Where It Hurts (25 page)

I was curious. “How do you know so much about him?”

“He used to come see me a few times a year. We’d talk. Jimmy has his failings, but he has guilt, too. Haunts the ever-living shit out of him, what he did to me. I used to take some comfort in that, but not anymore. Death is too close for that.”

“You said he
used
to come visit. Not anymore? How long has it been?”

“A year. Maybe a year and a half, but the money’s still coming in.”

“Would it surprise you to know he’s drinking again?”

He shrugged. “Once a drunk . . . Still, what happened between
us was twenty years ago. None of it has anything to do with your homicides.”

“What if someone was blackmailing him with this?” I said.

“Jimmy would quietly resign and the cops would deny it. Too many people have too much to lose to let themselves get all that egg on their faces. If those records even exist anymore, I bet they are sealed as sealed can be.”

“I guess you’re right, Furlong,” I admitted, but reluctantly.

We said a few more things to each other about the weather and the raccoons, about his proximity to the rez and about getting his siding fixed up. I stuck my head into the laundry room and said so long to Fernand. But on my way out, I went back in the living room.

“What was the girlfriend’s name?”

Furlong looked confused.

“The woman Jimmy was mixed up with back then in ’94?”

“Ilana. Ilana Little or something like that.” He shrugged and made a face. “I just called her Ilana. She was some piece of ass.”

Outside, the sun was brilliant and the glare off the snow hurt my eyes. I thought about taking a ride over to the rez and picking up some cigarettes for Bill. Then I thought better of it, not because I was a crusader against smoking. At Bill’s age, he wasn’t going to quit unless it was his idea. No, I didn’t buy him cigarettes because I had to figure out how to talk to Bill now that I knew some of Jimmy Regan’s secrets. Furlong was right. I couldn’t see how Jimmy’s secrets, as dirty as they might be, had anything to do with the Delcamino murders. Still, given the way he had acted last night, the way he had sought me out to plead his innocence, the way he had gotten four drinks down his belly in such short order, let me know Jimmy Regan was involved somehow. I couldn’t help but remember something Furlong has said. Jimmy has guilt.

(MONDAY MORNING)

I
’d spent the remainder of my Sunday back at the Paragon, watching football games. I’d also spent a lot of time thinking things through. When Slava came in for his shift, we worked through a plan to give Milt Paxson a little payback for his putting Martino onto me. I wasn’t going to let his bullshit pass, but that wasn’t really the point. I didn’t believe Jimmy Regan for a second about how Paxson, an inept putz with a nasty streak, was the mastermind behind arranging my Friday night adventures. And say what you will about Pete McCann, he had even less respect for Paxson than I did. There was no way Pete would have taken part in any plan that Paxson cooked up. That’s how I knew Jimmy Regan was full of shit. While I didn’t believe Regan, I found it interesting that he was willing to let Paxson take the fall and that Paxson was willing to take it. That said to me that Paxson might know something, maybe something useful. Or not. But with Slava’s help, I meant to find out. There had to be a connection between Jimmy Regan and the Delcaminos. There
had
to be. I was hoping that Paxson could supply the link.

If there was any truth to what Regan had promised me on Saturday during his visit with Bill, I would no longer be persona non grata with
the SCPD and I’d get cooperation when I asked for it. So the first thing I did after showering was to put Regan’s word to the test by calling Alvaro Peña.

“Peña.”

“It’s me, Alvaro, Mr. Radioactive.”

“Not anymore,
jefe
. I don’t know how you did it, but it seems like the Pope’s given you special dispensation or something like that. Word filtered down from on high yesterday that if you wanted your lily-white Irish ass to get kissed, I was to pucker up my sweet Dominican lips and do my duty.”

“I never much cared for ass kissers, Alvaro.”

“Good thing, because I would have put in my fucking papers. So what else can I do for you?”

“Ilana Little, that name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” he asked, the sound of his fingers tapping at a keyboard came through the phone.

