Sacrifice Fly (Raymond Donne Mysteries)

by Tim O'Mara

  I waited a few seconds before saying, “Yeah?”

  “Damned if he doesn’t match the description of the guy you said was hassling you last week. Jerry Vega.”

  “Really,” I said, trying for surprised.

  “I shit you not,” Detective Royce said. “We got some bloody prints the Crime Scene guys’ll run. Today being Sunday we’ll probably have to wait ’til tomorrow for the results, but it looks like him. You said he was with a big guy, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “If it’s even him.”

  “Right. If.” Royce paused as he looked at his notebook again. “Oh, yeah,” he said, almost as an afterthought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a computer disc. “We found this on Cruz’s person.” He turned it around to show it to me. It read “Disc II” in my handwriting. I had just given that to Cruz a few hours ago.

  “Is that important?” I asked.

  “I’ll find out when I get it back to the precinct,” he said. “Makes you wonder though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If there’s a Disc One, where is it?”

  As I pretended to think about that, it occurred to me that Vega had taken Disc One to protect himself. Maybe he knew he was also protecting those folks Cruz was helping. As far as Disc Two and John Roberts? Fuck him.

  “I don’t know, Detective,” I said. “It’s a mystery.”

  “That it is, Mr. Donne.” He gave a solemn nod, glanced at his notebook again, and closed it. “Shame about Cruz, though. If he’d gotten to a hospital, he might still be alive. Vega’s looking at depraved indifference, at least.”

  “Have you told Mrs. Santos yet?” I asked.

  “Nah. Didn’t want to ruin the joyous homecoming. She’ll find out soon enough.” He slipped his notebook into his back pocket. “So there I am trying to put that shit at the church together, and I get another call informing me that our prodigal son here has returned. I release the body to the ME and head over to listen to Junior’s story about being dropped off by a van over by the river. Says after he got him and his sister upstate and then dropped the sister off with you, he got abducted. Not sure where he was the last week. Must be the trauma.”

  “Yeah. Frankie told me. That’s some scary shit.”

  “Almost unbelievable.” Royce gave me a long look. “Considering what coulda happened though? The kid was damned lucky.” He walked over, opened the sliding door, and turned back to me. “I’m sure he appreciates all you did for him. Sometimes they don’t come right out and say it, kids being kids and all.”

  “Thanks, Detective. But I really didn’t—”

  “So I guess you don’t have anything else to add after all,” Royce said. “Do you?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “Good,” he said. “I don’t need any more complications. How’s it feel, Mr. Donne?”

  “How’s what feel?”

  “Redemption.”

  “If I had to guess?” I asked. “I’d say not half bad. But, I’m just guessing.”

  He stuck out his hand, and I took it. “You keep sticking to that story, Donne. And let’s hope the kid sticks to his.” He held on to my hand a bit longer. “I bet you were one helluva cop back in the day. You give any thought to coming back?”

  I smiled. He knew. “I did there for a while, but…”

  “The knees?”

  “That’s what I told myself at first. But it was an easy out.” I scratched my head. “I just got too damn tired of too many days that didn’t end like this one. Kids like Frankie?” I motioned with my head into the apartment. “I’m better off seeing them inside my classroom. Out on the street, that’s a game I don’t want to play anymore. Officer Donne’s retired. I’m gonna stick with being Mr. D. Shit, I’ll be making your job easier.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a pleasant change,” Detective Royce said. “Goodbye, Mister Donne.”

  “Good-bye, Detective.”

  He went inside, and I turned around to watch the East River. The sky was getting darker now, and for the first time in what seemed like weeks there was a slight chill in the air. My cell phone rang. I had forgotten that Edgar gave it back to me. I slipped it out of my pocket. “Hello?”

  “Raymond,” my sister’s voice said. “Your phone does work.”

  “Hey, Rache. Kinda early for you, isn’t it? How’s L.A.?”

  “It was fine,” she said. “But I took the red-eye back last night. Dad’s memorial’s today. Or did you let it slip your mind?”

  Shit. “It’s been crazy here, Rachel. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

  “Later today?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll call you.”

  I considered going back inside, saying my good-byes, and heading home. The door to the deck slid open again, and Cousin Anita walked out, her pregnant belly leading the way.

  “Mr. Donne,” she said.

  “Mrs. Roberts. How’s your husband?”

  “He is still in the coma, but the doctors are optimistic,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “I was on my way to the hospital when I got the call about Frankie. I came right over.”

  “That was good of you.”

  “We are family. That’s what we do.”

  “Right.”

  “I spoke to Francisco,” she said. “He told me…”—she looked over her shoulder—“everything. This family owes you a lot, Mr. Donne.”

  “Detective Royce has a disc,” I said, not in the mood to hear who owed me what. “In a few hours, he’s going to know about your husband’s business arrangement with Elijah Cruz. Your husband kept very precise records.”

