CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ortiz took another pull from the whiskey bottle. The alcohol was combining with the gentle rocking of the boat to lull him into a sort of hypnosis. He wasn't quite unconscious, but he also didn't have to think or feel too much, either. The boat was still moored at the dock but, stretched out on the bed in the cabin, it was enough of an escape for Ortiz to feel like the world was a million miles away. Lately, when he wasn't here, he found himself wishing that he was. He knew he had been drinking too much lately. But it was the only thing that numbed the sting of reality.

He was doing things better and more meaningfully now than he ever had before in his life. He believed he was finally doing what he was meant to do: not just protect the public, but to make a real difference in fighting crime. Ortiz and his detectives were doing good work both on and off the job. So, why was life punishing him by taking away his son? Actually, it wasn't life, it was Maria, his ex-wife. But why did this have to come up now? He was doing what he was meant to do and doing it for all the right reasons. Well, he thought that he was.

It was getting easier to justify what his narcotics squad was doing, simply because he had now gone out and done the same thing on his own. But he had done it for a different reason than what his squad had originally agreed on. Their shared motivation was that every one of them had suffered some loss, experienced some tragedy that stemmed from illegal drugs. They all had a personal stake in what they were doing. But now Ortiz had gone outside their circle. He tried many ways to justify it, to make it seem like he had robbed and killed a drug dealer on his own for the same reason that they were doing it as a group. Yet, no matter how much he tried to avoid it, the truth kept coming back. He did it because he needed the money.

He had thought about it before, imagined that he would be paralyzed by the inherent moral struggle of what he clearly knew to be wrong. But when the time came for him to act, morality seemed to vanish. His mind shifted effortlessly into tactical mode, and the whole ordeal was done and behind him before he even realized just how easy it had been. The dealer was dead and Ortiz was a few thousand dollars richer. For now. This wasn't for him. It was the lawyer who had insisted that Ortiz needed more money to keep fighting for his son. So, he went out and got more money. That was the bottom line. And nobody that was currently alive knew how he had done it — except for him.

The facade of a noble warrior set out to face down the evil perils of the narcotics' demon fell away as simply and cleanly as rain trickling off of a rose petal. And the truth was laid bare. He wasn't a cop anymore. He was simply another impostor trying to convince both himself and the world that he was still protecting his city. Somehow he had to keep facing his men, keep lying to them, while being fully aware of what he had become.

The only thing that bothered him more than what he had done was the ease with which he had done it. What had begun as a noble cause had devolved into simple street crime. It was a lesson that kept many police officers vigilant of their own everyday actions. For people of honor, there is no such thing as coloring outside the lines just a little. And, once someone crossed the line between right and wrong, there was no coming back. It was amazing how quickly someone could slide down that slippery slope.

Coming through the front door, he heard a familiar voice rise above the din of multiple other conversations.

"Jimmy!"

The voice had boomed out from behind the bar. Wearing a white button-up shirt and a black vest, with a black elastic band wrapped around each arm, stood a medium-height man with a huge grin on his face. Danny Simmons had a cleanly-shaved head and sad eyes that suggested he had witnessed the worst of everything in life. He had a natural gift for conversation, he loved everything about being a bartender, and there was a running bet among patrons at Mickey's whether Danny was thirty-five or sixty-five years old.

"Hey, Danny," Jimmy said. "How's business?"

"Slow without you, Jimmy," Danny said with a grin. "I'm glad to see ya in one-piece, boy!"

As Jimmy approached the bar, Danny planted a mug full of beer in front of him.

"First one's on the house, Jimmy."

"Holy shit, Danny," Jimmy exclaimed. "You're giving out free beers to every cop that gets shot at these days? If so, you'll be out of business in a week."

"Sadly, I am not," Danny replied with a grin. "But St. Michael was sitting on your shoulder a few weeks past, and I know how thirsty he gets."

Jimmy sipped his beer and asked, "You heard about that, huh?"

"How could I not, boy," Danny asked. "Everyone shoots at cops in this crazy city. But showing up at your home, now that is someone trying to jump ahead in line to meet the Almighty."

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed. "I'm just grateful that the sound carried this far."

Danny's face screwed up into a look of confusion, a feeling that he didn't experience often these days, as he said "Come again, boy."

"That night, the shooting at my place… A guy from the Bronx was down here, one of ours, and he made it up the street to my place when the shooting started."

"Well, boy," Danny said. "That would have been a trick to see, for sure."

"What do you mean? It's not that far from here to there."

"Jimmy," Danny said slowly. "We were closed that night. That's one of the two things that stands out to me about that night, my boy. I felt bad because I would have been there myself if we were open."

"You sure about that," Jimmy asked. "Maybe you're off by one night?"

"As sure as I am that someday the North will be back in Irish hands, Jimmy. A busted sewer line flooded the bar. And we had less than two days to clean that up and get inspected, else being closed on a Friday night would cause a riot in the street. And who do you call when cops start the riot, boy? I asked myself, what were the odds of us being closed and your place being shot at on the same night?"

