Crooked Numbers Page 8

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not.”

  She looked at the beers in my hands. “I didn’t think you guys were allowed to drink on duty. Way cool.”

  “I’m not a cop,” I repeated.

  “Okay,” she said, then looked me up and down and nodded her approval. She leaned in again. “Undercover suits you, man. Keep it real.” Before turning to leave, she flashed me the peace sign.

  Allison returned before I was forced into another conversation. She grabbed one of the beers and read the label. “This is the good stuff?”

  I touched my bottle against hers. “Almost worth the experience of coming here.”

  “Now that’s a positive outlook.” We both took sips. After looking around a bit, Allison said, “You know what I don’t like about this place?”

  Ignoring the straight line, I said, “What’s that?”

  “The lack of diversity. It’s all white kids. Maybe a few Asians and a token black or two, but out of over a hundred kids here, it’s ninety-five percent white.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s like prom night at a talented and gifted school.”

  She laughed again and then held up her beer bottle. “Drink up, Teach. The night is young, and your half hour is over.”

  I took a long pull and drained half the bottle. I got a little closer to Allison so she could hear me. “You have enough for your piece?”

  She leaned in. I thought she was going to whisper something again, but instead she kissed me on the cheek. “You,” she said, “are going to take me to your bar. What’s it called? The All Points Bulletin?”

  “The LineUp,” I said, finishing up the beer. “You sure? It’s not exactly a hot spot, and we might actually be able to hear each other talk.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  *

  The average age of the customers at The LineUp was about ten years older than those at the club we’d just left. The beer was half the price and colder, and the lights were not going to cause any seizures. A Springsteen tune was on the jukebox, loud enough to hear, but not like he was in the bar with us. Allison and I had grabbed a couple of stools at the corner of the bar, giving us a view of the whole place. There seemed to be half a dozen copies of today’s paper scattered around the bar.

  Mikey came over with our pints of Brooklyn Pilsner. He looked at Allison, then at me, and gave me his raised-eyebrows look.

  “Better-looking company you’re keeping these days, Raymond.” He offered his hand to Allison. “Usually he sits with Edgar,” he explained. “I’m Mikey.”

  “Allison Rogers.”

  “Nice to meet you, Allison.” He slid the closest paper over to her. “You see Ray’s picture in today’s paper?”

  “No.” Allison gave me a playful slap on the arm. “Raymond. You didn’t tell me you were in the paper. What for?”

  “I killed a nosy bartender,” I said. “Mikey, Allison wrote the piece in the paper.”

  “And took the picture,” she added.

  “Excellent,” Mikey said, even more impressed with Allison now. Someone made some noise at the other end of the bar. “I’ll be right back,” Mikey said.

  When he was out of earshot, Allison said, “He seems cool.”

  I took a sip of my beer. “You get a chance to look into the Royal Family yet?”

  “Ah, back to business. Yeah, I did a quick search and found a few articles over the past year.” I knew that, but kept my mouth shut. “I’m gonna ask some of the other reporters. See if they have anything in their notes, stuff that didn’t make it into the paper. Maybe,” she said, “I can check with some of my own people on the street. Cops aren’t the only ones with confidential informants, you know.”

  “Can I tell you something?” I asked. “Off the record?”

  “Better do it now, before the beer goes to my head.”

  “I met with this guy this morning.” I almost mentioned his name, but decided not to. “He runs the Royal Family on this side of the bridge.”

  “How’d you arrange that?”

  “That’s not important. What I want you to look into—please—is the Family’s activity on the other side. Particularly this girl named China. She seems to be in charge over there. The guy told me he didn’t know Dougie. I believe him. China didn’t say anything.” I showed her the marks on my wrist. “She just asked.”

  “My God, Raymond.” She took me by the wrist and ran her fingers over the bruises. Just like China had done. Only this time, I liked it. “Did you call the cops?”

  “No,” I said. “But I did speak with Dennis Murcer after calling you. He was somewhat pissed I was still involved.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “But he listened and said he’d look into what I just told you.”

  “Good,” she said. “What’s your deal with him, anyway?”

  I cleared my throat. “We went through the academy together.”

  She waited for me to go on. When I didn’t, she said, “And…”

  I gave her the edited version, from my recommending him to Uncle Ray all the way up to his dating my sister for half a year.

  “He wasn’t what you had in mind for Rachel?” she asked.

  “A lot of cops make lousy boyfriends,” I said.

  “You’re very protective of her. That’s sweet.”

  “It’s not that. Dennis was one of those cops who couldn’t leave the job at the precinct. It wasn’t good for either one of them.”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Was that your decision or your sister’s?”

  “Both,” I said. “When Rachel had difficulty breaking things off, I gave her a hand. I took Dennis out for some beers and had a long talk with him.”

  Allison smiled and shook her head. “You broke up with your sister’s boyfriend?”

  “He wasn’t listening to her and I—we—needed it to stop before he crossed the line.”

