No Good to Cry (20 page)

“I love moments like this.” A devious smile. “It almost makes all the bullshit worthwhile.”

“Proof? Like what?”

He was taking his time. “This is like…
CSI: Hartford. Asshole Division
. You see, the evidence squad is picking up all the debris around the victim, bagging everything. Not just the shit he had on him, like the cane. And his wallet, by the way. It fell outta his pocket. But all the litter—paper cups, Coke cans, French fries wrappers, even a brittle condom—hey, it's a dark stretch of Whitney and some dudes are in a hurry—even a rusted penny that ain't gonna bring nobody any luck.”

My voice was hollow. “And they found?”

He did a fake drum roll. “Ta dah! I wish I had it here to show you. To see your face. Something musta fell out of the perp's pockets as he bumped off the old geezer. Maybe he slipped. Who knows? But there's this crumpled postcard from a store in Bloomfield called GameStop. It's telling the recipient that the video game he ordered and put down a five-dollar deposit on…well, guess what? It's arrived! Come pick it up.”

“And the card…”

“Is addressed to someone named Frankie Croix, a nasty piece of work that lives in Frog Hollow.”

Ardolino stopped, the teacher's pet in class finishing his drill and expecting cheers and huzzahs.

“Say something,” he told me.

I had nothing to say.

Ardolino slipped out of the booth, grabbed the pastrami grinder the waitress had left on the edge, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table, and looked down at me. “Oh, by the way. I got your call about that…that YouTube video from…SaigonSez. Clever boys, no? Thanks for the tip. It's like they're providing a scenario for some low-budget movie they're gonna film on the sorry streets of Hartford. Today was the second rehearsal, wouldn't you say?”

I still said nothing. That postcard. Frankie Croix. What in the world?

Finally, standing myself, I looked into his face. “Is that why you asked me to stay? To have this little conversation?”

He let out a belly laugh that broke into a raspy, smoker's cough. “Hey, I need a little drama in my life, too.”

“You couldn't wait to tell me, could you?”

He started to walk away, but turned back, a broad smile covering his features. “Yeah, well”—a long pause as he formed the line I'd used to end my phone message earlier that day—“I just wanted to let you know.”

Chapter Twenty-three

At midday on Saturday Liz picked me up at my apartment, the two of us headed to Mike Tran's home.

After much coaxing and tender direction, Liz had helped Hazel orchestrate her separation from Judd. Now she was taking Hazel out to lunch, picking her up at her home. Yesterday, at Liz's insistence, Hazel had made the perilous call to Judd. “We rehearsed the call over and over,” Liz told me. “I wrote down the words. I made her recite them to me repeatedly.”

“I'm surprised she went through with it,” I told her.

Liz looked weary. “A lot of smooth talk—and an appeal to her own self-worth. She still possessed a stupid, lingering belief that I”—Liz raised her voice—“me! me!—was interested in that overgrown lummox. Once I disavowed her of that silly notion, she confessed being scared of him—wanting to be away from him. She cried. Lord, Rick, she told me that he hit her—and more than once.”

I shivered. “I know. Good for you, Liz. But what now?”

“Now is a follow-up lunch to reinforce. To talk about strategies. Restraining orders, if necessary. He has to be convinced to stay away from her. Police intervention. I called the Avon cops, filled them in, and a cop was going to pay a casual but forceful visit to the lad at his daddy's bachelor lair. Yesterday I called Miss Porter's and got a sympathetic counselor. Hazel will not be alone as she walks to class.”

Liz gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Judd's gonna be a problem.” I stared at her profile. Her jaw was rigid, determined.

“I figured that.” She glanced back at me. “You know, Rick, he was vicious on the phone. Told her she didn't know what she was doing. After all, they've been together a long time. Rick, I'm afraid she might become a problem—a backslider. But at least she hung up on him.”

Earlier when she'd called me, I'd mentioned that I'd received a frantic call from Mike Tran—a plea that I stop over. He also mentioned Liz's visit.

“I'll pick you up,” Liz had told me. “Afterward, you and I can talk about Hazel.”

“And Simon,” I added.

“And Simon,” she echoed.

Mike Tran's early morning call resulted from reading the front page of the
Courant
. The splashy headline: “Man Murdered in West End.” A subheading: “Second knockout attack.” The dead man was identified as Horace Timball, eighty-one, a retired accountant who'd worked for the Democratic Party machine for decades. A well-known politico. He'd served as financial advisor to old-time Governor Bill O'Neill. Governor Dannel Malloy issued a statement celebrating his long service to Connecticut. My first thought: high-profile. Trouble. Friends in high places.

I'd read the same article and found myself recalling that low-slung Toyota idling too long at the intersection last night. It was the same car driven by Diep and Khoa—I was sure of it. That murky dark blue paint, the one fender primed for painting, the tinted windows. Idling, watching, refusing to move.

I wanted to talk to them. But how? A visit to JD and the VietBoyz?

Then Mike called, rattled. “Can you come over? My wife…me…We're going nuts.”