"Pretty good, apparently," Jimmy said.

Then, leaning over the bar and whispering with all the seriousness of a heart surgeon, Danny said, "If we were across the pond, some might think the two things were connected."

In spite of his surprise about the bar being closed that night, Jimmy couldn't stop himself from an amused chuckle. "Danny, I'm pretty sure the two things aren't connected."

Raising his hands in a mock surrender, Danny leaned back and said, "You never know, boy. It's a strange world out there."

Jimmy just smiled and asked, "But you're sure about being closed that night?"

"As sure as my blood is green, Jimmy. A soul doesn't forget a coincidence like that."

Jimmy was about to say something else when another familiar voice caught his attention.

"Hey, Jimmy," Homicide Detective George Romero said. "Sorry I'm late. Crosstown traffic. Hey, Danny, how's the family?"

Danny grabbed a mug and began drawing beer from a tap as he said, "Bah! Bunch of ungrateful wretches that would be lost without video games and McDonald's, they are."

"Sounds like they hang out with my kids," Romero said with a grin. "I'm going to steal your guy, Danny. We need to talk shop."

"Yeah, yeah," Danny said while walking away. "Just wave at me when your mug runs dry."

"Then what happens," Romero asked sarcastically.

Danny turned back with an ear-to-ear grin and said, "I wave back, of course!"

All three men laughed in the way that only old friends can.

"So, Jimmy," Romero said. "As if my days working homicide weren't strange enough already. Today, I found out that you have a personal connection to my latest case."

"You feeling okay, boss," Martinez asked. "You seemed kind of distracted in there ."

"I'm fine," Ortiz said. "It's just been a rough few weeks dealing with Maria."

They were leaving the Bronx County Courthouse after testifying against a dealer they had busted with a van full of methamphetamine tablets. Ortiz had been on the stand and having trouble getting through some cross-examination questions from the dealer's attorney. Normally, the detectives were well-versed in their testimony and the evidence long before a trial. However, today, it was clear that Ortiz was not prepared with his notes or his answers to various questions.

Both men were quiet on the ride back to the narcotics' bureau. When they arrived, Ortiz told Martinez that he would catch up with him. While Martinez headed into the office, Ortiz took off for his attorney's office to drop off the money that he had taken from the drug dealer that he killed two nights ago.

As Martinez entered the office, he found Roman hunched over a computer keyboard with all of his fingers curled up, except for the index finger, on each hand. Roman was using the infamous hunt-and-peck technique to finish typing a report, at which Martinez chuckled.

"Hey, Rome," Martinez said. "They've got voice software for computers these days. If you're not going to learn how to type, at least learn how to talk to the damn thing."

"Oh no, no, no," Roman said. "I was just dating this girl who had one of those speaker things in her living room that she talks to and uses to order stuff on the internet. She left her damn TV on one day when she went to work and the speaker thought it was her talking. It ordered four-hundred pounds of dog food! She doesn't even have a dog. I don't need my computer doing that shit."

"Sort of a different thing, Rome," Martinez laughed.

"No, uh-uh, same thing," Roman protested. "Tomorrow, we come in to work and find out five-hundred people were released from jail the night before because somebody left the fucking office radio on. Not me, not going to happen."

Martinez was almost in tears now, laughing at Roman.

"Oh, damn it, Roman. Oh, damn," were the only words that Martinez could choke out between laughs.

"See? See how you're laughing right now," Roman asked. "That's how I know it's a bad idea."

"Oh hell, you're right," Martinez managed to sputter out. "It's probably a bad idea. It might take you two days to make out a report, but the city is probably safer that way."

"Speaking of reports, how did things go in court? They going to nail that shitbag for having all that meth or what?"

"Ah, yeah, about that…" Martinez looked around the office to make sure that they were alone before leaning forward in his office chair and saying, "I don't know, man. He was a mess today. I mean, the defense attorney was asking him stuff and Ortiz was all over the place with his answers. He was more than just not ready, he was seriously distracted."

"You think this has anything to do with that stuff from a few weeks ago," Roman asked. "I mean, I ain't thought nothing about that attorney he went to see or nothing since you told me. It seemed like once the Rabbi cut us loose, and that task force went away, we all just seemed to get back on track. I noticed he's been a little different lately. But now you're saying he's been acting funny. What the fuck does that mean? He would tell us if something was going on, right?"

"I thought he would," Martinez agreed. "I asked him if he was okay, and he said he's been having trouble with Maria. You remember that crazy bitch?"

"The one he was married to," Roman asked. "Jesus! She was a fucking nightmare for all of us. Remember her showing up at the office all those times and going nuts?"

"Yeah, I remember," Martinez agreed. "Well, his son lives with her. Poor little guy. I know she likes to fuck with Ortiz sometimes over visitation with the boy. Maybe it's got something to do with that."

