by M. P. Cooley
“Jake meant well, but he didn’t have the best impulse control. He had always been the cool brother, great car, beautiful women, but with the prison time,” he shook his head, “we never got close. Until I went to prison. Then he visited me regularly, and he wrote. He surprised me, telling me stories about the people at the bar, how proud he was of Brian.” He peered over my shoulder. I expected to see Deirdre, or worse, Lucas, but it was the Colonie cop, who disappeared back around the side of the house as soon as he was spotted. “When Brian was injured, it almost killed Jake. But a couple of years ago the letters got hopeful after he worked a deal with Maxim where Maxim got title to the bar and Jake got money to buy a house that was handicap friendly. He was so proud of his son.”
“But in 1967 he was a little rough.”
“Jake was the family embarrassment until I took over that title.”
I tried to think of a way to phrase my next question so he wouldn’t get defensive and shut down. “Did Jake spend time with Vera?”
Hale’s phone buzzed, and he looked down. “Dan Jaleda is safe and secured. Agents are escorting him here.”
That was good news. “See, Bernie? Dan doesn’t mind the protection.”
Bernie looked past me to the pond dotted with leaves where koi kissed the surface, looking for food. “Good for him. Dan hasn’t been in prison for thirty years. He couldn’t possibly know what it means to lose your freedom. What you need to understand is that I would rather be dead”—he choked out the word, swallowing before he continued—“than be back in the custody of the police.”
This was the first hint of unhappiness I’d seen in Bernie, and it was more realistic than his serene act.
“I can’t even imagine, Bernie,” I said. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break out.”
He laughed bitterly. “Despite my reputation, I’m not a criminal mastermind.”
Hale spoke, still facing the yard. “I bet you’d do anything to stay out of jail.”
“Not anything,” he said. “I’ve never lied, and I’m not going to start now.”
I decided to take Bernie at his word.
“Did you sleep with Vera, Bernie?” I asked, thinking of his long speech in prison on how he didn’t want to bring a disease home to Luisa.
“Yes,” he said.
I was shocked. “Bernie, you said you didn’t lie, but at prison you told me—”
“In prison you asked if we dated in high school. I said no, which was true. Then you asked me if we slept together during those last few years. I said no. Also the truth.”
“Cash register honesty, instead of real honesty,” Hale said. “Very nice.”
“I didn’t volunteer information because cops can use information against you and ruin your life.” He didn’t break eye contact with me. “Even when they aren’t out to get you, Officer Lyons.”
We weren’t here to talk about my father. “When did you sleep with Vera, Bernie?”
“When we were teenagers. Before she had the baby.”
A look of disgust crossed Hale’s face. “When she was thirteen?”
“She was fourteen. I was too. It wasn’t a crime then”—Bernie shook his head—“although it probably should’ve been.”
“Tell me how it happened, Bernie,” I said.
“I was home after school one day. I had the place to myself and was rebelling by playing Monkees records too loud on the hi-fi in the living room. I was not a cool kid.” Bernie petted his frog for almost thirty seconds. Hale cleared his throat and Bernie continued. “Vera showed up at the front door. She asked if Sonya was home, then Maxim and when I said no, invited herself in. She seduced me,” he shook his head, “No, there was no seduction. She led me to Maxim and Sonya’s bedroom and we had sex . . . I didn’t even realize what was happening until it was over.”
As he recounted the story, Bernie looked profoundly sad. “How long did your relationship last, Bernie?”
“It wasn’t a relationship, at least in the boyfriend-girlfriend way.” He placed the frog on the table, touching its ridged back, and I got a glimpse of the boy he’d been. “I wanted it to be, and she laughed in my face. Said I was a foolish boy, that it was just sex, and I shouldn’t have gotten attached. At the time . . . it hurt.” He gripped his coffee cup and took a swig. “Now that I’m older, I’d bet she’d heard that speech from some man and was parroting it. She wasn’t a virgin.”
“And there was no chance you got her pregnant?” I asked.
