Red on Red

by Edward Conlon

  “So, who you visiting? What’s going on? Where you coming from? What’s your name? Lemme see some ID!”

  He started to reach to Nick’s waist, to pat him down, and Nick pushed the hand away before the cop found the gun.

  “It’s Detective Meehan, kid. Slow it down.”

  He pulled his jacket aside to show his shield, which only the female cop saw. She grabbed her partner before he could react too forcefully to the push-away. Nick suddenly felt tense and dizzy; he wanted to run. He wanted to be somewhere else, do something else, be someone else. Part of his mind had taken in the situation, but it wouldn’t share; he wasn’t talking to himself.

  “Easy, Juan. May I see some ID, Detective?”

  She said “I” like “Ah.” Kentucky, Ohio, Missouri, Tennessee. Indian names that were songs in themselves. Nick carefully angled his body, right hand raised, and took his ID out from his left back pocket. The Spanish cop veered between anger and embarrassment. As he stepped back, his partner stepped forward.

  “Detective, you shoulda told us that, straight out,” she said. “An unfortunate situation coulda happened, right here.”

  Nick considered the opinion and nodded. He clapped them both on the shoulders and walked them out of the lobby, talking fast to divert them, to divert himself from where his thoughts were headed.

  “Yeah. You’re right. So, what do we got?”

  “We got a male shot.”

  “Likely?”

  That was police idiom for the estimate of whether a person was likely to die. New doctors, new EMTs, were often offended when they were asked to make a bet on the fatality of an injury. New cops took no such offense, but they didn’t claim any expertise, and formed opinions based on whether the man who was shot was angry about it or didn’t move much.

  “More than likely.”

  “Let’s have a look, then.”

  The cops held up the tape for him, and he walked down the stoop. No one from the squad was there yet. A man on the sidewalk in a suit, facedown, briefcase less than a foot from his splayed hands. He had the look of someone running for a bus, on a vertical axis, down into the earth. Nick squatted down to examine the body, scanning it half a minute before he found the dime-size tufted circle equidistant between the shoulder blades. The fabric was too dark to show any stippling, but he guessed it was close range, an instantaneous death, clipping the spine and stopping the heart like a clock.

  “What time we got for this?”

  “Maybe six. Half hour ago, forty-five minutes.”

  “How’d it come over? Anybody see it or hear it, or they just find the body?”

  “Guy heading to work, he hears it. Heard a shot a minute before, when he was around the corner, but he didn’t see anything before he saw the guy. Probably happened right before he called it in.”

  Nick touched the neck. The flesh was warm, no cooler than his own. None of the pockets had been turned out or torn, and he felt a wallet in the back pants pocket. Not robbery. Robbery-homicides were bad cases, nearly impossible to find the random stranger with the impulsive finger. Not random, not this. Whose was this? Who was catching from the squad? Nick had been out of the rotation for a while, and he wasn’t eager to jump back in. Not for this, right in his front yard, so to speak. He felt a chill, colder than the body would ever be, even when it went into the ground. He hadn’t had coffee yet—that’s what he told himself. That’s why he hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t even begun to think, taking in the larger circumstances. He walked around and crouched down to see the face, knowing even before he saw that it was Jamie Barry. Jamie looked as surprised as Nick.

  “Ah, Jamie, you poor bastard.”

  Nick saw the two cops looking at him, darkly collating his precipitous appearance and evasive remarks, his apparent relationship with the victim. What to say to them, to preempt a call to IAB? He hadn’t the least idea.

  When the squad arrived, they huddled around Nick. He was immensely grateful to see them, all of them, as they took out their notebooks for his terse recital of facts: Jamie Barry, longtime junkie recently rehabbed, shot once in the back, no apparent robbery. He could have been dictating the sparse newspaper clip. But he added that he knew him, as a neighbor, and didn’t need it mentioned that he was staying in the building, had stumbled into the scene. He didn’t need the aggravation, he said, and they nodded, knowing what he’d been through, what the Job could be like. Sympathy was immediate, and trust was automatic. They had to look out for each other. Napolitano, Garelick, and Perez fanned out for canvasses, taking plate numbers, looking for security cameras. Esposito remained, waiting for Nick to tell him more, to see if the story was altered or amplified for his more intimate audience. When it wasn’t, he seemed almost hurt; there was always more, and he should have been the one to hear it. He pursed his lips and put his notebook away.

