Murder 101 Part 17

He hesitated a moment, starting the sentence, stopping, and then starting again. "What do you think, Alison? Is Ray capable of what they . . . of murder?"

I could see his mind working overtime: if Ray did it, then he's a murderer, and he lived next door to us. His property values would plummet. I answered his question with a shrug. Ray was capable of a lot, but murder? It was anyone's guess.

He fixed me a look mixed with pity, sympathy, and sadness. "I'm sorry, Alison. You deserve a lot better than that."

And so do you, I thought. I got a little annoyed. I deserve a lot better than a murderer? Yes, most women do. And you don't have a clue about what's going on in your house, buddy, so save the pity for someone else. But instead of saying what I really thought, I stood with a smile plastered on my face. I watched the kid on the tricycle for another second before saying good-bye to Jackson and giving Trixie a pat on the head. Trixie was fast becoming my favorite next-door neighbor.

The street was more deserted farther away from my house. I supposed that most people with kids ate early, and everyone was safely tucked inside, serving chicken nuggets and french fries to hungry young ones. I started down the street, glad that I had grabbed my black-leather blazer out of the front-hall closet; the day, once sunny and bright, had turned dark, windy, and cold. I stopped at the corner at the intersection that united my street and the street down to the station and b.u.t.toned the three b.u.t.tons on my jacket.

A black Mercedes sedan, s.h.i.+ny and with tinted windows, pulled up alongside me. The pa.s.senger-side window disappeared and I looked in at Peter Miceli's round face. "Hi, Alison!" he said, as if running into me was the most normal thing that could happen. Staten Island was a ninety-minute drive from my house; this wasn't an accident. Or a social call.

I froze in place, a terrified smile on my face. "Peter, I have a train to catch."

He stayed in the car but kept talking. "Where are you going? I'll drive you."

I backed away from the car. "The City." I thought short answers might be better under these circ.u.mstances.

He slowly maneuvered the car so that it was as close to me as it could get without running me down. His tone changed. "Get in."

I looked in the window at him and saw a gun on his lap.

"Get in," he repeated. He reached across the seat and opened the pa.s.senger door.

I got in and pulled the door shut, staying as close to the door as possible. The door locks went down with an ominous "thunk," and Peter started driving, away from the train, my street, and the town.

After five minutes of silence, he looked over at me. "Put your seat belt on." He waited until I did so before continuing. We were now on the Saw Mill River Parkway, heading south. "So, I understand you've been spending time with Detective Crawford."

I stared straight ahead and kept silent. My right leg went up and down, shaking uncontrollably, and I put my hands and my purse on top of it to stop the trembling.

"He's good-looking. Seems like a catch," he said, as if he approved of my taste in men. He should have met my ex-husband.

"I guess," I said, morphing into a seventh grader.

"He tell you anything about who slaughtered my Kathy?" Instead of heading toward Manhattan on the Henry Hudson, he merged left and got onto the Major Deegan Expressway going south, which would take us through the Bronx. I felt a sob rise in my throat but kept it there; I'm sure he knew I was scared, but I wasn't going to let him know it by crying.

"We don't talk about the case," I said, my voice steady and calm.

"What do you talk about?"

I shrugged. "Nothing much."

He grinned. "Oh, it's one of those kinds of relations.h.i.+ps. Not a lot of talking. Before I met Gianna, I had a few of those kinds of relations.h.i.+ps." He looked over at me. "Are you scared of me, Alison?"

"A little."

He put the gun into a leather-lined pocket on his car door. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He continued driving on the Deegan, weaving in and out of traffic. "I heard what happened with you and that idiot, Vince. Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Shame about that kid. But that's what happens when you don't have a father growing up," he said. He clucked sympathetically and looked over at me again. "Funny thing is, he was just like his father even though he never knew him. Loose cannon." He switched lanes again. "You know what they say: the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

I didn't say anything and let him talk.

"We weren't crazy about it when Kathy started dating him. She's just like her mother, though. Bad taste in men," he said, and then caught himself. "Before she ended up with me, that is." He let out a throaty laugh. "Do you remember the guys Gianna used to date before she met me?"

I shook my head.

