Sacrifice Fly (Raymond Donne Mysteries) Read online

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,” he said. “I get enough of that from the other guys.”

  I poured some ketchup onto my plate and some hot sauce on top of that. “You’re right, Edgar. I’m sorry.” I pointed to the TV. “Watch the game. Then we’ll talk.”

  He did, and I was able to make it through my dinner and start a second beer in peace. I convinced myself the combination of red meat, carbs, beer, and Tabasco aided in my recovery efforts. I relaxed and let my attention drift up to the TV, and when the Yanks ended the second inning with a bases-loaded pop-up, Edgar cleared his throat. I went right to the highlight.

  “I saw Frankie today,” I said, and for the next two minutes, Edgar was a kid. His mouth practically hung open, his eyes the size of shot glasses. It was the longest I could remember him keeping silent. When I was done, it took him a full minute to speak.

  “Cheese and crackers,” he said. “You had him.”

  “I know.”

  “Damn kids and that cop. What the hell was he thinking?”

  “It wasn’t his fault. He had no idea about Frankie and me.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess, but still … Whatta you gonna do now?”

  “Not much I can do,” I said. “At least I know he’s okay. For now.”

  Edgar nodded and closed his eyes. He did that when he thought about something deeply. Usually it was figuring out someone’s batting average or who had the majors’ lowest ERA in 1957. I took the opportunity to sip some more beer.

  “You said he gave you a truck rental receipt,” he said, his eyes now open. “Still got it?”

  I pulled the receipt out of my pocket. “Yeah.”

  He took it and studied it for a bit. “I know these guys. They’re good. We rent from them at work when we’re short on fleet.”

  “Okay.”

  “They use a GPS to track their vehicles. Global Positioning System.”

  “I know what GPS means, Edgar. I’m just wondering why you’re telling me this stuff.”

  “The company can keep track of their vehicles. They say it’s in case they get stolen or something, but it’s more Big Brother than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They use the GPS to see if you’ve gone out of state without telling them or if you violated any speed limits. I’ve heard some places use that info to pad their bills.”

  “That sounds illegal.”

  “The Supreme Court said so.”

  “This is all very interesting, Edgar, but…”

  “But how does it help you?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Well,” he said, taking a sip from his beer and teasing me with the pause, “we could probably locate this truck. If you were interested, that is.”

  “Let’s say I was,” I said. “I don’t have access to their GPS system, and I sure as hell can’t just walk into their offices and say, ‘Hey, can you find this truck for me?’”

  Edgar leaned into me and whispered, “Tell me you’re interested.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me,” he whispered again, “that you’re interested.”

  I probably should have sat at the other end of the bar. “Okay,” I whispered back. “I’m interested. Now what?”

  Edgar straightened up. “I’ve got this friend,” he said. “And my friend’s got this computer, and this really cool software.”

  “Your friend got a name?”

  “Deadbolt.”

  “Deadbolt,” I repeated. “Is that his first or last name, Edgar?”

  “Just Deadbolt,” he said.

  “And he can tell us where this truck is?”

  “If he can’t, I don’t know who can.”

  I didn’t ask about the legality of all this, because I already knew the answer. It would be nice to have something to take to Royce, though. Maybe Frankie really did catch a clue.

  “Okay, Edgar,” I said. “When can we meet with Deadbolt?”

  “What’s today?” Edgar asked.

  “Monday.”

  He looked at his watch and said, “How’s fifteen minutes sound?”

  Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in Edgar’s car at the East River. The pier we were parked in front of was fenced off. The city had finally had enough of large chunks of aging concrete crashing into the water while Grampa was trying to teach Junior how to fish and cut bait. Deadbolt was sitting in the backseat with a silver laptop on his knees. He reached into the front pocket of his overalls and pulled out a device about the size of a stick of gum. He inserted it into the side of his computer, pressed a few buttons and said, “This’ll take a few.”

  He leaned forward and stuck his head between the headrests. It was the first good look I got of him. Even in the early evening light, I could tell this man did not get enough sun. His skin was two shades too pale, and he had bags under his eyes big enough to pack a lunch in. His breath smelled like fresh bread.

  “I remember you now,” he said to me. “Emo said you used to be a cop. You were the one took that plunge about four or five years ago. Didn’t a kid get killed?”

  “And you were the one,” I said, “who was suspected in about a half dozen break-ins over at the industrial park.”

  “Suspected,” he repeated. “Never charged.”

  “Nothing was ever taken in those break-ins. Detectives had a hard time figuring that out.”

  “Maybe someone was trying to teach the businesses the importance of high-tech security systems.”

  “And you’re in what legitimate business now?” I asked.

  “I design and install high-tech security systems.” His computer started beeping. He put it back on his lap and punched the keys for a few seconds. “Read me the redge, Emo.”

  Edgar looked at the rental slip and read off the numbers. Deadbolt keyed them into the computer and after five seconds said, “Voy lah.” He turned the screen around so Edgar and I could see it. Deadbolt pointed at the red circle on the screen. “That’s right in the neighborhood.”

