What You Break

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Eventually we came to a row of offices, mostly vacant, some fancier than others. Carl Ryan’s was handsomely appointed with the same mahogany-veneered walls and leather furniture as the reception area. Same carpeting as well. Ryan’s desk was a sleek Scandinavian thing that looked like it was moving even as it stood still. His desk chair was one of those expensive ergonomic things that was as easy on your back as it was ugly. As he sat down, he gestured for me to sit across from him in a leather chair.

  “Mr. Ryan—”

  “Carl, please, Detective.”

  “That’s the thing, Carl. I’m not a detective, though I am SCPD, retired. Name is Gus Murphy.”

  He didn’t seem fazed or get indignant. “Private, huh?”

  I nodded. I suppose that still counted as a lie, but it seemed less of one. And it beat saying I was the courtesy van driver at the Paragon by the airport doing a favor for my ex-priest friend.

  “I was wondering when the family would hire one of you guys.”

  That made me curious. “Why would you say that? The cops have the killer.”

  “But they don’t know why he killed her,” Ryan said. “If it was my kid, I’d wanna know why.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wish I could help you there. I really do. All I can tell you is that we loved her as an employee. We knew we would lose her eventually when she got certified. Besides, she was bored to death here. Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Forget it.”

  “She was sharp, had a curious mind. This wasn’t the kind of place for her, but her granddad sells us our electricity and gas, and the owner, Steve Randazzo, and him are kinda friendly. So when she graduated Hofstra, we hired her.”

  I went through a series of questions with Ryan but got nowhere. I didn’t think there was anywhere to get with him, really. Finally, I asked him if it would be all right if I came back at a later date to talk to some of her coworkers.

  “Sure. I don’t think it’ll help, but . . .” He shrugged and turned his palms to the ceiling. “C’mon, let me walk you out. I’m heading home, anyway.”

  Instead of retracing our steps, he walked me through the factory.

  Walking into the machine shop, he said, “Normally, I’d have you put on a hat and safety glasses, but we’re done for the day.”

  As we strolled through the place, Ryan would stop occasionally and say a word or two, mostly in Long Island–accented Spanish, to one of his employees. Then he’d finish in English.

  “Luis, you in tomorrow,” or “Diego, don’t let me catch you taking an extra ten at lunch.”

  The workers eyed me with suspicion. I didn’t blame them. A lot of the people who worked the dirty, dangerous jobs on the island were illegals. If you deported all the illegals off Long Island, there’d be no open restaurants, our lawns would overwhelm us, and no one would be available to repave driveways or lay tiles. About three-quarters of the way through the building, I spotted a worker coming out of a huge room, closing a humongous steel door behind him. The door had all sorts of warning signs in English and Spanish on it about hazardous chemicals and protective clothing.

  The guy coming through the door didn’t seem to have paid any attention to the signs, and Ryan chewed him a new one. I knew some Spanish, half of it simple stuff like “Please,” “Thank you,” and “What’s your name?” The other half was curses. Most of what Ryan was screaming at the guy was in Spanish, and he wasn’t saying “Please,” “Thank you,” or asking for the guy’s name. When he was done screaming, the guy basically shrugged and walked past us.

  “Fucking idiot,” Ryan whispered, as much to himself as to me. Then, in full voice, he said, “No matter what you tell these cholo motherfuckers, they don’t listen. There’s all sorts of dangerous fumes and shit in there. You think they care? You think they give a shit if one of them gets hurt and OSHA shows up at my door?”

  He didn’t want an answer, so I didn’t give him one. We walked through a door, past the loading bays, and into the lot. When we got outside, he walked over to a sleek, aggressive-looking, smoke-gray Maserati GranTurismo coupe. A car that, like his desk, looked as if it was moving, although it was as stationary as the building we’d just exited.

  “Business must be good,” I said. “She’s a beauty.”

  “What the hell good is life if you don’t enjoy it? Where are you parked?”

  I pointed to the visitor parking spots.

  “Nice car. I’ve got a weak spot for muscle cars myself, but . . .” He stroked the roof of the Maserati. He opened its door. “Listen, Murphy, sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful. Have a good weekend.”

  And with that, he slammed his door shut and the Maserati’s low, throaty rumble filled up the air. As I turned to walk back to the Mustang he tore past me, waving as he went.

  33

  (FRIDAY NIGHT)

  The Full Flaps Lounge was hopping. I wasn’t sure why. Well, maybe it was that it finally felt like spring. It hadn’t rained for a couple days and the sun felt a bit warmer on your face with each rotation of the planet. I was never much for spring fever. Still, I had to confess, I enjoyed the prospect of shedding my Costco leather coat, which, by this time of year, always begins to feel like a leaden straitjacket. A cop had to be part shrink, part sociologist, and part social worker, but who knew why one Friday night at the club had more energy than the one before it? The DJ played the same music, often in the same mix, and the crowd was saturated with regulars. Like I said, who knows?

