Red on Red

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Red on Red Page 44

by Edward Conlon


  At the car, Nick wasn’t sure how to open the trunk. Was it the same key as the door, or the engine, or a different one? He put the suitcase in the backseat, and Mr. Barry got in beside, as if it were a cab. When Nick took the driver’s seat, Mr. Barry leaned forward, put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I knew it wouldn’t last, Nick. God forgive me, but I knew it wouldn’t. Did he slip up again? Is he in the hospital, in jail?”

  Nick waited to answer. He knew that Mr. Barry was lying to himself, wishing things away. He must have gotten dozens of jail calls, hospital calls from Jamie, and Nick had never offered to intervene, had never been asked. He’d never have gone to the airport to get Mr. Barry, even if Jamie were dead, unless it were his fault. But Mr. Barry couldn’t know that. He must have presumed there was more kindness, less culpability, in the gesture. Nick started the car, then leaned around, looking back.

  “Mr. Barry, I’m sorry, it’s worse than that. This morning, Jamie was shot outside of the building. He’s dead. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Barry. He was doing so good. We’d talked a bit, lately, more than in the past. I thought he was doing great….”

  Mr. Barry put his hand on Nick’s shoulder again and squeezed tight. A workingman’s hand, and Nick tried not to squirm.

  “Had he fucked up again, Nick? Was he back on the drugs?”

  “No, Mr. Barry, he wasn’t. He was innocent, he was good. He did nothing wrong.”

  “Was it the black people?”

  Nick didn’t know how to answer. His father might have asked the same question, the same way. The tone was more fearful than hostile, as if the matter were almost beyond comprehension, the difference not between darker and lighter neighbors but between transparent beings and opaque ones. Who did Mr. Barry think he could see through—white people, Irishmen? Not Nick, thank God. It wasn’t black people who had done this. It was Michael, a singular man with a singular grievance. And Nick couldn’t begin to explain, hadn’t begun to evaluate how many recent murders—from Milton Cole’s through Jamie’s this morning—had arisen from a failure to discriminate.

  Still, Nick hated to think what had shown in his own face, skeptical but incurious, when he’d first met Michael that night in the projects, bearing bad news. Assumptions that went not just with Michael’s complexion but his address, the cheap furniture and the expensive TV. A disconnect between them before the awful connection, fighting in the hallway, and cursing each other’s dead mothers. Not much hope that Michael and Nick could bridge the divide after that, like Malcolm and Esposito had. Wasn’t that a fine model of cooperation? Nick wanted to tell Mr. Barry that racism was spiteful and wasteful, a shame and a plague, but that if he wanted true havoc, white and black men had to work together. Look at what had been accomplished today, with the plan to contain Michael, to spare Nick. Who knew what boundaries remained to be broken? Nick put the car in drive and headed to the exit.

  “We haven’t worked it all out yet, Mr. Barry. But I promise you, whoever did it will pay. Excuse me.”

  Nick’s phone had rung again. He didn’t know who was calling, but he’d talk to anyone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Meehan?”

  It was a man, the one from IAB.

  “Yeah?”

  “So, you do answer the phone.”

  Nick didn’t answer.

  “You there?”

  “I am. What do you want?”

  “Slow down, guy. What do I want? That’s not the question. The question is what do you want? I hear a lot of things are going on in your neck of the woods. We talked before, and maybe we can talk again. Pretty soon, nobody’s gonna be interested in anything you got to say, unless it’s a guilty plea. You wanna meet, you wanna talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  Nick was surprised by his answer as well, its suddenness and ease. He knew it was futile to hide, like a kid pulling the blankets over his head, so the boogeyman can’t find him. And he told himself that he might learn more than he would confide, meeting the other side, face-to-face. If the mystery prick had been sitting next to him, right then, Nick doubted he would have told him anything. But he also knew that his life was hurtling toward catastrophe—he’d hit it, already—in ways that seemed not only unjust but unnatural, a train that had jumped the rails but was still picking up speed. And the prospect of moving—to a new apartment, a new precinct, a new partner—had become less devastating to contemplate. “You can put up with more than you think you can.” That’s what his father had said. It was true, but not true enough. To promise himself anything was to lie. By next week, he might not recognize the words, or the man who’d said them.