“I remember doing the math when I heard she was having a baby, and I figured she was already pregnant when we . . .” Realization crossed his face. “Hold up. She married Taras who I thought . . . Are you asking if I’m Lucas’s father?”
I felt bad, as if I were divulging Lucas’s secrets, but I had to know who Vera was trying to blackmail that night. “There’s a question about Lucas’s paternity that’s directly related to Vera’s death.”
Bernie looked horrified. “Is that why Lucas is hunting for me? He thinks I’m his father? Jesus! Why would he think . . .”
I leaned across the table. “The identity of Lucas’s father is the key to Vera’s murder.”
“How?”
“For now, I can’t tell you. But Lucas is out to get the truth, which means he might come looking for anyone who might possibly be his father.”
“Wait. Dan slept with Vera?” Bernie asked. “I know he and my sister weren’t married, but if he’s the guy—”
Next to me, Hale stood up. “Hello, ma’am.”
“Wonderful,” Deirdre Lawler called from across the lawn. “I told you I would bring a suit if you harassed us. Between this and Brian? Consider yourself served.”
Hale moved across the lawn to intercept her. “We’re doing the best we can to keep your loved ones safe.”
I whispered, “We have no proof that Dan slept with Vera when she got pregnant, but we think Lucas’s father was one of the men at the party that last night she was alive. At your house.”
“So me. Dan. My brothers.” Bernie stared into space. His frog used the distraction to hop across the table and back into the grass. Next to a willow tree, Deirdre and Hale were laying into each other.
“You two are the biggest threat to Bernie,” she shouted.
“We’re completely within our rights, ma’am,” Hale said. “You can’t stop us.”
I used their argument on constitutional law to try to get an answer out of Bernie.
“Lucas’s father, Bernie. Of the men who were there that last night, who could it be?” He didn’t answer, and I gripped his arm. “Don’t lie, Bernie.”
“I don’t know,” he said rapidly. “I’d tell you if I did.”
“Guess, Bernie. Go with your gut.”
”Well, Jake was protective of her, almost territorial. He chased other guys away.”
“So you think it’s Jake?”
“Maybe. Possibly. But the other possibility would be the guy she chased. He ignored her, but she liked a challenge.”
“Who was it, Bernie?”
“Dan. Deirdre’s husband, Dan Jaleda.”
I could hear Deirdre get in the last word, and she came tearing across the lawn, followed by Hale. Bernie rose to meet her.
“Bernie, don’t answer any more questions,” Deirdre said breathlessly, pushing her brother behind her.
“He’s in danger, Deirdre, and so is Dan,” I said. “Lucas Batko has come to believe they were involved in his mother’s death.”
“Dan!” Deirdre called. Dan Jaleda crossed the lawn, followed by two agents. Deirdre rushed toward them. Instead of reaming out the agents, she threw herself into her husband’s arms.
“I’m OK,” he said. “Deirdre, I’m safe, but we need to get out of here.”
Hale walked over to confer with the two FBI agents who stood back, scanning the yard from behind mirrored sunglasses. I hung close to Bernie, keeping an eye out for Lucas, hoping he wouldn’t show up. The FBI agents were trained in deadly force, and I was afraid the
y’d have to use it.
Hale’s phone rang, and he walked a few feet away, holding his ear, at the same time my phone vibrated. It was Lorraine at the station. I answered.
“We’re using phones. Dave is monitoring the radio,” Lorraine said. “We have a report of a shooting at Jake’s bar.”
God. Lucas got to someone. Jake, if I had to guess. I had wanted more than anything to prevent this, make sure everyone made it through alive, including Lucas.
Hale shoved a finger in his ear, talking rapidly to the person on the other end of the phone. “You’re on scene?”
“We haven’t confirmed the victim—” Lorraine said. “EMTs have arrived.”
Deirdre’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and answered, her voice low and even, back in lawyer mode, although it didn’t last. “Hello? Who is this? Oh my God! Jake?”
So Lucas had shot Jake. I prepared to go down to the scene, start the investigation. I felt sick. Deirdre hung up the phone.
“Brian’s been shot.”
