Empty Ever After

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Yeah, but I won’t miss from this range,” he said. “You’d look good bleeding from the eyes.”

  “Your dad thought the same thing.”

  “Smart man, my pops.”

  “That’s not the words that come to mind when I think about your dad. Corrupt assassin is more like it.”

  The red of his face deepened and he coiled as if getting ready to strike. He didn’t. Instead he shook his head at me.

  “You want me to smack you,” he said. “Well, fuck you, Prager. You’ll get yours soon enough and you won’t see it coming.”

  “You willing to risk everything on that?” I goaded him.

  “To get rid of you, it’d be worth it. Any price to make you feel what we went through would be worth paying.”

  “Glad to hear you say it.” I smiled.

  “You’re a sick fuck, Prager. Now I’m not going to warn you again. Hit the road, asshole.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going.”

  I left. There was nothing more to be gained by my further antagonizing him. I had a good feeling about Martello. He was the best-looking suspect I’d stumbled across. Ray Jr. knew good tattoo work. One look at that falcon on his back told me as much and I wasn’t discouraged just because Martello didn’t fit the description of the older man who had arranged for the kid’s ink work. Whoever was doing this thing wasn’t doing it alone. Maybe Cyclops was a relative or an old cop friend of the family’s. Suffolk cops are the best paid in the country, so he had the means. Martello had just made it crystal clear he had the motive. And, as I was about to discover, Ray Jr. had something else that got my attention. I drove up the block a little ways to find a spot to turn around. Coming back past the Martello house, I looked down his driveway and saw that one of his garage doors was open. Parked in the garage was a new pewter Yukon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I AGED A few years on the ride into Brooklyn, but no one sang “Happy Birthday” to me when I called into the office. At least everyone was now up to speed and, for the first time since this whole affair began, we were working the case like a case should be worked. Carmella gave Brian Doyle the shit end of the stick. His job was, for the time being, to be Martello’s round the clock shadow. We’d get him some help as soon as we could. Not because we felt sorry for his ass, but because twenty-four hour surveillance is hard enough to do with a full team. It’s nearly impossible for one person to maintain. The need for food and bathroom breaks gives the mark too many opportunities to slip away. And doing surveillance in the ’burbs is more difficult than in the city. Blending in isn’t easy. Neighbors notice strange cars and unfamiliar faces.

  Carmella said she would make calls to some friends in the Suffolk PD and the Suffolk County DA’s office to check on Martello. Devo was getting credit reports and any other financial documents he could lay his hands on. When I walked into the office, both of them had promising news for me.

  “I like him for it,” Carmella said. “A captain I know out there says Martello’s a prick.”

  “Brian Doyle’s a prick too, but we hired him and he’s not haunting my wife.”

  “There’s more. This captain says—”

  “This captain, how do you guys know each other?”

  Silence.

  “The mystery captain got a name?”

  “Kirsten Rafferty. Why, you want her number?”

  “I don’t date women who outrank me.”

  “I’m not even going there,” she said. “So you wanna hear this or what?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Seems Martello got divorced ten years back and the ex started dating a guy assigned to Highway Patrol named Cruz.”

  “Yeah, so …”

  “A year later, Cruz was off the job and the ex was out of state.”

  “There’s a punch line here, right?” I asked.

  “The story goes that Ray Martello was like out of his mind over his ex dating another cop … Men and their macho bullshit. Any ways, he didn’t confront either Cruz or the ex-wife. Instead, he hooks up with Cruz’s barely legal little sister. Martello asks the sister to keep their romance quiet because he doesn’t want to cause trouble with her big brother and she’s only too happy to oblige. Problem is, she’s also happy to oblige when Martello suggests they start videotaping themselves … You know what I’m saying? Do I have to draw fucking pictures for you, Moe?”

  “So Martello lets Cruz know not only that he’s been boning his sister, but that he’s got the tapes to prove it. Cruz goes ballistic and assaults Martello, in front of several witnesses, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Cruz gets kicked to the curb, the wife figures she needs to get far away from her crazy ex if she’s ever going to date again, and Martello has his revenge.”

