Ricochet

by Paula Gosling

  Pinsky rubbed his temples. ‘I know it looks that way, but—’

  ‘Just because you feel bad—’

  ‘I can’t help it, honey. Something in me says there is more to this than just a mugging. Which isn’t nice, I know. I mean—’

  ‘You mean murder. Premeditated murder.’

  ‘I guess I do. It sounds melodramatic, I know. The others think I’m nuts, of course. Because I’m upset. Because I liked Ricky.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘You don’t seem . . . as upset as I thought you would be.’

  ‘No, I don’t, do I?’ She frowned. ‘Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet. Like a bit of food that’s too big to swallow – it kind of chokes you off.’ Her eyes met his and while there was unhappiness there, he also saw deep regret for something more than a life lost. ‘Ricky and I hadn’t been getting on very well lately,’ she said slowly. ‘We’ve been going out a long time, and it . . . was sort of . . . stale. I think we were going to break up soon, Dad. And it didn’t really hurt. I’ve been noticing other guys and I think he’s been looking around, too. We go back a long way . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Old friends, we were like some old couple . . .’ Her voice caught.

  He waited.

  ‘But now he’s dead,’ she said and that flat voice was back. ‘He’s dead. And we don’t know why.’ Tears were running down her face. ‘Do you think you can find out why, Daddy?’ She was a little girl again, looking for reassurance, no hate, no blame. Pinsky could have wept himself with relief. Such a good girl, so sane, so intelligent, so compassionate. Ricky would have been a fool to give her up. But Ricky had been no fool.

  Except about this one thing, this thing that he had been hugging to his chest, fretting about and . . . excited? Denise had said he seemed guilty and excited. What had he learned? What was it that had killed him? Because Pinsky was as certain as he could be that Ricky had gone one step too far, taken one chance too many with someone who had not seemed to him to be dangerous, but who was, in fact, ready to kill. Why?

  To keep a secret, obviously. To hide something that Ricky had discovered. He had deduced, or observed, or overheard something so wrong that someone had been prepared to kill to hide it. Had Ricky been the only one to know or guess? Were others now in danger, too? Having killed once, the person responsible might have no compunction about killing again. It had to be something so vital to their lives that taking another life was small in comparison.

  Find the ego.

  That was his job, that was always his job. But if it was going down as a random street crime, it wouldn’t be his job. Or anybody’s job, come to that. And that was wrong. It was just wrong.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, honey?’

  ‘When will Mom get home tonight?’ Her voice was no longer flat, but was getting smaller and smaller.

  ‘Soon, baby, she’ll be home soon,’ Pinsky reassured her and went to sit beside her, hug her, rock her until her mommy came home. And while he rocked, he began to think . . . where to start, where to start, where to start? In a little while he would ask Denise about Ricky’s friends. But not yet. Not just yet.

  First he had to decide how to proceed.

  First he had to have a plan.

  Neilson did the report on Ricky Sanchez’s death, putting it down as a homicide and robbery, adding it to the standing list of street crimes. There would be follow-ups by other detectives, but he knew – as they all knew – that it would probably never be solved. So many, so many. As for Pinsky’s conviction that it was deliberate murder – well, Pinsky had been very upset. Maybe if they hadn’t been caught up in the Mayhew investigation they could have paid more attention, but he did report the suspicion to the pair of detectives who would be following up. He owed Pinsky that much. And they were good, Jackson and Sloman. They might come up with something.

  It wasn’t until the next day that the trouble started.

  Pinsky came in looking haggard but determined and made straight for Stryker’s office. ‘I want to be assigned to the Sanchez case,’ he said a little more loudly than was necessary.

  Stryker considered him. It looked as if Pinsky hadn’t slept much since the Sanchez boy had been found the previous morning. ‘No way, Ned,’ he told him. ‘I talked it over with Fineman. Even if we were going to pursue your theory, he wouldn’t want you involved. You’re too close to the situation.’

  ‘Balls,’ said Pinsky uncompromisingly. ‘You just want to write it off. I heard it’s been given away for follow-up.’

