I hit the streets again. I had to. We all had lives to live. There was nothing I could do for Brian right now, but there was still a killer responsible for a student’s death on the streets. That’s why I found myself across the river in the Bronx. I sat on the low metal bleachers at a Little League ballpark by Yankee Stadium.
The temperature had dropped, and I pulled my Windbreaker tight around me. I knew the butt of my Glock was obvious. Just like I was. Everyone in the area knew a cop was sitting in the ballpark. A ballpark in the Bronx. That’s probably why he wanted to meet me all the way up here. He wouldn’t see anyone he knew.
I waited, wondering if the call had been a prank. He said he had some good information, and something in his voice made me believe him.
Jimmy Hilcox looked completely different in sweatpants and a letterman’s jacket pulled over his lacrosse jersey. I guess on days he played sports the grunge look didn’t work out that well. Seeing him reminded me of Brian when he would come home from after-school sports. Everything reminded me of Brian lately.
The young man sat down next to me without a word. I had kids. I knew how to just sit quietly for a few minutes.
Finally Jimmy said, “No one can ever know I talked to you about this.”
I raised my right hand and mumbled, “Swear to God.”
He said, “I’ve heard a couple of people talk about Gary’s murder. He was selling cocaine on the side and made some really good money. Most of us had no idea. Somehow he got on the wrong side of his supplier. He lost some money or drugs, I don’t know which. That’s why he was killed.”
I considered this. “That’s really not anything I couldn’t have figured out myself. Do you have any information about the killer?”
Jimmy nodded. “He’s a student. He goes to one of those charter schools. It’s a school for the medical arts. I think it’s called the Roosevelt Medical Institute or some shit like that.”
“You know anything about the kid?”
“He’s a sophomore. He goes by DiDi, but I heard his real name might be Diego. I don’t know his last name. I know he lives somewhere in Harlem around 127th. I heard he’s a pretty good student and sometimes does his business out of the library at City College or Columbia. No one would bother a Latin kid at either place.”
I could see it was tough for this kid to come to me. He was scared. But he still had the nerve to do the right thing. That meant something to me. Instinctively, I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “You got lacrosse practice this afternoon?”
“A game. Against one of the private schools from the East Side.”
“You ever play against Holy Name?”
“Yeah. How do you know Holy Name?”
“My kids go there.”
“How many kids you got in school?”
“Ten.” Then I caught myself. “Nine.” I could see he was still nervous. His head twisted in every direction, making sure no one had seen him.
I said, “You did good. Real good. No one will ever know what we talked about.”
“And no one will ever play lacrosse with Gary Mule again.”
“But maybe I can even that score.”
Chapter 20
Trying to get information from a charter school was like pulling teeth with a wrench. There was no subtlety in it, and there was no way to ask questions quietly. Everyone was so freaked out about privacy and student rights that they lost sight of the fact that a student in another school was dead.
Finally I was referred to a guidance counselor. She was a big woman who had been at her job as long as I’d been alive. And she was the only one who showed any real common sense.
She had a thick Brooklyn accent, and she said, “I know a lot of the students here. So without going into official records, I can tell you that you’re probably talking about Diego Martinez. A very good student. But there’ve also been some questions about him. A man who’s not his father occasionally drops him off in a Mercedes. He has virtually no friends here at the school. And he does live in one of the projects just north of 127th. Does that sound like the kid you’re looking for?” She slipped a piece of paper across the desk with the address written on it.
It was good to feel the charge of an investigation shoot through me. I was beginning to feel like myself. At least for the moment. I thanked the counselor and hurried out of the school.
The apartment wasn’t hard to find. It was on the second floor of a Housing Authority complex. There were six buildings, each five stories high, with a ratty playground in the center. A rusty five-foot chain-link fence surrounded the weathered and cracked playground equipment. No one was in the center courtyard.
As I climbed the stairs, I could see that the wall was littered with hundreds of pieces of brightly colored used pieces of chewing gum. It was like a colorful tiny rock formation.
I wasn’t wearing a tie, and my jacket had no markings on it. I considered the implications of the police showing up at the apartment. If Diego wasn’t home, he would know to run. If there were a number of his associates inside, I might not be able to handle them by myself. I considered this problem as I continued up the concrete stairs.
I reached in my wallet and dug through some of the business cards I had acquired over the last few months during the course of my daily life. It’s always a good idea for cops to have contacts, but it also helps to have a few business cards you can hold up as your own. I found the one I was looking for.
I took a moment outside the door and just listened. Someone was home. A lot of people were home. I could hear a TV, but I also heard voices. Mostly adult females but some kids as well. I was glad I had the business card.
I knocked on the door and stepped back. A cop would’ve stepped to the side for tactical reasons, but this made me look like what I was pretending to be. I hoped no one shot through the door for no reason.
The door swung in and a woman around forty with black hair and beautiful eyes looked at me suspiciously. A young boy peeked from around her wide hips.