  After I got my bearings on the grid map, I could see that the truck was five blocks from where we were sitting. Not far from where Frankie’s father used to live.

  “I know that corner,” Edgar said. “It’s an old gas station. Owner let the thing run down, and now he makes his nut by letting people park there.”

  “Which means it’s locked,” I added.

  Deadbolt leaned forward again and let out a deep breath. If my eyes were closed I would have sworn I had walked into a bakery.

  “You’re not a cop no more, right?” he said.

  “Right.”

  “And you don’t go telling on people to the cops, right?”

  “Not if they don’t tell on me,” I answered.

  Deadbolt reached into his computer briefcase and pulled out a small tool. “You know what this is, right?”

  I took it. “Sure. It’s a low-tech security device.” I turned the lock pick over in my hand. “Took a lot of these off a lot of people back in the day.”

  “I use it in my work sometimes. Consider it a gift.” He leaned back and turned off his computer. “Use it in good health. It’s a good one. Made in China.”

  “Says here,” I said, looking at the side of the lock pick, “it’s from Japan.”

  “What’s the diff?” Deadbolt had his computer all packed up and he was ready to go. “Always a pleasure, Edgar.” They shook hands, and then he offered his to me. “Officer.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Thanks, DB,” Edgar said. “I owe ya one.”

  “Please. This is one of the ones I owed you.”

  I slipped the lock pick into my front pocket and said, “Good night, Deadbolt.”

  “Gentlemen.”

  After Deadbolt was gone, Edgar turned the key and started the car. “Where to now, Ray? Back to The LineUp? Home?”

  Both of those were excellent ideas, I thought. Beer, baseball, and bed. Tomorrow after work I could head over to the precinct and te
ll Royce that not only had his murder victim rented a truck before he died, but that I knew where it was parked.

  Then I heard myself tell Edgar, “Let’s go check out that truck.”

  * * *

  We were parked about a hundred feet off the intersection. One corner housed the parking lot, the other three consisted of an old automotive repair shop that had been out of business for about ten years, a defunct bar with a nautically themed exterior, and a five-story apartment building that had seen its best days about forty years ago when this part of Williamsburg was known more for meatpacking than for being the next area ripe for picking by real estate developers. With a little imagination, I could picture a pair of ten-story condos rising into the Brooklyn night with an upscale coffeehouse across the way. In two years, this corner will look as unfamiliar to me as some town in Iowa.

  After waiting for about three minutes, seeing no pedestrians and only a handful of cars and trucks go by, I turned to Edgar. “You ready?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, a little too eager. “I’m ready.”

  “Remember, Edgar,” I said. “You are a lookout. Any sign of trouble—cops, whatever—give me one long honk of the horn, and you get out of here. No use both of us getting screwed.”

  “I got it, Ray. You notice the lot’s full?”

  Three medium-sized trucks and five cars. Probably netted the landlord over three thousand dollars a month, maintenance-free. A full lot meant I wouldn’t be bothered by someone coming in to park. I looked at my watch. Just after nine. I doubted anyone would be picking up a vehicle at this hour.

  “Okay,” I said. “I don’t expect to be in there that long. Ten minutes, tops.”

  “How about I give the horn a couple of toots when ten minutes have gone by?” Edgar asked. “In case you lose track of the time.”

  I gave that some thought. “Yeah. Good idea.”

  Edgar opened his glove compartment and pulled out something that looked like a cigar holder. He twisted the end, and the front seat of his car filled with light. He handed it to me. “This’ll help, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking the flashlight and twisting it into the off position. “It’ll help.” I opened the car door and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  I got out of the car, walked to the corner, and waited. There was nobody coming from any direction, so I crossed over to the parking lot. I glanced up at the apartment building. All the windows that faced the lot were covered with curtains. I took the lock pick out of my pocket and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. The padlock on the gate was a good one, but it was designed more to keep away the casual troublemaker looking for kicks. Not someone determined to get in. Someone with a lock pick.

  I inserted the pick into the lock and let it catch. When it wouldn’t move anymore, I gave it a turn and the lock opened. That was easy. Almost easy enough to make me forget that what I was prepared to do was called breaking and entering. I thought again about just going into Royce’s office the next day with what I knew, but what I knew wasn’t enough.

  I thought of Frankie’s grandmother and sister. Frankie finding his father the way he had. Royce ready to put this one on the bottom of the pile. How far was I willing to go to get this kid home? The answer came when I took the lock off the gate and slipped through to the other side of the fence.

  I relocked the gate on the off chance some bored cop or security guard might come by and check things out. I pocketed the lock pick and took out Edgar’s flashlight. It was no problem finding the truck Frankie’s dad had rented. I had committed the plate number to memory. It was about the size of a mail truck, and the rear was facing away from the street. Nice bit of luck there.

  There was enough light coming off the streetlights for me to check out the back door of the truck. It had one of those security hooks that looks like a pick ax inserted into a U-ring. I focused my attention on the actual lock. It was of decent quality and would keep out most people. I stuck the pick in and waited for the catch. This time it took a bit more maneuvering, but I got it, turned it, and lifted the hook out of the way.