"Crazy guys. Nuts," he said, taking his index finger and rotating it around by his head. "Her parents were so happy when she started dating me. You could say that they had picked me out for her."

I looked at the speedometer; he was going the speed limit, so there was no chance that we would be stopped for speeding. He turned off an exit that I wasn't familiar with and headed east on a dark road.

He continued with his stream-of-consciousness monologue. "The only thing I can't figure out-besides who killed Kathy, that is-is why they left her in your car. Why your car, Alison?"

I had asked myself that a thousand times and had come to the same conclusion as Max. "My car was s.h.i.+tty. It was easy to steal."

He had a look on his face that told me he had never considered that explanation. "s.h.i.+tty? In what way?"

"It was old, the locks didn't work, and it's the kind of car most people wouldn't miss." I looked out the window and tried to figure out where we were, but couldn't. The area became more desolate, with old, dilapidated houses dotting either side of the street but becoming fewer in number the farther east we got. I tightened my grip on my bag and almost gave in to the urge to cry.

"That's a shame. You really should have invested in better transportation."

Thanks for the advice, a.s.shole, I thought to myself. I'll be dead soon, and the only transportation I'll need is a hea.r.s.e.

He slowed the car down and crept along a side street. "I want you to do something for me, Alison. I want you to find out everything your detective boyfriend knows about this case. Everything. Got it?"

"He's not my boyfriend, Peter, and he won't tell me anything." Although I should have agreed with him, I knew it was fruitless to try to pry anything out of Crawford. So, what happened when Peter came back, and I still didn't know anything? I was starting to suspect that the things that I had heard about Peter were true, and that made me fish food any way you looked at it.

"He'll tell you. Just keep asking," he said, and pulled the car over. I saw a series of large warehouses, but nothing else. "Maybe you can take another trip to the beach. The long car ride might give you the opportunity to chat a little more."

I froze. So, he knew about Crawford's beach house and our trip there. I looked out the window of the car to hide the fact that tears were rolling down my cheeks. The street outside was dark and deserted. So, this is where I'll die, I thought.

"Let's just say it would behoove you to find out anything you can and let me know." He patted my knee.

It would also behoove me to stay alive, but that didn't seem likely, given my driving companion, the gun in the side pocket of the driver's side door, and the location-a dark, deserted area of the southeast Bronx.

"By the way, I understand they had your ex in custody. What's that about? The paper says he's the main suspect," he said.

I inched closer to the door; I was practically sitting on the door handle. That wouldn't help me if he pulled out the gun and shot me in the head, but it made me feel better. "They questioned him. Just like they questioned all of Kathy's teachers."

He turned toward me. "They didn't bring you into the station house. Or Sister Mary. Why'd they bring Ray in?"

"I don't know, Peter."

"He did it, didn't he?"

"I don't know, Peter," I repeated. I was glad that it was dark in the car; I didn't want Peter to see the fear on my face.

He began muttering, almost to himself, like I wasn't in the car. "It's not like the old days. There was honor! Respect!" His voice rose. "You left the families alone. They had nothing to do with business!"

I had nothing to add. So this was about who killed Kathy, and a potential turf war to boot. I didn't know which situation was better-if Ray killed her, he would end up dead. If one of Peter's rivals killed her, that person-and maybe others-would end up dead. It was going to be ugly any way you looked at it.

He pulled the car over to the side of the road and put it in park. In an instant, he turned menacing, grabbing me roughly by the neck and pulling me close to him. The change in him was so quick that I didn't have time to react. I heard a squeak emanate from my throat as his hand, the size of a bear claw, wrapped around my throat. We were nose to nose, and his breath was hot on my face. "Find out who did this, Alison."

I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn't have to look at him.

"Let's put it this way: if you find out, I'll owe you big-time. And if you don't-well, let's just say I'll continue to owe you." He calmed down slightly, but retained his hold on my throat. "You might not be too crazy about the ex, Alison, but I'm sure you don't want him dead, either." His fat, stubby fingers tightened around my throat, and I began to choke. "Find out, Alison. Find out who did this. Because if you don't, after I'm done with Ray, I'm gonna start looking for your friend, Max."