  “The father’s the super, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So where is he?”

  A fine question. At this time of morning, he was always outside, hauling the garbage from the alley to the curb, sweeping the lobby. By now, Mr. Barry should have been gawking outside the yellow tape, or standing inside, weeping. They walked to the edge of the scene, where one of the old Irish ladies was loitering.

  “Where’s Mr. Barry?”

  “My God. It’s not Jamie, is it?”

  “No,” interjected Esposito, sparing Nick the lie. “It’s just that we’ll be taking over the sidewalk for a couple of hours, in case there’s any deliveries or whatnot. Is he around?”

  “No. He’s home, thank God. He’ll be back tonight.”

  Esposito was confused, but Nick was not. “Home” was Ireland for his father or Mr. Barry, no matter how long they lived here, without intention to return. Nick wished he remembered where—Fermanagh? Tyrone?—to call him, to tell him not to come back, that there was nothing for him here, less.

  “What happened, Nick? Thank God you’re here. Still, I won’t sleep tonight…. What was it? Should we stay inside?”

  “I don’t know yet. These things take some time to figure out.”

  If only that were true. If only there were some mystery or doubt. If Nick had been darker, shorter, fatter, with a ponytail, a different neighbor would have been mistakenly dead. What a privilege it should have been to catch a case like this. What a gift to a detective, to see a dead face and know who did it, with the certainty of a saint knowing what God has asked of him. But this was no gift, the lucid point amid the lurching shadows. Esposito took hold of his arm for some conference, but Nick pulled away, a sulky flinch like a girlfriend in a mood, to walk back to the body and crouch down again on the sidewalk. Jamie’s eyes were half-open, dull and wasted. Nick had seen them a hundred times like that, but never so close. A cartoon image, windows with the shades drawn. Twittering birds surrounding him after the knockout punch, X’s for eyes. Old folklore, old interrogation hustles, that the eyes would capture their last sight like a snapshot. But Jamie had been shot from behind. If the lie were true, his eyes would show traffic, a bus stop, a leafless tree. Dead and blind to who did it. Nick thought of Jamie hovering near, his unsteady spirit weaving like a drunk, not sure of his death, hustling for reassurance like for spare change. Hey, Nick! It’s me, Jamie! Got a minute? What’s going on? When Nick stood up, knees aching, he felt like he was brushing Jamie off again.

  As Esposito led Nick away to the car, lifting the tape for him to pass beneath, he looked plaintively at his partner—Yes? What now?—and got a curt nod of the head in return. Time to go. You’re being told to leave. The red carpet goes both ways, coming and going. Let me lift the tape for you. Bouncer or chauffeur? The eruv, the imaginary boundary that makes the outside the inside, letting the faithful say they were at home. It was Nick’s work, his home, and he was being cast out. Esposito even opened the car door for him before getting in.

  “Either way, Nick.”

  Nick nodded, unsure what he meant. Was that a threat?

  “Either
way, you got to get outta here.”

  Esposito started the car and pulled out of the spot, jerking a U-turn to take them back downtown. Nick waited for the explanation.

  “Either Michael thinks he killed you and we gotta keep you outta sight. Or he knows he didn’t, so we gotta get you outta here, so he don’t come back at all of us, wandering around. We don’t need anybody else getting killed over this. Shame you couldn’t say you saw it.”

  Nick thought that sounded like a suggestion, and he paused, determined to consider the practical considerations first.

  “Why didn’t I call it in, take action? There isn’t going to be a 911 call from me. I didn’t chase anybody. It won’t fly.”

  “Just thinkin’ aloud here, Nick.”

  Nick slunk down in his seat, in accommodation to the idea that he should not be seen.

  “Not for nothin,’ ” Esposito went on, “but even dead, the guy looked better than the last time. I saw him outside the church, at your father’s funeral. He was shaking like a wet cat in winter. What happened, he straighten out?”

  “Yeah. He’s been clean a couple of months.”