“Not necessarily.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Not sure,” I said. “I-l-a-n-a, I guess, and Little the way you spell ‘little.’”

“Sorry, my man. Nada. Any reason she should be in the system?”

“Convicted felon, so I’m told. She also ran a massage parlor in Wyandanch in the ’90s. Do me a solid and keep checking. Ask around. She was right in the middle of some trouble with a drug/vice task force in ’94. Try different spellings, okay? My source is good.”

“No problemo. I can do that. And,
jefe . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Put in a good word with the Pope for me.”

“Next time I see him, Alvaro, I’ll make sure to kiss the ring once extra for you.”

“Can’t ask for more than that.”

“You ever hear of a dealer, a guy goes by the name of Lazy Eye or Lamar English?”

There was a sudden chill in the air and a frosty silence from Alvaro’s end of the phone. All of his happy cooperative chatter came to an abrupt stop.

“Uh-uh. No way, Gus,” Peña said at last, his voice all business. “We can’t be going there and you can’t be going anywhere near him.”

I tried to keep the mood light. “Why not? I thought word came down about how I was reborn a good guy, one you could talk to.”

“If I tell you why I can’t discuss this with you, my man, it will defeat the purpose of me not discussing it with you. You understand me now?”

“I believe I do,” I said. “Consider it off the table.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“No, Alvaro, thanks. That should do me.”

We wished each other a good day, but I could tell I’d walked into a minefield. A minefield I wasn’t supposed to step into or even know existed. I’d gotten good at spotting the signs. After John died, there were mines everywhere and you couldn’t breathe without setting one off. There wasn’t a safe subject or a word or facial expression or sigh that didn’t explode in all our faces. So I knew.

There were only two reasons Alvaro could have reacted the way he did. Either Lazy Eye was the target of an investigation, or he was working for the department. I still wasn’t sure that got me any closer to making sense of the jumble of facts, but it didn’t get me any further away. That was something. I was feeling pretty good about that until the phone rang in my hand.

“It’s not the gun,” a familiar voice blurted out before I could say hello. It was Roussis.

“What?”

“The gun we seized from Frankie Tacos’ desk.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same type of gun that killed Tommy Delcamino, but it’s not
the
gun. Bullets don’t match.”

“Shit!”

“You can say that again.”

“Shit. So,” I asked, “are you back to square one?”

“Pretty much.”

“Listen, Al, I think we need to talk in person again.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that? You gonna send me on another wild-goose chase, tell me maybe that it was Jimmy fucking Hoffa.”

“Funny you should use that term ‘goose chase.’”

“What’s so funny? Because I’m not laughing.”

“Meet me for lunch.”

“Where?”

“You pick,” I said. “It’s on me.”

“You know that Mexican place in the shopping center in Hauppauge near the diner and the library?”

“Mazatlan?”

“One o’clock?”

“One.”

I didn’t know what was going to come of what I was about to do, but I figured it was about time to shake things up a little and to see what happened.

(MONDAY AFTERNOON)

F
or a slim, athletic guy, Al Roussis could eat. He had a burrito the size of a football topped by a layer of melted cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and chipotle salsa with sides of black beans and rice. I got nauseous just listening to him order. I had a chicken salad that I didn’t finish because I was too busy watching him inhale his food. I think I began the conversation just to distract myself.

“The other day,” I said, “when we met in Brady Park.”

He stopped chewing long enough to say, “What about it?”

“You talked to me about the Alison St. Jean murder case.”

His shoulders slumped, his expression sad. “Terrible.”

“Very, but I wanted you to know I got your message.”

He tilted his head at me as if he didn’t understand the words I was saying. “Message?”

“Yeah, the message.”

“What message?”

