by Tim O'Mara
“He came by,” Alexis mumbled, her eyes still closed, “to see what happened to Jack. Elliot called him. Isn’t that right, Mr. Raymond?”
“Who the hell is Elliot?” Quinn demanded.
When Alexis didn’t say anything, I figured it was my turn to talk.
“A mutual friend,” I said. “A classmate of Jack’s. And Dougie’s.”
“And that brings you here why?”
With no way forward but the truth, I thought about a way to explain that wouldn’t make me sound crazy. It took a little while. “When I got the call from Elliot,” I began, “it struck me as too much of a coincidence that your son was in the hospital after what happened to Dougie and to Paulie Sherman.”
“What the hell does Paul Sherman have to do with my son’s … condition?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping to talk to Jack. I didn’t realize he was in ICU.”
“Oh,” Quinn said. “Your buddy Elliot didn’t know about that?”
“He only knew what your daughter posted online, Mr. Quinn. He knew I was … looking into Dougie’s murder and thought I’d be interested in whatever happened to your son.”
Quinn slowly removed his arm from around his daughter, who seemed to be sleeping again. He stood up with a confused, angry look on his face. “You’re a schoolteacher,” he said. “What the hell are you doing ‘looking into’ Douglas Lee’s death? And how dare you involve my family?”
“I didn’t mean to involve—”
“No,” he snapped. “You just show up at the hospital. What were you trying to accomplish, if not involve my family?”
“I was hoping to find out what happened to your son and maybe ask him some questions about Dougie.”
“Jesus Christ. Do you hear yourself?” He took a step closer to me. “You’re a fucking schoolteacher.” His face turned red again. “And my son is in no condition to answer any questions. From anyone.” His eyes filled with tears as he backed away and slowly sat down next to his daughter.
“I understand,” I said. “And I apologize for intruding. You should know, though, the detective assigned to Dougie’s murder will be contacting you.”
He looked up at me. “And how did he find out about Jack?”
“I called him.”
“Of course you did,” he said. He pointed his finger at me. “Something’s wrong with you, Mr. Donne.”
I thought about offering him a quick comeback, but decided against it. “Good-bye, Mr. Quinn. And again, good luck with … your kids.”
“If I see you around my kids again, Mr. Donne, you’ll be hearing from the police and my attorney.”
Of course I would.
As I made my way to the street, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the hospital. Same car as my uncle’s. The back passenger door opened, and out came a large black man. Damn. Looked like I’d be hearing from Quinn’s attorney sooner than we both had thought. The man who emerged from the car was Dougie’s uncle. He gave me an odd look once he realized who I was. He considered stopping for a second, but chose to go over to where his client was trying to wake his drugged-up daughter. They spoke in hushed tones and, when they were done, looked over at me. Douglas Lee called out my name, and we met halfway.
“Mr. Lee,” I said. “How are you?”
He stuck out his hand. When I took it, he squeezed harder than he had to.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Donne?” he asked, maintaining his grip. “We have a family in distress, and you choose to add to their problems?”
“That was not my intention, Mr. Lee.”
“Your intention doesn’t quite matter at this moment. What should matter to you is my client has every right to charge you with harassment.”
Didn’t take long to get into that Lawyer Speak.
“You think he’ll bring his daughter to court to testify against me?”
Douglas Lee didn’t smile. “That’s very clever, Mr. Donne.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Can I have my hand back now?”
He looked down at our hands and relaxed his grip. I pulled my hand back to where it belonged. I’d be feeling that for a while.
“You’re fortunate, Mr. Donne, that my client has much more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”
“Are you the call he made to get his daughter home?” I asked.
“That is none of your concern. None of this is your concern. You would do well to remember that. You are not a policeman anymore.”
“Maybe you better ask him then—before the cops get here—about the connection between your nephew, Paulie Sherman, and Quinn’s boy, Jack.”
He shook his head at me and grinned, like I just didn’t get it. “Who says there’s a connection, Mr. Donne?”
“Oh, come on,” I said, noticing he didn’t ask me who Paulie Sherman was. “I know you’re a lawyer and sometimes you have to think like that, but really? Your nephew’s been murdered. One best friend lost a fight with a bus, and the other’s in intensive care. You don’t see a connection here?”
“As a lawyer,” he said, “I see only the facts, and the facts are that those are three separate and unrelated tragedies. Unless you have evidence that proves otherwise?” He paused for a beat. “Do you have such evidence, Mr. Donne?”
“No, Mr. Lee,” I admitted. “I don’t. But once the police start looking into this, I believe that will change.”
“Then my client and I will deal with that when the time comes. That’s why people have lawyers.”
“And taking home semiconscious daughters is just a part of your personal service?”
That got him. He tried not to let it show, but his eyes gave him away. He wasn’t just a lawyer. He was an employee. A highly paid babysitter at the moment.
“Good-bye, Mr. Donne,” he said. “Stay away from the Quinns.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, looking past him and over at the father and daughter on the bench. “You might want to get the driver to help you with Alexis. It doesn’t look like she’s gonna be able to make it on her own.”