I gave them both a smile and said, “Hello, ma’am. My name is Tom Miko.” I held up the business card. “I’m with the New York City Department of Education. I was led to believe that you have at least one student in a charter school, and I wanted to make sure you were aware of the opportunities available for students to return to New York City public schools. There might even be scholarship money available for outside tutoring and studies.”
She looked at me and then at the card, which I was still holding up. She smiled and said, “Do you mean Diego or Sabrina?”
“This is open to any student attending a charter school.” I had to make this convincing. I wanted to meet this kid or at least get a look inside the apartment. There was no way this would spook him.
I slipped the card back into my wallet before she could see that the real Tom Miko was a maintenance supervisor for the school board. I had talked to him months ago, when one of his employees backed into my city-issued police car. I have no idea why I kept his card.
The woman waved me into the apartment. I couldn’t help but do a scan quickly to make sure there was no threat right in front of me. The apartment was crowded, but mostly with kids. There were two other women around the same age sitting on the couch, each with two infants in her lap.
Four kids around ten years old sat in front of the TV, and a teenage girl peeked out of the hallway to see who was visiting. I wondered if it was some kind of an unlicensed day-care center. More likely it was just women helping out others in the housing complex and watching their kids while they were at work.
A crucifix hung on the wall next to the kitchen on my right. The Lord’s Prayer in Spanish hung on a plaque in the hallway.
Although the place was crowded, it seemed organized, and the children were quite polite and well-behaved. The woman who’d let me in now turned and said, “My son, Diego, goes to the special school for medicine.”
Bingo. This was adding up quickly. I said, “Is Diego here? I’
d like to chat with him about coming back to our school system.”
She shook her head. “No, he no study here. Too much noise. He like to study at the library.”
“Which library?” I could feel myself getting impatient. I didn’t want to sound desperate.
“He studies at college libraries. Sometimes he goes to main New York City library.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back here?”
Again, she shook her head. “He study a lot. He very smart. Going to college. Diego going to be a doctor.”
I kept a smile on my face as I thought, Yeah, sure. He’s already doing autopsies on live patients.
Chapter 21
Mary Catherine prowled the halls of Holy Name. She was in the newer section of the school, which housed the high school students. It was in the rear of the building behind the much larger elementary and middle school buildings. It may have been newer, but it was built in the timeless, dull beige style that hadn’t changed in a century and was common in most countries.
So far, on her mission, she’d only seen a couple of kids she knew. She had cookies that she claimed were for Shawna’s class, but she used them as icebreakers with the older kids. Just to ask a few quick questions. She didn’t want to be too obvious.
Everyone knew Mary Catherine at the school. It wasn’t unusual for her to be on campus. She often volunteered and helped with some of the younger kids’ classes. If you had ten students in a single school, there was always something to do, and the teachers were always happy to see you.
Today she’d visited Seamus at his administrative office in the church itself. She was just checking on him because he had been so distraught after Brian’s trial. She brought him some of the cinnamon rolls that he loved. When she was done, she left his office and entered the school grounds. No one noticed her slip onto campus. Easy as rain, as her mam used to say. The Irish have a saying for everything.
Mary Catherine sometimes worried that her Michael didn’t relate to teenagers as well as he thought he did. He was a great father, of that there was no doubt. But he was a father, after all. He looked at everything a certain way. Usually in terms of how it affected his children. All he cared about was safe, happy kids. Sometimes his values, like honor, duty, and ethics, seemed like they came from another era. Occasionally it felt like he had no idea what went on in the world of the modern teenager.
But she felt like she did. When she was growing up in Ireland, all she and her friends did was listen to American music, watch American movies, and act like what they thought Americans acted like. Once she got to the United States, she realized that teenagers here acted like teenagers everywhere. And it was difficult for their parents to understand them.
Even now, she watched MTV shows and other pop-culture entertainment at home. Although the channel was off-limits for the kids, she’d watch it during the day, when the apartment was empty.
She also listened. When Jane or Juliana was on the phone or just talking, Mary Catherine took note. They were both good girls, but apparently not all their friends were.
She was also younger than Michael and felt like she wasn’t far removed from the passions of youth—including music, the desire to fit in, and the stupid mistakes kids make without thinking.
She chatted with the few students she saw in the hall, and if they asked about Brian she used it as an opening to ask the questions she wanted answered. Questions she intended to have answered. Did they ever think Brian was selling drugs? Did they see him meet with anyone? Are any other kids doing the same thing? It could be awkward, but she had to act. She felt like she might be the only one who could help Brian.
Although the students knew Michael because he helped with their soccer and basketball teams, everyone knew he was a respected detective with the NYPD. He may have taken it in stride, but his job tended to intimidate everyone else. Especially teenagers.
Their view of police work had been shaped by TV shows and movies that made detectives seem tough and unpredictable. Brian’s troubles had broken through Michael’s tough shell. He just wanted his son back safe and sound. And Mary Catherine intended to help.