  ‘Jackson and Sloman are good men, and Neilson did tell them about your suspicions. We want to be fair and sensible, Ned, but the balance of probabilities makes it look like a straightforward mugging. It’s just a coincidence that the boy was worried about something. People get killed at very inconvenient moments – anything could be going on in their lives, but not necessarily be connected. If it had been a traffic death would you be as worried?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pinsky said flatly. ‘And so should you be.’

  Stryker sighed heavily. ‘Let it go, Ned. We need you on the Mayhew investigation. It’s complicated, it’s high level—’

  ‘And Ricky was just a spic kid,’ Pinsky finished bitterly.

  Stryker scowled. ‘You know better than that,’ he said icily. ‘I don’t work that way and I don’t think that way.’

  Pinsky knew he had overstepped the mark. He took on a more pleading tone. ‘You’re dismissing Ricky’s death when there are aspects to it that should be investigated.’

  ‘Talk to Jackson and Sloman if you like, but you are to stay on the Mayhew case. We need you there,’ Stryker repeated. ‘If they come up with anything, we’ll think again.’

  ‘They won’t bother.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ Stryker said.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I have vacation days coming,’ Pinsky said abruptly.

  Stryker knew instantly what he meant. He sympathized, he even thought there might be something in Pinsky’s theory. But the balance of probabilities said otherwise. There was nothing he could do. ‘No, Ned. Stay away from it.’

  Pinsky glared at him. ‘I feel pneumonia coming on,’ he growled. ‘I feel very, very sick. And that’s the truth, as it happens.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,’ Stryker agreed, because Pinsky did look bad, off balance and not much good to man or department. And he was afraid that whatever he said or Fineman ordered, Pinsky was not going to let go of this thing. ‘You’ve had a shock, you need to take some time,’ he said carefully.

  Pinsky looked momentarily surprised.

  ‘But’, Stryker continued, ‘stay home, Ned. Rest. Relax.’

  ‘Oh, of course I will,’ Pinsky said sarcastically.

  ‘I mean it, Ned. Stay away from it.’

  ‘What I do on my own time is my business.’

  Stryker considered asking him to leave his badge and gun, but that would be tantamount to suspension and there was no call for it. Ned was upset and he might make a stab at trying to find backing for his suspicions. If he did there was nothing Stryker could do about it – as long as he didn’t know about it, or it didn’t get back to Fineman. He respected Pinsky and he privately acknowledged that there might be something in his suspicions, but he just couldn’t commit any more departmental time to it. Somehow, when they weren’t looking, the beancounters had got into the Grantham PD. Budget ruled and everything got prioritized. At a less busy time he might have the luxury of looking into the Sanchez case more deeply. As it was, his hands were tied. Fineman had spoken. Maybe if it had happened anywhere else but French Street . . .

  ‘I wish I could do more for you, Ned. But it’s on the record as a random mugging. As I say, if Jackson and Sloman—’

  ‘Fuck Jackson and Sloman,’ Pinsky said. ‘It’s Fineman, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s policy, Ned. Priorities.’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s bullshit and you know it,’ Ned snapped. Stryker just looked at him.

  ‘Have a good rest, Ned,’ he said quietly. ‘Take it easy. Come back when you’re ready.’

  Pinsky turned towards the door, then turned back. ‘I’m ready now. The trouble is you aren’t,’ he said and went out.

  Being a gentleman, he did not slam the door.

  But he wanted to.

  TEN

  ‘Dear God, this place is beginning to look like wire-tap city,’ Liz said, gazing around. It was an exaggeration, but she had a point. ‘What is all this going to do to your phone bill? And what is Jack going to say?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know a thing about it,’ Kate replied, brushing her hands together with satisfaction as she surveyed her new ‘laboratory’. When she had lived in this flat the entire sitting room had been devoid of furniture – just the expanse of deep, long-pile carpet in a lush golden shade and a few big pillows. She had had to furnish it in order to rent it, but had concentrated on junk shop finds and pieces culled from ads in the newspaper personal section. The effect was eclectic and simple. Students can be rough on a place, but as she limited herself to graduate students she knew personally, she felt safer than most that not too much damage would be done. But the carpet – her precious and expensive carpet – showed the inevitable tracks of wear and about that she was sad. Still, nothing lasts for ever – and she made a mental note to employ a professional carpet cleaner before she let the flat again. It was sheer luck that she hadn’t installed someone this term. She took a deep breath and ignored the floor.

