Brooklyn Graves (10 page)

I couldn't say it to Joe. Not that he wouldn't listen. He always listens. I just wasn't ready to say it out loud. It was a silent drive, but after a while, he put out one hand and held mine until the next green light.

It did occur to me, though, that I would be telling the story of this encounter to Detective Henderson. He had asked if Dima had any enemies. Turns out, he did.

Chapter Eight

Music broke the silence. It was Joe's phone, ringing with an old rock song. Duran Duran? Anyway, something from before my time.

He glanced at it, pulled over, and stepped out to talk. I couldn't hear what he said, but I heard the tone. It was warm, a little teasing. Definitely not work.

He returned to the car. “Shall I take you home or somewhere else? I was planning to come home with you, but it seems I have a late date.” He looked self-conscious but not unhappy. Usually I would tease him, but I wasn't up to it tonight.

“You've met her. The woman at the stained-glass studio?”

Interesting. How come I didn't notice anything the night we met?

“Good for you. Ask her if she's learned anything? And home for me, please.”

I huddled back into my silence. I knew that later I would wish I had questioned him further.

So Dima had a few secrets, after all. I was pretty sure his family knew nothing about this house. Did he own it? Why was it a secret? And Dima did have at least one enemy. However, there is a long leap from a crazy old man shooting off his mouth and a murder. Wasn't there?
I supposed that depended on how crazy the old man actually was.

Joe could tell me to let the police do their job, but they were not moving too fast. Alex had no news. I pulled my phone from my bag and looked for messages. None. I dialed in to get my phone messages at home. Precisely zero. Damn. When was that detective going to call back?

A phone call to my father was always an easy way to let off some steam, as we usually ended up in an argument. But no, I just didn't have the energy for it tonight.

However, we weren't far from the exit that would take me to Leary's apartment. Leary was my friend, sort of. He was such a prickly personality, it was stretching a point to say he had any friends at all, but he was an excellent source of information, a retired reporter who once covered Brooklyn and knew where all the bodies were buried. I occasionally wondered if that was literal instead of metaphorical. When it came to secrets, I never doubted he had some. More than a few…

I could count on him being home. A collection of ailments, many lifestyle-related, including the loss of a leg to diabetes, left him with almost no mobility. I originally persuaded him to talk to me about old Brooklyn by bribing him with a couple of outings.

Tonight I had something almost as enticing: my conversation with the self-described reporter at Green-Wood. I was sure his reaction would be entertaining, at the very least.

Further, chances were at least fifty-fifty that in the course of a short visit he would say something so outrageous that I could focus my frustration on him instead of on my unwanted new acquaintance in Brighton Beach. At that moment it seemed like a good idea.

So I said to Joe, “Change of plans,” and gave him Leary's address. He waited in the car, though I told him there was no need, while I phoned Leary from the decrepit building entryway. “I'm coming to visit, so buzz me in, okay? I have a story for you.” There wasn't any point in asking if he wanted a visit; he would say no. Just because he said it, that did not make it true. I'd figured out a long time ago that the sandpaper personality disguised a lonely man.

He responded with, “What? This is not a good…”

“Yeah, yeah, that's what you always say. I'm ringing right now. Ringing! Buzz me in.”

He did. I waved Joe off to his date.

The elevator was as neglected as always, but it appeared to be running. When I got to Leary's floor his door was open so I went right in. He was sitting on the sheet-covered sofa, his crutch nearby. Every other surface in the living-dining room, except for two, was covered as always by stacks of magazines, papers, clothes. His once-a-week housekeeper, sent by a social service agency, did not seem to be making much headway.

The first surface that had no papers was the coffee table, covered by an array of Chinese takeout containers. The second was the easy chair next to the sofa, where my father was sitting.

“Come give your old man a hug!” Leary boomed it out, not dad, but dad did stand up.

“What are you doing here? I don't understand!” I was still standing in the doorway.

“Close the door, honey, and come in.” I did. “You introduced us at Rick's memorial service, remember?” Of course I did. Rick was a retired NYPD detective, my dad's oldest friend and my adopted uncle. “We get together every so often and talk about things, mostly old-time Brooklyn. Turns out we even knew some of the same people.”