There was no more air left in my lungs, and dots danced in front of my eyes. Tears rolled down my cheeks. There was nothing I could say. Peter finally let go of my throat and I gulped in air. He hit the b.u.t.ton that opened the locks on the doors. "Get out, Alison."

I looked at him, unbelieving, but I took off my seat belt. We were in the middle of nowhere. Worse than that, we were in the middle of a crime-filled nowhere. I'd be dead in an hour if I didn't get out, but I'd also be dead if I stayed in the car.

He gripped the steering wheel. "Get out of the car!" he shouted.

Before I had a chance to act, Peter opened the car door and shoved me with a force that stunned me more than anything else. He reached over and closed the door, giving me one last furious look before driving away.

Twenty-two.

I watched in disbelief from my position on the ground as the car sped away, the taillights getting smaller until the car was out of sight. I got up and looked around, putting a hand to my hip, feeling my b.l.o.o.d.y leg through a gaping hole in my pants. The blood seeped through my fingers, and I rooted around in my purse for a tissue to blot some of it, coming up empty-handed. I hobbled over to the sidewalk and stood under the one streetlight that was working and looked around. There was nothing and n.o.body around who could a.s.sist me in getting from this point to a safer haven. As I stood there and took in the broken concrete of the sidewalks and the huge warehouses in the distance, instead of getting scared, I became angry. I started walking toward the Major Deegan Expressway, which I could see in the distance, elevated above the street I was on.

My next thought was to call Max. Although I seemed to have a little grace period until Peter killed both of us, my thoughts turned to her sitting at the bar at n.o.bu, waiting for me, and possibly being tailed by some Mafia hood with a name like "Tony Two Legs" or something like that. I pulled my phone out and dialed her number, in shock when her cell phone went directly to voice mail; Max's phone is always on, and she always answers it. I tried to figure out what kind of message to leave. "Max, you're probably going to get killed tonight . . . get out of n.o.bu and find a safe house" didn't seem like an option. I was clearly out of familiar territory. After listening to dead air for a few moments, I settled on the old standby: "Max, please call me when you get this message."

How in G.o.d's name had I gotten mixed up in this? And how was I going to get myself out of it? I guess I was lucky that Peter hadn't killed me. At the same time, I was angry that he thought he had so much power and was in such command of his intimidation skills that he could kidnap me right on my own street, drive me into the Bronx, and hurl me out of his car, warning me that he would probably kill my best friend if I didn't do what he wanted. I limped along the deserted street, angry, confused, and alone, thinking that if I could get to civilization, I could get out of here and get back home and put the whole evening behind me.

As I got closer to what I was hoping was civilization, it became apparent that "civilization" might not be an apt term for what I would encounter. I had watched enough nightly news shows to know where most crimes took place and where in the City to avoid. Where I was ranked highly on the list of places that a solo, female college professor should avoid. As much as I wanted to get out of this situation by myself, I realized that I couldn't go to the nearest inhabited block; nor could I climb up to the Major Deegan Expressway and hail a cab or a good Samaritan. Which left me no choice but to call the one person I knew could help me.

"For f.u.c.k's sake," I muttered, and opened my cell phone again. With shaking hands, I dialed Crawford's cell-phone number, which I had committed to memory. He picked up after a few rings. "Hi," he said warmly. He seemed happy to hear from me, which was a good sign. I was sure his mood would change once he heard my predicament. Even if we stayed casual friends, I was becoming a giant pain in the a.s.s.

I tried to steady my voice but it was tight after Peter had cut off the air to my larynx. "I'm sorry that I called you because I know you're out to dinner with the girls, but I don't know what to do and I don't know where I am," I babbled. I looked around and saw a rat scurry out from under a sewer grate.

"What's going on?" he said, sounding alarmed.

"Crawford, I'm somewhere in the Bronx. I don't know where I am," I said, giving a little laugh and trying to convey a calmness that I clearly didn't feel.

"Why are you in the Bronx?" he asked.

Good question. "Peter Miceli dropped me off here. How do I get out of here?"

"Peter Miceli?" he said, confused. He must have decided to come back to that later, because he said, "Just stay calm for a minute." I guess I wasn't as good an actress as I thought. "Do you see any street signs?" he asked.

