by Tim O'Mara
‘I didn’t have much to say,’ I reminded him. ‘Where are Mom and Rachel?’
‘Rachel took your mother home, Ray,’ Allison said. ‘She was exhausted and getting real anxious hanging around here. She did say that she wants you to call her tomorrow. At Rachel’s.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Should I leave you two alone or what?’
Before Allison could answer, Uncle Ray did. ‘I think we’re pretty much done.’ He touched his glass to Allison’s and added, ‘We are now officially off the record.’
‘I do have a few more questions,’ Allison said.
‘I’m sure you do. And many of them will be answered at the press conference.’
‘And when will that be?’
He checked his watch. ‘Based on the time now, I’m going to wager before the eleven o’clock news cycle. Not that it’ll be a full conference.’
The look of disappointment on Allison’s face was evident. She turned to me for help and then realized I had nothing to offer. When Chief Donne spoke, that was it. She wanted more, and she knew she was not going to get it from my uncle. I hoped she knew she’d gotten more than any other reporter would have, thanks to me, but mostly to my uncle’s willingness to share what he knew with a journalist he respected. Allison had her reporter’s bag with her, so I knew she had come with her tablet and would be able to file a story for her paper’s website and beat all the other news outlets in town. The rest would have to wait for tomorrow’s print edition.
‘So what now?’ I asked.
Uncle Ray grinned. ‘Now, we drink.’ To accent his point, he downed the rest of his cocktail, caught the bartender’s eye, and signaled for another round. I guessed Allison and I were staying for another drink. ‘To Marty, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ I agreed. ‘To Marty.’
FIVE
I woke up at Allison’s the next morning just after eight. My first thought was that the previous day’s events were a dream; Marty Stover was still alive and well, and I’d just had a bit too much to drink. I’d experienced this feeling the morning after other tragic events in my life: my father’s death, the World Trade Center attacks, and, more recently, the Ricky Torres incident. It took me a minute to get it through my sleepy and hungover brain that what had happened yesterday had truly happened.
Shit.
I turned over and looked into my girlfriend’s face. As with any tragic event, it always helped to have someone close by whom you loved, even if that person was still asleep from one too many top-shelf vodka drinks. I tried shutting my eyes for another five minutes, until it became clear that sleep was not going to make a comeback. It rarely did once I was awake, even during the best of times. I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
I checked out the contents of Allison’s fridge and was pleased to see there was enough in there to make some cheesy scrambled eggs with toast when she woke up. I took a cup of coffee and went into her living room to watch the morning news. Since it was a Saturday, the first story I came across involved a reporter’s intrepid search across the country for the perfect late-winter bed-and-breakfast brunch. I flicked around some more, found a few more weekend fluff pieces, and finally settled on the local, twenty-four-hour news channel. They didn’t have the time to do much fluff during their half-hour shows, but I had to wait until after the weather at eight thirty-one to see the story on Marty.
As Uncle Ray had predicted, it wasn’t much of a press conference. The lead detective spoke for a sound bite or two, followed by someone representing the Medical Examiner’s office. I didn’t learn much I hadn’t already known, except that the ME did confirm Marty had suffered a severe cut to the femoral artery from some sort of blade or other sharp instrument; the ME didn’t specify. The blood was confined to the men’s room because femoral wounds don’t spurt. I knew this. Victims bleed out very quickly once the weapon has been removed. I wondered who had removed the blade. Was it Marty or his killer?
The screen cut back to the pretty reporter who informed me that attempts to reach the victim’s family for comment were unsuccessful and there would be more on this developing story as it, well, developed. She gave it back to the very serious anchor who spoke briefly about Marty Stover’s charity work and mentioned that former pitching phenom Bobby Taylor had been present at the benefit. Nothing like a little local star appeal to get the audience’s attention. The anchor also mentioned that a small memorial service might be held tomorrow, followed by interment at a Long Island cemetery.
I’d forgotten that Marty was Jewish, and as such would be buried much quicker than if he’d been of another faith. Observant Jews wasted no time getting the body into the ground, sometimes in less than twenty-four hours. After that ritual was performed, the family would accept visitors for the mourning process. I’d been to a few shivas in the past and found them much more comforting than the Catholic wakes I’d been forced to attend since childhood. For one thing, there was no dead body in the room. And then there was the food. When Jews mourned, they ate. And ate well.
‘How do you always get up so early?’
I turned and watched as Allison shuffled her way into her bathroom. She shut the door. The next noise I heard was the flushing of the toilet, so I stood to greet her as she opened the door with a toothbrush in her mouth. I’d have to wait for a good morning kiss.
I raised my cup and said, ‘You want some coffee?’
She mumbled an affirmative and went back inside the bathroom. I heard her medicine chest close and knew from experience she was treating herself to some pre-breakfast ibuprofen. By the time she came out, I was back on the couch with her coffee.
As she sat down next to me, I turned down the volume on the TV and said, ‘You didn’t miss much by not going to the press conference. No surprises.’
