Dominic

by Mark Pryor

  “I’m telling you now. I just talked to her yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And the other night when you went out for his birthday pizza, Bobby was saying some nasty stuff about what he could do to her.”

  A pause. “You better be kidding.”

  “I’m not. I was very, very clear with him that doing anything, even keying her bloody car, would be a disastrous idea. I explained it to him, that they’d come after a cop killer with everything under the sun. I thought he’d understood.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said. Her voice was matter-of-fact, and I was relieved she was being so calm. “There’s no way he’d do something like that.”

  “I know, I agree. I’m just telling you what’s going on, why for my peace of mind I want to talk to him.”

  “You think he’s capable of doing that, don’t you?”

  “We both know that, in theory, he’s more than capable of it.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” she insisted.

  “And yet someone did.”

  “He has no reason to kill her. He wouldn’t do that. He may be impulsive, but he knows better.”

  “He’s a teenage psychopath.”

  “I know what he is, Dominic.”

  “Yeah, well, I was one too, which means I can see this through his eyes, and you need to, as well. He’s seeing a cop who is investigating a double homicide and who basically tells him she thinks he’s involved. He’s seeing a quick, easy, and permanent way out of that. He’s impulsive, thinks he’s smarter than everyone around him.” I paused, not thrilled about admitting the last factor, the one she would appreciate the least. “And he had a grown-up telling him he shouldn’t do it, couldn’t get away with it. We’re not good with authority, neither of us, and it’s possible that my little talk had the opposite of its intended effect.”

  She didn’t speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was soft, almost resigned. “This is what I was always afraid of. Not the smoking weed or shoplifting, but something big. Something like this, that he’d do it before realizing more about himself, understanding himself.”

  “Look, it’s possible I’m wrong. I hope for all our sakes that I am. But in the meantime we need to find him.”

  “Do the police know? Are they looking for him?”

  “I don’t think so. I doubt it, not yet, but they will.”

  “What’s the best thing for him to do?”

  I thought I heard something in her voice, wondered for a second if she was holding out on me.

  “Do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t. But if he comes home I want to know what to do.”

  “Have him call me and sit tight until I get there. Whether he did this or not, he’ll need a lawyer next to him any time he talks to the cops.”

  “OK.”

  “In the meantime, do you have any idea where he might be? Or . . . where he might have gotten his hands on a gun?”

  “His friends . . . who knows? I’m sure he could if he really wanted to. We both know that.”

  We did. Bobby wasn’t in any of the East Austin gangs, but he floated around them, circling here and landing there, more like a hornet than a butterfly, courted for his special skills, for his lack of fear and his intelligence. As I well knew, the boy could steal a car in five seconds flat and drive it away like an adult. Which is to say, with one eye out for the cops, observing traffic laws that his idiot brethren didn’t even know existed.

  Which made me think that he could also stay hidden, if need be. At the very least, get rid of a gun that might incriminate him.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “You said his monitor isn’t there?”

  “Right. I assumed he was wearing it, but if he did this . . . Would he keep it on?”

  “It wouldn’t be so smart,” I said. “But he wouldn’t be the first kid to track himself to a crime scene. I can’t think he’d be that dumb, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You mean, locate him using the monitor?”

  “Yes. Locate the monitor at the very least.”

  “But that’ll attract attention from his PO. Won’t he have to alert someone?”

  “Not the way I’ll do it. The PO is a friend of mine; we can do it unofficially.”

  “If you say so.” For the first time, she sounded unsure. Like she trusted us to figure it out, just the two of us, and didn’t want to bring anyone else in. I wasn’t wild about the idea myself, but I didn’t know where else to turn.

  I rang off and dialed Brian McNulty again.

  “Hey, old chap,” I said. “So how about that lunch after all?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I picked McNulty up from the front of the Juvenile Justice Center, called Gardner Betts but known as “GB” or “the Betts.” He stood on the curb, grinning and waving like a little boy waiting for his mum to pick him up after school.

  “Hey man, I’m starving,” he said. “Where to?”

  “How about Curra’s? I could use some Mexican.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know, Dom, you know what happened last time I ate there.”

  “That was a one-off,” I assured him. “Any restaurant can serve up one bad meal. I’ve eaten there a dozen times since and been fine.”

  “If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “My treat,” I said. “That way if you spend the next week on the toilet you won’t have wasted a dime.”

  “Sure, OK.”

  The place was barely a mile away and actually served good Mexican food from the Michoacán state of Mexico. The only thing better than their tacos carnitas plate was the “café Oaxaca,” smoky and strong, with just a hint of vanilla, it was the best cup of coffee in Austin.

  We were shown to a booth by the window, and McNulty tucked into the chips and salsa.

  “We’re friends enough that I can double-dip, right?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Sure we are.” He double-dipped, still crunching the first half of a large chip, and I resisted, only just, the temptation to put my fork through his eyeball. “So how come the change of mind?”

  “I realized I had to come to the office anyway, a little work to do.”

  “Oh, that sucks.”

  “From the man who voluntarily comes in on Saturdays.”

  “Yeah, well, if I want that judge job, I gotta look eager.”