  “Gets better,” Carmella said. “Because the story of why Cruz assaulted Martello gets leaked, the brass don’t really want to bring criminal or disciplinary charges against Cruz. Cop vs. cop shit doesn’t look good in the press, especially with what those guys get paid. Problem is, they need Martello’s cooperation to keep it quiet.”

  “Nice way to make sergeant, huh? He gets everything he wanted and more, the vengeful dick.”

  “Vengeful is right. You gotta be a twisted fuck to go after a man’s family like that. Sound familiar?”

  “Unfortunately, it does,” I said.

  “Listen to this. Martello’s movements over the past year fit the time frame we’ve established. He went out with a bad hip about eleven months ago and didn’t return to active duty till June. That gave him all the time he needed to set this thing up. Devo’s got more coincidences for you.”

  “Listen, Carmella, after I talk to Devo, let’s get outta here for an hour, okay?”

  “Sure. I could use a break.”

  I rapped my knuckles on Devo’s door and walked in without waiting.

  “What’s that?” Devo asked, pointing at my left hand.

  “Huh? Oh, this. Another videotape.”

  “I can see that, Moe.”

  “Right. It’s from the gas station. It’s got the kid and the guy who was driving him around on it, but you can’t make much out. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let you have a try at it. Now I guess it’s sort of beside the point.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Carmella tells me you—”

  “Yes. Here, look at these.” He slid some papers across the desk to me. “As you can see, Sergeant Martello was twice in cities—Los Angeles and Las Vegas—during the same time as the auditions were held in those cities. If we count New York, that is three cities. Of course, he may have been in many more of the cities, but Los Angeles and Las Vegas are the only two for which I have been so far able to obtain proof.”

  “Good work, Devo.” I patted his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Moe …”

  “Yeah.”

  “It had nearly slipped my mind, but I did some analysis of the tapes you left with me previously. There is nothing much to be done, I am afraid, with the first security videotape. As you saw for yourself, it was terribly degraded and recorded over many many times. However, the phone machine tape did reveal something of interest. While I cannot say whether the voice is authentic or not, I can say it displays no obvious splices or edits, no abrupt clicks on or off. On the other hand, there is some very faint background noise.”

  “You mean like scratches and pops from a vinyl record, that kinda thing?”

  “Nothing so obvious as that, no. I believe what I hear is the rumble of a cassette motor.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t from the phone machine?”

  Devo smiled at me like a proud father with his Little Leaguer. “A very astute question. I cannot be certain, but if that is in fact Patrick’s voice, I would venture to say it was dubbed off a cassette tape and then filtered to suppress the other noise you would expect to find on an old tape. Find the person in possession of the original tape and you will be very close to having your answer.”

  THE SID
EBAR GRILLE was near empty when Carmella and I walked in. During ten months of the year, the bar would be four deep with ADAs, defense lawyers, judges, cops, court officers, and even the occasional investigator, but July and August were quieter times around the courts as judges and lawyers heeded the call of the Hamptons. Only cops and skells don’t do summer hours. The Sidebar Grille was famous for its food and convivial atmosphere. More plea bargains and monetary settlements had been sealed in here with steaks and handshakes than in any number of courthouses.

  Maybe it was the emptiness of the place or the humidity. Whatever the cause, it didn’t seem that the Sidebar’s renowned aura was having much of an effect on Carmella. While she may not have been exhibiting any obvious physical signs of the pregnancy, my partner was showing nonetheless. She sat across from me, squirming in her chair, unable to look me in the eye. Carmella was uncomfortable in her own skin and that just wasn’t her. She was learning the hard lesson, that children change your life whether you carry them to term or not. Soon she would learn that it was a change from which there is no retreat.

  Marco the maitre d’ was about a hundred years old, but never forgot a face or a name or how to put one to the other. He took Carmella’s hand in his, placing his other hand atop hers.