“Is Simon there?” I'd asked.

“In his room. Hiding. He won't come out. Playing video games non-stop. I
asked
him about it. Again. He won't answer me. Christ, Rick, I ain't going in to work today, and I don't give a damn. Can you…?”

I'd stopped him, mid-sentence. “I'll ride over, Mike. Don't worry.”

But I did worry as Liz and drove to the house. The
Courant
hinted that a piece of incriminating evidence had been discovered at the scene, a scrap of paper that linked this killing to that of Ralph Gervase. But “suspects previously interviewed at that time are now persons of interest again.” The words sounded like Ardolino stumbling through a press release.

Lucy opened the front door and stepped back, a barely audible greeting escaping her throat. Liz hugged her. Silently, Lucy nodded toward the living room where Mike sat on the sofa next to Hazel, who looked none too happy. No makeup, her hair uncombed, bags under her eyes. He tried to smile as Liz and I neared, but finally he sank back into the cushions, a hound-dog look on his face. He looked old, beaten up. A copy of the
Hartford Courant
rested between him and Hazel, folded neatly but with the front page ominously evident. That awful headline. The granite tombstone of his dreams. As Liz and I sat down, Mike picked up the paper and waved it at us. “How did the world get to be so mean, fall apart?”

“Pop…” Hazel began.

But Lucy interrupted. “Coffee. I have coffee ready.” Her words were so high-pitched and frenetic she could have been screaming for help.

Liz spoke up. “Maybe later. Hazel, are you ready?”

The girl nodded, though she glanced at her father. He smiled at her, and then at Liz. A murmured “Thank you.” He swallowed. “Thank you for my daughter.” Liz nodded back. Then, more forcefully, “I never liked that boy.” He gripped her hand.

Hazel trembled, and I wondered what she thought of her father's condemnation. Yes, Hazel might fear Judd now, dread his furious slap, but I knew that abuse victims often harbored lingering affection, a hope of reform. Redemption. A spotless phoenix rising from the ashes of his dirty game. A persistent girlish crush on her first boyfriend?

“It's gonna be all right,” Liz said, her expression taking in Mike and Lucy but resting on Hazel. “The police…”

Hazel blurted out, “I don't want the police.”

Liz spoke in a clipped voice. “Hazel, you have to trust me.”

Silence in the room. Mike watched his wife, nodded at her.

“Judd called here this morning.” Lucy made a clicking sound, annoyed. “I mean, I didn't talk to him, but I could hear his voice.”

Liz fumed. “He was told
not
to call.”

“Go now.” Lucy pointed at Liz, and Hazel jumped up, grabbed a jacket lying on the sofa, and followed Liz out the door. Liz caught my eye—take care of this, Rick.

“It's gonna be all right,” I assured Mike and Lucy when we were alone.

Mike's mouth tightened. “It ain't never gonna be all right.”

“Minh,” his wife consoled. “Please. Minh.”

But he shrugged her off. “And that…that Judd ain't the real problem.” He looked toward the staircase—and doubtless Simon's bedroom. I could hear ping and zap noises from a video game—followed by the boys whooping it up.

Mike grumbled. “Listen to that. Simon and Wilson—like nothing in the goddamn world happened yesterday.”

Lucy caught my eye. “Simon talked to me this morning. He told me he was with Frankie at West Farms Mall. You know, like hanging out. For hours. The same time that…” Her voice trailed off.

“Okay,” I said. “Perhaps there's surveillance tape. I'll check into that. The mall is good about that.”

She sounded apologetic. “He says he was in the parking lot, not inside. Sitting in a car, driving around.”

“Great,” Mike thundered. “One goddamn excuse after the other. A boy who wants the world to put a noose around his neck.”

Lucy squealed. “Minh, no.”

“He won't talk to me, Rick. He talks to—her.” He pointed at his wife, his finger trembling. Breathing in, Lucy looked away.

“Will he talk to me now?” I asked.

“Fat chance,” Mike answered, biting his lower lip.

Lucy leaned into me, confidential. “That detective called here this morning. He wanted to know about Simon—was he here? I said yes, and he says—keep him home.” A bewildered look in her eyes. “Why, Rick? What's gonna happen?”

Her husband seethed. “What's gonna happen? Christ, Lucy, smell the goddamned coffee. They're gonna take the boy away. Didn't you read the paper? They got—proof.”

“Hold on,” I cautioned. “No one is taking Simon anywhere yet.”

Lucy's voice was stronger now. “He told me Frankie's taking the bus here. I guess they want to talk things over.”

Mike snarled, “What? Plan a defense?”

A sudden spurt of anger in Lucy. “You
yell
at him, Minh. You don't talk to him.”

“He's up there…stony…stubborn.” Mike walked to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Simon. Wilson. You boys come down here. Mr. Lam is here to talk.” Silence. “Your mother made lunch.”

The last line struck me as bizarre. “Lunch,” she mumbled. “Yes.”