  “You don’t think he would’ve hurt her, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It wasn’t like that.” I took a sip of beer.

  “So, he did what you wanted him to?”

  “He did what needed to be done.”

  “Why do you think so many cops make shitty boyfriends?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say a bad day on the streets is a hell of a lot different than a bad day in the greeting-card business. Kinda limits the empathy thing.”

  “Did you ever have any—?”

  I put my hand on her arm and said, “Let’s just leave it at that, okay, Allison?”

  She put her other hand on mine. “Okay.”

  “How about you?” I asked. “How’d you get the limp?”

  “Wow,” she said, cringing a bit. “That’s both rude and observant.”

  “I used to be a cop.”

  “Right. I used to be a track star. Back in high school.”

  “You didn’t run in college?”

  “Didn’t get a chance to.” She took a long sip of beer and studied the label for a few seconds. “Had an accident halfway through my senior year.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m cool with it now.” She ran a finger up and down the bottle. “Got hit by a Jeep while running before school. The only reason I walk so well now is I was in great shape at the time.”

  “You’re still in pretty good shape,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. But not like she believed me.

  “They get the driver?”

  “Well…” She picked up her bottle and started tapping the bottom against the bar. “That’s where the story gets better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She closed her eyes. “Before I passed out, I looked up and saw the driver had stopped and staggered out of the Jeep. I could tell he was drunk. He got about five feet away from me before running back into the car and taking off.”

  “Were you able to identify him?”

  “Better than that,” she said. “I saw th
e last three numbers of his license plate and the color of the Jeep.”

  I waited for her to go on. When she didn’t, I said, “So they got the guy?”

  She laughed. “Oh, yeah. They got the guy.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah, real good. Except for the fact he was a cop.”

  “Shit.” My turn to cringe. “How’d it play out?”

  “He denied everything. Said he was still at work at the time of the accident and had witnesses to back him up. A bunch of cop witnesses against the word of a high school girl who’d just been run down. I think you know the rest of the story, Ray.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  “Yep.” She put her hands on her lap and rubbed her legs. “Lost my track scholarship. Couldn’t sue ’cause I didn’t have a case, and I’m still paying off my student loan ten years after graduating. But don’t think that soured me on cops or anything.”

  We both got silent for a while. She brought her beer up to her lips and held it there. Before taking a sip, she said, “So what are you thinking? Did Dougie have something to do with the Royal Family?”

  “Or they had something to do with him,” I said. “At least, on the other side of the bridge.” That sounded confusing. “I’d love to know why Dougie was there at that hour. If he was meeting someone, it would make sense if that person was somehow connected to the Family.” I thought about the beads around Dougie’s neck. “Wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded and put her glass down. “The cops didn’t find a phone at the scene. So … whoever killed him … either took it, or Dougie left it at home.”

  “I’m going to Dougie’s tomorrow,” I told her, explaining the situation. “I can ask Mrs. Lee if she knows about his phone. Murcer told me the last call Dougie got was from a disposable.”

  “Damn, Ray,” she said. “It’s like investigating a crime.”

  “Not much different, I’d imagine, than chasing down a good story.”

  “Kind of. Except this one has a dead kid.”

  “Yeah,” I said, finishing up my beer. “There is that.”

  Allison drained the rest of her pilsner and raised two fingers. “Hey, Mikey,” she said. Mikey looked over his shoulder. “Two more.” She turned to me. “You want a date for tomorrow? Y’know, the thing at the Lees’?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a date thing, Allison.”

  “And I wouldn’t call that an answer, Raymond.”

  Before I could respond, Mikey came over with the beers. “You guys hungry?”

  I looked at Allison. “Are we staying for a bit?”

  She raised her glass. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  “Yeah, Mikey,” I said. “Maybe some calamari and two pretzels. Thanks.”

  “You got it.”

  “So,” Allison said after Mikey left us. “What about tomorrow?”

  I thought about that. “How about I call you in the morning?”

  “Or,” she said, eyes on mine, “you can just nudge me.”

  Had there been beer in my mouth, I would’ve spit it out. For the first time in a long time, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Oh, my God,” Allison said. “You’ve never been propositioned before?”

  “That’s your third beer, Allison. I don’t want to take—”

  “Oh, cut the shit.” She looked at my glass. “That’s your third beer, too. Maybe I want to take advantage of you. I hate that guy shit.” She spun her glass around a few times. “Truth be told,” she said, “I wanted to hit on you after the Rivas story broke.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “You had ‘damaged goods’ written all over you.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s honest. How do I look now?”

  “Not so damaged,” she said. “Kinda cute, actually.”

  I looked up at the TV, which was tuned to the Weather Channel. I pretended to watch the local radar before responding.

  “Okay,” I said. “You can go to Mrs. Lee’s with me tomorrow. But not as a reporter. Or a date. As a friend.”

  “Okay, friend,” she said. “What about my other … suggestion?”

  “Let me think on that a bit.”