  “La bella Carmella, what may I get for you this evening?”

  “A Virgin Mary.”

  Marco screwed up his face like he’d been stabbed in the heart.

  “She’s been under the weather,” I said, hoping to head off Marco’s interrogation.

  “So sorry, bella. You get better, soon, you understand?”

  “And for you, Moses … Dewar’s rocks?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Marco winked, disappeared.

  “You’re still not drinking,” I said. “Good.”

  “Good! Why good?”

  “Because you’re thinking of keeping the baby.”

  “I’m also thinking of not keeping it.” She placed her right hand on her lower abdomen. She tilted her head down. “You hear me, you inconvenient little brat?”

  “They’re all inconvenient, Carmella. Every single one, always.”

  “I guess.”

  Marco brought our drinks over and chatted with me a bit, but I couldn’t help but peer at Carmella out of the corner of my eye. She was in love and, inconvenient or not, that baby was to be born. Now the trick was getting her to know it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BRIAN DOYLE GOT relief, all right … me.

  I was certain Martello had taken notice of my car after our confrontation in front of his house the previous day. With the man’s attention to detail and lust for revenge, he no doubt already knew my car and tag numbers. He probably knew my total mileage and how much longer I had before my next oil change. To guard against being easily spotted, I switched cars with Carmella Melendez. While she may have been a great detective and meticulous about her looks, the woman’s car was a disaster area. There were enough old newspapers, gas receipts, and food wrappers in there to start a toasty bonfire and enough half full coffee cups to put the fire out. Still, the car smelled of her grassy perfume and that more than compensated for the mess.

  I parked across Great River Road from the turn onto Martello’s block. I nestled the car into a dark, cozy corner on the lot of a half-completed neo-Victorian just down the street from the theme park house, Night had long since settled in and the construction crews were well gone. My position afforded me a clear view of Martello’s house, but it would be impossible for him to spot me without night vision equipment. I could also see the nose of Brian Doyle’s Sentra. He was parked on Martello’s block in amongst several cars that lined both sides of the street. Apparently, one of the neighborhood kids was having a pool party. I punched up Brian’s number.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, Brian, I’m in position. You can get going.”

  “You sure you don’t wanna wait till my fuckin’ bladder explodes?”

  “Piss in a coffee cup, shithead. That’s like on page one of your guide to surviving surveillance.”

  “Whaddayu, nuts? I got like ten people on the porch over here. I’m not gonna provide entertainment for the evening.”

  “Anything happening?”

  “Nah. He got home from his shift around four forty-five and he’s been in there jerkin’ off ever since.”

  “Okay, go home and get some rest. I got him now.”

  It didn’t take Brian long to split. He must not have been kidding about his bladder.

  About three hours later, the pool party was breaking up. As the departing cars took turns passing me by, the blast and thump of hip hop fractured the silence of the suburban night before fading away in the distance. I was sort of glad for the action. My wrists were aching from holding up the binoculars. And when I checked the sun visor mirror, I noticed funky circles on my face from the binocular eyepieces. I looked like the oculist’s billboard in The Great Gatsby. T. J. Eckleburg, I think that was the guy’s name. It’s weird what you remember sometimes, but stakeouts’ll do that to you. The boredom fucks with your head.

  Just when the last car headed past me, my cell buzzed. It was Sarah.

  “Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

  “The doctor says Mom can go home in a day or two. She’s doing much better.”

  “No unexpected sightings? The sheriff’s still got someone watching?”

  “Twenty-four hours a day, Dad. And no, no ghosts or anything.”

  “And you’ve been keeping busy?”

  “I go to the hospital twice a day and then I just hang, but I am kinda anxious to get back to school.”

  “Good. I’m pretty sure we know who’s been behind this whole thing. I’m staking out his house right now.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He’s the son of a dirty cop. I guess he blames me for his father’s death.”

  “Were you, Dad … to blame, I mean?”

  “No, but that doesn’t matter if he thinks I am.”