  “That’s a shame. Same time, he probably did ten things a day he shoulda got shot for when he was a junkie. Maybe he woulda slipped up tomorrow, taken his paycheck to the closest dope spot and shot the whole load up his arm. At least, you and what’s-his-name weren’t close. Whaddaya gonna do?”

  Nick was incensed by the dull barroom philosophizing, and became increasingly worked up as he went through the reasons. There was the glib and flabby fatalism, suggesting that Jamie’s time had come; the lowered expectations, permission to lose, granted in advance. Esposito would never have made the remark—“Whaddaya gonna do?”—about one of his own cases, and he would have had sharp words for anyone who offered them. Nick understood that Esposito was writing them both off, Jamie as victim and Nick as cop.

  “Whose case is this? Who’s up?” Nick burst out, “I want it. Tell the guys, tell the lieutenant, it’s mine. Never mind. I’ll tell them myself.”

  “You can’t have it.” There was no emotion or hesitation in Esposito’s refusal; it was a flat statement of fact, as if one of his children had asked for a pony for Christmas, or a switchblade.

  “Why not?” Nick was no less petulant in his protest than RJ or Johnny or Al would have been.

  “One question on the stand, ‘You were friends with the deceased, Detective Meehan, were you not?’ ”

  Nick couldn’t answer. “Yes” would have been a lie, but “no” sounded so shameful, stone-hearted. Still, he understood that it couldn’t be his case, when it was his fault. Not his fault, but his failure. A conflict of interest, at a minimum. Nick wondered if Jamie’s oblivious martyrdom might gain him some advantage in purgatory, when the accounts were laid out. Nick wondered if either of them had hope of purgatory, if there was something worth saving. God might have expected more from both of them than just a few good days.

  “You see what I’m sayin’, pal?”

  “So whose is it? I don’t want Perez or Garelick. How about Napolitano?”

  “No, it’s Garelick’s. I was in the office before you. When I heard the address, Nick, I thought it was you. I was gonna tell the lieutenant that I wanted it. But then I thought about it. If it was you, I couldn’t take it. The case, I mean. Believe me, it’s for the best, having somebody on it who don’t give a shit. He’ll go through the motions, that’s all. We gotta work this our way, Nick, off the books.”

  Our way. So that’s what it was. Was that an invitation to join him, or an assumption that he had? Doing something about Michael had not helped. Doing nothing had not, either. Nick made an effort not to let his anger show.

  “What about your guy?”

  “I’m thinkin’ he’s a little late. He owes me a call.”

  Nick looked at Esposito as he drove, his heavy shoulders leaning toward the wheel so his arms would not have to work so hard to turn it, speeding down Broadway, cursing out the window since he could not hit the siren. The Roman nose in profile. Which Roman, what Rome—serving the city, or scouting the walls in preparation for its sack? Esposito saw Jamie’s homicide as a setback, at most, a detour, and Nick hated him for it, but not as much as he hated how he himself had nothing better to offer, nothing better to say. It took enormous effort to control his voice when he posed the question, “You still think you did the right thing?”

  If Esposito recognized an accusatory tone, he did not show it. “Yeah.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I’m gonna find out, soon as I drop you off.”

  Nick shook his head. He felt exhausted. When Esposito let him out at the precinct, he went upstairs into the dorm and slept more soundly than he had in a while, now that the world was crashing down, and he was safe again, in a strange bed. The guilty sleep, when fear is gone from your bones. He had a dream that Daysi lay beside him and told him she was pregnant, which startled him awake, transported him with a feeling of urgent joy. He sat up in the bunk, dazed, and his head swam. Tears pooled and fell. The sense of it, the belief in it, was so strong that he wanted to run down the block and kiss her, hold her, laugh and cry. He wiped his face. It was too much. It was as if he’d crawled from the desert and was given a slug of whiskey; good stuff, but not for this thirst. The only tears shed should be for Jamie, and Jamie deserved better, needed more than tears. Nick went to the bathroom to wash his face, and headed back into the office.