CHAPTER 27
A CROWD WAS FORMING. CRIME SCENE TAPE CORDONED BACK thirty or so people who were no doubt coming up with elaborate stories about why the FBI might be investigating a bar shooting on the Island. Everyone craned their necks to get a better view except Dave, who was skimming the edge of the crowd and scanning the streets and passing cars, searching for his brother.
“On the radio. I heard,” Dave said, jogging up to us. “The sheriff’s department said Lucas did this?!” He grabbed the police tape and shook it so hard I thought it would snap. “Is there a warrant for his arrest?”
“No, but I might arrest you,” I said. “You seriously impeded this investigation.”
Hale unwrapped Dave’s hand from the tape, lifting it up. We both ducked under and dropped it in front of Dave, who reared back from the piece of flimsy plastic.
“One of Hale’s men is going to take your statement and then you have two choices: you can go home, or you can wait out here on that side of the crime scene tape. Pick.”
He ran his shaking hands through his hair. “I’ll wait here.”
Chief Donnelly called. “I’m at the hospital. Brian is being prepped for surgery. We’ve got Bernie, Deirdre, and Dan here under guard, and I’m about to join them.” He dropped his voice. “There’s no Maxim. And worse, no Jake. I’ve gotta go, but I’ve alerted the state troopers to keep an eye out for Jake’s car. Jake was following his son’s ambulance. He should be here.” He hung up.
“We have a witness,” the agent guarding the door said. “Guy who found him is back in the kitchen, sobering up. Tomas Wolschowicz.”
“Oksana’s brother?” I asked.
“Didn’t mention a sister,” the young agent said.
The bar was a blood bath. Blood had sprayed against the bottles along the back, the backlight giving the rows of bottles a pink cast through the blood spatter. The front row of bottles had fallen, Brian having taken down a whole row when he fell.
As we walked around the bar, the scene was worse. Plastic mats behind the bar meant to prevent slipping were coated with blood, and there was a heavy pool at the center of the bar. Based on where he fell, Brian didn’t get a chance to run, or even duck. He was too good a soldier to let that happen.
I took in the destroyed bar. “Any signs of robbery?”
“Not a one, and it’s unlikely a robber would leave a big pile of twenties behind.”
In the kitchen, Annie stalked back and forth between the bar entrance and the back door, mapping the path of not one but two sets of bloody footprints, a heavily treaded bootprint sliding into the path of flat-soled shoes, the two crisscrossing and overlapping in their path to the door.
“I hate this,” Annie said. I was beginning to suspect that she didn’t need sleep. “This makes no sense. Both sets of footprints stop right here,” she pointed to the base of the steps leading up to the old apartment. “But neither go up.”
“Are you sure?” I peered up the narrow staircase. The walls had swaths of gray, streaks where decades of people had braced themselves going downstairs, sandpaper nailed to the steps to prevent slipping. Blood would have been impossible to miss.
Bringing the errors made by others to Annie’s attention was like throwing red meat to a lion, but I had to ask. “Is it possible the blood wore away when our guys went upstairs to do the sweep for suspects?”
“Agents tromping over everything, the blood would have smudged, not been wiped clean. Plus, an exit is right there. Criminals are notoriously stupid, but in this case they did the smart thing and headed right out the door.”
“Maybe we can follow bloody footprints to the shooter?” Hale said.
“We tracked both sets to the parking lot. Your people,” she said, “are capturing tire imprints.”
“Can we go upstairs?” I asked.
“With no immediate threat, no, you cannot.” She knelt down, waving over her shoulder to our witness. “Go talk to that guy.”
Tomas sat half on and half off the stool, penned in the corner of the kitchen. His shirt was clean, but blood soaked one leg of his jeans where he had knelt, and his hands were shaking. Even allowing for the shock of the day, it was easy to tell he was three sheets to the wind.
Tomas took a deep slug of his coffee and described what he found. “I came in for my lunch and a drink.”
We were several hours past lunch. “Little late, isn’t it?”
“They always have the stew going, and I have a hard time eating in the morning, nothing sits right. Would have been earlier, but I didn’t want to get in the middle of the fight.”
