Red on Red Page 15

  “Oh, relax. He don’t know a thing we say. Habla inglés, bambino? Habla inglés?”

  The baby smiled, uncomprehending. He was no prettier for it, poor kid. Esposito crouched down and picked him up again.

  “What’s your name, little man?”

  He pinched Esposito on the nose and laughed.

  “We’re in the clear. Look at the mug on this little bastard—ugly little thing, isn’t he? The babysitter probably watched him for an hour and jumped out the window. Cual es su nombre?”

  “Mi nombre es Jose.”

  “See?”

  “Sí.”

  “No, not you, junior. Anyway, as long as I have you here, do you hereby give me permission and authority to search this apartment, for evidence relating to a homicide that occurred within the county of New York, including but not limited to weapons, papers, and communication devices that could have been used in the course of or the furtherance of this crime, and are evidence thereof? Well, do you, Jose?”

  “Sí.”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  “He’ll make an excellent witness. The jury’s gonna love him.”

  “Only if they put him on closed-circuit TV, and put a dot on that face.”

  Jose pinched Esposito’s nose again, and, squealing, kicked to be let free. Esposito set him down, and a pursuit ensued—“I’m gonna getcha! I’m gonna getcha!”—as the detectives considered their options.

  “We could arrest the first person who walks through the door,” Esposito said.

  “Yeah, it’s something. But it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “No.”

  Nick went back down the hall and locked the door. Whoever came in wouldn’t surprise them. There had been enough of that today. Nick didn’t think they’d find the shotgun here, and they didn’t. They were as likely to find golf clubs. There was nothing—nothing in the bedroom closets, some milk and leftover Chinese in the refrigerator, three cans of beans in the cabinets. But Nick saw a cable bill from February on the floor beside the bed; they had been here since the beginning of the year, at least. Kiko lived here. Had they surprised him, Kiko might have fought them, or he might have come quietly, for an hour of polite denials; Esposito was prepared for these possibilities and more, to make a civil impression, or a brutal bond. He was not prepared to babysit.

  “Well?” Esposito asked.

  “Yup.”

  “And?”

  “Leaving is out. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “We could call somebody.”

  “Who? The cops?”

  If they locked up Kiko, or Mrs. Kiko, it would be for endangering the welfare of a minor, a misdemeanor, a wonderfully broad charge. Child Welfare might take Jose away, or they might not. What had happened today? Mrs. Kiko might have had a twelve-year-old girl from down the hall watch Jose, and her mother had called her home. There might not be a Mrs. Kiko, and it might not be Kiko’s kid. Whatever it was, it wasn’t bright, and it wasn’t right, but nobody necessarily needed to get arrested for it. And they weren’t here for the baby.

  Child abuse was like art and obscenity—you knew it when you saw it, and what they had wasn’t yet clear. People like Esposito and Nick tended to hedge when making the child abuse call, though threatening to do so was often useful. The detectives’ parents would have been arrested any number of times, by today’s rules. No one had worn seat belts, or helmets when they’d ridden a bike; they had felt that a smack in the ass often had done more good than harm. From the end of the school day until dinner, and for the whole glorious summer, Nick and his friends had wandered the streets like stray dogs. A hundred blocks down, childhood was conducted like a military campaign, the days mapped to the minute, the kids tested, counseled, tutored, drilled, and driven like future astronauts, and half of them were allergic to air. As it had become clear to Nick and Allison that they would not have children, other peoples’ had become dangerously important to them; toward the end, their best conversations together had been exchanges of overheated opinions about mothers who were overbearing, fathers who had left.

  Look, there was little Jose, eating a nickel from under the couch cushion.

  “Espo, get him …”

  “Spit it out, you little bastard.”

  “Would you—”

  “He don’t understand a thing.”

  Espo expertly scooped him up and dug the coin from his mouth. He carried him into the kitchen, took out a carton of the leftover Chinese—pork fried rice—sniffed it, and tipped a pile of it onto a paper plate. He set the child and the plate down on the living room floor.

