sign in English and Spanish reminding the residents of Saturday morning’s bus trip to the Fulton Mall. A short time later I was outside the Villejo apartment, being appraised by an elderly female.

  “Everything is okay,” she said.

  Unsure if that were a statement or a question, I said, “That is the reason for my visit, Mrs. Villejo.”

  She considered me for a while longer, her eyes barely above the chain that connected the door to the wall. I gave the impression I had nothing better to do than wait outside her apartment all afternoon. She eventually let out a deep sigh, the door closed, then reopened. Mrs. Villejo stepped aside, allowing me—the City of New York—into her home.

  What a week I’ve had, I thought. Withholding evidence from the police, impersonating a cop, breaking and entering, stealing. Now I was lying to a little old lady, because I wanted to talk to her husband about his relationship with a dead guy.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a recliner, sofa, coffee table, and a small entertainment center in the corner. There were two lamps in the room, but both were off at the moment, as a good amount of sunlight came through a double window. There was one painting on the wall: a landscape of the sun setting over a tropical forest.

  “I call and I call,” Mrs. Villejo said, her faint accent becoming a little more pronounced. “Pero, I get no answer. Just recordings, and then I am asked to press many buttons. After a while, I stop calling.”

  “I hope I can answer your questions, ma’am.” I tucked my ID badge inside my shirt, in case she thought of getting a closer look. “And I have a few for you and your husband, as well.”

  “Felix?”

  I smiled and pretended to look for something on the clipboard by flipping through the papers. “Yes,” I said. “Felix.”

  “Pero…” she began. “… but he is dead.” She took a breath. “Two years now. But the checks…” She stopped herself, making me think she had said more than she had wanted.

  “I’m very sorry.” I wrote Felix Villejo’s name on the top sheet. “I’ll check our records, Mrs. Villejo.” I faked a cough. “Can I bother you for a glass of water?”

  “Si,” she said. “Is no bother.”

  She went into the kitchen, and I took the opportunity to open what I guessed was the bedroom door and peek inside. There were two beds: a regular one and the kind you’d see in a hospital room. There was also an oxygen tank and motorized wheel chair, with Elijah Cruz’s decal on it, tucked away in the corner. The way that Mrs. Villejo had just moved to get my drink, I doubted the chair was for her. I closed the door and stepped back into the living room before she returned with two waters.

  “Thank you,” I said, as she handed me one. “Your medical equipment. Is everything in proper operational form?”

  She took some time decoding my bureaucratic speech. “Yes. Is all working. All proper.”

  I wrote “Proper” on a piece of paper in the area reserved for Student’s Name and said, “The oxygen tank. The wheelchair? The bed?”

  “That is why I call,” she said. “The bed was for my husband. Two years now, and I no need the bed. Two years. You can take it away?”

  I smiled. “I’ll make a note of it.” And I did.

  “Yes. I tell Mr. Jerry, but he say there is nothing he can do.”

  “Mr. Jerry?” Jerry Vega, the name Royce had mentioned. Suit.

  “The man from the building. The landlord’s…?”

  “Representative,” I finished for her. “Of course. Did you contact Medicare directly?”

  “¡Ay Dios! Those are the ones with the pressing buttons and not calling me back. Mr. Jerry said he take care of. I give him all the mail, and he say he take care of it. Not for me to worry. Every month, the same thing.”

  “And Mr. Jerry takes care of it?”

  “That is what he says, but still the bed … is bad luck.”

  “How often do you see Mr. Jerry?”

  “The end of the months. I give him the mail, and sign for him the checks.”

  “The checks?”

  “Si. Still with the name of my husband. Two years now. I sign for him and he makes for me the bank deposits.”

  I nodded and wrote this information down.

  “You will speak with Mrs. Brown, too?”

  “Mrs. Brown?”

  “Si. Upstairs. Angela. Five A. She has same things, same problems. And Mrs. Cuevas. Imelda. On the first floor. But her husband…”—she rolled her eyes—“that one is still alive. We all go on the bus trip together. Every Saturday.”

  I smiled and wrote those names down and put a question mark next to each.

  “I will speak to them,” I said.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  I finished off my water and placed it on the coffee table.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Villejo. And the water. Will you be taking advantage of the bus trip this Saturday?”

  “Ah, si. Yes. We shop, we eat, we laugh. Very nice.”

  “Yes. It sounds like it would be.”