"I'm sorry that I interrupted dinner with your girls," I said, looking around.

"Stop apologizing and just tell me where you are."

I didn't see any street signs, but in the distance, on one of the large warehouses, I saw a sign that read BRONX TERMINAL MARKET. "I'm about two blocks away from the Bronx Terminal Market. Do you know where that is?"

"Are you north or south of the market?"

I told him I was south of it. "I can see Yankee Stadium, and the Deegan Expressway over me," I said, and focused on a street sign down from me a bit. "I think I'm on 151st Street. Do you know where that is?"

"Stay put," he said. "Don't move unless you have to."

Unless I had to? I didn't like the sound of that but I kept listening.

"I'll send someone from the four-one over. Keep an eye out. I'll call you back as soon as I know a car is on the way. Keep the phone on," he said, and hung up.

I stood under the streetlight and waited for what seemed like a lifetime for the sound of a siren breaking through the menacing still of the night. I crossed my arms over my chest, nearly jumping out of my skin at the trill of the phone. In the distance, I could see revolving lights atop a cruiser, coming my way. "h.e.l.lo?"

"They're on their way," he said.

"I can see them."

"They're going to take you to the station house. Wait until I get there before you talk to anyone. I've already told them that I want to question you."

"But what about the girls?" I asked.

"We're just finis.h.i.+ng up. I'll rent some movies and set them up at home. They'll be fine." He paused. "They're kind of used to this."

The cruiser sped down the street toward me and skidded to a stop right in front of me. I wasn't hard to spot, a lone woman with ripped pants standing under the one streetlight that worked. "They're here. I'll wait for you at the precinct. Thank you, Crawford." I put the phone back in my bag and ran over to the police car, jumping into the back before the officers could even speak to me.

There were two of them: a Hispanic man and a black woman, who was driving. She turned around. "Are you OK, ma'am?"

It was the nicest "ma'am" I had ever heard. "I'm fine. Thanks for coming to get me."

The male officer turned around. "We're taking you back to the four-one. Detective Crawford from the fiftieth is coming to get you."

I took a deep breath. "You guys don't by any chance have a barf bag, do you?" I asked, as my stomach roiled. The adrenaline rush of being picked up by Peter, tossed from his car, and discovering the gaping wound on my leg had left me a little queasy.

The female officer took a hard right and drove the car straight up onto the curb. "Open the door!" she yelled as she looked in the rearview mirror and saw my face go from bright red to white in an instant. I opened the back door and hung my head out over the sidewalk and waited a moment while everything went upside down and then right side up.

"False alarm," I said, and pulled myself back in the car. I rested my head against the back of the seat, thinking of how many s.k.a.n.ky prisoners had been in this car and wondering what percentage of them had head lice. I sat up straight, moved to the edge of the seat, and tried not to touch anything.

We arrived at the station house a few minutes later. The male officer opened the back door for me and led me into the building, through a door flanked by two green lights. The interior was lit by the harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look green and terminally ill. There was a huge desk, behind which a senior officer was perched. He looked down at me and smiled.

"Got a little lost, huh?" He had a chestful of colorful bars, which I guess made him the head cop comedian for the evening.

I managed a weak smile. "Where can I wait for Detective Crawford?" I asked as my escorts, the two cops who had driven me here, drifted off to parts unknown. Maybe they had some kind of bullpen where they told idiot civilian stories. Mine was sure to be a hit. "So, then, she gets in the car . . ." they'd be saying, having a good laugh at my expense.

The cop behind the desk pointed to a long wooden bench against the wall. I sat between an elderly Asian woman and a large white woman with a headful of cotton-candy hair who was painted into a purple spandex dress. What separated me from my bench mates was that I was the only one not handcuffed to the bench. I looked down at my purse and tried to remember how to mentally recite a decade of the rosary; Kevin had told me that it was a good meditation and would relax me in times of stress. This was about as stressful as you could get. I started saying Hail Marys.

The purple-spandex lady trained a heavily made-up eye on me. "What did they get you for?"

I looked over at her. "Get me for?"