Though I had a mix of emotions, the one that stood out was betrayal. These two people were supposed to be in separate pigeonholes of my life. They weren't supposed to mix them up. Childish? Oh, yes, I knew it was even while I was feeling it. But I did feel it.

“Okay. I mean, I guess it's okay.”

Leary said, “Better be. Cause you have no say in it.” He looked at me shrewdly and said, “Did you eat? Help yourself to the feast over there. We got carried away on the ordering. And what brings you to my palace this evening?”

I filled a paper plate with rice and mixtures I could not identify. It seems I had forgotten about dinner. What had brought me there? I probably could have said to Leary, alone, I wanted someone to fight with. He's always ready to have an argument about anything, or even about nothing at all. I would not say it in front of my dad. In fact, I didn't exactly want my dad to know what I had been doing.

I led with my story about the blogger. Leary was outraged at the nerve but was still able to see the funny side.

“Annoying, was he? Could be he's got some promise as a reporter.” He chuckled at my indignation. “And you did good, cutting him off. No need for you to just hand over what you know and do his job for him.”

And he was as scornful as I expected, too. “
Brooklyn Eagle
, my fat Irish ass. He's just an amateur. That's not journalism, it's gossip.” He paused, and then said, “Still, maybe I should take a look at these blog things sometime. Got to keep up with the times. Next time I'm at your house?”

Oh, sure. Like that would happen. Leary had never been to my house. And he would have had trouble just getting up the front stoop, let alone the steep stairs to my office where the computer lives. He only used his own ancient computer for e-mail, and he only did that because the publisher of his pseudonymous trashy novels had insisted. He still composed on his antique Selectric typewriter, though, and he is not exactly on speaking terms with the Internet.

“I'll make you a deal…” That was Leary being Leary, ever the old reporter. “Seems like I wrote a story or two about Green-Wood way back when. Probably human interest on a slow news day. Jeez, I hated those! But I could look in the files. And you will send me some of this pretentious kid's stories. Good deal? Makes your visit worthwhile?”

His whole apartment might be a pigsty but his office was perfectly organized and pristine. I think he had every story he ever wrote, and though he might have trouble finding a clean shirt, he never had trouble finding a story. Of course I said sure. It might be entirely unrelated to my work but I knew it would be interesting.

“It's a deal, but I really came to tell you a couple of stories. Today seems to be my day for meeting up with real characters.” I thought a minute. How could I tell my story without including details that would start my father on a protective kick? Or give Leary more opportunity to make fun of me?

“I had—umm—something to do in Brighton Beach, and I ran into this old guy. He was kind of ranting.” I shared a few choice quotes. Leary laughed but my dad, of course, started in.

“I don't like you doing things like that. What the hell is wrong with your judgment? If you have to go asking touchy questions in dicey neighborhoods, at least take me along.” Oh, sure. He isn't old, really, but he also isn't the tough kid he claims to have been back in the day. He broke his leg in a car accident last year. He wears glasses now. Years of smoking cigars left him with some breathing problems.

“Dad. Don't start. And it's not a dicey neighborhood. It hasn't been for a long time.”

He was ready to argue, but Leary laughed. “Hey, Len, you gotta let the kid make her own mistakes.”

“That is the most sensible thing I ever heard you say. Maybe the only sensible thing.” I would have hugged him for it, but I was pretty sure he would not like it.

I jumped up. “Look at the time. I've got to go. Chris is home.”

Dad stood up with me. “I'll walk you to your car. “

“I was dropped off. I'll take the bus home.”

“At this hour? I'll drive you. I'm leaving anyway. Time for us geezers to hit the hay too.”

I started clearing the table, but Leary said, “Leave it, leave it. My aide is coming in tomorrow. Or I don't know, maybe day after.”

I cringed at the picture his words suggested but said good-bye and left with Dad. As soon as we were in the elevator he said, “Okay. When were you gonna tell me what's really on your mind?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I would have known from your face, anyway, but Chris told me about your friend who got killed.”

