by Tim O'Mara
‘So,’ I said. ‘You’re reading your book, maybe doing a little texting, there’s not much to see from here and I guess you were pretty bored, but are you sure you don’t remember hearing anything out of the ordinary?’ I had already asked this question in another form, but figured it was worth a shot repeating it. A lot of times witnesses – especially young and nervous ones – remembered something the second time around when the question was either rephrased or combined with some prompting. It was similar to the strategy I’d take with my students during a class discussion. ‘Maybe a raised voice? Someone running?’
She shook her head and closed her eyes. She had committed to a ‘no’ answer but was now giving that some thought. That was all I could ask. When she reopened her eyes, I could tell something had come to her.
‘What is it, Maeve?’
She shook her head again. ‘Maybe nothing. I don’t know, but …’
‘Maybe something?’
‘I may have heard some heavy breathing,’ she said. ‘I did. I mean real heavy breathing. Like someone was running or something. Someone breathing heavy’s not that unusual around here, so I didn’t think much of it.’
She glanced over at her dad, who could barely control the smile that was building on his face. His kid was doing great.
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?’
‘A man, I think.’ She tightened her facial muscles as she thought that over. ‘Yeah, a man. Almost like he was trying to catch his breath. Now that I think of it, he sounded like a kid in my class who has asthma.’ Another pause. ‘Maybe?’
I had no idea whether Marty Stover had suffered from asthma, but anyone who’d got cut like I’d heard he’d been would definitely be gasping for as much air as possible. Or it could have been the killer.
Maeve looked up at her mom, and it was clear she was finished answering questions. The realization that she’d been only feet away from a murder victim was finally dawning on her. She wanted this conversation to end, and she wanted to leave. I didn’t blame her.
‘You did great, Maeve,’ I said, getting up from my chair. I looked at her mom and said, ‘You two should head home.’
‘My idea exactly,’ Karin said. ‘Let’s get your stuff together, kiddo.’
As they did that, I walked over to where my uncle was standing with Michael Barrett. ‘The detectives here yet?’ I asked.
‘Just arrived,’ said my uncle. He nodded with his head over to Maeve and her mom. ‘That was pretty good, Nephew.’
‘I agree,’ said Barrett as he reached out to shake my hand. ‘Was that more Raymond Donne, cop, or Raymond Donne, schoolteacher?’
I smirked. ‘The correct balance of both, I guess.’
‘You’re being modest,’ Barrett said. ‘I read the papers, you know. For a teacher, you’ve been involved in some funky shit the past few years, my man. And with what your uncle’s been telling me about you, it’s a shame you left the job.’
My uncle laughed. ‘He may have left the job,’ he said, ‘but the job never left him. Ain’t that right, Raymond?’
‘Something like that,’ I said, surprised by my uncle’s subtle compliment. ‘Can I go get Rachel and Mom, now? I think we should get Mom out of here as soon as possible.’
Uncle Ray gave that some thought. ‘I’ll have the detectives interview them first.’ Before I could respond, he said, ‘You know we have to talk to everyone, Ray. If I let your mom and sister out of here without being interviewed …’ He stopped himself. ‘I was about to say someone would have my ass, but that someone would be me, right? But just to be on the safe side, I’ll have my guys go through the motions and they’ll be on their way. Where’s your mom staying tonight, by the way?’
‘She wasn’t sure whether she was going to head back to the Island or spend the night at Rachel’s,’ I said. ‘I think now it would be a good idea for her to stay in Queens with Rache.’
Uncle Ray nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Your mom’s not such a hot driver under the best of conditions, and now with this …’
‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘where’s Helaine? Mrs Marty Stover,’ I added for Barrett’s benefit. ‘Does she know about her husband yet?’
‘She left about a half hour ago,’ Uncle Ray said. ‘She hates these types of things. Marty Junior drove her back to the Island.’