  “That is the church.”r />
  “Excuse me?”

  “The bus trips. Shopping, into the city. They take us every week to the doctors. Next week, Las Mujeres, we are to go upstate.” She breathed in deeply. “For the fresh air.”

  Las Mujeres? That is Frankie’s grandmother’s group. From Cruz’s church.

  “How many of you go on these trips?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “We all go. We are all of the church. The bus, it even picks us up for Sunday. Is very nice.” She paused for a few seconds and added, “Why does the City not do such things for us?”

  “Budget cuts,” I said. “Hard to do more with less.”

  “Ahh.” She waved that away. “You seem like a nice man, but the City, they no care like the church.”

  “No,” I agreed, at least sneaking in one truth before ending my visit with Mrs. Villejo. “I guess we don’t.”

  Chapter 31

  ANY GUILT OVER MY ACTIONS of the past week and a half—including lying to Senora Villejo—was overshadowed by the feeling that I was finally putting this all together. Rivas, Roberts, and now Cruz—the church. They were all connected. I wasn’t all the way there yet, but I figured a lot of the missing pieces were somewhere in all that paper I had locked up back at work. I wasn’t sure how much closer I was to getting Frankie home, but I had a hell of an idea what I’d be sending Detective Royce’s way real soon.

  I stifled the urge to whistle as I unlocked the door to my apartment building and went over to check my mailbox. Empty. As I put the key into the lock of the second door, I realized something. For the second time that week, the front door failed to click shut behind me.

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of organ music and the smell of incense. Heaven? It felt as if I were squeezed into a box. My back and my head—which was pounding at the moment—were pressed up against a hard surface. I opened my eyes and gave them thirty seconds to adjust to the lack of light. When they had, I slowly pulled my throbbing knees toward my chest. The hard surface was a door to the very small room I was in. A few feet above my head was a tiny window with a metal screen in front of it.

  The music stopped, but the incense continued to hang in the air. I took a deep breath and slowly got to my feet. The only light came from above, a low-wattage bulb behind some smoky glass. I went over to the door and tried the knob. Locked. I tried looking through the window, but the curtain on the other side prevented me from seeing anything. Directly below the window was a small bench covered with a dark carpet.

  Christ. I hadn’t been in one for so long that it took me a while to realize I was inside a confessional. Someone’s idea of a joke?

  My head throbbed on, and I had a brief recollection of getting hit real hard and then going black. I’d never made it through the second door of my apartment building.

  The organ started in again, and a small bit of light appeared at the window as someone drew the curtain aside. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Mr. Donne,” a voice said—male—just above a whisper.

  I stepped to the window. The shape of a head appeared on the other side, but the metal screen and lack of light made it impossible to make out the face. That’s what confessionals were designed for. Anonymity.

  “Yeah,” I answered, like there was gravel in my throat. I grabbed the back of my neck where the pain was coming from and squeezed as hard as I could.

  “Good. You are awake. I was afraid you were badly hurt.”

  Depends on your point of view. “What do you want?” I asked.

  A short laugh came from the other side. “That is good,” the voice said. “Not ‘Where am I?’ or ‘Who are you?’ but ‘What do you want?’ Direct and to the point, as if you know more than you do. You do not disappoint me.”

  I knew the voice. It was just a matter of time before I realized whom it belonged to.

  “I want,” the voice said, “what belongs to me.”

  I took a step closer. “And you think I can help you how?”

  “I understand you are in possession of what was taken from me.”

  “And if I told you I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

  “I would not believe you.”

  “Then I’m not sure what we have to talk about.”

  The light on the other side of the window gradually grew brighter, as if someone had turned up a dimmer. I could now make out the face behind the voice. Elijah Cruz.

  “Oh,” he said. “I believe that we have much to talk about.”

  He disappeared for a few seconds and then returned with his hand on the back of Frankie Rivas’s neck. I leaned in, the tip of my nose touching the screen.

  “Frankie,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  Frankie didn’t respond. The look on his face told me that Cruz’s grip was growing tighter. I was about to turn and try the door again, when someone grabbed my neck and pushed the side of my face up against the window screen.

  “Son of a bitch!” I said, my teeth scraping the inside of my mouth.

  “The boy is fine,” Cruz said. “That is, however, a fluid situation.” He must have squeezed harder because Frankie groaned. “Give me what I want, and we can end this quickly.”