  “Oh, please, juvenile judges are the laziest people on the planet.”

  “You think?” He looked surprised.

  “Yeah, the job’ll suit you perfectly.”

  He laughed and wagged a finger. “Oh, very funny. You’ll be in so much trouble when I get that robe.”

  “If you get it.”

  His expression fell. “Oh, yeah. Mo’s application.”

  “Did you call her?” I asked. “You know, to see if she really wants the job. Maybe if she realizes how much it means to you, she’ll back off.”

  “I did. She was being all coy, acting like she wasn’t interested, didn’t know anything about it.”

  “That’s a bad sign,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know. But even though she’s senior to me, like at the DA’s office, I have more years practicing juvenile law.” He shrugged. “Plus, Judge Portnoy likes me, and I have a few cards up my sleeve.”

  That right there was one of the more annoying things he did. Acting like he knew more than he did, or had some secret that he would reveal only if he needed to. I’d heard him do it in plea negotiations with defense lawyers, pretend some special piece of evidence was about to magically appear and make his case a slam dunk. I picked up my fork and ran a thumb across the pointy tines, imagining but not doing what I wanted to do.

  “I’ll get us some of that good coffee,” I said, sliding out of the booth. Normally one of the waitresses brought it, but I’d been there so often that they didn’t mind me helping myself, and I needed a few moments away from t
he chip-chomping moron opposite me.

  I put his cup in front of him and dropped a few little pots of creamer on the table.

  “Couldn’t remember how you take it.”

  “Sweet and creamy, like I take my women,” he said with a wink.

  “Women, plural?”

  “Well, not right now. Connie would kill me.” He laughed. “Although I could always ask; she’s pretty wild.”

  “Lucky you.”

  The waitress came over and hugged me, nodding enthusiastically at Brian. “How you guys doing? Same as usual, Dom?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll have that, too,” Brian said.

  When the waitress had left, I asked him, “Do you even know what you just ordered?”

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “But I trust your judgment. And there’s basically nothing on this planet I don’t eat.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “I know, right? That’s why I work out a lot; I love food too much.”

  He did. He seemed to be eating nonstop at the office, and when our lunch plates arrived he spent an entire minute wafting his pudgy nose over the plate, identifying the various aromas, like a wine sommelier performing to an impressed audience. Except, of course, I wasn’t impressed, just exceptionally annoyed.

  ◯

  BRIAN

  There’s one thing I’ll say about Dominic: he knows the good places to eat. I was reluctant at first because the last time I was here, with him and a couple of others from work, I ate something that severely disagreed with me. For, like, three days.

  But these tacos carnitas were amazing, the meat slow-roasted and soaked in Coca-Cola, wrapped tightly in fresh tortillas, and topped with green salsa made on-site. I finished before Dom had eaten his first, but that gave me time to enjoy the coffee.

  He’s an odd one, that Dominic. Like, he acts so grumpy and mean sometimes, but he’s actually quite kind. Thoughtful. He really likes this place, always talks it up and wants me to enjoy it, too. That’s why I put up with his bullshit, because it’s all for show. I’m betting it’s that English thing, stiff upper lip and all that. Can’t actually show any emotion, the Queen wouldn’t approve.

  I often asked him about growing up there; I’m kind of fascinated with things English, especially royalty. And from what he’s told me, that was his life. Boarding schools, pheasant shooting, tea and scones. He can be a little tight-lipped if I act overly interested, but he’s got some good stories.

  One thing I’ve noticed, though, is that he doesn’t say much about his parents. About all I know is that they died in a freak accident about a year ago. His dad stepped on a power line that came down in a storm, and his mom didn’t realize, went to help him up, and zap. Both dead. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk about them at all—still too upset. Plus, I get the impression he didn’t get a lot of hugs as a kid, not that kind of family. Kinda sad.

  Back at the office, we sat at our desks and logged into our work computers, quiet for a moment. He doesn’t like too much talking, and sometimes I can’t help myself, so I tried to give him a few moments of peace and quiet.

  “Dammit,” Dominic said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I can’t get into Versadex. Is yours working?”

  “Let me check.” As useful as it was to have direct access to APD’s reports and videos, the system glitches quite a lot. I clicked on the icon, entered my username and password and waited. “Yep, I’m good. What do you need?”

  “A 911 call, I think,” Dom said. “But let me finish reading this report, make sure I need it.”

  Two minutes later, it struck. I felt my stomach rumbling, and in that bad way, where you know you’re in deep trouble.

  “Fuck, Dom, I told you.”

  “What?”

  “That food. That place. It doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Are you serious? Again?”

  “Yes. I don’t get it—I ate the same thing as you!”

  “You sure you don’t have allergies? My friend’s mum has a dairy allergy, sends her screaming to the bathroom when she so much looks at cheese.”

  “No, dude, I don’t have any food allergies, I think I’d know.” I didn’t mean to sound irritated, but I was. Not so much with him; it wasn’t his fault that place didn’t agree with me. I was annoyed at myself for letting him talk me into going. I stood, then doubled over with a cramp in my guts. “Oh, fuck. I’ll be back in a while.”