‘She left her husband’s benefit early?’ I asked. ‘The guy’s getting a big award, some much deserved press for his charity, and she books out early. With her son?’
‘I got the feeling from Marty that they haven’t been getting along too well lately,’ Uncle Ray said. ‘She thinks he should’ve been retired by now, or at least working less hours, and here he is – was – working more and spending lots of time with the charity.’
‘Makes ya wonder which came first,’ Barrett chimed in. ‘Are they not getting along because of the time he’s spending away from her, or is he not spending time with her ’cause they’re not getting along?’
I smirked at the cynical observation. Not because I found it amusing but because it reminded me of my own father, and how he had always thrown himself into his work. He’d spend all day at the office – the one he had shared with Marty for almost twenty years – and then come home after dinner was over, eat some leftovers, and head into his home office. This went on for most of my childhood until the night my mother, my sister Rachel, and I came home from another three-day weekend upstate without him and found him dead of a heart attack on his office floor.
I was thirteen at the time and still remember telling myself I’d never treat my family that way. Now, roughly two decades later, it was getting more and more doubtful I’d have kids. Not that my girlfriend hadn’t brought it up on occasion, but we both had lives that didn’t exactly lend themselves to being great parents.
Which reminded me, I did need to call Allison. Or as my uncle would say, my ‘reporter girlfriend.’ Tragedy or not, there was no reason she shouldn’t be the first journalist on the scene. It was going to be a big story, and she might as well get the jump on all the other reporters who’d be circling like vultures in an hour or so. And, yes, I’d score some big points with her. I needed those points. If she got here early enough, maybe she’d even get an exclusive with the other guest of honor.
I reached into my pocket and fingered my cell phone. ‘Where’s Bobby Taylor?’ I asked my uncle and Barrett.
Bobby Taylor was not only the brother of a former client of Stover’s, but also a former professional baseball player. We’d grown up in neighboring towns. He and his twin brother Billy were four years ahead of me, and star athletes. They always seemed to be beating my high school at one thing or another, usually baseball. As early as twelfth grade, Bobby Taylor had a fastball that clocked in the mid-nineties. Both brothers had been awarded baseball scholarships, but as life would have it, they got into some trouble over the summer before college. A high school classmate of theirs accused Billy of sexual assault, and that’s when my dad and Stover got involved. The case never went to trial, but before the summer was over, Billy had pleaded out to ten years for aggravated sexual assault, and Bobby was off to college stardom and then the big leagues.
My uncle looked at my hand in my pocket. ‘I thought you already called Allison.’
Not much gets by this man, I remembered. ‘I told you, Officer Gray shut me down before I could talk to her,’ I said. ‘I was barely able to leave a voice message. I just wanna see if she’s on her way.’
‘Of course she’s on her way, Raymond. She’s a journalist.’ He said that last word the way some folks say ‘pedophile.’ ‘She’s probably outside at this very moment trying to talk her way past Officer Virdon. I’d bet ten dollars she’s asking him how to spell his name correctly.’
I pulled my cell out of my pocket and punched up Allison’s number. ‘I’ll see if that’s where she is, Uncle Ray. In the meantime, is our celebrity guest still around, or did he get special treatment from someone
whose ass is … unbiteable?’
‘Now,’ my uncle said, turning to his buddy Barrett, ‘you can see one of the reasons why Raymond’s not a cop anymore. He’s a wiseass who thinks he can go around making up his own words.’ To me, he said, ‘And you being a teacher, Ray.’
I ignored him as soon as Allison picked up. I stepped away so I could privately tell her what I knew up to that point.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ my reporter girlfriend said. ‘I knew I should have gone with you to the benefit. I could have written a fluff piece for the paper.’
‘You hate covering benefits,’ I reminded her. ‘And writing fluff pieces.’
‘Yeah, but not as much as I hate missing a big story.’
‘You couldn’t possibly know there was going to be a big story. And I invited you as a guest, not a reporter. Besides, you’re not missing it. Get your ass – your self – over here as soon as you can and you’ll probably beat the rest of the reporters.’