  David Waxman had lent her a number of items; she had purchased the rest on her own credit card. She and Jack might live together, but they still maintained separate bank accounts, along with a common household account, and this was one of the times when she was grateful they had kept it that way. No questions to be asked. The phone bill for the flat was back in her name and came to her directly at the university. She had carefully maintained the flat as a fallback, should she and Stryker ever come undone. While it seemed unlikely, she liked having her own life apart from the one they shared. It made her feel safer somehow. She was still reluctant to commit fully to a man who dealt with violence for a living and could be killed at any moment. Suppose they had children? She loved him very much, but something in her held back, still, from that last commitment. Knowing she was being unfair to Jack didn’t help.

  ‘How long do you think it’s going to take?’ Liz asked, sinking into a chair.

  ‘I don’t know. A week?’

  ‘Oh, really? And when do you propose to do your teaching and paperwork? Or do I detect an approaching request on the horizon?’

  ‘Well, you’re so close . . . just downstairs. You could help,’ Kate acknowledged. ‘Just a few phone calls would help a lot.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And just how creative do I have to be to carry out this little assignment?’ Liz wanted to know. ‘Am I to be a person doing a survey, someone selling something, an unknown admirer . . . what?’

  ‘Oh, all of those would be fine,’ Kate said enthusiastically. ‘David said we had to get at least a minute of each voice. More if possible.’

  ‘Why did I ever suggest this? It’s become a farce,’ Liz said mournfully, looking around. ‘Are you sure you remember how to set all this up?’

  ‘David wrote out the instructions for me,’ Kate said, producing several closely written sheets from her backpack. ‘If I can read his writing, that is. He said to call him if I have any problems.’

  Liz sighed. ‘Why I ever introduced you to him I will never know.’

  ‘If I remember rightly, it was something about going about this in a scientific manner, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz agreed glumly, accepting responsibility and standing up to the challenge. ‘Well, come on, the sooner we rig all this up the sooner it will be over.’

  ‘No, the sooner we can begin,’ Kate said with a gleam in her eye. ‘Whoever you are, out there, with the vicious mouth – we’re gonna getcha.’

  ‘Heigh-ho Silver,’ Liz muttered.

  ‘The difficulty is that orderlies go all over the hospital,’ the personnel woman said. ‘Are you sure it had something to do with his work here?’ This seemed to distress her more than Ricky’s death.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Pinsky said, sitting back in his chair. He had come without an appointment and made free use of his badge. The only risk was running into Jackson or Sloman, but he didn’t think that was very likely. He knew they had already moved the Sanchez case down on their list. As he had expected. ‘It was just an idea. We know he had been troubled about something lately.’

  ‘This killing . . . are you saying it was deliberate?’

  ‘He was robbed,’ Pinsky admitted.

  She looked triumphant. ‘Well, then,’ she said, as if all had been explained.

  Pinsky sighed and pressed on. ‘Anybody who watches television knows enough to try to make a murder look like a robbery. It could have been a sudden outburst of temper, spur-of-the-moment kind of thing . . . we’re just looking for anything that might be relevant.’

  ‘A hospital this size is like a small city,’ the woman said. The sign on her desk read Penelope Witten and she wore no wedding ring. She was about fifty, dressed in a mannish suit but also in a frilly blouse, her hair scraped into a very tight bun that seemed to draw the skin back from her bones. Her mouth was large and she wore bright-red lipstick. Pinsky kept watching her mouth, he couldn’t help it. It seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and pursing as she spoke. ‘We have many departments, hundreds of employees, incredible amounts of machinery and thousands of patients, all with their own stories, their own backgrounds. He could have found out about a patient, a member of the maintenance staff, administration, nursing . . .’