  “You have a three-year-old, right? Do kids this age eat real food?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah. My little guy would eat hubcaps. You’d think they’d have stuff for this guy, though—cereal, fruit, a little pasta. There’s none of that.”

  “No. No toys, either.”

  “And no pictures. Do you know a woman who doesn’t have pictures of her kid up somewhere? Even this kid.”

  “How do we know there’s just one kid? Another one could have wandered. Nobody’s watching.”

  “What do you want to do, check the basement, the roof?”

  “I don’t know. We wait awhile, I guess.”

  “Well, I’m not paying for college.”

  Jose finished eating, and began to dance on his plate of fried rice. A mouse scurried across the far floor, along the wall molding, and the baby shrieked with delight. He gave chase as the mouse dodged back and forth with jittery little hops before disappearing under the radiator. Jose slapped the hollow steel sides and bayed in joy.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Esposito.

  Esposito picked up Jose and the plate again, and took them into the kitchen. He tossed the plate aside, and washed the child in the sink, hands and feet, tickling him as Jose struggled under the water. He offered Nick the squirming child, but Nick raised a hand to demur.

  “Not big on kids, Nick?”

  “If he’d caught the mouse, maybe. I don’t want to reward him if he doesn’t win. Sends the wrong message. You hungry?”

  “I could do with a bite. What are you thinking?”

  “There’s a joint on the corner. It’s not bad, they deliver.”

  “And if the Kikos come back?”

  “And if the Kikos come back?”

  The invasion had turned into an occupation; like it or not, they were obliged to remain. And to remain, they had to eat. Esposito looked out the window to get the name of the restaurant, and called in an order of Cuban sandwiches and plátanos. When he sat on the couch, Jose climbed on his lap and pulled at his cheek. Esposito fished for the remote control and flipped through channels as Jose nuzzled into him. Nick wasn’t sure if he was envious. Esposito stopped channel surfing when he came across a Spanish music video with a nearly topless blonde.

  Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Nick and Esposito looked at each other for a moment, before realizing that the Kikos wouldn’t knock. Still, Nick drew his gun and checked the peephole before uttering a guttural “Qué?”

  “Comidas.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick opened the door and paid the man, who looked confused. Nick gave him twenty bucks and held up a hand as the man started to count out the change.

  “Gracias.”

  “De nada…. Sabe que vive aquí? Habla inglés?”

  “Sí. Man and lady, baby.”

  “Good people?”

  “Good customer …”

  “You know their names? Where they work? Phone numbers?”

  “No, I sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  Nick locked the door and brought the bag of food back to the couch. They dug into the sandwiches, and Esposito fed bits of his to the baby, taking apart bread, pork, ham, pickle, and cheese, to see what he liked. He liked them all, except for the pickle, which he spat onto Esposito’s collar.

  “Thanks, buddy!”

  Espo pulled out the pickles
and tore off a corner of the sandwich. Jose took a bite, chewing greedily and swallowing it down. He opened his mouth for another. Esposito hadn’t started his sandwich, and Nick had eaten half of his by then. Esposito looked at Nick with irritation. When they finished the sandwiches, they picked at the plátanos. Jose slid down from Esposito’s shoulder and lay on the couch. He put his feet up on Esposito’s leg, to maintain contact. The baby had taken to him. Nick settled back and took the remote. CNN had a story about a missing child in California, red-haired and freckle-faced. He reminded Nick of the fair-haired boy at the playground, the one they’d decided was the cop’s kid.

  No missing children here in the Heights, Nick thought. They had extra, more than they wanted. People left them like stray cats, feeding them on leftovers and mice. He had a missing child, too. At work. The Lopez girl. The girl wasn’t even really missing. She was playing hooky in reverse, skipping home for school. Not a priority, not even a case. A favor. Nick considered the baby dozing by Esposito, how Jose needed to touch him, even with his feet, newly in love with his newest friend. If they did their jobs, Nick realized, the baby would grow up fatherless.

  “That’s enough of this,” said Esposito, taking the remote. He flipped channels until it came to a local station, where the two detectives they’d met at the diner were being interviewed about their pattern rape case. A brunette reporter held a microphone in front of the younger one’s face; the other held a sketch.