‘Unless one of my colleagues has already heard from an unnamed police source that Marty Stover’s been murdered.’
‘Which is different from what I’m doing for you right now how?’
There was about five seconds of silence while she considered that. Five seconds of silence during a conversation with Allison Rogers is a lot of time.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way. Do I ask for you when I get there?’
‘Probably best if you ask for “Raymond Donne.” By the time they figure out which one you want, you’ll be inside.’ I looked over at the owner of the place. ‘If that doesn’t work, tell whoever’s got the door you’re here for Michael Barrett.’
‘Where will you be?’
Good question. ‘I’m not sure. My mom’s here with Rachel and I may have to go back to Queens with them, depending on my mom’s reaction to the news.’
‘She doesn’t know yet?’
I switched the phone to my other hand and lowered my voice. ‘I think all the guests are just now finding out. Stover’s wife doesn’t even know yet, unless someone called her or her son on their cell. They left before the murder.’
‘You sure about that?’ my reporter girlfriend asked without missing a beat.
And I had to admit, ‘No. I’m not. It’s just what I was told.’
‘Keep that in mind, tough guy,’ she said. ‘I’m out the door.’ She ended the call without saying goodbye. She’d been doing that a lot lately.
THREE
‘Ray. How the hell are ya, man?’
Bobby Taylor’s hands were huge, and when he shook mine – trying to remember exactly who I was after my uncle introduced us – my hand practically disappeared. I looked up at his face. He had about six inches on me and maybe fifty pounds – most of it apparently still muscle by the way he filled out his expensive-looking suit. I’ve seen a lot of ex-athletes who look like ex-athletes, but Bobby Taylor looked like he could step back on the mound tomorrow and blow it past some young hotshot just up from Triple-A.
That is, if it weren’t for the four surgeries he’d had on his pitching arm. Throughout his time in the minor and major leagues, Bobby had been the victim of too many managers and pitching coaches not knowing what to do with him in the rotation. Was he a starter? A middle reliever/set-up man? Or was he a closer? Three different teams tried all three, and none of them could get it right. The only thing they all agreed on was that Taylor’s cut fastball was one of the best they’d ever seen. Not Mariano Rivera great, but up there. In the meantime, Bobby Taylor’s once-guaranteed sterling arm had been opened and realigned by a gaggle of surgeons, and his promising career ended after only four seasons. That still left him with a five million dollar signing bonus and a smile as powerful as his left arm.
Now he had his hand in a few different businesses – mostly automobile-related – and he was one of the biggest supporters of Marty Stover’s Bridges to Success that hooked up kids in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, with business leaders around the city. Marty was born and raised in Williamsburg and always talked about giving back. That was why we were all gathered here this night to honor the man.
‘I’m good, Bobby,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. My dad was kind of one of your lawyers back when …’
‘Sure I remember,’ he said. ‘Good man, your dad. Good lawyer. Sorry to hear that he passed away.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Heart attack. You were away at college.’
‘Shit, man.’ He shook his head. ‘Those four years of college. I barely remember going to classes. You know what it was like, right? First time away from home. All that freedom. All that partying. All those girls.’
Maybe for you, I thought. Some of us had to work our way through those four years. Those of us who couldn’t throw a baseball ninety-five miles per hour. And as far as Bobby Taylor actually attending classes, let’s just say I’d heard a few things. Star athletes got treated a little differently than us mere mortals.
‘Yeah,’ I said anyway. ‘Crazy times.’
‘Too bad about your dad.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. Then, to be polite, but also because I was damned nosy, I asked, ‘How’s your brother doing? I read in the papers he got out ten years ago and went into business with you.’
Bobby shrugged. ‘He’s OK, I guess. Never had much of a head for business, you know what I mean? Truth be told, he always seemed to be struggling. Academically, socially, that kind of thing. Most people don’t know that.’