  “Tomorrow?” the man asked.

  “No. Next week.”

  “Listen, unless there’s a death in the family—”

  “There is,” Nick said.

  “Sorry. Um … I guess I’ll call next week.”

  My God, Nick thought as he hung up the phone, this man had a knack for people. If he were a traveling preacher, he’d turn the pagans into atheists. Drifting from his lane, Nick nearly hit a car. Easy, easy, go down one road at a time. Mr. Barry took his shoulder again.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you take me there? Can I see him? I know it’s late, but you’re a cop, you can do it.”

  “Mr. Barry, I don’t know if you want to see him now. Wait for the wake. It’s better—”

  “Is he bad? Was it the face? We can’t have it open casket, the wake?”

  “No. I mean, you can. And I guess I can take you there, if you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nick put on the lights and sirens, cut in and out of traffic. The phone rang and rang—he could feel it—but Nick didn’t answer. The cars moved aside, mostly, and he and Mr. Barry got to the midtown tunnel in half an hour. Mr. Barry didn’t ask any more questions. Nick looked back at him a few times during the ride. He was turning from side to side, nervous at the speed. Nick kept his window open. They sped through the tunnel, with its weird green-white fish-belly gleam, its muffled echo, and Nick went down the FDR Drive, then hooked back up First Avenue. He’d never tried to bring someone to the morgue after hours; still, he knew he’d manage something. Tonight, he’d manage whatever he needed. Tomorrow, he didn’t know how he’d face Mr. Barry, how he’d take the sight of him, day in, day out, the dumb gratitude. He closed his window, and smelled something bad. Had Mr. Barry farted? It smelled awful, and Nick was almost offended. He pulled over at the morgue entrance on the side street and parked.

  “Here we are, Mr. Barry.”

  There was no answer. Nick got out and opened the door for him, and Mr. Barry spilled out, almost falling onto the street. Nick caught him and pushed him back.

  “Shit.”

  Nick held him up and looked at him. Was he dead? The face was as pale as the tunnel tile, green-white and still. The car stank of shit. Nick laid him down and closed the door. He turned the lights and sirens back on, put the car into reverse, backed down the street to the hospital. As he drove up to the emergency room, he hailed two EMTs who were walking out—strangers, thank God—and had them get a stretcher. They got Mr. Barry out of the car and wheeled him in. Nick found some paper towels, bleach, and latex gloves, and wiped out the backseat. Inside the ER, he took Mr. Barry’s keys, so he could get into the apartment later. He needed to find phone bills and address books to locate relatives who could take care of arrangements for both father and son. In the meantime, he allowed the ER admitting staff to put him down as next of kin, as a nephew, so there would be no blanks on the necessary forms. As he drove home, it occurred to Nick that he might be called upon to make critical medical decisions for Mr. Barry. When the day had begun, he and Jamie hadn’t even been friends; at the end, they were family, as much family as either had left, for whatever it was worth.

  Grace called the next day, in the afternoon. Nick asked how she’d gotten the number, and she said she had taken his card out
of her father’s jacket, a while ago, and kept it for herself. Nick didn’t ask why; he didn’t want to know. He had thought of her earlier, when he’d seen her picture on his desk. It would have been professional to draw her out on the matter, to subject her motives to a degree of scrutiny, but whether the theft of his business card had been inspired by a teen crush or telepathy, he didn’t want to revisit the image of finding something in a pocket. Nick had barely spoken to Esposito since he’d found the flowers, but he’d spent much of the day out of the office, at the hospital and the Barry apartment. Mr. Barry’s prognosis was poor, but Nick had found a phone number for a sister on Long Island, relieving him of his medical and funeral duties. “Thank God for you,” she said. “What a blessing to have a policeman in the building.” It had been a long day.

  “What’s up, Grace? How are you?”

  “Good. Good, I guess. How are you?”

