Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,4
this is gonna go? Who knows what the cops are gonna ask us to do?”
This doesn’t seem like Vince; he’s usually far more confident and decisive than this. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll have to talk to Cummings.”
Vince nods. “I told him you would. Just so you’ll know, he’s not thrilled about it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “He seems to think you’re a major pain in the ass.”
“You told him that?”
“I didn’t use the word ‘major.’ I used the word ‘total.’ He also doesn’t want you interfering with how he does his job.”
I nod. “I don’t expect to. Is he a good reporter?”
“As good as any I’ve ever had,” he says. “When do you want to talk to him?”
“How’s tomorrow morning? Around eleven? And I’ll want the stories he’s written on the murders to read through tonight. Plus the stories in the other papers.”
“Done,” he says. “Laurie back yet?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Maybe if you’d take on some clients, she wouldn’t have to go work for somebody else. Hey, why don’t you put her on this case?”
Laurie is a former police officer whom I employ as my private investigator. There is no way she’d want to work on this. “First of all, this isn’t a ‘case,’” I say. “Second of all, she likes to be paid in money, not donuts.”
He takes a big bite out of a glazed one. “Women don’t know what they’re missing.”
• • • • •
TARA GREETS ME at the door when I get home. She has a tennis ball in her mouth, a not-so-subtle reminder that I haven’t taken her to the park in two days. I drop off the stories Vince gave me and we head out.
The place we go to is called Eastside Park, less than five minutes from my house on Forty-second Street in Paterson, New Jersey. It’s the house I grew up in, the house that contains every memory worth remembering. I moved back in after my father died, and feel like I’m home, now and forever.
Paterson has always been considered a good place to leave, and getting out was long regarded as a sign of upward economic mobility. For that reason, even though I’m still there, I am in touch with very few of my childhood friends, who have headed for parts wealthier.
Going to Eastside Park always brings back memories of those friends and the times we shared. It’s where we played baseball, football, and tennis, where we tried to look cool in the futile hope that the girls would notice us. It’s also where I hit my one high school home run. It was against East Paterson High, a city we never had much respect for, mainly because any place that names itself based on its direction from Paterson can’t have too much going for it. We were obviously right, since they’ve since changed their name to Elmwood Park.
But back to the home run. I can still feel the ball hit the bat, can still remember flying around the bases as the left fielder tried to field it. It should have been scored a triple and an error. I knew that then and know it now. But my cousin was the scorekeeper, he ruled it an official home run, and nothing can ever change that.
I didn’t have Tara in that distant past, which automatically means the present is a hell of a lot better. We toss the ball around for about fifteen minutes. I don’t throw it quite as far as I used to; Tara is eight years old and starting to slow down. Considering the implications of that sends very real spasms of anxiety through my gut. And since I’m not a big fan of self-inflicted gut spasms, I avoid such thoughts at all costs.
When we’re done, we stop at a coffee shop with outdoor tables. I get an iced coffee, and Tara has water and a bagel. Her favorite is cinnamon raisin, probably because she knows I don’t like them and therefore won’t steal any. As we usually do, we hang out for a half hour, which gives Tara enough time to be petted by fifty or so passersby.
We stop off on the way home to pick up a pizza and some beer. The NFL season is opening tonight, and I want to get it started on the right note. I’ll just have enough time to go over the papers Vince gave me before kickoff.
Once we get home, I inhale the pizza and plant myself on