Mike looked at me. “Rick, go upstairs. Talk—without us. Maybe he'll…talk…”

Quietly I walked up the stairs, though a little hesitant. From the open doorway of their bedroom, unseen, I stared at their backs as they leaned into their PlayStation consoles. Not a gamer myself, I'd watched Hank and his younger brother going hell-bent to leather on some fast-and-furious adventure projected on their big-screen TV.

Now, watching the two brothers, I was intrigued by the difference. Wilson was on the edge of his seat, his neck stiff, his chin jutted forward, eyes locked on the screen, a boy determined to win. But Simon sat back, a lazy posture, his fingers moving slowly but deftly on the console, almost indifferent. On the screen a nerdy kid with cowlick and buckteeth ambled home from school. Suddenly the boy hurls away his books, the buttons on his white dress shirt pop open, his eyeglasses morph into some sort of laser goggles, and muscles bulge. A superhero.
Pop pop pop
—street corner bullies dropped, one after another, exploding into bits. Simon and Wilson were yelling out—“I got this one.” “No—me.” Sashaying hookers with mile-high hair had something to say about the loss, but they were also summarily dismissed. A puff of smoke. Gone. “Yes, yes, yes,” roared Wilson, excited. Simon gave up, sitting back.

Simon waved the jewel box in the air, dismissing it. “Junk,” he mouthed.

I caught a glimpse of the title on the slick jewel box: KILL POWER 3: THE REVENGE OF EINSTEIN.

“It ain't like real life, Wilson,” Simon said to his beaming brother.

Wilson snapped back, “Yeah, like you know street life.”

Suddenly Wilson shut off the PlayStation and the TV screen went black.

Simon was seething, and I sensed that he resented losing to Wilson. “You live your dumb life through a book.” He assumed a tough-guy posture, pulling his lips together. His head swiveled, and I realized he knew I was standing in the doorway. “I got friends who can fuck up your life.”

The line bothered Wilson, who squinted at his brother. “What?” Then, quietly, he muttered, “Yeah, but they're already starting with your life.”

At that moment Wilson spotted me.

He turned to face me but looked sideways at his brother. The two started some teenaged boy guffaw that was half-pretense, half-boyish glee.

“Shit.” Simon was looking into my face.

Wilson poked him in the shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes is here.”

Simon moved quickly, slamming the door in my face.

Back downstairs, defeated, I shrugged my shoulders as Mike watched me. The three of us ate a quiet lunch, then sat in the living room making small talk. Silence from upstairs. Every so often Mike's eyes checked the staircase.

***

When the front door opened and Liz and Hazel walked in, Liz sought my eye. I must have looked panicky because inadvertently she grinned. I read her mind—as she could always read mine. Hers now said, blatantly—Sometimes there is no escape clause for the harried investigator.

But what thrilled was Hazel's lively face. Her eyes danced around the room. Doubtless buoyed by Liz's rousing cheer, Hazel was smiling. No, smiling is too anemic a word—Hazel bubbled.

“Everything okay?” Lucy asked, anxious.

Liz nodded as Hazel looked warmly at Liz. “Yeah, okay. Liz helped me to see that even though I've been with him so long…but Liz…anyway, Judd…something is…She stopped. “I'm gonna allow myself to be happy.”

Liz wagged a finger at her. “Those are my words, Hazel. Remember that. You still have to make them your own words.”

Mike looked confused, but pleased.

He started to say something, but suddenly we heard high-pitched yelling from outside. It echoed off the walls. Growled curses, fury, sputtered grunts. A rat-a-tat volley of
fuck yous
. We rushed to the front window, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, peering out.

Hazel sucked in her breath, trembled, and reached for Liz, who draped her arm across her shoulder, whispering something in her ear.

Judd Snow had pulled his car up into the driveway. The driver's side door of the red Audi was wide open, and he leaned against a fender, as if gaining his balance. The car was mud-splattered, as if he'd driven it through spring puddles, careless, crazy. Streaks of dirt smeared the windshield, but he'd switched on the wipers, which left an arc of clean glass.

He stumbled away from the car and pivoted toward the house. A bellowing voice. “You called the fucking cops on me, Hazel. You think I want those yokels from Avon knocking on my door? My dad…he's pissed.” A torrent of nonsense syllables, slurred, nasty.

“A goddamn drunk. Christ.” Mike's hand touched Hazel's arm, and she started.

“Come out, Hazel. Right now. You get in this car and…” His voice broke, a sloppy sob. “You and me…you know. Come on. Now. Fuck them all.” He slumped backwards against the car. His voice grew shrill. “Right now. You hear me. Right now. I'm not gonna wait here forever.” A heavy sigh. “I'm not gonna let you walk away from me. I'm sick of people walking away from me. You hear me?”

He swung his fist in the air, as if battling an enemy.

Gasping, Hazel pulled back away from the window, swallowed by her father's arms, hugging her, drawing her into the room. I looked at Liz and mouthed one word: Police. She nodded, reaching into her purse for her cell phone, headed into the hallway.