  “And can you tell us that number again for our viewers to call, if they have any information?”

  “You gotta be kidding me!” Esposito started to yell, curbing his volume as Jose almost stirred beside him. He flung the remote at the TV and missed. It clattered against the wall. Further frustrated, Esposito seized the throw pillow beside him and hurled it at the screen. It did not miss, and the TV tilted back and toppled with a kind of slow-motion majesty, an air of almost political significance, as if it were a section of the Berlin wall. It fell with a crunch and went silent. Jose did not wake, but Nick felt the need to whisper.

  “You could have just changed the channel.”

  Esposito shrugged, unsure at first whether he should be ashamed of himself. He hadn’t intended to break the TV, Nick figured, but as Nick watched the diffident twist of his mouth reshape itself into smile, Nick knew that Esposito had rendered a verdict in his own favor.

  “Now what are we going to watch?” Nick asked.

  But Esposito held a finger to his lips—“Shh!”—and then to an ear. Listen. Nick thought it was a diversion until he heard it, too—the sound of the key fiddling in the lock. Esposito held up a hand to warn him against jumping up; they were not the ones who should be worried about getting caught. At the same time, this was not the right kind of surprise for Kiko—two strange men in his home, with his child. The lock was sticky, and the door creaked as the key turned one way, another, trying to find the trick spot to unlock it. That’s why it had been open, carelessness and confidence at once. Esposito stood, and Nick followed him down the hall. He opened the door to a shocked Kiko, who had a key in one hand, a bag of Chinese food in the other. No gun, and no time to get one.

  “Good afternoon. We’re from Child Welfare,” was Esposito’s stern greeting. “Can you tell me why this little boy was left alone, in an unlocked apartment? Are you his father? Where’s his mother? Please, come inside.”

  “The lock, it’s broken. I told the landlord, like, five times….”

  Esposito took him by the shoulder and guided him in, as Nick walked ahead.

  “Is my baby …”

  “Jose is fine. No thanks to you.”

  “Sorry.”

  Leaning down to the couch, Kiko lifted up Jose, who didn’t wake; looking down, he saw the fried rice on the floor, the broken TV, but he was in no position to complain.

  Kiko asked, “You want to sit?”

  “You sit.”

  Kiko was slim and wiry, with fine alert features and a goatee. He was the same color as Jose, with the same curly hair, but the baby was strapping while the man was slight; there was a facial resemblance, in a kind of bestial parody, so the sight of man and monkey-boy together suggested that a great evolutionary change awaited, though in which direction was not clear. Nick and Esposito stood above them, arms folded, and let the silence weigh down on Kiko. Holding the child both calmed and unnerved him.

  “You really from Child Welfare?”

  “You really his father?” Esposito had the advantage.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re not from Child Welfare, but they’re on speed dial—you feel me? We came to talk to you, but all we found was Jose, home alone, running around trying to stick his fingers in electrical sockets. He knocked the TV over, almost got killed. How many cases we get like that, Nick? Kid-crushings, TV-related?”

  “More than you’d think,” said Nick, grim-faced.

  “It’s messed up, I-I know,” said Kiko, disconcerted, stammering. “My wife, she went out. Then I just went to get something to eat.”

  Jose stirred from sleep and kissed his father. He turned to the detectives, smiling, then dug into the Chinese food bag, evidently familiar with the lunch special. He found the egg roll, tore open the wax paper, and mashed it in his mouth.

  “Easy, papi.”

  Jose scrambled down from the couch and ran over to Esposito, dropping the egg roll on the floor, and then offering it to him, his damp little hands the model of generosity. Kiko looked guilty as Esposito picked Jose up and had a bite, a gesture that took some discipline, as he was fastidious about food. But it was worth it. Kiko slumped in his seat, and then Esposito set Jose down. They should have taught the kid their names, Nick thought; it would have galled Kiko terribly.

  “How long were you gone, Kiko?” Esposito began.

  “Like, fifteen minutes.”

  “No.”

  “How long were you guys here?”

  “Stop playing games.”