“What fight?”
“Lucas and Brian,” he said. “The main door was open, and you could hear them all the way out to the street. They were really going at it.”
“What did they say?”
“I heard Lucas yelling ‘Where is he?!’ and then Brian, he shouted, ‘Like I would want you for a brother!’” Tomas cocked an eyebrow. “What was that about?”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Nope. The back door slammed, and Lucas took off, bat out of hell. I waited outside, letting Brian calm down—he has his father’s temper, I tell you. I came in, but no Brian. I settled myself in at the bar, all patient, but Brian didn’t show.”
I waited for him to go on—clearly he was leaving something out of the story—but he remained silent.
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh,” Tomas said. “After that I waited for . . . at least five minutes, and then I decided to serve myself. That’s when I found him.”
I doubted that Tomas had hesitated five seconds before helping himself to beer. He would have heard Brian, gasping or crying out. Dying of a gunshot wound was rarely a quiet activity, despite what showed up on the news, but Tomas’s eagerness for beer saved Brian’s life.
Tomas took a long slurp of his coffee. “I was trying to stop the bleeding, grabbing some bar towels, when Jake came in. Then it’s a blur for me. He gave me the phone and told me to call an ambulance, stanching the blood himself. He was weeping, holding his son close. Then the ambulance came.”
“Then what did Jake do?” Hale asked.
“Then he got very quiet.”
“So did he—”
“I forgot!” Tomas raised a finger and almost poked me in the eye. His gestures were getting broader. “He told me to call his sister.”
I stepped around the still-raised finger. “And he went to the hospital with his son?”
Tomas frowned. “Well, of course.”
“Out the front, or out the back?”
“Back.”
“You two.” Annie snapped her fingers at us, and I glared. Sometimes she tipped past assertive into obnoxious. She and I both knew she had crossed a line.
“I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t important,” she said. “Come here.”
Annie was right—she rarely slipped into pure rudeness unless there was a very good reason. I wanted to see what she’d fo
und, and I also wanted Tomas to sit for a while longer—the lack of detail in his story made me wonder if I was getting the whole truth, or any truth at all.
“There,” Annie said triumphantly once we were next to her. She had a point—this was a big deal. The step with the bloody handprint was open on hidden hinges, which in itself was interesting. I peered inside and saw a makeshift box with two spent 12-gauge shells, a half-empty box of unused shotgun shells, along with a cleaning kit.
Annie ran a swab along the edge. “Shotgun residue everywhere. Give me an hour and I’ll compare it to what’s at the bar.”
“This isn’t big enough to contain a shotgun,” Hale said.
“But a sawed-off shotgun?” I said. “That could fit.”
Hale shook his head, a sharp no. “But why would Jake and Brian not keep it behind the bar? Back here it doesn’t do much good, self-defense wise.”
“Because Jake, as a convicted felon, wasn’t supposed to have a firearm,” Annie said. “This was a nice hidey-hole.”
“A hidey-hole that’s now empty. If you’re saying their shotgun residue is there, then the weapon should be there, too. Where is it?”
Annie fished the spent shell casings out, dropping them in an evidence bag. “Upstairs?”
I hopped over the open step. The steep stairs were difficult to scale for someone healthy—I can’t imagine how someone with a prosthesis might manage them. I emerged into a light-filled apartment. The space wasn’t fancy, but its views were spectacular. With the Hudson River rolling by on the left, the Mohawk rushing toward its end on the right, I could see to the southern end of the Island, the small houses giving way to marshes.
“This is one stylin’ bachelor pad,” Hale said.
A single bed was tucked in the corner, a New England Patriots stadium blanket covering an unmade mattress, stains peeking out from the base of the quilt. Handy for late-night trysts or early-morning naps. We continued through to the dining room, furnished with a card table, metal folding chairs, and an elaborately carved credenza with curlicues along the top and fifteen drawers of different sizes and shapes opening out.
“That monstrosity will be here forever,” I said. “I can’t imagine how the furniture got up here in the first place.”