She took a sip of coffee and closed her eyes as she swallowed. She leaned back into the couch and sighed. ‘Late night pressers are bullshit anyway,’ she said. ‘Most of them are only so the cops can get on the eleven o’clock news and let the public know they’re hard at work seeking truth and justice.’
‘You know,’ I said, giving her leg a squeeze. ‘Vodka and lack of sleep make you attractively cynical.’
With her eyes still closed, she managed to give me a small smile. ‘As long as it’s not cynically attractive.’
‘Never that.’
I massaged her thigh a bit and she let out a pleasurable moan. We’d been together long enough for me to know that it was not the keep-that-up-and-let’s-see-where-it-goes moan. It was the moan of someone who just wants a little physical contact the morning after a long night. Before I could challenge that notion, I heard my cell phone ring from her bedroom.
‘You might wanna get that,’ she said. ‘Could be your mother.’
It could be, I thought, but got up to check anyway. I found the phone in my front pants pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Edgar. Of course it was Edgar. He must have heard about last night’s events and wanted to pick my brain about the whole thing. If I didn’t pick up now and answer all his questions, he’d be obsessing about the details and particulars all day and calling me until I picked up.
‘Good morning, Edgar.’
‘What the heck happened last night, Ray?’
‘Good morning, Edgar,’ I repeated. These types of situations almost always made Edgar forget his social graces. I had taken it upon myself to work with him on that.
I heard him take a deep breath and finally say, ‘Good morning, Ray.’ This was followed immediately by, ‘What the heck happened last night, Ray?’
I took the phone into the living room and mouthed ‘Edgar’ to Allison. She didn’t seem surprised. As I went to get more coffee, I said, ‘What have you heard?’
‘I heard that Marty Stover was killed last night in the city at his own benefit, and the police have no motive or suspects at the present time.’
‘Then you’re pretty much up to date, Edgar.’
‘
But you were there, Ray,’ he said. ‘You must have seen or heard something that didn’t make the news or the police scanner.’
Edgar Martinez O’Brien, cop junkie and technophile that he was, had his very own – and probably very illegal – police scanner. Top-of-the-line, to hear him tell it. And since he seemed to acquire a new one every two or three years, I had no doubt it was the best money could buy. All of Edgar’s equipment was the best money could buy. He skimped in every other area of his life, but not on his equipment.
‘There’s really nothing more I can tell you, Edgar. The cops did interview me, but they interviewed all the guests. I’m not sure what anyone else was able to tell them.’
‘Did you get to meet Bobby Taylor?’ he asked, sounding – not for the first time – like one of my middle school students. As he spoke, I could hear him working the keys on his laptop.
‘Yes, Edgar, I did. He was questioned also, and then he left.’
‘What did he say to you?’
I gave him the condensed version of our conversation. When I was done, Edgar said, ‘You never told me your dad was his lawyer.’
‘It never came up, Edgar. Why would it? It was over twenty years ago. And he wasn’t his lawyer. Marty was.’
‘I know, but you’re connected to Bobby Taylor. That’s really cool. I love his commercials. “Sales pitches,” that’s funny. You have any idea what his high school ERA was?’
Of course I didn’t, but Edgar did. I’m sure he’d spent the morning searching the Internet for any information he could find on any of the people who’d attended last night’s gala. Poor social skills aside, Edgar was one hell of a researcher and he’d helped me out more than once over the years with my unofficial investigations. This was what he wanted to do when he retired – in less than a year and a half, I remembered – and the main reason I was working with him on improving his interpersonal skills. Most people had little patience for adults like Edgar. Not me. I owed him big time, and he’d become a good friend over the years. Especially when I’d gotten in over my head.
‘I don’t, Edgar. But I’m sure it was impressive.’ I refilled my cup and brought it back into the living room. ‘Listen, Allison and I just woke up. Can I call you later?’
When Edgar pouted you could hear it, even over the phone.
‘I guess, Ray,’ he said. ‘What time do you think that’ll be?’
‘I have no idea, Edgar. We haven’t even eaten yet and I’ve got things to do.’ That last part may or may not have been true.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I’m gonna keep working the computer and see what else I can come up with.’
‘Pertaining to what?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know what I find out.’
He hung up without saying good-bye, another social skill I’d have to address with him. But he always got excited when I was somehow involved in a police matter. Even now, when I had made it as clear as I could that my involvement with Marty Stover’s murder was minimal at best, he’d spend just about every minute until I called him back searching the web for anything he could ‘come up with.’
‘Let me guess,’ Allison said. ‘Edgar’s going on an Internet hunt.’
‘At least it keeps him off the streets.’
‘It also keeps him pale, unhealthily thin, and practically friendless.’
‘He’s got me,’ I said. ‘And you. And who knows, maybe he’ll turn up something interesting.’
Allison sat up. ‘You told him you have things to do today. What are your plans?’
I took a sip of coffee. ‘You’re going in to work, right?’
‘For a few hours, yeah. But I’ll be back by three.’
The thought of lounging around for half the day seemed appealing. I knew I had laundry to do back at my apartment and the place needed a cleaning. The best idea was probably to head back home and knock that stuff off since there was a good chance tomorrow was going to be taken up mostly with Marty Stover’s service and then heading to his family’s house for shiva.
