Free Dead Red by Tim O'Mara Page B

you wanna watch a Yankees game and all that’s on is the Mets?”
    “Good point.”
    “Let’s eat, go through the papers, and maybe you’ll doze off for a while.”
    “That’d be good.”
    “If not, I’ve got some stuff in my bag that might help.”
    “Is it legal?”
    “Prescription,” she said, ignoring my weak attempt at humor. “With the hours I work, sometimes a little pill helps.”
    “Whatever gets you through the night, right?”
    *   *   *
    “I don’t know,” Allison was saying. “I’ll check with him when he gets up.”
    I opened my eyes and saw Allison on the other side of the window. She was on her cell phone, pacing. I sat up, having no idea how much time had passed since I’d dozed off. As I willed my reluctant eyes to stay fully open against the sunlight behind Allison so I could make out the time on my cable box, Allison tapped on the sliding glass door to the deck to get my attention. I gave her a blank look and shrugged. She said something I couldn’t hear as she came back into the apartment. She put the phone against her thigh. “Can you talk?”
    Not understanding the question, I said, “Depends.”
    She moved the phone from her leg to her mouth. “Hold on a minute, Pete.” This time she put her hand over the phone. “Can you talk to my guy Pete?”
    “You’ve got a guy named Pete?”
    She shook her head as if talking to a drunk. “A guy from the paper. You met him at the benefit last spring. We’ve done a few stories together.”
    Oh. That Pete. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess. Sometime tomorrow?”
    She gave me a half smile/half grimace. “He’s kind of downstairs.”
    “That was quick.”
    She took a step toward me. “He was the one who covered the shooting at the river last night. He was in the neighborhood and—”
    “How did he know where I live?”
    “I didn’t tell him where you live, Ray. Give me a little credit. He’s waiting inside the McDonald’s on the avenue.”
    We stared at each other for a few seconds, then she spoke into the phone.
    “I’ll call you right back.” She ended the call and gave me her full attention. “He called earlier. I told him you were asleep, but would probably be up soon.”
    “So you sent him to McDonald’s?”
    “I figured it’d save time. You did say you’d talk to a reporter, Ray. You know this business. If we don’t get it now, we’ll get it later, and now is better.”
    Part of me knew she was right. The other part was pissed. I went with the part that knew she was right.
    “Call him back,” I said, getting off the futon. “Tell him to give me ten minutes. I need to use the bathroom and wake up a bit.”
    She put her hand on my neck and pulled me into a kiss.
    “Thanks, Ray. Sorry.”
    “We all have our jobs to do. Tell him to bring me a large coffee. Half and half, no sugar. If he wants to talk to me, he’s gonna work for it.”
    *   *   *
    Ten minutes later I was sitting on my deck next to Allison and across the way from Pete, enjoying a coffee courtesy of their newspaper. As I only had two outdoor chairs, Pete had to stand. I know I could have told him to bring one from inside, but I didn’t want to give him the idea he’d be staying long. He looked out at the skyline, complimented me on my view, and said it was nice to see me again. I said the same even though I had no recollection of meeting him the first time.
    “So,” Pete said. “How well did you know the victim?”
    “Ricky,” I said. “Ricky Torres.”
    “Right. How well did you know Ricky Torres?”
    I gave him the quick version: we’d worked together for a stretch out of the nine-oh; after I resigned because of an on-the-job accident, we’d still see each other for an occasional beer; we’d pretty much lost touch after the Marines sent Ricky overseas; and the other night was the first time I’d seen him since he’d been back. I added that I had no idea why he had called me and that we’d barely spoken about anything