I turned to the street and started walking. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Murcer’s number. Again, I got his voice mail, and I hung up without leaving a message. Didn’t want him thinking I was stalking him. While I had the phone out, I tried Allison one more time but got the same results. I slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket.
With no one else to talk to, it seemed like a good time to head back to Brooklyn and try to find some people who would be glad to see me.
Chapter 14
BY THE TIME I GOT TO THE LineUp, the early evening rush was in full swing. Mikey was behind the bar, mixing something that required a shaker—more than likely for the pair of young cop groupies talking to the two off-duties down at the far end. Mikey had asked to take my shift for the night, because he needed the extra cash with the holidays coming up. I had no problem taking the night off.
The usual retired cops were in their regular seats. The TV above the bar was showing an old—I mean, classic—Yankees game. Every seat at the bar was taken except one: the one next to Edgar, who was busy with his laptop again. I patted him on the back as I slid into the empty seat.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Raymond!” he said, surprised to see me. “Mikey told me you wouldn’t be showing up tonight. Any more news about the dead kid?”
And that’s why the stool next to Edgar is usually open. I got Mikey’s attention by raising my index finger, and I knew within the next sixty seconds a Brooklyn Pilsner would land in front of me.
“No, Edgar,” I said. “No more news about Dougie. But you were right.”
“I was?” he said. “About what?”
“The walkie-talkie he had. Turns out Dougie was into bird-watching.”
“You went up to Central Park?” he asked, pleased I’d taken his advice.
“Yep. I did just what you told me to, and I found his partner.”
“All right,” Edgar said, offering me
his fist to bump. I bumped it. “Kinda like a couple of detectives, huh?”
“Kinda.”
Mikey came with my beer. “Thanks again for the extra shift, man. You eating tonight?” he asked. “Or just the beers?”
“Chicken sandwich,” I answered. “No fries or rings, though.”
“What’s up with that? You’re thin enough as it is.”
“Just not that hungry tonight. Okay?”
“You got it, Ray.”
After Mikey left to put in my order, Edgar picked up right where we had left off.
“So,” he said. “Tell me about this bird-watcher.”
I took a long sip of pilsner. “He went to school with Dougie. Takes his bird-watching very seriously.”
“They all do, Ray. You should hear my uncle talk about it.” He made a big deal out of rolling his eyes. “You ever listen to someone go on and on about something, and you have to sit there, faking interest?”
“Yeah,” I said, enjoying the irony. “Every once in a while. Anyway, the kid’s really into birds and computers. Started his own social website for kids with special needs who go to private schools.”
Edgar grinned. “I like this kid. What’s the site?”
I told him, and within seconds we were looking at Finch’s Landing on Edgar’s laptop. I asked him to click on the “Recent Postings” link. He did, and there was Alexis’s message about her brother. There were two postings after hers, both expressing best wishes to Jack and his family.
“This website’s pretty good,” Edgar said. “But your friend really should put in a better security system. I mean”—he waved his hand over his laptop—“anybody can just get right on and cruise the site.”
“I’ll make that recommendation next time I see him.”
I went on to tell Edgar about my trip to the hospital and my experience with Alexis, Mr. Quinn, and Dougie’s uncle.
“That’s one hell of a coincidence, huh?” Edgar observed. “Your kid’s uncle is the lawyer for the ICU kid’s dad.”
“Maybe not so much of a coincidence,” I said. “This guy Quinn might have been Dougie’s connection to Upper West Academy. Can you get onto their site?”
Edgar gave me a look like I was disrespecting him for even asking. Half a minute later, we were looking at the school’s home page. There were links for everything from “Campus Life” to “Make a Donation.” I pointed to the one that said “Board of Directors” and asked Edgar to click on it. He did and, sure enough, halfway down the list of names was John R. Quinn Sr.
“Right again, Ray.” Edgar squinted at the computer screen. “What’s a Board of Director do, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “If the private schools work the way the Catholic ones do, I’d say they’re involved in fundraising and recruitment.”
“And scholarships?”
I nodded. “Yeah, probably scholarships, too.”
“So,” Edgar thought out loud, “Uncle Douglas is Quinn senior’s lawyer, and your boy Dougie just happens to get a free ride to an exclusive private school. What’s this guy Quinn do when he’s not a Board of Director?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then pointed to the empty search field in the upper-right corner of the screen. “Why don’t you tell me?”
As Edgar was typing John Quinn’s name into the box, Mikey came over with my chicken sandwich. He looked down at the plate and shook his head. “Just doesn’t look right with no fries or rings.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “you can bring Edgar and me another couple of beers.”
“Yes,” Mikey said. “That would make me feel better.”
As he left to get our beers, I took a bite of my sandwich and looked over at the computer screen. Edgar was frowning and shaking his head.
“Too many John Quinns,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m gonna put in the middle initial and the Sr. and see what pops up.” He did, and his frown quickly turned to a grin. “There we go. John R. Quinn Sr. Looks like he’s a big wheel for some pharmaceutical company in Jersey.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Ward Fullerton.”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“Me, neither. Probably because they don’t advertise during baseball games.”