  As he entered, Esposito raised a hand for him to stop, then put a finger to his lips and pointed to the locked door of the interview room. He waved Nick ahead, to the meal room, to acquaint him with the developments. Much had happened as he’d slept. When Esposito called Malcolm, he said that he hadn’t known that Michael was back; no one had called from Georgia to tell him he’d left. The call woke Malcolm up, and he checked Michael’s room. Michael yelled from behind the locked door that he wanted to be left alone. Esposito stationed two cops in the lobby, waiting for relayed calls, from Malcolm to Esposito, and they were waiting for Michael when he stepped off the elevator. They asked him if he lived there, and he took offense at the question. Esposito had warned them there might be a fight, and there might be a gun, but to try to be careful of the face, in case they had to do lineups. It had worked out well.

  “Anyway, now we got him, for assault on a cop. He gave one of them a nice shiner. I guess he’s learned how to throw a punch.”

  “Gun?”

  “No. I got Malcolm tearing the place up for it now. I told him not to touch it if he finds it, that we might get prints or DNA off the clip. We got a shell casing for a .40 caliber by the body.”

  “Good. Do either of the Coles know what this is about?”

  “No. I’m glad you were in the dorm when they brought him in. I want you in reserve. I’ll talk to him awhile. Then you come in. See if he thinks you’re a ghost. Not that we don’t know already.”

  “Maybe, but we won’t be any closer to locking him up for the homicide.”

  “Trust me. This one won’t stay open for long. I let him keep his belt and laces. If we’re lucky, he’ll hang himself. Or maybe I’ll flip him, like his brother, and we’ll wind up as best friends.”

  Esposito smiled as he headed to the interview room. Nick regarded the return to the old swagger with mixed feelings, glad for his optimism, fearful of overreach. His partner did have a way of making friends. “Making” was the word. It was an act of raw creation, of breaking and rebuilding through force of will. Still, Nick found it hard to imagine Michael vulnerable to either bullying or charm. He was tougher than Nick, more honest, too. When he said he was going to do something, he meant it.

  Nick opened the newspaper and turned on the TV to the news, glancing between them, paying attention to neither. One of the wars seemed to be going better, the other getting worse. Nick changed the channel to a nature show and turned the page until he found the crossword. He wouldn’t talk to himself about this, at least for a while. An
hour passed peacefully, until Esposito barged back in, his jacket off and his tie loose.

  “That kid’s an asshole.”

  Nick waited a moment before closing the paper; this could not be considered new information. Esposito seemed irritated by Nick’s deliberate leisure, the lack of response.

  “This prick is the toughest little scumbag I’ve ever talked to. He don’t care. He is twisted and miserable, hard as a rock. I tell him we know, he nods. I tell him we have the gun, he nods, says, ‘Bring it.’ I almost wanna tell him his brother Malcolm works with me, we can work it out, I can work with anybody, things can be settled. I don’t tell him that, but almost…. He sees I’m thinking, and he laughs. He says I should bring him upstate, he’d like to meet my family, too. I want to check under my car, to make sure he ain’t hanging from the axle, next time I drive home. Nick, I never thought I’d meet anybody I couldn’t interrogate, nobody I couldn’t talk to, but this guy doesn’t want anything I can give him, isn’t afraid of anything I can threaten. I don’t know where to go with this—there’s no opening. Can you think of anything, Nick? You’re a stubborn prick. Maybe you know the language. Can you help me here, or do you wanna go back to the crossword?”

  The sting and the dare were well-aimed, well-earned; Nick doubted he could funnel his own frustrations into as useful an outlet. He ought to have something to offer, some insight into the fortress. What did he know about people who wouldn’t listen? Nick thought for a moment, not much longer than that.

  “Agree with him. Start talking, and then agree more and more. He’s used to being fought with. He’s ready for arguments against. Say he’s right. He’s never heard that before. I’ll watch through the window. Put both your hands up, scratch your head when you want me to come in. That’s the high sign. Set it up, somehow. Maybe say how problems happen when you do it all on your own, when you’re a one-man show. You fall in love with yourself, you’re blind to other people, other things, and can’t anticipate every risk.”

  Esposito considered the advice, pleased. It had been a while since Nick had made much of a contribution. Esposito did not appear to catch the double meaning of the last admonition.