No way to put him off now. “Dad, it's horrible. It's so…so unjust. He had a son, Chris' friend. His wife is my friend and I don't know what to say to her.”

He looked straight ahead, not at me. “Sure you do. We both do.”

“Do you miss mom?”

We were at his car by then. “Dumb question. We were together since we were Chris' age.” He was gallantly opening the car door.

“Then how…?”

“Hop in, kiddo.” He turned the radio on, loud, stopping conversation. I suspected he didn't want to answer the question I hadn't quite asked.

At my house, he turned to me. “Your life sounds pretty full and kind of stressed. Yeah? Like always?”

“Yeah, like always.”

“I'm here if you need me. Don't forget that.”

He watched until I unlocked my door and was in my house. I didn't turn around to see him, but I could feel his eyes. It was entirely unnecessary and the kind of thing that drives me crazy. I am a grown woman, not a child. It's entirely different when I do it to Chris. Not that Chris would agree with me on that.

Home, where Chris was already in bed, radio playing softly, phone in hand, deep in conversation. She wiggled her fingers in a “hello” to me. I wiggled mine back.

Home, where the house phone told me I'd missed a call from Detective Henderson. Too late to call back now? Yes. Tomorrow.

***

The phone rang in the night. I was ripped from a deep sleep. Heart racing, I fumbled for it with my eyes barely open.

“I hope I didn't wake you.” The voice sounded amused.

“Leary!” Now I was awake. “Damn it, do you know what time it is?” I squinted at the clock.

“You can sleep when you're old. I thought you'd want to know I found those files.”

“What files? Green-Wood?”

“Those are the ones. Something kinda interesting. I'd forgotten. Happened decades ago. I'll get the aide to mail them tomorrow.”

Oh, Leary, I thought. Learn to fax. Or scan and e-mail. Join this century. What I said was, “What could be so interesting it's worth waking me up?”

“You'll see. And you're welcome.” Was he chuckling? “And guess what?”

“Leary, no games. I'm not even awake.”

“I found that pretentious kid's website. Myself. The writing's not half bad. Suggest you take a look.”

After, I tossed and turned and never really went back to sleep. I gave up finally and got up, meeting Chris coming out of the shower. She was damp and chipper. “Who the heck called in the middle of the night?”

“It woke you too? I'm so sorry.”

“I didn't really wake up. Was it a butt dial?”

“Pretty close!” I had to laugh at the expression. “I don't work today and we're both up so early, I'll make you breakfast.

Over eggs, there was a whole story to tell about Dima's other house and his gun-carrying neighbor. Chris was looking pretty shocked by the end of it.

“Mom! Mo-o-om!” She made it three syllables as only a teen can. “What were you thinking? He sounds crazy.”

“Nothing started out being crazy. I was just driving down a normal street at a normal time of day.”

“Oh, sure, and if it was me?”

“You are fifteen. Different rules apply.”

She looked unconvinced and cleverly changed the topic. “Next time you want to do something like that, take me along.”

I didn't have time for a discussion about the multiple flaws in her logic. I sidetracked her with an offer to make lunch.

“I saw Grandpa yesterday.” She said it while I was rummaging in the refrigerator.

“I saw him last night, very much by accident.”

“You did? Did he tell you?”

“Umm, no. Tuna or leftover chicken?”

“Tuna. Lots of mayo. He took me to the Immigration Museum after school.”

That jerked my attention away from the refrigerator shelves.

“Why in the world….?”

“History assignment. I told you, at least twice.” Now she was rummaging in the food cabinet, looking for potato chips, I thought.

And she had. Seven to ten pages of original research on a history topic. She had said something about family history and I took it for granted she would turn to me, her mother the historian, for help getting started. I do teach this to visiting classes at the museum, after all. I even knew people on staff at the amazing Ellis Island Museum of Immigration. In the derelict buildings where twelve million hopeful, anxious, desperate immigrants had been processed, they had created a stunning modern museum dedicated to telling their story. I knew it well, both museum and story. Whereas my dad would not be any help at all, except for chauffeur services and buying souvenirs.