I wondered if the cops would release Marty’s body to the family in order for them to conduct the services within the time frame of their religion. Man’s law often superseded God’s. Uncle Ray would know, but it was still too early to call him. Maybe Rachel? I’d be better off waiting until I got back to my apartment before calling her. In the meantime, ‘You up for breakfast?’ I asked Allison.
‘If you’re cooking, tough guy. Let me shower first.’
We got off the couch together and kissed. If I timed it right, the eggs and toast would be ready just as Allison came out of the shower. She might have to eat with a towel wrapped around her, but we all had sacrifices we needed to make.
Breakfast was over, Allison was doing the dishes – when I cook, she cleans, and vice versa – and I was sitting on the couch watching the highlights from last night’s preseason baseball games. My cell phone rang. At first, I thought it was Edgar again, but I didn’t recognize the number.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Donne?’ a female voice wanted to know.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘Maria,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Maria Robles.’ When I didn’t respond, she added, ‘Hector’s mother. From school?’
My mental bell went off. With all that’d happened over the past twelve hours …
‘What’s up, Mrs Robles? Is everything OK with Hector?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. He’s in his room and won’t come out.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘He’s very upset about the news of Mr Stover.’
Right. Hector Robles was not only one of my students from school, but I’d hooked him up with Bridges to Success, and Marty had taken a special interest in him. Hector lived on the same street Marty had grown up on. This meant a lot to Marty, and he watched Hector’s success in the program with great pride.
‘How did he hear?’ I asked.
‘It was on the news this morning,’ Mrs Robles said. ‘We were eating breakfast, and he was getting ready to go to Mr Stern’s apartment. As soon as he heard what happened, he ran into his room and told us he’s not coming out.’
‘Well,’ I said, knowing I was about to state the obvious, ‘he was close with Marty – Mr Stover. He probably just needs some time to process what happened.’
There was silence on the other end for a while. Then, ‘That’s what his father and I thought, but then …’
I waited for about ten seconds before speaking. ‘And then what, Mrs Robles?’
‘Then he asked to speak to you.’
‘Really. Did he say why?’
‘No. He just said that he wanted to talk to you and wouldn’t come out of his room until he did.’
I stood up and muted the TV. ‘Put him on the phone, then. Please.’
‘Hold on.’
I waited for another minute. Allison came into the living room and gave me a quizzical look. I get them from her a lot.
‘My student,’ I said. ‘Hector Robles. The one I hooked up with Marty. He’s real upset and won’t leave his room. For some reason, he wants to talk to me.’
‘How do they have your number?’ Allison asked.
‘I gave it to them when Hector enrolled in Bridges. I figured Marty was doing me a solid and just in case—’
‘He won’t come out of his room,’ Mrs Robles said. ‘And he doesn’t want to talk on the phone. He says he needs to see you. Is there any chance … I’ve never seen him like this before. I know I’m asking a lot, and it’s Saturday and all that, but do you think you could come over, Mr Donne?’
It wouldn’t be the first time I made a home visit, I thought. And most of them had come in times of tragedy. Why should today be any different?
‘What’s your address, Mrs Robles?’
She told me, and I figured if I left Allison’s right away and the two subway trains I needed to catch were running a regular weekend schedule and not rerouted for some reason, I could be at the Robles apartment in
a little over half an hour. I told her I’d be there as soon as I could.
‘Thank you, Mr Donne.’
After I hung up, I turned to Allison.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Looks like you’re not the only one who has to go to work today.’
SIX
When I got off the M train at Hewes Street in Williamsburg, it felt like I was indeed on my way to work. Between the rumble of the subway as it made its way farther east, the Saturday morning traffic on Broadway, and the sound of the jets on their approach to LaGuardia Airport, I also felt like I lived in the busiest, noisiest city on Earth. Even the outer boroughs of New York City got very little time for sleep.
The Robles family lived in the middle of a block of row houses that had probably looked pretty much the same for many decades. Not far from my school, it was also around the block from the local library, two blocks from the subway I’d just taken, and close enough to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to hear the constant hum of traffic. This was a mixed block made up of Hispanic, black, white and a few Hassidic Jews. The wave of gentrification that had been sweeping through Williamsburg, Brooklyn, over the past twenty or so years had mostly skipped this block, but some of the buildings were under repair. I’m sure that meant part of the economy was getting better – at least for those people who could afford to buy brownstones and also had the cash to renovate them.
The building Hector lived in was a six-story brownstone that, according to the buzzer panel, housed twenty apartments and one super. I pressed the one for the Robles apartment and waited.
‘Who is it?’ came a scratchy voice through the intercom. Male or female, I couldn’t say.
‘Mr Donne.’
As I said that, the front door opened, and a large man in a blue work shirt and painter’s pants came out. His hair was just turning gray, especially in his goatee.
‘Mr Donne?’ he asked.
‘That was quick,’ I said. Seeing the confusion on his face, I said, ‘I just buzzed.’
