Obsessed, p.4
Obsessed, page 4
I approached the girl at the piano and smiled. I said, “I wish I could say I knew what you were playing, but it was beautiful.”
Lauren returned my smile. She looked like her sister. I noticed a few wisps of acne on her cheeks.
“I only know classical music from watching Bugs Bunny or hearing commercials for classical music on TV,” I told her. “Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ is one of the few classical songs I can identify.”
Without saying a word or missing a beat, the teenager played the first few bars of the “Moonlight Sonata.” It was like she was a different person as she focused for a few moments.
“Ha, just like the commercial, only the sound really carries in here.”
The girl spoke for the first time. “My parents spent a fortune to build this room just right for my sister’s singing. They didn’t want it to go to waste, so now I’m supposed to practice in here hours a day.”
I said, “Your name’s Lauren, right?”
The pretty girl nodded.
“Do you want to go to Juilliard like your sister?”
Lauren shrugged. “My parents definitely want me to. Just like they forced Emma to go.”
“Wasn’t it your sister’s dream to go to Juilliard?”
Lauren took a moment. She appeared to be a serious young woman. “Emma wanted to be a star. She’d have preferred going on American Idol or The Voice. She only went to Juilliard because our parents insisted. Like they’re doing with me.”
“What would you like to do?”
“I dunno. I’m not sure what I want to do yet.”
I let out another smile. She sounded just like some of my kids. “That’s the right answer. Worry about what you’re going to do with your life when you get a little older.”
Lauren turned in her seat to look at me directly. “You’re trying to find who killed Emma, aren’t you?”
This wasn’t a random question.
I paused, nodded, and said, “Detective Hernandez and I are working on it.”
Lauren said, “This whole thing sucks. Emma could be bossy and even a little mean, but she was a pretty good sister. I miss her.”
“Were you guys close?”
“There were four years between us. But we bonded together against my parents. It was kind of fun.”
“Did Emma ever talk to you about boyfriends or dating?”
“No. Emma didn’t confide in people. She liked doing her own thing, not answering questions about it. She had a few fights with our parents about being careful in the city and checking in at least once a day. She didn’t like that at all.”
“Do you think she had a wild personal life?”
“I doubt it,” Lauren scoffed. “Emma was pretty focused. My parents paid for her apartment and food but didn’t give her much for fun. That annoyed her and she complained that the city was so expensive.
“She also told Dad he couldn’t crash at her place after his acting classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. She just wanted her independence, but I think it hurt his feelings.”
Emma’s sister had given me some insights, but that wasn’t why I’d wandered into the music room. I said, “How are you doing through this whole thing?”
She shrugged again. It made me wonder if all teenagers were trained to shrug in exactly the same way. She said, “I guess I’m doing okay. My parents aren’t quite right. Especially my dad. He never missed one of Emma’s school concerts.”
I wanted to leave this girl on a positive note. I said, “Can you play me something I wouldn’t expect?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—I wouldn’t expect it.”
A smile slipped across her face. She turned back to the piano and started playing a haunting melody that wasn’t quite classical music. The deep chords resonated inside the room. I could feel the performance suck me in. It was phenomenal.
She wrapped up the song after about two minutes. She looked at me and said, “That was ‘Solace’ by Scott Joplin, but I played a version that was arranged by Marvin Hamlisch.”
I almost couldn’t speak. I felt like this young woman had opened a new musical door for me.
I heard Terri finishing up with Dr. Schrade. I waved to Lauren and she gave me a genuine smile.
Chapter 13
AFTER I DROVE Terri back to her car, I decided to pay a visit to an informant who’d helped me break some of the biggest cases of my career. He was a little high maintenance to use too often—not so bad that I had to pull all the green M&M’s out of a bowl, more like having to deal with an unending stream of minor bullshit, such as his asking to get out of parking tickets or hoping I’d arrest one of his rivals.
I had to balance the value of his information against the cost.
About six years ago he’d legally changed his name from Ronald Higdon to Ronald Higdon, Esquire. He spelled out the Esquire. It wasn’t illegal, unless he was caught claiming to be an attorney, or acting as someone’s attorney. Anyone who knew him recognized it was just another scam.
About the time he changed his name, he also helped me make an arrest in a nasty drug homicide on the Upper West Side. Two bodies in an alley with no ID. The homicide investigation was stalled. After a day of stumbling around with no progress, I called Ronald. He came up with the victims’ names in less than two hours. The next day, he had the shooter’s name for me. In return, he asked to have his criminal record erased. That didn’t happen. That couldn’t happen. So he’d settled for getting off probation early. Believe me, it was a good trade.
Ronald ran his uncle’s pawnshop on West 127th Street, a couple of blocks from the famous Apollo Theater. Higdon’s Pawn and Jewelry had been in the same spot nearly sixteen years. I was certain that Ronald fenced stolen property through the pawnshop, but it was more of a gut feeling than real information. And frankly, for the kind of help he’d given me in the past, I was prepared to overlook the assumption.
