Dead Red (9781466862999) Read online

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  For my daughter, Eloise Bushmann O’Mara.

  Right up to the moon—and back.

  Acknowledgments

  I WISH TO THANK THE COMPUTER School family once again, for making it a joy to go to my day job, and the folks at The Center School, for making my daughter feel the same way. (Okay. It’s a tie.)

  I’m forever grateful to Mike Kunin and all the amazing people at Ramapo For Children. Please check out their Web site, www.ramapoforchildren.org, to see how you can help to continue the magic they perform year in and year out at summer camp for so many kids.

  This book owes much to the few hours I spent with Detective Don Carney of the Special Investigative Squad of Nassau County Police Department, also a Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps Reserves. That’s right—a real-life American hero.

  Thanks to the real Dr. Amy Burke for her generous donation to the Computer School and for being such an interesting character. I am grateful to Events Manager Anne Harson at New York City’s Upper West Side Barnes & Noble for treating me like one of the big shots. I proudly selected as my 2013 Teacher Hero Contest winner Linda Marsh-Eells, whose entries thanking her heroic teachers Mrs. Burke and Mr. Corbin were from the heart. Thank you, Harry Tilton, PI.

  The public libraries and their dedicated librarians across the country constantly amaze and humble me. Not to play favorites, but I wish to single out Mary Barrett of the Newport (Rhode Island) Public Library; Missouri public librarians Madeline Matson of the Missouri River Regional Library in my second home of Jefferson City, Patricia Miller of the Columbia Public Library in Columbia, Sherry McBride-Brown of the Calloway County Public Library in Fulton, and Karen Neely of Southern Boone County Public Library in Ashland; the staffs of the Merrick, Bellmore, Uniondale, Long Beach, and Roslyn Public Libraries on Long Island, New York; Maria Redburn of the Bedford Public Library in Texas; my neighborhood librarian, Sandra Chambers, of the New York Public Library Columbus Branch; and Mary Ellen Fosso and Jude Schanzer of my hometown East Meadow Public Library. Hooray for socialized reading!

  Get a group of writers together and pretty soon the conversation will turn to how much we all are in debt to the great independent booksellers. Among those I wish to heap praise upon are Robin and James Agnew of Aunt Agatha’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan; Scott Montgomery of MysteryPeople in Austin, Texas; Adrean Darce Brent of Mysterious Galaxy in Southern California; Mystery Mike (and Little Mike—Bang! You’re dead.) of Carmel, Indian; Loren Aliperti of Book Revue in Huntington, New York; McKenna Jordan and John Kwiatkowski of Murder By The Book in Houston, Texas; Jonah and Ellen Zimilies of [words] in Maplewood, New Jersey; The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City; Lexi Beach and Connie Rourke at Astoria Bookshop in Queens, New York; and Vivien Jennings of Rainy Day Books in Fairway, Kansas; Cheri LeBlond and Acia Morley of Mysteryscape in Overland Park, Kansas; Alice Hutchinson of Byrd’s Books in Bethel, Connecticut; Randy Schiller at Left Bank Books in St. Louis, Missouri; and Jenn Worthington of Word in glorious Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Support your local indie!

  Joan Hansen of www.menofmystery.org has been responsible for putting so many of us writer guys in front of so many women readers. We all owe you so much.

  My mid-Missouri peeps continue to make me feel like a Show-Me State native and have helped sell a lot of this New Yorker’s books. Special thanks to CC McClure of Downtown Book and Toy in Jefferson City; Brian and Danielle Warren of Well Read Books in Fulton; Brooklyn Pizza, also in Fulton; Warren Krech and John Marsh of KWOS Radio; Paul Pepper of KBIA Radio; Jack and Tom Renner; the late, great Wyn Riley; Cameron’s Café in Holts Summit; and the entire Bushmann clan.

  Thanks again to my agents, Maura Teitelbaum and Erin Niumata, for having my back and “representing.” St. Martin’s/Minotaur Books continues to make me feel like a pro. Thanks to Hector DeJean for still putting up with my questions. A big shout-out to Matt Martz, my patient and wise editor, who makes me a better writer with each book. You will be missed, my friend.

  You know that lonely, secluded writer image? It doesn’t work for me. I continue to depend on my first reader and fine friend Mike Herron. I’ve enjoyed many good times with Sharon and David Bowers, Maria Diaz and the staff at El Azteca Mexican Restaurant, Wayne Kral, Harold James, Drew Orangeo, Charles Salzberg, Tommy Pryor, Lynn Marie Hulsman, Jim and Josephine Levine, the Stokes Family, Linda Hanrahan, Ramon De La Cruz, Cari O’Leary and Family, “Aunt” Lisa Herbold, and “Uncle” Rob Roznowski. A special tip of the hat to Kevin Sieger—thanks for the tour of Long Island’s South Shore and years of friendship.

  I’d like to salute all the owners and bartenders at my favorite gin joints, especially Teddy’s, Cornelia Street Café, Alfie’s, d.b.a., and 2A. A big thanks to Margery Flax of the Mystery Writers of America for all you do for us writers. Lending their support yet again were Ann Marie Offer of Something to Offer, John Kearns and The Irish Writers & Artists Salon, and Andrew Meyer of WBGO in Newark, New Jersey.

