The Hook Read online

  ‘And I know the answer to this already, but I need to ask. Are you aware of any other copies of this evidence, Mr Donne?’

  ‘No. I am not.’

  ‘Good.’ Royce looked around my apartment. ‘The place looks better than the last time I was here.’

  ‘The last time you were here,’ I said for Allison’s benefit, ‘the place had just been broken into.’

  ‘There is that. But there’s also what my wife would call a … woman’s touch to the place now. It suits you, Mr Donne. It’s the kind of look that says the guy who lives here knows how and when to mind his own business.’

  ‘Royce,’ I said, ‘do I need to remind you that I did not go looking for this recording?’

  ‘You don’t need to, no,’ he said. ‘It is good to hear it, though.’

  He headed toward the door. I said, ‘Any developments on the case?’

  He held up the phone case recorder. ‘One,’ he said. ‘But I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this point. With friends, family, or the press.’ He kept walking. ‘I’ll see myself out, Mr Donne. You two have a great day now.’

  After the door closed, I said to Allison, ‘That was relatively painless.’

  ‘Maybe he prayed on it while at church.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘Let me get dressed and we’ll hit the flea market. Then maybe Teddy’s for an early dinner after?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  TEN

  Allison and I got back to the apartment just in time to see the last of the orange sky sinking behind the skyline. The day, the weekend, was almost over and when I reflected on the past dozen hours – Sunday brunch, hanging out on the deck in seventy-degree weather, giving evidence in a murder case to the detective-in-charge, going to the flea market by the East River, dinner and beers at a favorite Williamsburg hangout with the woman I loved – I found myself feeling lucky. It’s a weird feeling for me, as I don’t believe in luck. I believe in things happening because we make choices.

  Allison went into the bedroom to change. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and went back out on the balcony to catch that early evening breeze. My cell phone rang. Rachel.

  ‘Little sister,’ I said.

  ‘Ray,’ she said. ‘Murcer and I just got back from upstate and heard the news. Are you OK?’ Murcer was my brother-in-law. We also used to be cops together. That’s how he met my sister. He was now a detective.

  ‘Not exactly OK, Rache, but I’m fine. MoJo was a good guy. I spent some time with his wife yesterday. She’s the one you should be concerned about.’

  ‘I know. Do the cops know what happened?’

  ‘Just what you’ve read in the papers. Did you see Allie’s story online?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. We didn’t have Internet upstate – more like we were avoiding it – but as soon as we got home, I checked my email and went online.’

  My sister Rachel and her husband did this twice a year: they’d take a four-day weekend away from the city and away from phones and computers. With her job as head of marketing for a greeting card company and his as a detective in Manhattan, they deserved a few days off the grid a couple of times a year.

  ‘Murcer called some friends in Brooklyn North,’ Rachel said. ‘Did you know that MoJo was using again?’

  ‘They don’t know that for sure, Rachel. They found heroin on him. The results from the toxicology report aren’t back yet.’

  She was quiet for a few moments and then said, ‘Yeah, they are, Ray. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Murcer told me they did a rush job and MoJo tested positive.’

  Shit. ‘For heroin?’

  ‘Worse,’ she said. ‘Fentanyl.’

  Holy shit. Fentanyl was fifty to a hundred times stronger than heroin. What the hell was MoJo thinking?

  ‘That’s not possible, Rachel. When MoJo was using, it was heroin. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to go near fentanyl.’

  More silence. Then, ‘Listen to yourself, Ray. Just because you knew the guy doesn’t mean he’s above making bad moves. You know as well as I do the number of people in rehab who slip.’

  She was right. But fentanyl? No way. Not unless he didn’t know it was fentanyl. Not only was fentanyl stronger than heroin, it was also cheaper. A lot of dealers were not above mixing heroin with the cheaper stuff and selling it for what the buyer thought was pure H. If that were the case here, MoJo would not have known what he was doing. He never stood a chance.

  Goddamn it!

  ‘Does his wife know yet?’