I nodded. I did know that about Billy, mostly because my father was their lawyer’s partner. My dad would come home sometimes after sitting in on a meeting with Billy Taylor and, uncharacteristically, talk to me about his frustration with his partner’s client. Maybe because I was just a few years younger than Billy, and my dad wanted to try getting inside his head a bit through me. Bobby was not only more skilled than his twin brother on the field, he was also sharper when it came to understanding the severity of the charges brought by the girl and the damage those charges could do to his family’s name if his brother was found guilty after a long trial. The quick settlement and the admission of guilt by Billy took everybody by surprise. Including, I remembered, my father. Standing there in the coat check room of The Tippler, I couldn’t remember what happened to the girl. Or her name.
‘Billy’s working for you now, though, right?’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Bobby Taylor said. ‘He’s always been good with his hands. He caught every game I pitched in high school, played second when I was at short. And when he was … away, he took some automotive classes. It’s not like it used to be, you know. It’s all computerized and shit, but damn if he doesn’t have the head for it, so I got him running the maintenance division of my dealerships. He started out working on the cars, now he’s supervising the guys who are. He’s doing a great job.’
I nodded. ‘Sounds like he’s put his life back together.’
‘One day at a time,’ Bobby said. ‘One day at a time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d love to talk more, Ray, but I got a long ride back to the Island, and I gotta give the detectives a quick statement. My boy’s got a game tomorrow, if you can believe that.’
‘What does he play?’
‘Baseball. Just like his old man.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘March is kind of early for Little League, isn’t it?’
‘He’s with a traveling team. I don’t wanna brag’ – But here it goes anyway – ‘he’s pretty good. I mean, he’s only twelve, but he’s got some of his old man’s skills. I do a little coaching with the team – one of my dealerships sponsors them – and he’s the starting pitcher. You know the drill.’
I did. When I played Little League I was a pretty good shortstop. I could go either way quickly and had a decent arm from deep in the hole. I also had the bad luck of having a coach who called his kid ‘Scooter.’ Guess where Scooter played. I spent my days between second base and right field, and by the time I hit high school, it was clear I couldn’t quite get around on a high s
chool-level fastball. Instead of spending three years riding the pine, I found other ways to fill my extra-curricular time.
‘Well,’ I said, allowing Bobby’s hand to engulf mine again. ‘Good to see you again. Sorry it had to be like this, but …’
‘Yeah, I know. Later.’
He walked away and I was left standing on my own. This was as good a time as any to find my sister and my mom. Just as I was about to leave the coatroom, Rachel walked in without our mother.
‘Jesus Christ, Ray,’ Rachel said, rushing to give me a hug even though we’d just been drinking with each other less than half an hour ago. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I have no idea, Rache. I came back here to hit the men’s room and got stopped by a cop.’ That was mostly true. ‘Before I knew it, I found out about Marty, and Uncle Ray had me interviewing the owner’s daughter.’ I looked behind her. ‘Where’s Mom?’
‘She’s sitting down inside having a cup of tea. She’s pretty shaken up. I guess we all are. I’m gonna have her stay at my place tonight.’ I saw a lightbulb go off over my sister’s head. ‘Unless of course you wanna have her spend the night with you.’
Without missing a beat, I said, ‘You know I’d love to. But you have more room than I do, and I don’t think Mom will find my futon too comfortable. And besides, you’re closer to the railroad. Mom can just jump on the train after breakfast tomorrow and pick her car up at the station.’
Rachel grinned. ‘I don’t know whether you find that futon comfortable or if you just hang on to it as an excuse not to have Mom stay over.’
‘When did you get so cynical?’ I asked my little sister.
‘I think it was the day I surpassed you in the grown-up department.’ She held up her right hand and wiggled her ring finger at me. Better than the other finger she could have flashed. ‘I’m engaged, big brother. There should be one of these on your girlfriend’s finger by now.’