  The question seemed devastatingly intimate, rudely direct.

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, Grace—I was distracted. Busy here today. I’m fine.”

  “Anyway, I was calling because you said the other detectives would call.”

  “Didn’t they?”

  “No. So … is it like … you, for me?”

  She’d meant to ask if Nick had been assigned to the case, he knew, but he couldn’t answer, the way she’d asked. Grace tried again.

  “I mean, you’re the one who has to get the one … for what happened?”

  “Sure, Grace. Not just me, but I’m involved, and you can call to talk about it, if you have anything to tell me about it, anytime.”

  “That’s what I figured. Anyway, the guy—you know, that guy—he came up to me last week, when I got off the bus, right by school. He said ‘Hi!’ ”

  “He said ‘Hi’? Anything else?”

  “No. There was a police car on the corner, and he walked away.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “No. I was surprised. I couldn’t really think. I just ran to school quick.”

  “Next time, tell them, Grace. Anytime.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I called you. It happened again yesterday. He just popped up on the street, in the same place. This time, I was going to the bus—but I was leaving school. He said he wanted to take me out to the movies. I said I’d think about it. I said I couldn’t go till Friday, because of school. Ugh!”

  “Friday. That’s tomorrow.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sorry. Grace, are you at home now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me call you back in a little bit. I have to figure how we work this out. Did you tell your father about this?”

  “God, no! He couldn’t handle it. He’d completely freak! He’s nicer now, but he cries a lot…. He doesn’t bother me as much anymore. I kinda feel bad for him. You don’t have to tell him, do you?”

  “I will, at some point. He’s still your father. Maybe not right now. Like I said, I’ll call back soon. When does he get home?”

  “Not for, like, two hours. I’m not allowed out, but it’s okay. I have a lot of homework.”

  “Okay, Grace. Stay put.”

  “Okay, Detective. And thanks for talking to me. Bye!”

  When Nick put down the phone, he walked into the lieutenant’s office and closed the door. All he intended was to tell him about Grace, to ask him to call Special Victims, boss to boss; either team could work the case, but one of them had to get started. It couldn’t float in administrative no-man’s-land for another day. The lieutenant looked at him, then closed the blinds of the single window, so the rest of the squad couldn’t see the conversation. As the blinds went down, Nick saw Esposito pick up his coat, tap Napolitano on the shoulder, and head for the door. Napolitano hurried behind. Nick was confused by the reaction, at first, then embarrassed. When someone went for a private conference with the lieutenant, it usually meant that there was a complaint to be made, an accusation that required the attention of the chain of command. This wasn’t what Nick had intended, but he wasn’t inclined to offer reassurance. What would he tell Esposito? If I give you up, it won’t look like this. You won’t see it coming. Lieutenant Ortiz took his seat and leaned across his desk, folding his hands, cracking his knuckles. From the lieutenant’s pained, concerned expression, Nick saw the second misapprehension. His partner thought he was a rat, and now his boss was afraid he might kill himself. He could not object to the substance of the accusations, only their timing, their relevance to the issue at hand.

  “Are you all right, Nick? If you need to talk, I’m glad … you’re talking.”

  “Are you kidding me? No, Lou. This is what I got….”

  When Nick told him, he could see that the lieutenant was intrigued and relieved at the same time. He said he’d make a call, find out what was happening. Nick went back out and found the men staring intently at him, as if he were about to commence the reading of a will. Was Esposito in Mexico yet? He and Nick were now doubly divided, over the Cole machinations and Daysi. One was a major crime, the other a sneaky little indiscretion, but Nick wasn’t sure which troubled him more. Yes, he was. He thought about calling Esposito, then held back. He went to his desk and sat down.

  Garelick studied him before he ventured conversation, cautious in his approach. “It’s supposed to snow tomorrow. Tough trip in for me. You, I guess it won’t matter. You want coffee, Nick? I’ll make a fresh pot….”

  It nearly broke Nick’s heart not to laugh at him, but he gravely shook his head. “Not where I’m going.”