  ‘Murcer doesn’t think so. His guy at the nine-oh said they were going to speak with her again tomorrow. That guy you know. Ross?’

  ‘Royce,’ I said. ‘We’ve been talking a lot lately.’ I brought her up to date with all I knew. I left out the part about the recording with Duke Lansing. ‘This is going to wreck that woman, Rachel. She’s seven months pregnant and her mother and sister just drove up from South Carolina. The wake is tomorrow night.’

  ‘Sounds like a potential shit storm, Ray.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I tried to think of something else to say but came up empty.

  Rachel picked up on that. ‘I gotta go unpack, Ray. I’m exhausted. You must be, too. Call me when you need to.’

  ‘Thanks, Rache.’

  We said goodbye and hung up. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded myself how much I loved living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City.

  ‘Sounded like that was your sister.’

  Allison came out of the bedroom wearing her University of Missouri football jersey and a pair of shorts. She had told me a while ago that my voice took on a certain tone whenever I was talking on the phone with Rachel.

  ‘Yeah.’ I then told her why she had called. Allison was as shocked as I was.

  ‘They’re sure about that? Fentanyl?’

  ‘That’s what Murcer’s guy told him. I just can’t wrap my mind around it.’

  She closed the distance between us and took me into a hug. ‘Wrap your arms around me, Ray.’

  Since that was the nicest offer I had received in a long time, I did. A few minutes later, I got another pretty good offer, which I also accepted. Not too long after that, Allison and I fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Somewhere over the next few hours, Sunday evening turned into Monday morning and a new week had arrived.

  ELEVEN

  My Monday morning duties discharged, I decided to risk it and stick my head in Principal Ron Thomas’s office. At first I thought he had the radio on, but it turned out to be his TV: a replay of some golf tournament. He was on the phone, but saw me in his doorway, waved me in, and said a cheerful goodbye to the person he was talking to. Say what you want about my boss, he has very nice phone manners.

  ‘That,’ he said, gesturing with his chin to the phone, ‘was the head of the biology department at CUNY. They heard what happened here on Thursday and about our hydroponics project.’ I noticed how he referred to MoJo’s murder as ‘what happened here’ and accented the word our. ‘They’re offering to send some grad students over to take over MoJo’s – Maurice’s – hydroponic farm and his pigeon coop. There might even be some grant money in it for us.’

  ‘That’s a good piece of news,’ I said. The City University of New York was known for its commitment to science and had some impressive faculty. If you don’t believe me, check out their ads on the subway.

  ‘Yes, it is, Raymond. And apparently we have your girlfriend to thank for it.’

  I gave him a quizzical look. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I was just informed that Allison’s website is a big hit with CUNY students who don’t seem to trust the print media as much as our generation.’ He rubbed his fingers together as if talking about money. ‘They don’t like getting ink on their fingers, I guess.’

  ‘She’ll be happy to hear that, Ron.’

  ‘And it seems the mainstream media have gone on to other matters. I had only one call to my cell this weekend. I’d love to find out how they got my
number.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘And there were only three messages on the machine when I came in this morning. It was the same old, same old – reporters looking for new developments. Let them call the fucking cops. I am done and ready to move on.’

  His comment would have been more impressive if it hadn’t been accompanied by the sound of The Golf Channel coming from his TV. ‘How nice for you,’ I said.

  He gave me a look. ‘You know, Raymond. I wonder sometimes if you realize how sarcastic you can come across.’

  ‘I’ll work on that, Ron.’

  ‘You should. You’re close with Elaine Stiles. She’s a good counselor. Maybe she can help you with that.’ His voice got a little more serious. ‘You know, if you ever want to become an assistant principal, you are going to have to learn to talk to people more diplomatically.’

  Apparently a skill you need to become an assistant principal but can ditch once you became principal.

  ‘Duly noted, Ron.’ My walkie-talkie went off – School Safety telling me I was needed upstairs in Room 321. I looked at Ron. ‘Gotta go be a dean now, Ron. Let me know how that CUNY thing works out.’ I headed off to Room 321.

