Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “Thanks again, Ray. Having someone else there always makes it easier.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “That about as bad as it gets?”

  She took another sip. “Not even close,” she said. “Interviewing the families of four recent high school graduates who thought they could make it through the flashing lights, around the barrier, and over the train tracks before the train got there. That’s as bad as it gets.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Where and when did that happen?”

  “Westchester. Three years ago.”

  “They all die?”

  “Three of the four. The fourth one—the driver—wishes he had.”

  “Were they drinking?”

  “Yep. Coming back from a graduation party. Had their whole lives in front of them. All four college-bound. Thought they were invincible.”

  I finished off my beer. “I remember those days,” I said. “Stupid shit was done.”

  “Most of us make it through. Those who don’t, sometimes make the papers.”

  Our food came. We’d ordered the sushi platter for two, which I figured a lot of couples probably do. Not because we were a couple, but there were two of us, and it seemed the thing to order. After the waiter informed us which fish was which, I asked him for a Sapporo, and Allison asked for another vase of sake. Neither one of us had to be back at work until the next day, so …

  “What about you?” she asked. “What was your worst day?” Before I could answer, she winced. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t blame myself as much as I used to.”

  “Do you think about it a lot?”

  “Only every time I pass a fire escape,” I said, more than a touch of bite in my voice. Stupid. “Sorry.”

  “No, no. I understand, Ray. I still flinch whenever I see a Jeep.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s kind of always there.”

  The waiter came by with our drinks. I asked for two sets of chopsticks and he handed them over. Again, Allison looked surprised.

  “My sister taught me,” I said. “She said it’d impress women.”

  Allison took her wooden set and separated them. “Tell your sister she’s right.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  We ate without talking for a while. I liked the way Allison dug right in. There was none of that picking around, asking if I wanted a certain piece. She knew what she wanted and she took it. It was just sushi, but I admired the attitude. When she really liked a piece, she made a low moan.

  “What other advice did your sister give you?” Allison asked.

  I swallowed a piece of tuna and took a sip of beer before answering.

  “To take things as they come,” I said. “And to keep in mind you need time and space in a relationship.”

  She moved her chopsticks through the air in a circular motion and said, “Is that what we have here, Raymond? A relationship?”

  Great, I thought. Haven’t had this conversation for a while.

  “I don’t know what we have here, Allison.”

  “Good answer.” She took a sip of sake. “You passed the test, you know.”

  “The keep-my-mouth-shut-and-listen test at the Shermans?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Remember the offer you made the other night?”

  “No, Ray,” she said. “I was so blasted out of my mind, it’s all a blur.”

  “Okay, no need to ruin the mood with sarcasm.”

  She raised one of her chopsticks up to her mouth and ran it over her lower lip.

  “What mood is that, Ray?”

  I didn’t answer. I just kept watching that lucky chopstick make its way around her mouth.

  “Are you propositioning me, Mr. Donne?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Does that make you feel better about it? Now that it’s your idea?”

  “No. I just think that—”

  She turned the chopstick around and placed it on both my lips. “Shhh,” she said. “Do that thing again where you don’t talk so much.”

  *

  Two hours later, we were at Allison’s apartment in her bed. The curtains were pulled, the lights were turned off in favor of scented candles, and her head was resting on my chest. I couldn’t see her face, so I wasn’t quite sure if she was smiling, but you would have had trouble wiping the one off my face with a rake. Allison sighed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Daytime sex fucking rocks.”

  “I agree.” I moved my arm so I could rub her shoulder. “Feels like we’re getting away with something. Like we know there are things to do, but we had sex instead. I half expect my mother to come through the door asking why I didn’t make it to school.”

  She patted me on the stomach. “It’s okay, Ray. Your mother has no idea who I am or where I live.”

  “Good. Now I can relax.”

  And I did. I found myself staring up at her ceiling, feeling my eyes get droopy and letting them close. I took in the scent of the candles and the scent of Allison. I could have stayed that way for many hours. Allison had other ideas.

  “So,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking this feels real good right now. You?”

  “I mean about the three boys.”

  We just had sex and now she wants to talk about this?

  “I wasn’t thinking about the boys, Allison,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.

  “Well, I am and now you are.” She rolled onto her side and propped her head up with a couple of pillows. “I’m getting more and more curious about what happened to put the Quinn boy into the hospital.”

  Looked like we were going to have this conversation. I took a few more pillows and put them behind my back as I sat up. I looked down at Allison. “Yeah, me, too. You still thinking of heading over to the hospital?”

  “Tonight. I’ll catch the nurses on a shift change. There’s always a better chance to talk with them on their way out.”