  ‘And doctors,’ Pinsky finished for her.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘But doctors are trained to save lives, not take them.’

  ‘A common fallacy,’ Pinsky said and was pleased to see her stiffen. ‘Doctors are human beings like the rest of us,’ he went on. ‘They can be venal, vicious, vulnerable – all the normal things that man is heir to. They are not holy men.’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ she said, patently believing he wasn’t. ‘But professional people have standards. They are trained to control their emotions in the face of the pain and suffering they see constantly. It is rare to have a doctor who expresses much of his feelings day to day.’

  ‘All the more reason to have them burst out at an inconvenient moment,’ Pinsky said. ‘So you can’t tell me where the Sanchez boy worked, specifically?’

  ‘He was assigned to the ER, so naturally he spent a great deal of his time there. It is a chaotic place, of course.’ And obviously that rankled with her. No order, no control. Disgusting. Her own office was like a nun’s cell: plain, orderly, every surface gleaming, nothing out of place. ‘But he would be taking patients all over the hospital to various departments. And would be able to go all over the hospital without being questioned.’ Obviously an unacceptable situation to Miss Witten.

  ‘Ah,’ Pinsky said. ‘So you could say he was kind of invisible?’

  Although it seemed impossible, her features tightened even more. ‘I see what you mean, but I assure you if he was ever in an inappropriate situation, he would have been noticed. There are, of course, many drugs available in a hospital. We have thefts all the time, no matter how carefully we try to control and regulate the drugs. We have had to dismiss people before who had helped themselves to something saleable on the street.’

  ‘And you think that’s what Ricky Sanchez was doing? Peddling stolen drugs?’ Pinsky was amazed at the leap of reasoning. But of course, this woman would far prefer Ricky Sanchez to be guilty than one of her precious staff. That wouldn’t reflect on the hospital; that wouldn’t intrude on her carefully guarded world of rectitude and
public service.

  ‘Well, I have no reason to think that, of course,’ Miss Witten back-pedalled. ‘But it has happened before. And the world of drugs is a violent one, as we have good reason to know in the ER. Victims of all kinds are brought in every day. We are a public hospital, we treat everyone. Anyone.’

  But oh, Pinsky thought, you wish that they were all from a better class of society, millionaires who would endow out of gratitude instead of losers spitting on the floor out of ingratitude. She was a piece of work, was Miss Witten. And, he had no doubt, a tough cookie good at her job, if not very well liked. ‘So you can’t tell me any specific duties that Sanchez would have performed?’

  ‘As I said, he could have gone anywhere in the hospital. Patients from the ER have to be taken up to the operating theatres, up to various wards and so on. Also orderlies are sent on errands to collect and deliver blood, drugs, reports et cetera. They are a very valuable part of the staff and we couldn’t run the hospital without them,’ Miss Witten said with some pride. ‘They are vetted very closely. Sanchez was, too.’ She indicated the file on the desk in front of her. ‘He came with exemplary references, and we found him to be diligent and reliable.’

  ‘All the more reason to think his killing to be unusual,’ Pinsky said.

  ‘No. All the more reason to think his killing an unfortunate accident, the kind that happens every day, I’m sorry to say. We treat the victims of street crime in the ER all the time. You could almost say it was normal.’ Miss Witten wasn’t going to give an inch. ‘I still think it likely to be drug-related.’

  ‘There were no drugs found on him,’ Pinsky said.

  ‘Because he had probably sold them,’ Miss Witten countered. ‘We will do all we can to assist you, of course, but I do think you will find that drugs are behind it, as they are behind so much of violent crime these days.’

  ‘An interesting point of view.’

  ‘One born of bitter experience,’ Miss Witten said. ‘I had a close friend die of a drug habit that got out of hand. She was killed by a dealer to whom she owed more than she could pay. She was made an example. The man still thrives.’