  “Be careful.”

  “You too, Sarah. We’ll talk in the morning, okay.”

  I occupied myself with the concept of blame for a little while, a very little while. Then I hopped off that slippery slope, picked up the binoculars, and tried getting back to work. The deathly quiet of the place gave me the creeps. How did Aaron ever adjust to living out here? Brooklyn at its most quiet is noisy and that noise had been my lullaby nearly every day of my life.

  Things were changing in the Martello house. The strobe and colored flicker of his TV stopped, the front window going pitch black. A lamp snapped on and there was a brief show of Ray Martello’s dancing shadow. About five minutes later, the porch and outside garage lights popped on. The electric garage opener whined, the door crawling up and out of sight. An engine rumbled. Puffs of exhaust fumes showed themselves like reluctant specters in the cooling night air. First brake, then backup lights flashed as the big SUV lumbered backwards down the driveway.

  I supposed I was far enough away that he wouldn’t hear Carmella’s ignition catch, but I didn’t trust the way sound traveled out here and decided instead to wait until he either passed me moving north or drove in the opposite direction along the border of the golf course. The Yukon’s headlights rushed at me, sweeping from my left to right as the truck turned north toward Montauk Highway. I twisted Carmella’s key; the engine perked right up. Still, I waited a beat or two to let Ray Martello get a block ahead.

  Then, just as I put the car in drive, a cold chill made me twitch. I noticed movement in the shadows across the way: a slender figure emerging through the country club gates and turning onto Martello’s street. I can’t say why exactly, but I couldn’t force myself to look away. I shouldn’t have cared at all. It was probably some kid who’d met his girlfriend for late night putting practice on the ninth green.

  “Keep your eye on the ball,” I whispered to myself. “Keep your eye on the ball.”

  But as I rolled off the lot, my headlamps cau
ght the slender figure, briefly bathing him in a harsh circle of light. Turning back, he squinted, shielding his eyes with raised hands. And in that brief second, all that I knew to be solid and real flew away, because standing there in that circle of light was Patrick Michael Maloney’s ghost. Yes, this was the second time I’d seen him, but seeing him in the light that way … Christ, it scared the shit out of me. My heart thumped so that I felt it pushing my chest against my sweat-soaked shirt. Suddenly, all the tattoos and videotapes were rendered irrelevant. What you think you know doesn’t stand a chance against what you think you see.

  I couldn’t afford to scare him off, not this time. Scaring off a ghost! Go figure. Although only twenty yards ahead of me, I’d never catch him if he took off toward the golf course. So I forced myself to move, to not hesitate, pulling quickly off the lot and driving up the block in the opposite direction. I had the steering wheel in a death grip to insure that my hands wouldn’t shake. Of course I knew how I should play it, but I wasn’t at all sure I could pull it off. Having made a U-turn at the first intersection and doubled back, I eased the car alongside him and let the servo suck the window fully down into the door before I spoke.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said in as steady a voice as I could manage, “I’m kinda lost here. Could you tell me how to get to Brightwaters?”

  The ghost kept walking, neither turning toward me nor away from me. All I could do was stare at his profile, at that too-familiar tattoo on his bare forearm, and the Shinjo Olympians on his feet.

  “Listen, man, I—”

  He stopped in his tracks. I stopped the car, clicked it into park. Slowly, I slid my right arm across my lap to the door handle and began tugging on it ever so gently. There was a frozen second there when it felt as if I could’ve watched an entire baseball game between breaths or counted the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. Then …

  Bang!

  He took off back the way he came, toward the golf course. The car was useless to me now, so I was out the door after him. He was agile and pretty damned swift, making it through the country club gates in only a few seconds. While I had some moves on the basketball court, speed—even before my knee went snap, crackle, pop—was never my forte. An additional twenty years, three knee surgeries, and fifteen extra pounds weren’t exactly helping the cause, but with my heart rate already up and adrenaline flowing, I actually gained some early ground on him.