  “You really think you’ll get information out of any of them?”

  “I told you,” she said, “some of them get real chatty after a long shift. What do we want to know exactly?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Why Jack’s there, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I can get a nurse or an aide to give that up without them even realizing they did.”

  “Is that something they teach in journalism school? Getting people to reveal confidential information?”

  She sat up. “Don’t get all high and mighty on me now, Raymond. You went to the hospital. And you just passed yourself off as a photographer to a grieving family.”

  “Number one: that’s not a crime,” I said. “Number two: it was your idea.”

  “Doesn’t make it right, and you had no problem agreeing to it. You were just as curious as I was to meet Paulie’s parents.” She readjusted the pillows behind her back. “Do I sometimes have to cross some ethical line to get a story? Damn straight. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be long for this business. Shit, the way newspapers are now, I may not be long for it anyway. You’ll be able to get everything off the wire or the Internet.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re right. It just seems a bit—”

  “Hey,” she interrupted. “You got into this for a reason. You were trying to help Mrs. Lee find the truth about what happened to her son. I agreed—not completely selflessly—to help you. You know how this works. You can’t stop in midstream because you don’t like the way things are going.”

  “I never said I wanted to stop,” I said.

  “No, but you’re starting to question my methods. I don’t appreciate that.”

  That warm and fuzzy post-coital feeling was almost gone. I closed my eyes and tried to get some of it back. It wasn’t working.

  “Okay,” I said, opening my eyes and looking at Allison. “You’re right.”

  “Damn straight, I’m right,” she said.
“Your sister teach you how much women love to hear those two words? ‘You’re right’?”

  “No. I had to figure that one out for myself.”

  “See,” she said, throwing her legs over mine. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Keep that up, and you might get something else.”

  “You mean … this is not a one-night stand?”

  She leaned in and kissed me. “It’s the afternoon, Ray. Let’s talk about the night later.”

  “Fine by me,” I said, and kissed her right back.

  Chapter 24

  IT WAS A SLOW NIGHT AT THE LineUp, and it didn’t look like it was going to pick up anytime soon. Nobody was playing pool, and only three people were sitting at the bar. A couple of retired cops who were watching the news with the sound off. And, of course, Edgar.

  I poured myself half a pint of Brooklyn Pilsner and went over to where Edgar was playing with his laptop. I must have been standing there for a minute before he acknowledged my presence.

  “Raymond,” he said. “Absolutely brilliant idea Mrs. Mac had, putting Wi-Fi in.”

  “Wasn’t that your suggestion, Edgar?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His eyes were still on the screen, but he was grinning. “So, why are you here tonight?”

  “Mikey called me this afternoon,” I explained, leaving out the part about getting the call while in Allison’s bed. “Said he forgot he had an early-morning fishing trip tomorrow and asked me to cover his shift for him.”

  “Cool beans. Can I get another one of these, please?”

  I took his glass and filled it up with Bass. I also grabbed a small can of tomato juice and brought it over to him.

  “On me,” I said. I must have been bored because I heard myself say, “What’re you looking at?”

  “Thanks.” He held up a finger, telling me to let him finish. It took him less than a minute. He sipped a bit of his ale, opened the tomato juice, poured a small amount into his glass, and took another sip. “Ahh.”

  I pointed at his laptop. “More about bird-watching?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Did you know the Quinns have a house up in Rhinebeck?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Paulie’s mom said the boys were up there recently.”

  “Well, I entered the name ‘Quinn’ into a search engine I’m fond of, along with ‘Rhinebeck.’ After a few more clicks, I was able to get his address.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” I said. “Is that legal?”

  “I don’t use the popular search engines,” he said, as if that explained whether it was legal or not. “Then I punched in the address.” He paused, making me wait.

  “And?”

  “And,” he said, pleased I had taken the bait, “it seems there was a rash of home invasions on his block a few months ago.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “Local paper has a ‘Police Beat’ column. The usual for a town like Rhinebeck. The occasional loud-party-noise complaint, DWIs coming off the bridge, small stuff like that. The one interesting item was this.”

  He spun his laptop around so I could see the screen. He pointed to the item in question. Five homes had been broken into. The article did not mention what—if anything—had been taken from the houses or if anyone had been hurt. In fact, the article mentioned very little.

  “Notice anything interesting, Raymond?”

  I read it slower this time. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Look at the addresses.”

  I did and realized what he was talking about. The addresses were consecutive even numbers. All the break-ins took place on the same side of the block.

  “That is interesting.”

  “Thought so.” Edgar turned the screen back around. “And one of those five houses is owned by Mr. John R. Quinn Sr.”

