Why would someone shoot a nurse and her little girl? Why did someone like Mrs. Evans have to suffer through this? How would I hold it all together?
I had to. It was my job.
THE UNIFORMED CAPTAIN from the Fortieth Precinct erupted into the hallway from the stairs. I knew the tall captain from my days on patrol. He yelled down the hall to the NYPD officers working diligently, “Let’s move this along, shall we, people?” Then he saw me.
I had just gotten Mrs. Evans seated. A young patrol officer stepped over and offered her a cup of cold water. She was starting to get that glazed look family members have after a murder.
The captain marched toward me and said, “This ain’t Manhattan North. What are you doing here? Trying to steal a stat?”
Sometimes cops embarrass me. Yeah, it’s a job, but it involves people. People with feelings. I kept it professional and said, “Just helping out, Captain Ramirez.”
The captain was almost as tall as me. He wore his dark hair slicked tightly against his scalp. There were definite cliques inside the NYPD. Divisions happen in all large organizations. The simple old Irish-versus-Italian rivalry had given way to a much more complicated system. Ramirez identified strongly with the Hispanic clique and didn’t give a crap if I was Irish, Italian, or black. I wasn’t Hispanic so he didn’t cut me any slack.
The captain barked, “Then help clear this scene. We got shit breaking all over the Bronx. There’s a goddamn protest about the price of housing. In New York. You think they’d realize housing prices are going to be crazy.”
I motioned toward Mrs. Evans, hoping this moron would get the hint. It was a foolish hope.
The captain said, “How much longer will this take?”
I eased us away from Mrs. Evans. When I leaned in close to the captain, I said, “This lady’s daughter and granddaughter are in that apartment. It’ll take as long as it takes. We gotta grab the asshole who did this. Don’t you agree?” I’d spoken very slowly so nothing I said could be misunderstood.
The old-school captain locked me in his gaze. It was nothing compared to Mrs. Evans’s stare down. Then he said, “Okay, hotshot. I’ll get the manpower from somewhere else.”
When I stepped back to Mrs. Evans, she said, “Oh, dear Lord. I have to tell my sons.”
I decided to walk her the two blocks to where they lived. I needed the break.
IN A SIMILAR apartment to that of their sister and niece, I helped Mrs. Evans break the news to her two adult sons, who both worked for the city and seemed like sharp young men. They took the news like anyone would. They were shocked.
The larger of the men, a good six feet five inches and close to three hundred pounds, started to wail and put his head on his mother’s shoulder. She stroked his neck and spoke to him like she would to a toddler, in a soft, soothing voice. A mom’s power never really diminishes, no matter how big a child grows.
I told them the lead detective would be down to talk to them at some point. They’d have questions about why someone might do this.
The older of the two brothers, a bus mechanic, said, “This is not a bad neighborhood. Not too bad. Who would do something like this?” He had the distant stare of a man in over his head. That’s the way it should be. No one should be used to tragedy like this. Not even a cop.
I gave them a card in case they needed anything. I felt confident Mrs. Evans would be most comfortable if she stayed here with them tonight.
The clear, cloudless skies and afternoon sun did little to lift my spirits. I barely noticed passing cars or the other normal rhythms of the city. I walked with a measured pace, trying to give myself a little time before I went back to the crime scene. All I could see in my head was a mother lying on top of her little girl. The left side of her face a massive hole leaking blood. The apartment a shambles.
No witnesses. No suspects. No hope.
I looked up at the sky and spoke to Maeve. I did that quite a bit. This time I said, “I hate that you saw stuff like this, too. A nurse’s job is harder than a cop’s in some respects. I miss you, Maeve.”
Sometimes I swear I can hear a faint answer. It’s easy and convenient to claim it was the wind or a distant radio. But it happens occasionally. Today I thought I heard, “Love you.” And no one can tell me I didn’t hear it.
I swung into a bodega and grabbed an ice-cold grape Gatorade. I’d briefly considered buying a beer, but they still needed me at the apartment. The radio behind the counter was broadcasting a news brief about the murders. That would attract more curious onlookers. The day was not getting any better.
The clerk looked at me and said, “Tough day?”
“Does it show?”
“Gatorade is on me.”
I thanked him, more for a quick jolt of humanity. Then dropped two dollars on the scarred and nicked counter before I headed back out.
I was still a block away from the apartment building and the growing crowd of onlookers. I had parked my city-issued Impala over here in case I needed to get away quickly. Experience has taught me that if you park too close to a scene, you can get boxed in.