  “Tell me what you think I have,” I said. “And I’ll do my best to— Ahh! Fuck!” My face was pushed harder into the screen.

  “This conversation will end unpleasantly if you continue to lie to me, Mr. Donne. The boy has told me that he has passed my property on to you. You will not ‘do your best.’ You will simply return my property.”

  “I don’t have— Goddamn it!” Something small and hard was jammed into my lower back, and my knees slammed into the wall. “All right,” I said and tried to turn around. “I can’t get it right now. I need some time.”

  “Where is it?”

  “My uncle’s office,” I said, impressed with the quickness of my lie.

  “Your uncle’s office,” Cruz repeated, weighing the credibility of my words.

  I braced myself for another burst of pain. None came. Cruz waited for a moment and then gestured with his head toward the door. I was pulled out of the confessional and into the main part of the church. Cruz stepped out and handed Frankie over to Suit. The hand on my neck belonged to Ape.

  “Mr. Donne,” Frankie said. “I’m sorry. They grabbed me—when I tried to go home—my dad’s. They made me … tell them that … I delivered it to you.”

  “It’s okay, Frankie,” I said as Suit dragged Frankie away. “It’s okay.” I tried to take a step toward him, but Ape grabbed me by my belt and pulled.

  Frankie and Suit exited through a side door. As Cruz made his way toward the altar, Ape pushed me in that direction. I don’t remember ever wanting to hurt somebody as badly as I did then. Ape read my face and showed me the palms of his hands as he held them out about waist-high. He grinned, daring me. There was so much anger and fear coursing through my body, I could barely stay on my feet, let alone make any kind of run at this sadistic giant. We locked eyes for a few more seconds. This was not the time to push my luck. I took a deep breath, turned back around, and followed Cruz. He stopped at the front row, genuflected, and slipped into the pew.

  “Where are you taking Frankie?” I asked.

  “Please,” he said, caressing the polished wood. “Sit.”

  I looked up at the altar, flanked by candles flickering through their red glass holders. The main part of the altar was shrouded in darkness, except for a miniature spotlight that illuminated Christ on the cross. I sat down and heard a wooden pew creak, as Ape settled his huge frame a few rows behind us.

  Again, the music stopped. I looked around and saw no organ. Recorded church music.

  “The boy is safe for now,” Cruz said. “He thought he would be safe at his father’s…” He rested his arms on the back of the pew. With his eyes up on the altar, he said, “Are you a religious man, Mr. Donne?”

  “Not for a long time,” I replied.

  Cruz smiled. “There is still some faith left in you,
though. I can feel it.”

  “Is that why you brought me here? To discuss my personal theology?”

  “There is still in you that little Catholic boy, filled with guilt and fear, who wants to please others by doing good. That is why you became a policeman and, when that came to an end, a teacher. That is why you have invested so much of yourself in the well-being of Francisco. You two are very much alike.”

  “How are we going to do this, Cruz?”

  “It must have been very difficult for you after your father’s death,” he said, turning to check my reaction. I gave him none. “To lose your father at such a young age is unimaginable.”

  “If your point is you know a lot more about me than I know about you,” I said, “or that you are in charge here, consider it taken. Tell me how we are going to do this, Cruz.”

  “I told you of the fire that destroyed my childhood church. It also led to the tragic death of our family priest,” Cruz said. “That crucifix”—he pointed up at the altar—“is the only thing left from Father Rodrigo’s church. It became the foundation of mine.” He blessed himself. “After the fire,” Cruz continued, “I made a decision. Someday I would build another church. In His name. Bigger and more worthy of Him. That day is upon us.”

  Our conversation in McCarren Pool. How Cruz had spoken about his “vision.”

  “The medical supply business must be very good,” I said.

  “Do not play ignorant, Mr. Donne. You have just returned from a visit with Senora Villejo. The video cameras provide more than security for my people. Surely, you must have wondered how she can afford such a … comfortable lifestyle.”

  “I’m getting the idea it has something to do with your business and your church.”

  “Please. The government and the politicians are more than willing to dole out money and tax breaks to the pharmaceutical and insurance industries. They are much more reticent to do so for those who are truly vulnerable. The citizens who have the audacity to be both poor and sick. I help make up the difference. The politicians do not want to do what’s right, so I play their game against them. I can show you dozens like Senora Villejo, who, without me, would be living day to day, not sure where their next meal is coming from or whether this is the time their husband or child will not get well.”