  It was hopping, but things had gone smoothly. Sometimes more energy meant more drinking, which led to beer-muscle flexing, which meant more trouble. It was a simple equation. Our usual crowd contained a lot of divorced men and women, many of them so bitter you could feel it coming off them in waves. I’d overheard some conversations at the bar that boggled the mind, men and women comparing their settlements, their lawyer fees, and the relative satisfaction in their vengeance sex. I could never stand his brother Joey. What a loser. But I don’t think I ever enjoyed fucking a man more in my life. I think the only thing I enjoyed more was telling my ex about it.

  Annie and I had escaped most of the bitterness because what blew us apart had nothing to do with the usual reasons couples split up. What blew us apart was loss and fury, and if we hadn’t exactly come to be at peace with it, we had, at least, come to understand it. That wasn’t the case for many of the people in the club. Tonight just happened to be about more dancing, not more drinking or bitterness. I knew better than to assume it would be the same tomorrow night or that it would even last until closing.

  I was working the door when she walked in. It was near eleven, ten-fifty-seven, to be exact. I knew because I’d just looked at my watch to figure out when I should start giving the guys their breaks. Her face didn’t register at first, and then it did: Lara, the receptionist from Gyron Machinery. She cleaned up very nicely for a woman in her early fifties. She kept her body in shape, something I couldn’t see while she was behind the reception counter at Gyron. But before I could say anything, she beat me to it.

  “Moonlighting, Detective?”

  “Something like that.”

  She turned to the woman at her shoulder. Her friend, like Lara, was in her early fifties. “See, I told you I recognized him.”

  Lara turned back to me, cash in hand.

  “Not necessary, ladies,” I said, stamping their hands for reentry. “If you go over by the bar, I’ll buy you both a drink. Give me a minute.”

  Lara eyed me with suspicion. Lara’s pal eyed me, too, but suspicion had nothing to do with it. I signaled one of the guys to take my place at the door and ambled over to the bar. Lara and her pal were loaded for bear, both wearing spangly black tops light on fabric, heavy on cleavage. Lara had on a short silvery skirt and high heels that showed off her legs and other physical assets. Her pal went for the painted-on-black-slacks look
with even higher heels. Wisely, Lara had less makeup on than she wore at work so as not to draw too much attention to her age. Her pal took the opposite approach and laid it on thick. At least they were smiling. Sometimes smiles were in short supply on Fridays at the Full Flaps. Men and women who came to drink and dance and have a good time usually did. Coming in on the prowl was always an iffy proposition.

  “Barry,” I shouted to the barman, wiggling my finger above the heads of Lara and her pal, “these ladies’ first two rounds are on the house.”

  He nodded and came right over. “Ladies, what’ll it be?”

  Lara spoke up first. “A mojito, please.”

  Her pal was less decisive, or maybe she was the type of person who when she knew something was free went for top-shelf. She proved to be the latter.

  “Rémy Martin, if that’s the best cognac you have,” she said, without the least bit of embarrassment.

  “Anything for you, Gus?” Barry wanted to know.

  “Coke.”

  Lara introduced me to her pal as we waited for the drinks.

  “This is Kim.”

  “Gus Murphy.” I shook her hand. She held on to it an uncomfortable beat too long, and not for the same reason Micah Spears had.

  “You’re a detective?” Kim said.

  “Suffolk PD, retired. I’m private now.” It still sounded odd to say.

  That got Lara’s attention, but the drinks came before she could say anything. I put a five on the bar for Barry. We toasted and drank.

  “Lara,” I said, after she had made a dent in her mojito, “I was wondering if we could chat . . . privately for a few minutes after you finish your drink.”

  Kim gave Lara a nasty look when she turned her head. I noticed. Kim noticed me notice and didn’t much care. It didn’t take long for either Lara or Kim to finish. I nodded at Barry and he put up another round. I put up another five.

  “Listen, Barry, introduce Kim to some of the guys,” I said. “This is her first time here.”

  I didn’t know if that was true or not, but Kim liked the sound of that and managed not to give Lara the death stare when I walked her and her second mojito outside.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier,” I said, as we leaned on a car fender, staring into the night sky. “I mostly focus on people’s IDs, their cash, and their hands when they come in.”

  It was a lie, but one that would make her feel better. Where was the harm in that?

  “That’s okay, Gus.”

  “Also sorry about the lie of omission earlier at your work. It’s just easier to get to speak to people when they think you’re a cop. The fact is that I was hired by a member of LT’s family to look into why she was murdered.”

  Lara bowed her head, but when she summoned up the strength to speak again she repeated much of what she had told me earlier. That LT was good at her job, if a bit of a stickler. But all kids are like that. They get outta college and they think they know everything. That LT was well liked by everyone at Gyron. That she felt a kind of motherly protectiveness about LT. Factory full of men and just LT and me.

  “But she was never harassed or bothered by any of the workers?” I asked.

  “No, never. Carl would never have put up with that, especially because LT’s grandpa did business with us. Hell, he doesn’t even like it if the guys flirt with me.”