  An hour later, I had finished up a meeting with the father of a student who was just returning from a five-day suspension for sexually harassing a seventh-grade girl, both in-person and through text messages. Dad seemed annoyed with me, as the meeting was going to make him two hours late to work at the auto body shop.

  I told him I fully understood his frustration, and yes, I could have scheduled the meeting for the first thing in the day, but the beginning of my day was always unpredictable and I wanted to make sure we had each other’s full attention to deal with this very serious matter.

  Dad said, ‘I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. Jaquan was just telling the girl how pretty she was and that he wanted to go out with her. I used to do the same thing.’

  ‘Did you,’ I asked, taking out my hard copy of Jaquan’s text messages, ‘tell the girls you liked that they were “hot bitches” and you’d like to – and I’m quoting your son now – “Hit that shit”?’

  Dad got quiet. Finally, he said, ‘We didn’t have cell phones back in my day.’

  And that was the kind of answer that led me to believe this would not be the last time Jaquan ended up in my office. I shook the man’s hand and told him I hoped he had a good day at work.

  The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. Two kids had to be removed from one of the social studies classes because they had the disrespect to fall asleep and started snoring while their teacher was playing the TV series Roots as part of his lesson on the causes of the Civil War. This was the same teacher who often played videos while teaching. Once he came to my office to see if I had replacement batteries for his remote control. He seemed annoyed I didn’t provide the same services as Best Buy.

  I stopped a fight before it started in the lunchroom when I noticed a young lady – with the help of her friends – removing her earrings, and a second young lady – also with the help of her friends – pulling her long hair back into a tight bun; they were planning on fighting over a boy they both liked. It turned out the boy was clueless about either girl’s affection, but after a brief talk with me, seemed flattered by the attention.

  I took a few phone calls from the district office. One was regarding an eighth-grader who was about to be transferred to our school after a weapons possession suspension at a school a few blocks away. I suggested they call my principal and was informed that Ron had transferred them to me. Another call informed me of an eight-week conflict-resolution workshop, starting the following week, that they’d like me to recruit five of my teachers to attend after school for per-session pay, about fifty bucks an hour. With summer less than three months away, I didn’t think I’d have a problem finding half a dozen teachers who needed a little more cash.

  I decided to spend most of the rest of the afternoon out of my office and ‘on patrol.’ I was still a bit edgy over the whole MoJo thing, and with the latest revelation about what they had found in his system, I felt the need to be mobile. It is, as they say, hard to hit a moving target.

  As I was walking down the steps of the building after the kids had been dismissed, I recognized a familiar face standing by the gate. Familiar, and yet completely out of context. I’m not sure I’d ever seen him out of the pizza shop he owned, which served as a front for some of his more lucrative enterprises. He was dressed in a dark sweatshirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers that looked brand new.

  ‘Tio,’ I said. ‘You getting your hands dirty these days, delivering pizzas?’

  He gave me that smile I haven’t been able to figure out as long as I’ve known him; it was somewhere between finding me amusing and finding me thinking I was amusing. But, hell, he was coming to see me. Usually it was the other way around.

  ‘That’s good, Teacherman,’ he said. He reached out, gave me a three-part handshake and a quick bro hug. He looked around at the nearly empty front of the school. ‘I take it you got a minute or two?’

  ‘For you? I can make it five.’

  ‘You remember Gator?’ Right to the point – that’s Tio.

  ‘Gator?’ My baseball mind immediately flashed back to Ron Guidry, the Yankees pitcher from the seventies. Being a flamethrower from Louisiana, he quickly earned the nickname ‘Gator’ from the New York sportswriters. I had no idea who Tio was talking about. I shook my head.

  ‘Gabriel,’ Tio said. ‘Ocasio. Lives across the street.’ Tio turned and pointed to the housing unit across the avenue. ‘Fifth floor, corner apartment on the northwest side.’