  They meant the opposite, of course. They meant, Keep playing and keep losing. It was going so well that they almost forgot they had nothing on him. Esposito and Nick pummeled him with questions, asking another before the last one could be answered.

  “Like, two hours, maybe three.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Belkis…. She went shopping with her sister.”

  “And she left Jose with you?”

  “Does she do that a lot?”

  “When does she get back?”

  The idea was to keep jabbing, to make him run, to make him think he was failing the test, without overwhelming him entirely, which would shut him up.

  “She should be back soon.”

  “You know why we’re here, right?” Esposito asked. Nick let Esposito pursue this line alone.

  “Yeah.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “The moreno who got killed.”

  “Yeah, that moreno. What was his name, Kiko?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No shit, you don’t know. He was the wrong moreno. He was his brother.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Yeah, word gets around.”

  Kiko shook his head.

  After every admission, you had to decide—push ahead or pause? Every question was a risk. So far, the admissions had been small but significant, legally worthless but psychologically promising. The way these conversations moved, it could be uphill on gravel or downhill on grease. Now the road ahead looked beautifully greasy.

  “You knew the brother. Malcolm.”

  “Everybody did. He killed my cousin.”

  “Nobody would say Malcolm didn’t deserve it. But that’s not what happened, am I right?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  That was not good, the passive voice, as if he were a face in the crowd, a whisperer among the whispers. Push or pause? Esposito pushed.

  “What do you mean, ‘they,�
�� Kiko?”

  “You know, everybody.”

  “You’re right, everybody says it. There were people who saw it, witnesses. Everybody knows what happened. There’s no secrets with this one, no argument. You know his name, Kiko?”

  “Nah.”

  “Can I tell you his name? Do you want to know it?”

  “Nah.”

  “His name was Milton Cole, not Malcolm Cole,” Esposito went on. “He didn’t hustle. He was a straight kid. He wasn’t in the game, Kiko. He didn’t deserve this. You know he had a kid, same age as yours? You know what his kid’s name is? The kid’s name is Jose. I think the girl is Dominican. But same kid, same name, same age. You know that?”

  “Nah.”

  That part, Esposito made up, Nick knew. Still, it seemed to work, and Esposito kept at it.

  “And you know about Milton’s mother, right? She has a heart attack, when she hears about it? She’s dead, too, Kiko! You missed, my man! You can’t miss with a shotgun, but you did! You killed a beautiful kid and a nice old lady, and you might as well have killed the baby, because little Jose, he’s been screaming ever since.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  Push.

  “No shit, it’s messed up. It’s messed up, and you messed it up.”

  Push.

  “Yeah,” Kiko said.

  “You know you gotta come with us, Kiko, and deal with this.”

  “Yeah. Who’s gonna take care of Jose?”

  “Now you care? Why not just leave him again?”

  Kiko sagged deeper on the couch. “Can I call my wife?”

  “Do that. Make it quick.”

  Kiko slipped a hand into his pants pocket, and pulled out a cellphone. Esposito stopped him. “Listen, Kiko, all you say to Belkis is, she gotta come home, because you gotta go. No scenes. Be a man about this.”

  That was a targeted appeal to the demographic, and it worked. The detectives couldn’t follow all of the Spanish words, but there weren’t many—“Me tengo que ir … sí … diez minutos? Muy bien.” Nick was not unimpressed with the brevity of spousal negotiation.

  “Can I eat?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was a risk, but the reward was due, and it was a needless confrontation to deny him. That he even asked meant he had defaulted to prisoner mode, but food changed the body, changed the mood. He could find courage, or need a nap. Still, it was better to indulge him; this was not the fight to pick. As he opened up the bag, little Jose, happy little prop, clambered back onto the couch with him. Kiko’s eyes were teary as he smiled, opening up the spare ribs, and his breath was short and shallow. Nick thought Kiko might cry as he handed over a rib to Jose, and Nick wondered whether the crying would work in their favor. A little early, he thought. He was broken, but they couldn’t let him disintegrate just yet. Jose took the rib and devoured it like a caveman, tearing the flesh off the tip with his lower teeth. Attaboy, kid, you’ve earned it.