Christ, he was going to play dumb, I thought. I understood that he had to protect himself, that if Jimmy Regan could trace anything back to him, he would be screwed. But it was just the two of us alone at a
table in an empty Mexican restaurant in Hauppauge. I think the closest English speakers were four stores over in the Four Sisters burger joint.

“Come on, Al. There’s no one here to hide from. No need to play dumb. I’m not gonna tell Regan.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Gus. I met you over there because I was at the Fourth interviewing somebody on another case, and I talked about the case because it haunts me.”

“So you didn’t meet me there and talk about the St. Jean case to drop hints about Jimmy Regan and Neil Furlong?”

“Neil who?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head, stood up. “You want more soda? I’m getting some.”

“No, thanks.”

As Al Roussis walked over to the soda machine, I thought I was losing my mind. He had to have meant for me to look into the St. Jean case. He had to.

“So what’s this crap about Chief Regan?” he asked, settling back down in his seat. “What’s Jimmy Regan and this Neil what’s his name got to do with Alison St. Jean?”

“Furlong. Neil Furlong.”

“Sorry, Gus, never heard of him.”

“It was Jimmy Regan and this Furlong guy who broke the St. Jean case when they were in uniform. That helped them get the bump to detective. You’re telling me you didn’t know any of this?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Then why would the Alison St. Jean case haunt you?”

“Because of my little cousin Apollonia.” He laughed. “I guess she’s not so little anymore.”

“What about her?”

“My Uncle Christos used to live around the corner from the St. Jeans. Apollonia went trick-or-treating with Alison that night, but went
home early because she got a little sick from eating too much candy. That’s why it haunts me. It could have been her that wound up strangled in the park with her tights wrapped around her throat and things shoved into her. She was my favorite cousin. She married some Jewish guy and moved to California. They have two kids and a big house in the valley. Wherever that is. I didn’t even know about Jimmy Regan and this Furlong guy.”

Now I was laughing. In spite of the hardest lesson I’d ever had to learn, I sometimes fell into my old ways of thinking. I should have known the universe didn’t work according to the way we assumed it did. That it operated without regard to human plans and visions. It operated without regard to consequence. It just did what it did, coldly, without reason except whatever reason was built into neutrinos. If the universe had a sense of humor, it would have been laughing at me as I was laughing at my own ridiculousness.

“What are you laughing at?” Roussis wanted to know.

“Forget it.”

“Thanks for lunch, but is this mysterious message you got that I never meant to deliver why you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, and something else that might help you not have to go all the way back to square one with Tommy Delcamino’s murder.”

That got his attention. “I’m listening.”

“I think I have some idea of who those guys were who took shots at me before I found Tommy Delcamino’s body. I don’t have last names for you, but I know how you can find them.”

He took out his notepad and a pen. “Go ahead.”

“One guy’s name is Jamal. African-American. Light-skinned. Twenty-five. Five eight. Maybe a hundred sixty pounds. Cold eyes. Rugged face. The other guy’s named Antwone. African-American. Dark-skinned. Twenty-five. Six seven, six eight. Three hundred pounds. Head as big as a house. Both of them are strapped.”

“And you know this how?”

“How I know it isn’t important,” I said. “I know it. The thing is
that they are connected to a former boxer, gang enforcer turned big-time drug dealer named Kareem Shivers. He lives over in Melville. You know Alvaro Peña?”

“Sure.”

“He can fill you in on this Shivers guy.”

“I’ll check with him,” Roussis said.

“This Shivers guy is a stone-cold piece of work, Al. Watch out for him.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some firsthand experience with the man.”

I half smiled, unconsciously rubbing my abdomen where K-Shivs had punched me. “Some.”

“You think this Shivers’ guys killed Tommy Delcamino?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, but I can’t promise you that for sure. As far as I know, neither one of them carries a .357. I’m not saying they wouldn’t’ve killed Tommy D. if he wasn’t already dead. They strike me as men very capable and willing to do violence.”

“But you’re sure they were at the scene?”