The three kids she spoke to all happened to mention the same person. A friend of Brian’s. A basketball player. An athlete. And a dope dealer. She knew the boy and wasn’t surprised by hearing his name.
His father was a well-known Manhattan dentist, and his mother served on every possible charity board. It seemed that they were always mentioned in the newspaper or on NY1. When Mary Catherine thought about it, she couldn’t remember ever seeing them at a school activity or involved with their son.
Now she started looking in earnest for Patrick Marshall.
Chapter 22
Mary Catherine tried to figure out the best place to talk to Patrick Marshall without raising any suspicions. She caught a lucky break while visiting the administration office. She saw that the high school juniors had a study hall scheduled for the next forty minutes.
She checked the library and saw that most of the students were inside, working quietly. But no Patrick Marshall. Then she thought about it. One thing a drug dealer needed to do was use his phone. And one thing that was strictly forbidden on campus was the use of cell phones. She mumbled to herself, “That little shit is on his phone somewhere.”
She recalled Seamus telling her that he was always shooing kids on cell phones out of the courtyard at the rear of the school, which connected to the church. It was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful area where the priests could meditate. Somehow she had a difficult time imagining Seamus meditating.
She walked to the grassy square. There she saw two saplings and a concrete bench between the two buildings as well as a ten-foot-high wrought-iron fence protecting it from the street. And there, leaning on the fence, was a tall, athletic, good-looking young man. She couldn’t explain it, but he made her angry. His family was wealthy. God had given him everything, and he still was doing something like this.
Like Brian. She whispered out loud, “Oh, my God.” She caught herself. Brian had it all, too. Maybe not as much money, but he had a supportive family. What caused this? Why were kids getting involved with this terrible scourge?
Patrick turned and saw her. He mumbled something into the phone, then jammed it into his pocket.
She said, “Hello, Patrick.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Hi. How are you, Mrs. Ben…”
She didn’t worry about correcting him. It happened all the time.
Patrick said, “How’s Brian doing?”
“Not so well. We’re waiting for his sentencing.”
He eased over to the concrete bench and plopped down. He just looked down at the ground and started to cry.
Mary Catherine sat on the bench next to him.
Finally Patrick got hold of himself and cleared his throat. He said, “I’m sorry. Brian didn’t deserve what happened.”
She put her arm around his shoulder and said in a soft voice, “It’s all right, Patrick. I know it’s not just Brian that’s got you down.”
He didn’t say anything.
She said, “What’s really wrong? You can tell me. It will be our little secret.”
Again, she just sat there during a long silence.
He sniffled. “Brian got caught up in something like a game at first. He didn’t mean for it to get out of control.”
“For what to get out of control?”
Patrick hesitated.
“It’s all right, dear.” She remembered what it was like for teenagers to talk to adults. It was better to just wait.
Finally Patrick said, “Brian wanted to look cool. He didn’t want to always be just a cop’s kid. He thought he could prove how tough he was. Then it just kept going.” Patrick took a moment.
Mary Catherine hoped he wouldn’t start crying again.
He said, “This guy who gives him meth to sell scares the shit out of him. He’s crazy.”
Mary Catherine said, “Who’s the guy?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Then why are you out here making calls?”
“I’m calling my girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?”
He hesitated.
Mary Catherine said, “You don’t know your girlfriend’s name?” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Then, in a very soft voice, she said, “Everyone knows, Patrick. How do you think I found you so easily? You’re going to end up like Brian. Just like him.”
He said, “Are you going to tell Detective Bennett on me?”
“I told you this was our little secret. This courtyard is almost like a confessional.”
He perked up. “Really?”
“Really.” Then she added, “But you’ve got to stop doing this. You don’t need to be something you’re not. It would kill your parents.”
“Maybe of embarrassment. They don’t care what I do otherwise.”
“You may think that, but it’s not true.”
He looked down at the ground again and said, “Besides, he’d never let me just quit. Brian couldn’t walk away. He’s shown us what would happen. People who cross him are tortured or killed. Just like the kid from P.S. 419. We’ve all heard about how his head was cut off. Even if it wasn’t on the news.”
Mary Catherine searched for an answer. “What if there was another way?”
“How?”
“Tell me his name. No one will know. I can get it to Mr. Bennett. He can work miracles.” She knew Michael’s reputation would play into Patrick’s decision.
And she was right.
Chapter 23
I was trying not to hit the gas too hard in my city-issued Impala. I was heading up to 116th Street, and the traffic along Broadway was just light enough to make me cocky. I was driving like a tourist—a little too fast and thinking about my destination instead of what was in front of me. To make matters worse, a light freezing rain had fallen across the city, making the roads slick.
I had gotten a tip from a former NYPD sergeant who now worked as a security guard on the Columbia campus. That was one of the perks of being on the force for a while: you knew a hundred former cops who had retired and were working private security jobs all over the city. Anyone who hadn’t moved to Florida was the head of security at some foundation or corporation. We were like an infestation of fleas. We just kept spreading out farther and farther.