  She put her hand on my knee. It felt good there.

  “One thing I learned from my accident? Live for the moment, because you never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow.”

  “I’m not arguing with that,” I said. “I learned the same thing from my accident. It just took me a few years.”

  “So what’s the problem, tough guy?”

  I took a sip of beer as I stalled to find the right words.

  “I guess I still see myself as damaged,” I finally said. “It’s been a long process for me.”

  She leaned forward and looked around to see if anyone was listening. She lowered her voice and asked, “So, what? You haven’t gotten laid since your accident?”

  I laughed. “Now who’s being rude?”

  “I’m a reporter. It’s a habit.”

  “I’ve had a few one-night stands, if you must know. Nothing serious.”

  Allison put her hands back on her legs and rubbed them again.

  “Well, I guess if we’re being honest—or tipsy—truth is, that’s about all I’ve had since the accident. Dated a guy in college for a few months, but he was gay.”

  “How long did it take you to figure that out?”

  “Oh, I knew from the start. I just thought having a boyfriend was cool, and it provided great cover. For both of us.”

  “At least you both got something out of it.”

  “Yeah. At least.”

  Mikey came by with our food and quickly spun around to handle the small crowd forming at the other end of the bar. I recognized a few of them as semi-regulars, cops who’d swing by for a quick one on the way home. Which immediately made me think of Allison’s accident.

  “So,” I said. “I guess we’re both still a bit damaged.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But I’m willing to do something about it.”

  “So am I. Just not tonight.”

  “Why don’t you think of me as a one-night stand?”

  “I could do that, but I’m already starting to like you.”

  She leaned back. “What if it’s a one-time offer?”

  I dipped a piece of calamari in the red sauce. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “You sound pretty confident there, Ray.”

  “Like I said, it’s been a long process.”

  Chapter 9

  I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of the church bells from across the street. The curtains were pulled, and my eyes were too blurry to see my clock, but if I had counted the number of rings correctly it was nine o’clock. Time to roll out of bed, put on a pot of coffee, and take a long, hot shower. I thought back to Allison’s offer last night and was pretty sure I’d made the right decision.

  After my shower, I put on some decent clothes and poured myself a cup of coffee. I took it over to the windows, watched the city skyline for a bit, and thought about my plans for the day.

  Douglas William Lee was in the ground now. His final resting place. And somewhere out there, beyond my kitchen windows, was the person responsible. How do you live with yourself after doing something like that? We see and read about these guys who murder and rape and swindle folks out of their life savings. We see them caught and led off in handcuffs. We watch their trials, then we watch them go off to prison. But how do they live with themselves?

  I heard the church bells again. Ten o’clock. When I was younger, I was taught that those who crossed God’s line would spend eternity in Hell. That was just to scare the shit out of me. So that I’d stay in line and be the good kid, the good Catholic. Now that I no longer had any faith, it was times like this when I missed the concept of Hell. It would be some sort of cruel comfort to believe the person who had killed Dougie would be spending eternity somewhere south of where I was sitting.

  Or maybe, if I still believed
what I learned in Sunday school, I would have to show forgiveness. That had been one of the first cracks in my foundation of faith. How could people go to Hell if we were supposed to forgive them? Didn’t God forgive, or was forgiveness just for those of us here on Earth? I remembered asking that question after church one Sunday, and my dad’s answer was a hand to the back of my head. The Lord, my mother would invariably say, worked in mysterious ways.

  *

  I had given Allison Mrs. Lee’s address, and I got there five minutes before she did—just before one o’clock. According to the buzzers on the front of the five-story building, the Lees had the entire first floor, while each of the other floors had three apartments each. I wondered how Mrs. Lee had swung that. There was no reason to use the buzzer since the front door was open for anyone to walk right in. We did.

  After a brief walk through a small, undecorated hallway and past a door that presumably led to the basement, we were in the Lee apartment.

  “We’re friends,” I reminded Allison. “You’re here for support.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The room we were in—the living room?—was filled with well-dressed people wearing what would have to be called their “Sunday best.” Every flat surface held either a plate of food or a plastic cup. A few people turned to acknowledge our presence, and more than a few eyes lingered on the only white people in the room.

  I raised my hand. “Hi. Raymond Donne.”

  A woman came up to me. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place from where. Until she spoke.

  “You’re the man from the wake the other night.” Hello, Wanda. “The one who upset Gloria so.”

  “Nice to see you again, Wanda.” She seemed shocked I knew her name. “This is Allison Rogers.”

  Allison offered her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Wanda looked at Allison’s hand like it was a questionable piece of fish. To her credit, though, she took it, politeness winning out.

  “The man from the papers.” Another woman was coming our way, saving us from further conversation with Wanda. “Mr. Donne,” she said, taking both my hands. “Sarah Dutton. From the phone yesterday.”

  “Of course. Thank you for having us, Ms. Dutton.”

  Ms. Dutton turned to Allison. “Mrs. Donne?”