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific?’ I said, remembering Gabriel now. They called him Gator because of his massive over-bite and a propensity for big grins.

  And again, I got that smile from Tio. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Really. I haven’t seen him in years. I wasn’t even sure he was still living across the street. I heard he’d moved.’

  ‘He did. Then he … moved back a month ago. Which means,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘he was living here on Thursday.’

  He looked at me like I should understand what he was talking about. I didn’t and told him so.

  ‘Thursday,’ he repeated. ‘The day your co-worker was shot by the arrow.’

  ‘OK. What does that have to do with—?’

  ‘Gator has some four-one-one, might be helpful to the detective checking into the murder. Your amigo Royce.’

  ‘First,’ I said, ‘Royce is not my amigo. Second, if Gator has something to tell the cops, why doesn’t he go to … oh.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tio said. ‘Oh.’ He took out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. It would remain unlit. Even with all the dangerous shit he got himself involved with, Tio was too smart to add smoking to that list. ‘Gator didn’t exactly move away, Teacherman. He was a guest of the state for eighteen months.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘For what?’

  ‘Possession with intent. He pleaded and got back from up top a month ago.’

  ‘So he’s back home living with his mom?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Meaning …’

  ‘He got picked up again two days ago.’

  That would’ve been Saturday. ‘For?’

  ‘Possession with intent.’

  ‘Ah, Jesus, Tio.’ I squeezed the space between my eyes. ‘Gabe was never the sharpest pencil in the box, but that’s asshat behavior even for him.’ I looked across the street. ‘What does he wanna talk to me about? I taught him math when he was in eighth grade. We weren’t particularly close.’

  ‘He says he’s got somethin’ to trade and he wants you to be the middleman between him and the cops.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Says he trusts you. And before you ask, yeah, it also helps that your uncle is Chief of Dees. He figures he helps the cops out and they may be more likely to help him out, especially if your name is attached to a piece of paper.’

  �
��Did he say what he has to trade?’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.’ He rubbed his thumb, forefinger and middle finger together. ‘Information is coin ’round here, Teach, you know that. For all Gator knows if he tells me I may steal that info and use it for my own good.’

  I looked him in the eyes. ‘But you wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. Never know when you might need a Get-outta-jail-free card.’ Then he added, ‘But you feel me, I wouldn’t do that. Probably.’

  So Gabriel ‘Gator’ Ocasio wanted to talk to me about some info he had regarding MoJo’s murder. This was not exactly what Royce had in mind when he told me to stay away from the case.

  ‘Where’s Gator now?’

  ‘Revisiting the Island.’

  ‘Riker’s,’ I said. ‘Has he been to a judge yet?’

  ‘Next week, that’s why he wants to see you right away.’

  ‘Define “right away,” Tio.’

  He turned around again and pointed to a car across the street. Behind the wheel was a young woman who appeared to be texting.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Jessica,’ he said. ‘She runs a literature workshop at Riker’s. And other things. You should hear her go on about the thirty years of research on how reading and writing increase empathy and that kinda shit.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ I looked at my watch; it was pushing four. ‘She’s on her way to Riker’s now?’

  ‘See why I come to you, Teacherman? You ain’t as slow as some people say.’

  I took a few breaths. The fact I was even considering this was not the brightest thing I could have been doing. Besides, I had to attend the memorial service for MoJo tonight. ‘How’s she gonna get me on the Island?’

  Tio smiled. This time for real. ‘She’ll explain that on the way, Teach.’

  TWELVE

  It turned out that Jess was twenty-three, had the right side of her head shaved, leaving the rest of her blond hair flowing down her back. With her funky haircut and striking blue eyes, she could have passed for a Swedish rock star. Instead, she was getting her master’s in social work from Columbia and doing her thesis on the impact of writing on incarcerated youth. To that end, she took a weekly trip to Riker’s Island and worked with eighteen- to twenty-one-year-olds while they waited for a court date, sentencing, or the trip ‘up top,’ to one of New York State’s prisons – literally Up the River.