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Jimmy Hilcox looked completely different in sweatpants and a letterman’s jacket pulled over his lacrosse jersey. I guess on days he played sports the grunge look didn’t work out that well. Seeing him reminded me of Brian when he would come home from after-school sports. Everything reminded me of Brian lately.
The young man sat down next to me without a word. I had kids. I knew how to just sit quietly for a few minutes.
Finally Jimmy said, “No one can ever know I talked to you about this.”
I raised my right hand and mumbled, “Swear to God.”
He said, “I’ve heard a couple of people talk about Gary’s murder. He was selling cocaine on the side and made some really good money. Most of us had no idea. Somehow he got on the wrong side of his supplier. He lost some money or drugs, I don’t know which. That’s why he was killed.”
I considered this. “That’s really not anything I couldn’t have figured out myself. Do you have any information about the killer?”
Jimmy nodded. “He’s a student. He goes to one of those charter schools. It’s a school for the medical arts. I think it’s called the Roosevelt Medical Institute or some shit like that.”
“You know anything about the kid?”
“He’s a sophomore. He goes by DiDi, but I heard his real name might be Diego. I don’t know his last name. I know he lives somewhere in Harlem around 127th. I heard he’s a pretty good student and sometimes does his business out of the library at City College or Columbia. No one would bother a Latin kid at either place.”
I could see it was tough for this kid to come to me. He was scared. But he still had the nerve to do the right thing. That meant something to me. Instinctively, I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “You got lacrosse practice this afternoon?”
“A game. Against one of the private schools from the East Side.”
“You ever play against Holy Name?”
“Yeah. How do you know Holy Name?”
“My kids go there.”
“How many kids you got in school?”
“Ten.” Then I caught myself. “Nine.” I could see he was still nervous. His head twisted in every direction, making sure no one had seen him.
I said, “You did good. Real good. No one will ever know what we talked about.”
“And no one will ever play lacrosse with Gary Mule again.”
“But maybe I can even that score.”
Chapter 20
Trying to get information from a charter school was like pulling teeth with a wrench. There was no subtlety in it, and there was no way to ask questions quietly. Everyone was so freaked out about privacy and student rights that they lost sight of the fact that a student in another school was dead.
Finally I was referred to a guidance counselor. She was a big woman who had been at her job as long as I’d been alive. And she was the only one who showed any real common sense.
She had a thick Brooklyn accent, and she said, “I know a lot of the students here. So without going into official records, I can tell you that you’re probably talking about Diego Martinez. A very good student. But there’ve also been some questions about him. A man who’s not his father occasionally drops him off in a Mercedes. He has virtually no friends here at the school. And he does live in one of the projects just north of 127th. Does that sound like the kid you’re looking for?” She slipped a piece of paper across the desk with the address written on it.
It was good to feel the charge of an investigation shoot through me. I was beginning to feel like myself. At least for the moment. I thanked the counselor and hurried out of the school.
The apartment wasn’t hard to find. It was on the second floor of a Housing Authority complex. There were six buildings, each five stories high, with a ratty playground in the center. A rusty five-foot chain-link fence surrounded the weathered and cracked playground equipment. No one was in the center courtyard.
As I climbed the stairs, I could see that the wall was littered with hundreds of pieces of brightly colored used pieces of chewing gum. It was like a colorful tiny rock formation.
I wasn’t wearing a tie, and my jacket had no markings on it. I considered the implications of the police showing up at the apartment. If Diego wasn’t home, he would know to run. If there were a number of his associates inside, I might not be able to handle them by myself. I considered this problem as I continued up the concrete stairs.
I reached in my wallet and dug through some of the business cards I had acquired over the last few months during the course of my daily life. It’s always a good idea for cops to have contacts, but it also helps to have a few business cards you can hold up as your own. I found the one I was looking for.
I took a moment outside the door and just listened. Someone was home. A lot of people were home. I could hear a TV, but I also heard voices. Mostly adult females but some kids as well. I was glad I had the business card.
I knocked on the door and stepped back. A cop would’ve stepped to the side for tactical reasons, but this made me look like what I was pretending to be. I hoped no one shot through the door for no reason.