“They were there. I think they’re the ones who tore the place up. I think you’ll find their prints were all over the place at Tommy D.’s trailer.”

“You tear a place up, you’re looking for something,” he said. “But what?”

“Ask them, Al.”

He shrugged. “Seems pretty simple to me. You say these two are connected to a big-time dealer. They were probably looking for—”

“Drugs!” I slapped the sides of my head with my palms. “I’m an idiot.”

“If you’re waiting for an argument from me, Gus, don’t hold your breath.”

“Listen, Al, do me a favor.”

“If I can.”

“If you pick up Shivers and his crew for questioning, let my name slip.”

He made a face. “You got a death wish or something? You just got done telling me these guys were bad news.”

“Not a death wish. Just a wish to set things right for a guy who didn’t have much go right in his life.”

“Delcamino? I talk for the dead, Gus, so he’s my responsibility. What’s your stake in this? Why do you care?”

I thought about it for a second, and the last two years came rushing back to me so that I was light-headed. But in particular, my last few sessions with Dr. Rosen came back to me.

“I guess I’m not doing it for Delcamino. Not if I want to be honest about it. I’m doing it because there has to be a reason why Tommy and his kid got murdered. I need to know that at least sometimes there is a reason why. I need to know why because sometimes, Al, there is no reason why. I need to do it because I need to know there are some answers sometimes.”

I looked around and saw the guys behind the counter were staring at me and that Al Roussis had his hand on my shoulder.

“All right, Gus, no need to let everyone in Suffolk hear you.”

“Was I being loud?” I asked, noticing that my hands were shaking and that I was breathing heavily.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

I waved sorry to the guys behind the counter. They nodded back, seeming to understand.

“I’ll drop your name when I pick up this Shivers guy for questioning, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.”

Still trying to calm myself down, I stayed seated a few minutes after Al had gone.

Outside, my hands were still shaking a little and I dropped my keys into the slush in the parking lot. When I got down on my knees to look for them, the air above my head whistled. I heard the squeal of brakes and the rapid
crunch, crunch, crunch
of one car hitting another hitting another hitting another. It was a few seconds before I heard the screaming woman.

There’s screaming and then there’s screaming. Street cops learn to differentiate between them pretty early on in their careers. This was the latter, that hysterical, high-pitched scream of raw terror and disbelief and panic. And it didn’t let up. So I scooped my keys out of the slush and ran as fast as I could, given my wounded leg. When I got out onto the street, there were three damaged cars lined up. The back two had battered front ends. The lead car had veered sharply left, its nose blunted against the center median. It was still running and the car was in drive, the engine straining against the median. It was outside the lead car, a pearl-white Cadillac, that the woman stood screaming. She was sixty if a day, heavy, her nose bloodied, her red eyes tearing and unfocused, cheeks swollen. She was well dressed. Her camel-colored overcoat was covered in blood. Only some of it was hers. And when I looked past her, through the smashed passenger’s side window, I understood.

Inside the Cadillac, slumped forward against the now-deflated air bag, was a dead man. Blood and brain tissue were splattered all over the air bag, the driver’s side window, the windshield, and the interior of the car. Not very much of his head was left intact. It looked as if his head had exploded. But heads don’t just explode of their own accord, not without a helping hand. A crowd had formed around the screaming woman, and drivers and passengers from the other cars were becoming aware of what had happened, but not why. Then a Porsche with MD tags pulled over and a dark-haired man popped out of the driver’s seat and came rushing toward the crowd. He could rush all he wanted, but unless he’d had experience putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, there wasn’t a thing he could do.

As he came toward the crowd, I walked a path to where the skid marks began on the pavement. I turned back to look at where my car was situated in the restaurant parking lot and got a sick feeling in my belly. The Cadillac would have been parallel to where my car was parked when I’d dropped my keys in the snow. I recalled the whistling air above my head and realized the bullet that had killed the driver of the Cadillac had been meant for me.