  “What? You want a transfer? Where?”

  “The French Foreign Legion. Where we go to forget.”

  “C’mon, Nick.”

  “Nobody’s got anything to worry about. Special Victims tried to dump a case on us. Now I want to steal it.”

  “Nick!” Garelick yelled, nearly trembling with relief. “I knew you were just an asshole! That’s great! The best news! Still, I want a fresh cup. I might even take over the coffee club. It’s such a disgrace, the way things have gone downhill. You know even the refrigerator is broken? The milk’s on the ledge to stay cold, like my father did on Orchard Street, when he peddled fish….”

  “Your father was an accountant.”

  “Don’t spoil the mood.”

  Garelick was pouring the coffee when Lieutenant Ortiz came out of his office. He was smiling, too. He had lost the argument with the lieutenant from Special Victims, and the case was not a case—it was nothing, as far as the other squad was concerned. Lieutenant Ortiz was welcome to waste whatever time, whatever manpower, he had on it. Garelick poured the coffee, taking in what was said. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but now he knew what wasn’t. When the cups were full, he stepped out of the office, probably to call Napolitano, Esposito, to let them know they had nothing to fear. When they didn’t return, Nick figured they didn’t trust Garelick, either. He didn’t care as much as he might have; he had Grace, someone to work for, the prospect of accomplishment, colossally simple, a snake he might catch without jumping into the snake pit.

  Lieutenant Ortiz drove down with Nick to pick Grace up from her building, and they circled the school, noting exits and entrances, where the bus stop was, the possibilities of escape and approach, residential buildings and commercial ones, which had wide windows, where someone might watch, where someone might run. Grace was interested by the mechanics of the operation, excited that she was part of the plan. When she told the lieutenant that he should grow his hair longer, that it would make him look younger, both detectives flinched and didn’t answer. The lieutenant didn’t even turn around when they stopped, but Nick got out of the car and opened her door, an escort’s gesture, he knew. They were around the corner from where she lived, so neighbors and worse could not see.

  Nick told her that she should go to school tomorrow, she would be safe, they would make sure that nothing went wrong. He thought about giving her his cellphone number, then decided against it. It could be taken
the wrong way. The lieutenant drove back to the school and parked the car. He did not make a movement that indicated he might get up. Instead, he settled in his seat and looked over at Nick, lighting a cigarette.

  “Nick, do what you gotta do. I’ve done too much police work for one day. This kid—I got daughters her age. My God! Do you believe her?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Yeah. Me, too. I can’t believe how she’s keeping together through this. I can almost see how you’d hold it against her. How somebody might. Stupid, but I can see it happen. God forbid … And you have to let the father know. You want me to take care of that, Nick? You want me to make the call? If he won’t let her go, he won’t. We can work it out without her, just cover the school.”

  Nick knew at once that he had no intention of telling Ivan Lopez. Not telling him was what Esposito would have done; maybe they had rubbed off on each other more than he was willing to admit.

  “Nah. I got it.”

  “Plus, you let the sister know that we’ll set up here tomorrow. We’ll be outside. The school day should go on like normal for the kids, everyone else. Everything should seem like it usually does. Did I ever tell you, Nick, that nuns scare me?”

  When Nick saw Sister Agnes in the hall, she regarded him sternly, then beckoned him to follow her to her office. En route, she stopped a group of girls as they jogged down the hall, in basketball uniforms. One of them was singled out, and the rest were sent on; Sister Agnes accomplished the separation with a wave of one hand, then a flick of the fingers. The outlier was culled from the herd with astonishing economy. The girl trembled, at first, then sulked.

  “What is this you have around your neck?”

  “A medal, Sister.”

  “I see that. What of? I apologize. Let me rephrase. Of what saint is this a medal? Whose image is cast about your neck, in bronze?”

  “Saint Barbara, Sister. And it’s gold.”

  “Perhaps electroplate, but it is no concern, the surface. Did Saint Barbara have red eyes? Were they made of rubies, this saint who you believe to be your friend? Who is Saint Barbara?”

 

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