  Her look turned from grateful to concerned. “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means your life is going to be changing drastically. Soon.” I took a step toward her. “When your husband comes out of his coma, he’s going to have a lot of questions to answer. You need to be prepared for that, Mrs. Roberts.”

  When she didn’t reply, I made a move toward the door, but she stepped in front of me. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  “That’s an odd question,” I said, taking a step back. “We’ve met once. What difference does it make how I feel about you?”

  “It might make a difference,” she said, “if you knew—thought you knew— something about me.”

  I was beyond fried and not up to playing word games with this woman, but something came to me. I waited to make sure it wasn’t the fatigue or hunger playing games with my head.

  “When I showed up at your house,” I began, “and told you I was looking into Frankie’s disappearance, you thought I was a cop, and you got this look on your face. I couldn’t figure it out at the time, but I just saw it again as you came out here to talk to me. It was fear. Not ‘What can I do to help my cousin?’ Fear. And then when you realized who I was, you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Yeah, it is. And your husband acted the same way when I went to see him.”

  “I am not responsible for my husband’s actions.”

  “He wasn’t protecting himself,” I said. “He was protecting you.”

  “So?”

  “You didn’t come here to see Frankie. You came here to see me.”

  “Why,” she said, doing her best to not look away, “would I do that?”

  She moved to the balcony and placed her hands on the railing. She was taking deep breaths, as if she was bothered by the humidity in the air. I walked over and stood to her left.

  “Did you know Francisco had two head wounds when the cops found him?”

  “I did not know,” she said. “And I don’t wish to hear about it now.”

  “Yeah,” I continued. “One was a bloody nose. Most likely from a punch, the cops think. Broke the nose. Not enough kill him, just bleed a lot.”

  Anita put her hand on her stomach and closed her eyes. “Please,” she said. “You are making me sick.”

  �
��The other one,” I went on, too tired to care, “was a wound to the head just above the left ear. Made by an unidentified blunt instrument.”

  “Please,” Anita said. “Stop.”

  “My guess is, someone got real pissed off at Rivas, picked up something like a baseball bat, and clocked him in the head. Not enough to kill him, but enough to cause some internal bleeding.” This was all making sense to me now. Frankie told me that when he was on the roof he had seen the van pull away. But that was a half hour after his dad sent him up there. What if Anita had showed up before Ape and Vega? “Follow that up with a punch to the nose,” I said, “and, well … we all know how that turned out.”

  Anita locked her eyes on me, and I watched as they filled with tears. She had a decision to make: deny everything or come clean. She wiped a tear away before saying, “I just wanted to talk to Francisco. To tell him—to explain to him—what he was doing to my husband. To our family.”

  “That was a pretty big risk.”

  “He stole from John. From Elijah Cruz. Elijah was holding John responsible.” She paused to take a breath. “I just wanted Francisco to return what he had taken.”

  “And?”

  “And he laughed at me. He said that no woman was going to tell him what to do. He denied stealing. He said I could look around if I wanted to. But that it would do no good. And anyway, if he did steal, it was business, and what did I know about that?”

  “Your husband knew it was Rivas?”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t prove anything. Even if he could, what could he do? Go to the police? There was no way out.”

  “That’s exactly the thought he should have had before getting involved with Cruz.”

  “You don’t know,” she said. “How could you know? The pressure my husband was under. Trying to do what was best for his family. That’s why he did what he did. Why I did what I … It just got out of our control.”

  “That would be a hell of a lot more convincing if you weren’t living in a house worth half a million dollars, Mrs. Roberts. It’s not like your husband was stealing to put food on the table.”

  She took a step toward me. “How dare you! Do you have the slightest idea what a man like my husband would do for his family?”

  “And look how well things turned out.”

  “Those people in there,” she pointed at the glass door, “they think you are quite the hero. You got Frankie home. You…” She gave me a look of disgust. “You are not the man they think you are, Mr. Donne.”

  “Mrs. Roberts,” I said. “I only know if your husband had done the right thing, Frankie and Milagros might not be grieving the loss of their father.”

  She tried to think of something else mean to say to me, but came up empty.

  “But don’t worry,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “You’re not … you won’t say anything?”

  “To whom? The cops or your family? Who are you more afraid of?”

  She took a moment before answering. “What is it you want from me, Mr. Donne?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How much is your silence going to cost?”

  I couldn’t believe this woman. “You think I want money?” I almost laughed. “You’ve been living away from Brooklyn too long.”

  “Why else would you keep quiet?”

  “Frankie knows who’s responsible for killing his father,” I said. “He’s got someone to hate for the rest of his life. He doesn’t need you in that group. You’re family.”

  I turned to go inside. My hand was on the door when I heard Anita crying behind me.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” she said.

  “Your husband’s facing some serious charges. I’m sure he has a lawyer?” She nodded. “Contact him tomorrow. Tell him everything you know about John and Cruz, and what’s on that disc Royce has. With Cruz dead and your husband’s cooperation, it’ll probably go smoother.”

  A bad thought crossed her face. “Will John go to jail?”