I knocked on the shop’s front door and waited for Ronald to buzz me in. The place was roomy for a New York pawnshop. Clean, but not fancy. The concrete floor was painted with thick gray paint. The shelves, holding assorted electronics and collectibles, didn’t match. The shop didn’t have nearly as much inventory as other pawnshops I’d seen, which reinforced my belief that Ronald was using the place for things other than short-term loans on people’s personal belongings.
The lean man behind the counter gave me a smile. A gold tooth twinkled in the light. He was about my age and had seen some tough times. I have never asked him about the scars on his face or the bullet wound on his wrist. That is sort of the way a relationship with an informant works: you don’t get to know them too well and don’t ask too many questions.
Ronald came from behind the counter and shook my hand. He wasn’t quite as tall as my six feet three inches. Maybe six foot one. But he was sturdy. And he had a strong grip.
“What brings the city’s best homicide detective to my humble shop today?”
I smiled. He used a good narrator’s voice with precise enunciation. There weren’t many informants with a delivery like that and a college education to back it up. Ronald had bragged about how he worked hard at having no discernible accent. I knew it had more to do with tricking people on the phone than any sort of interest in self-improvement.
I gave him a rough overview of the two homicide victims. I was careful not to give him any details he might use for other reasons. You never want an informant to create a suspect from the facts provided. He even made a few notes as he nodded.
“I’ll start making calls right away. I got more and more people around the city. What are you interested in me asking about?”
“Anything unusual. Anyone who might hang with a younger crowd. Or, if we’re lucky, someone’s talking. Maybe a street person saw something. You know the drill—anything that might help.”
“This isn’t my usual kind of thing. I don’t mix with a crowd that talks much about college girls. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“And what will your help cost the city, or me?”
The way the smile slid over his face, I knew he had an answer ready.
Ronald said, “I’m in a little bit of a bind. There’s a lady down in SoHo who claims I told her I was an attorney. She said she listened to my advice on a minor civil matter. Now she’s being sued for two million dollars and is blaming me. A Detective Matthews in the First Precinct says what I did is criminal and he’s not done with me. Could you have a talk with the good detective?”
“Let’s see if you make any progress first.” I was about to tell him I’d make a phone call to the detective to see where he was on the case. Instead, I was startled by someone rattling the door violently.
I heard Ronald mumble, “Goddamn, not now.” He hit the buzzer to avoid his door being shattered.
Three young, buff men rushed into the pawnshop. One of them said, “You owe us two grand for those little metal people.”
The Brooklyn accent, the dark hair, and the tattoos on his arm all told me this was probably an Italian kid raised in Bensonhurst. In all likelihood, so were his buddies.
The young man who spoke glared at me and said, “We got business here. You need to get your ass moving.”
I chuckled and said, “I don’t think so.”
Chapter 14
I MADE AN effort not to move or show my intentions in any way. The young men from Brooklyn stared me down. Maybe no one had ever told them no. That was the problem with about half the people in the criminal justice system. Their parents told them they could do no wrong and they took it to mean they could do anything without consequences.
Clearly, Ronald didn’t want to talk to these guys in front of me. He was trying to calm them down and get them to come back later.
The guy who’d been doing all the talking, the one in a tight T-shirt with a tattoo of the devil on his left forearm, looked at me and said, “I told you, get out.”
“And I said, I would prefer to stay here.” I tried to keep a pleasant expression on my face. But no matter how you looked at it, we were in a standoff.
Now the second young man stepped forward. He was about twenty-two. Tall and ripped. The gold crucifix around his neck dangled outside his Snoop Dogg T-shirt. His sharp brown eyes stared right at me. “Listen, mister, we got business with Ronald. It don’t concern you.”
Another Brooklyn kid trying to act tough. I kept my face neutral and said, “Thanks, but I’ll refer you to my earlier answer: I think I’ll stay.”
The young man inched closer to me. He wore checkerboard Vans like a surfer, and the rubber soles squeaked a little on the painted concrete floor. He growled at me, “Do you know who my father is?”
I said, “No, does your mother?” The insult took longer to sink in than I thought it would.
When the young man realized what I’d said, his eyes bulged, and he took another step toward me. That’s when I calmly moved a barstool with my foot. It was part of a four-piece set with some kind of bird etched into the contoured seat. Ronald had bought the whole set on sale for $199. I’d been expecting one of the Brooklyn boys to advance. That’s why I’d hooked my foot through the leg of the stool before I ever opened my mouth.
The young man stumbled on the stool for a moment, then had a change of heart. He eased back toward his friends. They looked like football defenders in formation. They were ready for a fight.
Some of this was my fault for having a little fun. I decided to take a different tack. I said, “I can’t leave. I’m Ronald’s attorney.”
The young man with the devil tattoo said, “I thought he was an attorney. He’s got an Esquire at the end of his name.”
I looked at Ronald Higdon, Esquire. It appeared he did tell everyone he was a lawyer. I turned toward the three Brooklynites. “Why does he work at a pawnshop if he’s a lawyer?”