  I almost ran to the bathrooms. Thankfully it was Saturday so the place was empty, because I actually thought I was going to have an accident on the way. Must be the pork, I thought. Every time I’ve gotten sick, it’s been from pork. Could I actually be allergic to it?

  I stayed in the stall through several rounds, and when I stepped out and looked in the mirror, I was sweating. But I felt better, a little, and made my way back to the office. Dominic had left already, but he’d pulled up a Word document on my computer and left a nice note.

  I feel bad about making you eat at Curra’s, I hope you’re feeling better. I had to run, one of those pseudo-girlfriend emergencies. See ya Monday. D.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. Connie was an angel but sometimes blew things out of proportion, so I knew what he was talking about. I was curious, too, because he never talked about his girlfriend, and I’d not met her. What kind of woman gets a man like Dominic? A hot one, I’d bet. Smart, too, because he didn’t suffer fools.

  My office phone rang and it was Dominic; he apologized again, like it was his fault.

  “A suggestion that might help,” he said.

  “God, Dom, anything, please.”

  “We do this in England, at least my family does. On your way home, stop by that fancy gas station on Lamar. Buy a six-pack of Guinness.”

  “Dude, I hate that stuff.”

  “I know, I know. But it’ll help. Drink one as soon as you get home, then another after each toilet visit.”

  “That’s gross. And no way Connie would let me.”

  “Of course she won’t. Get a slushy cup from the gas station and use that.”

  I waited to see if he was kidding, but even Dom wouldn’t screw with me in my state. “OK, I guess it can’t hurt.”

  “Something about the iron helps. Try it.”

  ◯

  DOMINIC

  While Brian was indisposed, I sent just one e-mail, to Bobby’s PO:

  Hey, can I get a huge favor? I need to know where one of your kids has been, and where he is now. Trying to figure out if we need to modify his probation terms, my chief has told me to keep an eye on him. I put some specific dates and times below. His Juvie number is 89773. Best not to email me back, I’ll be out of the office for a few days, so just call me with the info or, if I don’t answer, leave me a voicemail on my cell, the number is below. Thanks!

  I headed back to my apartment to wait for the call back. It came less than an hour later, and I let it go to voicemail.

  “Hey dude, sorry, I don’t think I can do that. My boss sent out a memo two weeks ago about sharing GPS records with you guys. I thought y’all got it, too. Anyway, you have to get a subpoena to see them. Sorry!”

  I closed the phone and sat back in my armchair to think.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BRIAN

  I slept horribly on Sunday night, my stomach still messing with me, but even so on Monday morning I tried to get up and go to work. I felt lightheaded and had to steady myself against the wall when I stood up. Connie told me to stay home, and since I didn’t have any cases set, I figured no harm, no foul. She had to go to work but said she’d come by at lunchtime to check on me, wouldn’t take no for an answer on that. Angel, like I said. So when the doorbell rang at noon, I wasn’t surprised; I assumed she’d forgotten her key. I was a little more surprised when I opened the door.

  “Dominic. What are you doing here?”

  We’d never been close, and him taking me to lunch and checking on me was weird, and I kinda th
ought maybe he was trying to suck up a little for when I get the judge job. Which I actually didn’t mind, because I’m a realist and know how the world works. In any case, there’s something about being on his good side that I like. I’m flawed enough to recognize my own weakness in that regard.

  “Nice pj’s, man,” he joked. “You don’t dress for your guests? The neighbors will talk.”

  “Oh, dude, sorry, I didn’t—”

  “I’m kidding, come on, Brian, get with it.”

  “Oh, sorry.” That’s how out of it I was, I didn’t get his jokes. “You wanna come in?”

  “No, it’s okay, I was just out running errands. Did you try the Guinness trick?”

  “Ugh. I tried to try it, but Connie busted me on the way in the door. Said it was ridiculous.”

  “And because she’s a nurse, she knows best?”

  “Basically.”

  “And yet here you are, still sick.”

  “Right? I know.”

  “Well, you’re in luck.” He held up a plastic bag. “Your medicine.”

  “Seriously, you brought me some?”

  “Well, like I told you, I feel bad about taking you there.” He opened the bag and I reached in and took out a six-pack. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, man. I’m willing to try anything at this point.”

  He frowned. “Although, Connie’s right in that we don’t want you overdoing it. Tear off half of those cans and put them in the bag.” He held it open while I did so. “Three should be plenty, anyway.”

  “And easier to stash three than six, out of sight of my conventional nurse,” I said, with a wink. “Thanks again, Dom.”

  “Sure, no problem. One other thing—didn’t you tell me a couple months ago that you play poker?”

  “Yeah, sure do. Haven’t played in a while, though.”

  “Cool,” he said. “So this may be too rich for your blood, but once a year me and some mates get together and go all out for an evening.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Helluva buy in, and, like I said, it might be too much for you, but one of our regulars dropped out, and I said I knew someone who might fill in.”

  “Me?” I was surprised he was asking, but flattered, too. Dom the musician, the prosecutor, the guy who’d helped solve a double homicide and almost gotten himself killed doing it. He was real picky about his friends, and I’d never seen myself as one. But with lunch the other day, the Guinness today, and now this . . . it had to be the judge thing.