“Which means they don’t treat erectile dysfunction.”
Edgar laughed. “Wanna check out their site and see what they do make?”
“Absolutely,” I said and took another bite of my chicken. Mikey came over with our beers and a small can of tomato juice for Edgar. He gave me an up-and-down wiggle of the eyebrows.
“You two enjoying yourselves?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Edgar said, his fingers practically dancing across the keyboard. “Give me my computer and a few beers, and I can stay here all night.”
Mikey grimaced. “No need to make threats, Edgar.”
“Give us a minute, will ya, Mikey?” I said. “Edgar and I are right in the middle of something.”
“Yeah,” Edgar said, his eyes glued to the screen. “Right in the middle.”
Mikey rolled his eyes, but took the hint and went to the other end of the bar. I glanced over at Edgar’s screen and watched as an impressive web page came to life. The faces of children—all different colors—scrolled beneath the heart-shaped corporate logo of Ward Fullerton Pharmaceuticals, the company name written in green capital letters. Under the pictures of the kids floated various words and phrases, including Childhood Cancer, Rare and Neglected Diseases, Attentional Issues, Juvenile Vaccines.
“These guys are involved with a lot of heavy stuff,” Edgar said.
I nodded. “Is it all kid-related?”
“I don’t see any pictures of grown-ups. Maybe that’s why we’ve never heard of them. Who advertises kiddie drugs on TV?”
I looked at links at the top of the page and pointed. “Click on the one that says Board of Directors.”
As he did, he said, “You think…”
“I don’t know, Edgar. That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Within seconds, the screen was filled with pictures of Ward Fullerton’s Board of Directors. It didn’t take long to recognize John R. Quinn Sr.’s face in the middle of the pack. Without having to be told, Edgar clicked on Quinn’s name so that his bio came up. We both read silently for a bit before Edgar said, “This guy’s pretty impressive. Head of research and development.”
“I guess he does pretty well for himself,” I said. “Got his own driver—and a lawyer—who come when he calls.” I read more of his bio. “Master’s in International Relations and Biology.”
“Smart guy.”
“Not smart enough to keep his wife’s drugs away from his daughter. But, yeah, I guess he’d have to be pretty sharp.”
I took another bite of my sandwich and followed it with a sip of beer. Edgar continued to navigate around the website but didn’t seem to find anything that held his interest for more than a few seconds.
“You wanna hear about their corporate citizenship or how their stock’s been performing over the last financial quarter?”
“Not really,” I answered. “Just wanted to see who the guy was.”
“Okay.” Edgar closed out of the site, and the screen returned to Upper West Academy’s page. “We done here, too?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” My cell phone rang. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the number I had dialed three times that day. I got off my stool and walked away from the bar for a little privacy. “Dennis,” I said. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“Something on your mind, Raymond? I got three missed calls from you this afternoon. Who is Jack Quinn, and why should I care?”
“He’s—was a friend of Dougie’s,” I said. “He’s in the ICU over at New York–Presbyterian. He was also a friend of Paulie Sherman.”
Silence from the other end and then, “The kid killed on the skateboard?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t that strike you as too much of a coinci
dence?”
As I waited for an answer, I looked over at Edgar, who was giving me a “What’s up?” look. I held up my index finger to let him know I’d be done soon.
“It does,” Murcer finally said. “How’d you hear about the Quinn kid?”
“I got a call from a friend of Dougie’s,” I said. Then I told him about my visit to Dougie’s school and how I met Elliot.
“You’ve been busy again, Raymond. Anything else you think I should be made aware of while I have you on the phone?”
I paused for a bit and figured he’d probably find out anyway.
“I went to the hospital today,” I said. “To see Jack Quinn.”
“Please tell me you are shitting me.”
“I felt like I had to do something. I did try to call you first, though.”
“Fuck, Raymond.” Dennis went silent again, struggling for the right words. Before he could find them, I went on.
“I met the sister and the father,” I said, then gave him the rest of the details up to and including my conversation with Dougie’s uncle.
“He’s right, y’know,” Dennis said. “This Quinn guy can charge you with harassment. Shit, I can charge you with interfering with an investigation. What the hell were you thinking? No, no. Forget I asked that. I know exactly what you were thinking. You’re not police anymore, Ray.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But if I were, I’d have known enough to check Dougie’s laptop and talk to his friends and teachers at the school.”
“How’d you know about the laptop?”
“I was at the Lees’ the other day. The reception after the funeral.”
“So you had the mom call me to—”
“It was her idea,” I lied. “I agreed with her.”
He mumbled something I didn’t quite get. I think I made out the word “asshole.”
“So,” I said. “You’ll go to the hospital and speak with Quinn?”
“Are you hearing me, Raymond?”
“Yes, Dennis,” I said. “I’m hearing you. When I got to the hospital I realized I shouldn’t have been there. I was about to leave when the sister came out.”
“And then you just couldn’t help yourself, right?”