“He said he was tired of the bullshit in the criminal justice system.”
“We all are. But that doesn’t give you the right to barge in here and threaten him.”
“He gave us three hundred dollars for some little metal people.”
Ronald mumbled, “Figurines.”
“Whatever they’re called. We found out the four of ’em were worth about twenty-five hundred bucks, not a measly three hundred. We want the rest of the money.” He dropped his voice and added, “Now.”
He pulled an old-school straight razor from his pocket. He flicked it open to let us all get a good look at it. The whole idea of an edged weapon like that is to instill fear. It was working.
Chapter 15
INSTEAD OF GOADING the young men any further, I did the lame, adult thing: I pulled out my ID. I let them see the badge and said, “NYPD. Do you boys want to spend a few days at Rikers?”
All three of the young men laughed.
I had to ask. “What the hell is so funny?”
“A cop telling us what to do. The mayor of New York City says cops can’t do shit no more. We didn’t do nothing that you could arrest us for. This is a private matter.”
“It would’ve been, except you had to go and pull the razor. I’m not going to let anyone get cut while I’m standing right here.”
One of the punks said, “Then you should probably leave.”
Another added, “That would be the smartest move for you.”
“I doubt any of you know the smartest move for yourselves, let alone someone else. Do you really want to make this a police matter?”
The young punk kept the razor open in his hand. “There ain’t even bail no more. You can arrest me, but I’ll be hitting the clubs in a couple hours. You guys ain’t the big cheese no more. We are.”
I canted my body slightly and kept my right hand loose at my side, in case I needed to draw my pistol. I didn’t want to do it. It would escalate the situation. But I wanted to be cut by a straight razor even less.
I was so concentrated on the man with the razor that I didn’t notice Ronald leaning back to press the button to open the door. I jerked my head up at the loud buzzing sound, and saw the door burst open. Two men and a woman rushed into the shop.
The new arrivals were all Black. Both the men were older than the Brooklyn punks. Maybe in their mid-thirties. The woman was a little younger than her companions. She was tall with broad shoulders, and had wild hair with pink highlights shot through it like lightning.
I saw the smile on Ronald’s face and knew these were friends of his. The looks on the punks’ faces were phenomenal.
The tallest of the new arrivals, who had to have at least fifty pounds on any of the Brooklyn boys, looked at my informant and said, “Everything all right, Ronald?”
“That depends on how you look at it. These three just busted in here, threatened me with the razor, and told this man there was nothing cops could do about it. Just about then I buzzed you into the shop.”
The man turned and stared at the three Brooklyn boys. “So you think no one would do anything to you if you cut up Ronald with your blade. You think anyone will do something about this?” He swung his left elbow hard and caught the man with the razor right across the temple. The razor clattered onto the concrete floor, immediately followed by the young man’s dazed body.
The woman swung her right hand and connected with the next punk. His nose shattered under her closed fist. She shifted slightly and punched the other man in the face with the same hand.
I stood and took in the show. It was like a boxing match without all the extraneous hoopla. Blood gushed out of the one man’s nose. The second man had stumbled back and fallen onto the floor. The man who’d held the razor was desperately trying to stand.
As soon as he got to his feet, the woman shoved him back down to the ground.
He looked at me and whined, “You’re a cop. You have to help us.”
“You already told me the mayor said I can’t do shit.” I winked at the three people who’d just come in. The big man smiled. The woman tried to hide her smile but then started to giggle.
I told the one Brooklyn punk to leave the razor on the floor as he stood up. The three of them scurried to the door as a group.
I said, “I want you boys to go home and look up the word karma. If you have any brains at all, you’ll realize you just had a master class in it.”
I was still smiling after Ronald had buzzed them out and they ran away.
Chapter 16
AFTER MY ADVENTURE at the pawnshop of Ronald Higdon, Esquire, I thought it might be a good time for a change of pace. It had been a very busy autumn. I missed seeing my grandfather. Like a lot of things, I was afraid I’d taken those off-the-cuff talks with the old priest for granted.
It wasn’t just me who was busy. My grandfather had taken on an important new role for the church. He was working hard at using the resources available to him to help the entire community. He had set up a literacy program staffed by seniors at the school. He had set up a sports program at a nearby park and convinced the fire department to provide coaches twice a week. Seamus Bennett’s vitality hadn’t diminished with age.
Because both of our lives had sped up so drastically, my grandfather had missed dinner with the family for a record five nights in a row. We’d spoken on the phone briefly, but I hadn’t seen him face-to-face since he came to dinner almost a week ago.
I walked to the administrative offices of Holy Name Catholic Church. The path that led to my grandfather’s office was neatly maintained. Patio stones marked the route in a serpentine pattern instead of straight ahead. I tapped on the door before turning the knob.
Even though Seamus was into his eighties, there was no telling what I would find when I stepped past the door. Would he be drinking a hidden beer? Would he be playing cards with one of his buddies? Would he be yelling at some patron who hadn’t come through with money for his community programs? It was always an interesting question.