  “That’s where they put criminals, Anita.”

  She winced and put her hand on her pregnant stomach. “We’ll have to sell the house,” she said. “Where will we go?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, moving to the door. “You may have to come back home.”

  I went inside without either one of us saying another word. Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s mother were at the kitchen table sipping from their cups. Elsa was leaning against the sink.

  “I’m going to go home now,” I said to the three women.

  Mrs. Santos eased out of her chair and walked over to me. She took my hands in hers and gave them a weak squeeze.

  “Gracias,” she said. “Thank you.”

  I squeezed back. “You’re welcome.” We stood there for a few seconds, her eyes filling with tears. Before mine did the same, I said, “I’ll see you at graduation, Senora.”

  “Si, maestro. Soon.”

  “Good.” I let her hands go.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Elsa said, getting a look from the two older women. “I have to get ready for work anyway.”

  I said good-bye again and let Elsa lead me by the elbow toward the front door. We stopped when we heard the bathroom door open.

  “Mr. D!” Frankie said. He had a towel around his waist, and his wet hair was slicked back. “You going?”

  “I gotta get some sleep, Frankie. I could probably use a shower, too.”

  “Gimme a minute, and I’ll walk ya down,” he said, and disappeared into his bedroom.

  “Frankie’s going to walk me down,” I said to Elsa. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “No,” she said. “I think he wants to talk to you alone.” She opened the door and turned back to me. “What were you and Anita talking about?”

  “Her role in Frankie’s and Milagros’s future,” I said. “I think she’s going to be more involved from now on.”

  “I thought I heard her raise her voice.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “You look different.”

  “I look tired.”

  “No, that’s not it,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, but it will come to me.”

  “Let me know when it does.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that.” She stepped into the hallway.

  “That’d be nice,” I said as the door closed.

  “You talkin’ to yourself, Mr. D?”

  “Yeah, Frankie. Don’t sneak up on people like that. You’ll give me a heart attack.”

  “Ahh,” he said, pulling the door open for me. “You ain’t that old.”

  We got to the elevator, and Frankie pressed the down button. He looked as tired as I felt. He’d lost a few pounds, and a few stray hairs were growing on his chin. When did that happen?

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Kinda all messed up inside, you know? I’m tired as shit, but I’m glad like anything to be home. Home, home. With my grandma.”

  “You didn’t like hanging at your dad’s?”

  “For a weekend, yeah. Maybe a week over the summer, but…” He stopped for a bit, losing his thought. “Your dad still alive, Mr. D.?”

  “No,” I said. “He died when I was about your age. Heart attack.”

  “You cry a lot … after?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I guess.”

  “I been crying like a girl. Not in front of Milagros, though. After I got her to you. And not around my grandma, either. But…”

  “It hurts,” I said for him. “It hurts a lot, Frankie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s okay to let people know that,” I said, wishing someone had told me that. Maybe they had. We stepped inside the elevator.

  “You know what hurts the most?” he said. “That my dad’s not gonna be around to see me get older, you know? Become a real baseball player. A man.” He touched the button for the lobby and, without turning around, said, “Is it okay to be angry at somebody who’s dead?”

 
You’re asking the expert on that subject.

  “I mean, my dad’s dead, and I’m sad and all, but I’m angry, too, ’cause I think he … he didn’t have to do them things that he did that…” Frankie started crying.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s okay to be angry.”

  “This was gonna be it,” Frankie said through the tears. “He promised this was gonna be the last time. He was gonna have enough money to take me and Milagros to Florida, he said. We was gonna move there soon as he got all his stuff together. It was gonna be the last time and then…” The elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened onto the lobby. Frankie ran his hands over his eyes, wiping away the tears but not the evidence that they had been there. “How you getting home?”

  “My friend—Edgar—he said I could have his car for a while.”

  “Good.” We stepped out of the building and into the empty common area, where I’d almost been run over by the kid on the bike twelve days ago. “I ain’t gonna be in school tomorrow.”

  I thought about pushing it, but took a long look at Frankie and decided against it. “Okay,” I said. “Tuesday then.”

  “My dad’s church,” Frankie continued, “they’re doing a service for him in the morning, and then we’re going to the cemetery after that.” We took a left out of the courtyard to where I had parked Edgar’s car.

  “Something bothering you, Frankie?”

  He looked at the ground and said, “You cry at your dad’s funeral, Mr. D?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I didn’t…” I started and tried again. “I stayed outside on the steps of the church. I was too angry to go inside. I didn’t want to hear … I don’t know. I didn’t want to hear the bullshit.”

  “All that god stuff? People saying good things about your dad?”

  When did this kid get so insightful?

  “Yeah.”

  “But didn’t you have something to say?” Frankie asked.

  “To whom?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you have something to say to your dad?”

  We got to Edgar’s car, and I pulled the keys out of my pocket.

  “Like what?” I asked the fourteen-year-old kid in front of me.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s why I’m askin’ you. You been there and done that, I thought.”