  I gave that some thought. Someone—probably more than one person—had broken into five houses in a row in the same evening. That took either some set of balls or very little brains.

  “How’d they get into the houses?”

  “Article doesn’t say. A lot of times, people in a town like that get complacent, leave their doors unlocked.”

  “What was the date of the break-ins?”

  “October tenth,” he said.

  A lightbulb went off. “That’s when the boys were up there. Columbus Day weekend.”

  “That’s when everyone who owns a home in Rhinebeck is up there, Raymond. Second week of October is primo leaf-peeping season.”

  “So the homes had people in them.” I realized something else I had neglected to notice. “They say what time the break-ins occurred?”

  “Sometime after midnight. All the homeowners were tucked safely in their beds. No one heard a thing.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder what was taken.”

  “There might be a way to find out.” Edgar punched a few more keys and then turned the laptop back around to me. “Here’s the sheriff’s office number,” he said.

  “I can see that. What good does that do me?”

  “Call ’em up.”

  “Edgar,” I said, “they’re not going to give me that kind of information. It looks like they don’t even want the local paper to know.”

  “They might,” he said, “if they thought you were … you know … a cop.”

  “Great idea, Edgar. Impersonating an officer. You want me to lose my job?”

  “You call ’em up. Say you’re investi—looking into—a homicide down here in the city and need some info on the break-ins because your victim had visited one of the homes broken into. You never have to say you’re a cop. Maybe you’ll luck out and get some Barney Fife who thinks he’s talking to NYPD and will read off the report.”

  “Don’t call them ‘Barney Fifes,’ Edgar. Small-town cops have to be just as sharp as the ones down here. Especially in a town like Rhinebeck. All that money.”

  “I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt to make a phone call.” He paused for a second. “If that doesn’t work, have your girlfriend call. Or your detective buddy.”

  “Oh, yeah, Dennis would be all over that.”

  “Your girlfriend, then.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

  “Okay. Whatever she is, she’s press, and they may give her the four-one-one.”

  I looked over at the screen, at the number for the sheriff’s department. Edgar was right: a phone call wouldn’t hurt. Maybe they’d tell me, maybe not. Worst case was, I’d be right back where I started.

  The front door opened and two customers walked in. A young couple, early twenties. Good. That gave me something to do while I pondered the wisdom of making the call. I took their drink order and the guy’s credit card, which I placed on the register. I stepped back over to Edgar, who was giving me his whatta-ya-got-to-lose look. I pulled out my cell phone, looked at the number for the sheriff, and dialed. Edgar’s grin went around to the back of his neck. I turned so I didn’t have to look at him.

  “Sheriff’s department,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to sound official. “This is Raymond Donne, New York City. Whom am I speaking to, please?”

  “The Sheriff’s department,” he repeated, and then waited for me.

  “My name’s Raymond Donne. I’m … looking into a homicide down here in New York City.” I paused to let that sink in, maybe impress the small-town cop. “Which may be connected to a case your department is involved in.”

  “And which case are you referring to, sir?” He didn’t sound too impressed, but he wasn’t blowing me off, either.

  “Series of home invasions. Columbus Day weekend.”

  I heard the sound of computer keys being punched and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Who’d you say you worked for?”

  “I’m looking into the case on behalf of the family of a murder victim down here in the city.” That was close to true. “He was visiting one of the homes
on the block where the break-ins took place.”

  “You private?” he asked.

  “You could say that. Yes.”

  Another pause. “What’s the address of the home he was visiting?”

  I told him and heard the computer keys again.

  “That,” he said, “was one of the homes that was broken into, so I guess there’s not much more I can tell you, Mr. Donne. Is that all?”

  I was about to get hung up on. “No,” I said. “I was wondering if you could tell me if anything was taken from the homes.”

  “Why would you need to know that, sir?”

  Good question. No Barney Fife, this guy. With nothing brilliant coming to mind, I said, “Just filling in the details for the family.”

  “Of your murder victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whom you say you’re looking into this for?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity, sir?”

  I thought we’d established that. “In a private capacity, Officer.”

  “Deputy,” he corrected me. “So, basically you want information from an incident report, but can’t actually tell me why?”

  “It’s privileged information,” was the best I could come up with.

  “As opposed to an official incident report?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Deputy. I just—”

  “The garages,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Garages,” he repeated. “Nothing was taken from any of the homes.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s what I said, sir. According to the homeowners, there was nothing taken from any of the residences. However, they all reported their garages had been entered sometime during the early morning hours, and the trunks of the cars had been broken into.”

  I waited. “What was reported missing?”

  “They all reported their trunks had been broken into, but nothing had been taken.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. All the residents were quite clear on that point.”