"Maybe," Roman said. "That bitch could rattle Hitler. But if that's what it is, I don't want to say anything to him about it. It's bad enough dealing with that bitch, I'm sure he doesn't want to be reminded about it."

"Yeah, I hear ya. Let's just wait and see. But I'll tell ya this, if he's going to be distracted like he was today, we can't do any off-duty shit until he gets his head right. We can't afford any mistakes out there."

"I'm with ya," Roman said. "But I think we should talk to Hodges when he gets back. We all need to be on the same page about this shit."

"I'm pretty sure I am going to regret this," Jimmy slowly said. "But how in the hell could I be personally connected to your latest case? I see all the similarities between your case and mine. But personally connected?"

"Oh, you're going to love this one, Jimmy," detective Romero said. "As I'm sure you got from the file, the person I believe to be the intended vic in my case is one Maurice 'MoMo' Robinson. The other two people, and one dog, were just collateral damage."

"Yeah, I read the reports and checked out the file and I agree with you." Jimmy said.

"However, what is not, yet, in the file is that MoMo," Romero said while making exaggerated quotation symbols in the air with his fingers. "MoMo is actually the brother of one Deshawn Robinson. And, Deshawn Robinson is the father of…"

"Noooooo shit," Jimmy exclaimed. "MoMo was Deshawn Baskins uncle."

"The man wins a cigar," Romero said. "Rumor on the street is that MoMo was also Baskins's main supplier for cocaine. So, that's about to cause some difficulty for him. Thought you might like to hear that, as well."

"Definitely great news," Jimmy said. "Both in general and for that asshole in particular. It sucks that somehow a dog got caught up in all this bullshit. But the result seems to be one less drug dealer out there, a shortage of drugs on the street, and even more frustration for my buddy. Not the way I would handle things. But now that it's done, I'll take it."

"Yeah, if not for the fact that this is most likely another dealer trying to take over, I'd almost be alright with the whole thing. Except for the dog, of course. That was complete bullshit. But, from what I understand of the other cases that seem to be connected, our suspects don't seem to harm anyone unless they sell drugs or pose a threat. Didn't they let two guys go in one of the jobs across town?"

"Yeah, over in Harlem," Jimmy said. He also made a mental note to himself that he had not really examined the pseudo-ethics of the murder scenes before now. But there did seem to be a disturbing trend toward not harming certain people.

"Hey, any news on the assholes that shot up your place," Romero asked.

"No, just a lot of dead-ends," Jimmy said. "As a matter of fact, the best physical evidence that was gathered was tainted by a well-meaning, but not too bright, narco cop from the Bronx."

Shit, Jimmy thought to himself. There's the Bronx narcotics guys, again.

"How do ya mean," Romero asked.

"Ah, he was first on the scene. And, as you can imagine, it was utter chaos for the initial units arriving. The street out front of my place was getting overrun with backup and support. So, this guy, in some moment of inspiration, grabs a paper bag off of the street and starts collecting as many shell casings as he can from all over the street."

"Sounds like he was thinking clearly," Romero said. "What happened?"

"Well," Jimmy said, "A few of the casings came back with his damn prints on them. He was in such a hurry that he forgot to glove up. And, as you know, that ruined the whole batch for use in court, obtaining search warrants, etc."

"Jesus, that reminds me of a similar case we ran not too long ago," Romero said. "It looked like a robbery-murder thing. But nothing was actually taken off the vic. Just left for dead in an alley wearing one tennis shoe."

Jimmy felt his blood turn to ice. He suddenly had a flashback of him and Eva arguing about a lone tennis shoe at their original crime scene.

Jimmy tried to appear casual as he asked, "How does the scene at my place remind you of your robbery?"

"Just the fingerprint thing," Romero said, going for a huge gulp of his beer. He wiped froth away from his mouth and said, "Our vic was shot twice, and we found two matching casings at the scene with partial prints on them. But not enough to match them to anybody in AFIS or NCIC. It was something like less than 20% of a print on either casing. And, you know, the machine wants at least 30% or better before it will search. So, it kind of screwed us on that angle."

"Hey, unofficially, I got a close friend that works over at FBI . I can probably get those prints run through their forensic lab if you want. I can't promise anything, and the results might not hold up in court. But at least you can get an idea of what ballpark you're supposed to be playing in."

"Sure thing, Jimmy. I really appreciate it," Romero said. "If we can meet up tomorrow at some time, I'll sign over the evidence custody forms to you, and you can get the stuff back to me whenever."

"No problem," Jimmy said. What he didn't say was that he was damn interested in both the guy with one tennis shoe and the fingerprints on the casings.

Queens Homicide Detective George Romero raised his hand, waved down toward the other end of the bar, and said, "Danny, get this man another beer on me!"

Danny didn't budge. He just grinned and waved back.