  Thanks to Maggie and Elise Williams for all their encouragement. Cheers to my father-in-law, Les Bushmann, who’s always there with a wise and insightful comment when (and even when not) needed. Like me, Les married way out of his league. My books and I owe much to my mother-in-law, Cynthia Bushmann, who brings her considerable editing talents and keen proofreading eye to each of Raymond’s stories.

  Thanks to my brother Jack and his family. I appreciate my sister Ann inviting me to Skype for the first time with her book club in Torrance, California. (Sorry about the pizza joke, but I still live in New York.) My little sister Erin keeps making her big brother look good with her wonderful marketing and design skills.

  Every one of my novels benefits from the experience of my brother, Sgt. Michael O’Mara of the Nassau County Police Department. Not only did he share his cop expertise with me once again, but this time around he also introduced me to Lowtide. I’m glad he did.

  Kudos to my mom, Patricia O’Mara, for talking up my book to everyone she meets and learning to raise her hand when she wants to ask a question during my readings.

  Eloise, read the front of the book, kiddo. This one’s for you. (Yes, Daddy’s tearing up.)

  My wife, Kate, makes my life—and my books—so much better. Don’t edit this next line, sweetie. I love you. Thanks.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Also by Tim O’Mara

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chap
ter 1

  I NEVER HEARD THE SHOT THAT killed Ricky Torres.

  We were talking in the front seat of his cab, when the driver’s-side window exploded and Ricky fell face-first into the steering wheel. I leaned over and the rest of the windows blew apart, sounding like someone had thrown a pack of firecrackers into the taxi.

  That’s when everything went white.

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ, Doc. How mucha that blood is his?”

  I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. My head was throbbing. I felt cold and wet all over. I was lying down, not in my bed. Something harder. Somebody was touching my head. Someone else was blowing a dog whistle. How could I be hearing a dog whistle?

  “None,” somebody said. “He’s very lucky.”

  Lucky?

  “His eyes are moving,” the first voice said under the high-pitched whine. “That’s a good sign, right?”

  “We’ll know more when he gets back from X-ray,” the second voice said. “Right now, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s suffered a concussion, at the least. There’s also the possibility of a cranial fracture.”

  Silence for a few seconds. “You mean he broke his head?”

  “Not exactly, Chief.” There was a pause. “Aide?” he called.

  Chief? The only chief I knew was my Uncle Ray. Why wasn’t he telling the guy with the whistle to shut up? I could barely make out what these two were saying—

  I felt myself being moved. I got my eyes open enough to see the ceiling spinning. Whatever I was lying on had wheels. What the—?

  Shit. Where the hell was Ricky?

  * * *

  “Ah, there he is!” someone said. “Welcome back to the world, Nephew.”

  My eyes were open again. They weren’t doing such a good job focusing, but they were open. My ears were working just fine; the damn whistle was still blowing so I could just about hear my uncle’s voice.

  “Can somebody shut that guy the fuck up?” My own voice coming out like a two-pack-a-day smoker.

  Uncle Ray grabbed my hand. “You talking about me, Ray?”

  “No,” I wheezed. “The asshole blowing the damn whistle.”

  “Mr. Donne,” another person said from the other side of the bed. I turned and immediately wished I hadn’t. Pain shot down my back into my left foot.

  “Ahh!”

  “Mr. Donne. I’m Dr. Watson. It’s best if you keep your movements to a minimum for the time being.” He took my other hand and held the wrist, checking my pulse. “I take it you’re hearing a high-pitched whistle?”

  “You mean you’re not?”

  “What you’re experiencing,” the doctor said as he put my wrist down, “is tinnitus. From the shooting. It’s perfectly normal and should pass in the next twenty-four hours.”

  The shooting.

  “Where’s Ricky?”

  “Ricky?” the doctor repeated.

  “Officer Torres,” my uncle explained. “We’ll talk about Ricky later, Ray. Right now you need to rest.”

  “He’s dead,” I said. My vision was returning and I could make out the general features of my uncle’s face. What time was it? “I remember that. He’s dead. I tried to—I don’t know, I tried to—”

  “It appears you tried to help him, Mr. Donne. And that is what saved you.”

  I sat up a little—another not-so-good idea—and felt the blood sprint to my head. “I know this is probably stating the obvious, Doctor,” I whispered, “but I have very little idea what you’re talking about.”

  “From what we can piece together,” the doctor said, “it seems as if you attempted to help Mr. Torres after he’d been shot.”

  “I leaned over,” I remembered. “Everything went white and then I…”

  “Lost consciousness,” he finished for me. “Some of the bullets hit the front of the cab, causing the air bags to inflate. Mr. Torres’s head was projected into yours at an impressive rate of speed, causing the concussion and loss of consciousness. On the positive side, the air bag from the steering wheel forced you under and that’s why—”

  “The bullets went over my head,” I said. “Jesus Christ. Ricky.”