  The door rolled up without a sound—I hadn’t considered an alarm until then—and the smell of hot air laced with artificial pine wafted out. I turned on the flashlight and looked inside. There were a dozen or so boxes along the right side, neatly stacked. On the left were a rolled-out sleeping bag and a suitcase. I used the bumper to help me get up onto the floor of the truck, and I swung my legs over so I was completely inside. When I figured out the headroom situation, I stood up slowly and then lowered the door.

  I went over to the boxes. They all appeared to be factory-sealed and contained brand-name electronics: a large-screen TV, DVD/VCR combination, two identical videogame systems, some stereo equipment, a convection oven, phone and answering machine, computer, printer, a minifridge, and two air conditioners. All the right stuff for someone who was planning to start a new life in Florida.

  The suitcase was an older model, the kind my mother still used, with the hard shell. I bent over and opened it. Inside were a pair of blue jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, some boxer shorts, and two pairs of socks. All clean. The sleeping bag looked well worn but in decent shape.

  I went up to the front and tried the glove compartment, where I found the truck’s registration and insurance info. Nothing under the passenger-side seat, and the door’s storage pocket contained only a map of Florida. I slid over and sat behind the wheel. There was nothing in the door and nothing in either of the sun flaps. I reached under the seat and pulled out a manila envelope. I opened it. A bunch of receipts and some credit cards wrapped in a rubber band. I took the envelope, got up, and made my way to the back of the van. One more sweep with the flashlight. I’d seen all there was to see and decided not to push my luck any further.

  I exited the truck and the lot as easily as I had entered, and when I opened the side door of Edgar’s car, he pressed a button on his watch and said, “Eight minutes, thirty-seven seconds. That was quick and easy.”

  He couldn’t feel my heart beating. “Let’s go.”

  “Anything good in there?” he asked, looking at the envelope.

  “I’ll let you know when I check it out, Edgar. Right now, just go.”

  * * *

  Edgar and I were too juiced to call it a night, so after he parked his car outside my apartment, we ducked into the McDonald’s on the corner. We grabbed a couple of large decafs and sat at one of the tables in the back, away from the windows. An employee came by with a mop and explained in a mix of Spanish and English that the area where we were sitting was ready to be closed for the night. I told him we’d only be about ten minutes, and put a five-dollar bill on the table. He smiled and headed to the front. I opened three packs of sugar and dumped them into my cup. Then I told Edgar about what I had seen in the van.

  “You gonna open that?” Edgar asked, staring at the envelope on my lap.

  “Relax,” I said. “Enjoy your coffee.”

  As he took a sip, I put my hand under the table and opened the envelope. I pulled out the receipts and credit cards, placed them on my lap and glanced down at them.

  “What?” Edgar asked.

  “Some credit cards and receipts,” I said.

  I removed the rubber band and checked out the cards. There were five of them, all from different companies, and all had the same name on them: Felix Villejo. I could tell they had all been issued recently. They had that new shine on them that only lasts for a few weeks. I put the rubber band around them again and dropped them back into the envelope. Then I took out the receipts. They were from four different stores. The electronic equipment I’d seen in the truck. All had the same date on them, a few days before Frankie’s dad was killed.

  “You’re killing me here, Raymond. Whatcha got?”

  I put the receipts back, folded the envelope in half, and stuck it under my left leg. After taking a sip from my cup, I said, “Credit cards
, all issued to a Felix Villejo. The guy used them at four different stores. Why not just use them all in the same place?”

  Edgar put on his serious face—complete with squinty eyes and furrowed brow—as he contemplated the question. He was loving this and was going to make it last as long as he could. I was about to repeat the question when he said, “And what’s all that stuff doing in a van rented by a dead guy?”

  “There is that,” I agreed. “Rivas holding for Villejo? No, Rivas was getting ready to move himself and his kids down to Florida.”

  “So … let’s say Villejo buys the stuff and sells it to Rivas.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but why go to four different places and pay with four different cards? And if Frankie’s dad was walking around with the kind of cash Frankie said, why’d he need someone else’s credit cards to help him out?”

  Edgar bit his lower lip while he made little circles with his stirrer for ten seconds. “They weren’t his cards, and either Villejo or Rivas was afraid of maxing them out. It’s a bit less obvious to spread the purchases out over a few stores and not run up too much on any one card.”

  “Edgar,” I said, “your next four beers are on me. That’s pretty good.”

  After a little beaming, he added, “That still leaves the question as to why Rivas has—had—the stuff with him.”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “that Rivas bought the stuff off Villejo because Villejo needed the cash. If he were afraid of maxing out the cards, it’d make sense he was low on money.”

  “I guess,” Edgar said, sounding a bit disappointed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Ahh. Just hoping for a more exciting alternative, I guess.”

  I took a final sip of coffee. “Edgar,” I said, “I just committed a felony. That’s excitement enough for me.” I walked over to the trash can and deposited my cup. “I’m going home.”

  “You going to work tomorrow?”

  “I’ll see how I feel in the morning.” I was reluctant to admit how jazzed up the events of the evening had left me. I doubted I’d be going to work tomorrow.