Suddenly I had an uncontrollable urge to speak to Mary Catherine and the kids. As many of them as I could get on the phone. They were what kept me sane. If I ever needed a connection to my real life, it was right now.
Leaning against my car, I took a swig of the Gatorade and set it on the roof. I fumbled with my phone.
While I considered whether I should call Mary Catherine’s cell or the home phone, someone said, “Let’s make this quick.”
I looked up into the barrel of a pistol.
THE YOUNG BLACK man’s hand trembled ever so slightly. There was no doubt the barrel was still pointed at my face. But he was new to this kind of stuff. That made him more dangerous. He had no idea what could happen.
He repeated, “Let’s make this quick.”
I didn’t hesitate. I immediately reached into my sport coat for my personal wallet. My police ID was in my back pocket. At the moment, he thought I was just a citizen out for a stroll. I’d be happy to let him keep thinking that.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard the wife of a murdered robbery victim say, “A lousy wallet wasn’t worth his life.” No way I was going to put Mary Catherine in that position.
I held up my wallet to show it to him and said, “Here, it’s yours.” I’d seen enough bloodshed today. I just wanted him to walk away. A few bucks and some credit cards aren’t worth anyone’s life. I figured this was over. There was no one on the street near us. He had no reason to hang around. Everyone could have another day on Earth.
Then I heard a second voice from across the narrow street. A tall, skinny man came out of an alley between an empty storefront and a ninety-nine-cent store. He wore a crazy heavy jacket with an odd, fur-trimmed collar. The man had an angry tinge to his voice when he said, “What chu doin’, RJ?” He glanced at me. “You finally joinin’ up? Good man.”
The second man was about thirty. His pupils were black circles covering most of his eyes. But drugs were the least of his issues. His head swung in wide arcs as he glanced in every direction. His left hand had a constant, jittery movement. His tongue played with the gold grill across his front teeth. He was a walking advertisement for one of the antipsychotic pharmaceuticals advertised on news channels and ESPN.
The man said, “Lookee here, dressy.” He stayed in the street, on the driver’s side of the car. He stared straight at me and said, “You going out, Pops? Nice jacket. Not too hot, nice dark blue. Too bad you’re too wide. Jacket would never fit me.”
Why did he have to come and stir shit up?
The younger man, RJ, who still held me at gunpoint, turned to his friend and said, “I got his wallet. Let’s go.”
The man in the fur-trimmed coat said, “Somethin’s not right about him. He’s taller than us. That’s enough to shoot his ass right there.”
RJ said, “I got money, cards. It’s cool.”
“It ain’t cool, RJ
. It’s a lot of things, but it ain’t cool. He don’t care nothin’ about us. And he don’t mean nothin’ to us. Go ahead, show him how little he means to us.”
RJ was torn. I could see it in his face. He wanted to leave. But this new guy, he wanted to see something happen. He wanted some excitement on a weekday afternoon.
The new man stepped to the front of the car and let his coat fall open. I could see the Colt stuck in his waistband. I thought about the head wounds at the crime scene I was just at. It was a big caliber. Probably a .45. That was not a common gun in the Bronx. I wanted to fix his face in my brain.
The man snapped, “What chu starin’ at?”
I didn’t answer. I did a quick scan to see if I could find any blood spatter on the cuffs or collar of the heavy coat he was wearing.
But that was the least of my worries at the moment. Now the man leaned in close to RJ and said, “Shoot this cracker in the face. You feel me, RJ?”
The younger man kept his eyes on me. He raised the gun slightly so he could sight more accurately. He mumbled, “Okay, Tight, okay. Give me a second.”
I felt the shift in the young man. He was scared of his friend. I would be, too. The man was giving him almost no choice but to pull the trigger. At that point, I knew if RJ didn’t shoot, I’d be facing that .45.
The man told RJ, “You own his ass. Now you can take everything from him. No feeling like it in the world.” Then the man looked at the Chevy Impala. He craned his head to stare into the interior.
“Hold on, RJ. I think this dude’s a cop. He seen us both. You gotta do it now.”
Now the crazy guy was using logic. And he wasn’t wrong. I’d have been willing to forget about RJ, but I needed to check out his friend “Tight” regarding the homicide a block away.
That wasn’t going to happen, though. I swallowed and had a quick thought of each of my children. When you have ten kids, you can’t spend a lot of time on each one as your life flashes before your eyes.
RJ was ready. He used his left hand to steady the gun. He started to squeeze the trigger.
Coming Soon from James Patterson
Blindside
Texas Outlaw
The House of Kennedy
The 20th Midnight
Capture
Lost Page 23