  “He was pronounced dead at the scene, Ray,” my uncle said, his hand still on mine. “There was nothing you could have done. Medical Examiner said he was more or less dead on impact.”

  “You get the shooter?”

  Uncle Ray shook his head no. “We got lots of manpower out there, but so far no wits. Two o’clock in the AM, not a whole lotta people out. Which,” my uncle said in his stern voice, “brings me to a question I’ll ask you later. When you’re up to it and get some more rest.”

  “The shooter … he was moving. Fast.”

  My uncle leaned into me. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Ricky’s window. It was the first to break. Then…”

  “The bullets hit the front of the cab,” Uncle Ray repeated for me, “causing the air bags to go off. So, we got a shooter in motion. Probably with an automatic. You sure about the driver’s window?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, but I think so, yeah.” I reached up to touch my head and pulled out a piece of glass the ER must have missed. I handed it to the doctor. “I don’t know. Ricky called me. Woke me up.” The past few hours—how many?—were coming back to me. “Said he needed to talk. Right away. I’m sorry. Can I get some water, Doc? My throat’s killing me.” I cringed at my choice of words. “I’m really thirsty.”

  “I’ll find an attendant,” the doctor said and stepped out of the room.

  “What the hell was so damned important that Ricky hadda talk to you at two in the morning, Ray?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know or don’t remember?”

  I shook my head. The blinding pain and bright lights reminded me not to do that again. I reached up to feel for any more glass and felt a lump on my head.

  “Both, right now. He picked me up outside my place and we drove over to the Southside.”

  “What the hell was he doing in a cab?”

  “That’s what he’s been doing since he got back from Iraq.” More parts of my conversation with Ricky were coming back. “He said he wasn’t ready to go back to the cops, so he’s been driving his cousin’s cab to help out his mom with the rent and stuff.”

  “How much have you talked to him since he’s been home?”

  “Just a quick call when he got back. And then last night.”

  The doctor came back with a water pitcher and some cups. I guessed he couldn’t find an attendant. He filled a cup for me and offered one to my uncle.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Got anything stronger?”

  Dr. Watson laughed, thinking my uncle was joking. He wasn’t.

  “Too tempting to keep it around this place.” He gave me the cup. “So, Mr. Donne, as I had expected, you have a minor concussion.”

  “Minor?” I downed the small cup of water in one swallow. “Hurts like hell, Doc.”

  “Be glad it’s not major, then. Anyway, I’d like to keep you overnight…” He looked at his watch. “Through the afternoon at any rate, for observation.”

  I reached up and touched my lump. Impressive. My vision cleared up enough for me to read the clock on the wall; almost four thirty. “You’re saying all I got’s the concussion, right?”

  “That’s what the X-rays showed, yes.”

  “Then,” I sat up—much slower this time—“I’d rather just go home. No offense, but hospitals give me the creeps.” I flashed back seven years to the week I’d spent in the hospital after my accident. That time it was my knees, not my head.

  “I strongly advise against it, Mr. Donne. A concussion, however minor, can still be a serious matter. I’d like to monitor you for at least twelve hours.”

  “But I can sign myself out, right?”

  Watson let out a deep sigh. “Yes.” He was disappointed in me.

  “Then give me my clothes and show me the dotted line.” He gave me a l
ook. “What?” I asked.

  “Your clothes.” he said. “We had to throw them away.”

  I closed my eyes. “Because of the blood.” I wasn’t asking. I’d been in the ER enough times as a cop and knew about throwing away stained clothing.

  “Yes.”

  I looked down at the blue robe I was wearing and tugged at it.

  “Just get me a matching pair of pants, and my uncle will drive me home.”

  “I just want to go on record,” Dr. Watson said, “that I’m advising against it at this point.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “And I appreciate it, but I want to go home.”

  “Okay.” Dr. Watson left the room obviously frustrated and, I hoped, in search of a pair of hospital pants and the necessary paperwork.

  “I can drive you home, Raymond,” my uncle said. “But I don’t got the time to babysit.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta be at One PP this morning by seven thirty.”

  I leaned forward and eased my legs off the hospital bed so I could sit up. The room starting spinning, so I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I said, “I’ll call Edgar.” I gave that some thought. I could call Allison, but why worry her at this time of the day? “What day is today?”

  “It’s Saturday, Ray, and just the fact that you have to ask kinda proves the doc’s point, don’tcha think?”

  “I can lie around at home just as well as I can around here.”

  “You need to be monitored.”

  “It’s Saturday,” I said as if I’d known it all along. “Edgar’s off. He can watch me and then we’ll have dinner together. Shit. I’m really hungry. That’s another reason to get out of this place.”

  “You got his number?”

  “Yeah.” It took me a little while to retrieve it from my memory, but when it came, I gave it to him, proud of myself.

  “I’ll give him a call,” Uncle Ray said. “See if he can meet us at your place and stay the day.”

  “He’ll do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” a voice from the doorway said, and my sister, Rachel, stepped into the room. She had thrown a jacket over some gym clothes and looked as if she were expecting the worst. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be staying.” She gave our uncle a hug and then stepped over to where I was sitting. She gently wrapped her arm around my lower back. “Hey, big brother.”