  “But I bet you like it.”

  She laughed, and this time it lacked the sneer and snarkiness I’d heard in it this afternoon.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about trouble at home or boy trouble, anything that you could connect to her murder? Anything, even if it seems like a stretch?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “C’mon,” I said, “let’s get you back inside, get you another drink, and have Barry introduce you around.”

  She liked that idea.

  “Of course, there’s be no need to introduce me around if . . .”

  “Sorry, Lara, I’m taken and I’m damaged goods.”

  “We’re none of us undamaged. We’re all dented cans, Gus.”

  “But some more dented than others. Still, don’t think I wouldn’t be tempted.”

  She liked that, too.

  As we walked back toward the entrance, I just happened to say that business at Gyron must be good. I mentioned Carl’s car and the fact that the boss was busy fishing in the Keys.

  “Yeah, in the last year things have been booming. Before that we were pretty close to shutting the doors. Then Carl landed this big Internet account and it’s been great.”

  The small talk was at an end when we worked our way back to the bar and I gave Barry the heads-up to introduce Lara around and to give her another round on the house.

  “Thanks, Gus,” she said. “You’re sweet. If there’s anything you ever need to know about LT or if you become untaken, let me know.”

  I winked at her and went back to my spot at the door.

  34

  (FRIDAY, AROUND MIDNIGHT)

  I went through different phases with the music at the club. The first few months, I guess I kind of liked it, even found myself bopping around to it occasionally when no one was looking. Helped remind me there were some things other than grief and pain to life. Then it became just so much background noise. That didn’t last. A man can only hear “My Sharona,” “Disco Inferno,” and “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” so many times before losing his mind. And when I heard the twangy guitar intro to “Rock Lobster” . . . well, that was my cue to take a break. It became an inside joke between the DJ and me, so that he knew to play the song around midnight, when I liked to get out and stretch my legs.

  My getting out served a dual purpose. It helped me regain whatever little sanity was left to me and I got to walk the hotel perimeter to make sure things were as under control outside the club as in. Our crowd was usually well behaved, but there was the occasional spillage of hard feelings out of the club and into the parking lot. A few months ago, word got back to us that there was a guy selling weed and Molly outside the club. I’m not sure where he relocated after getting out of the hospital. The last thing the Paragon needed was a bad rep with the SCPD. The precinct commander gets pissed at you and the next thing you know there’s a cruiser sitting just on the other side of your parking-lot exit. Takes only one or two DWI arrests for word to get around and to kill your business. I knew how it worked. I had once been that uniform in the car, sitting, waiting.

  When I stepped outside I found the usual group of smokers huddled together, whining about their rejections, comparing notes on prospects, laughing, too. Word was more hookups happened out there than inside the club. You could still hear the music, dance if you wanted to, but you could also have a conversation without having to shout above the din. The regulars, as always, greeted me as I walked past, offering me smokes or to buy me a drink when I got back. I never took them up on their offers. I was never tempted to.

  At the corner of the building, turning from the side of the Paragon where the club was located to the front of the hotel, I knelt down to take my gun out of its ankle holster. Since last December, when I came this close to getting my skull kicked in by three guys with coal in the cavities where their hearts should have been, I’d gotten a little more cautious when strolling the perimeter. I always waited until this point in the walk to grab my gun because I didn’t want any of the clubgoers to know I carried or where I carried. All I wanted them to focus on was dancing, drinking, and having a good time.

  As I was reaching for my little Glock, I sensed him coming at me from over my left shoulder. Maybe it was the sound of rushing footsteps or his breathing. Whatever it was that caused me to react, I was better for it. I ducked, tucking my chin to my chest, and felt the downdraft from his swinging fist. He was an amateur, had to be, him putting everything into a ha
ymaker like that. But even amateurs and fools sometimes came armed with more than their stupidity and inexperience. So when the punch flew over my head, I rolled backward on the sidewalk and came up with my Glock in my hand, its muzzle aimed at the center of my would-be attacker’s back.

  “Hands against that wall, motherfucker, feet spread. Do it right now! There’s a nine-millimeter pointed at you and I will use it.”

  Before I could finish the sentence, he was raising his hands up, placing his palms against the wall, and spreading his legs. I watched him very carefully as he did so, looking for any sign that he might try something even more stupid than rushing at me the way he had. As I watched, I tried to see if there was anything about him that seemed familiar to me. Nothing. I patted him down, pulled a cell phone out of his jacket, keys, and a leather wallet out of his pants pockets. When I stepped back he made to face me.

  “Stop! You almost just got yourself shot. Now stay that way. Don’t move. Don’t speak until I tell you to. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  I didn’t recognize his voice, but when I flipped open the wallet and saw the name and the face on the driver’s license, I don’t suppose I was shocked.

  “Kevin Spears,” I said. “LT’s father and—”

  “Linh Trang! Linh Trang!” He was back to shouting. “Her name was Linh Trang.”

  “You’re in no position to be correcting me, Mr. Spears, or to be shouting at me.”