A Father's Wrath (3 page)

Downstairs, in Joe’s living room, a 42” TV sat
on a stand against the wall. A brown sofa and loveseat occupied the
opposite wall. Everything was five years old, but in perfect
shape.

Joe passed through the living room and entered
the kitchen, where he brewed a pot of coffee while copying the
files from the flash drive that Amy had given him to his
laptop.

He heard noises, and he knew what it
was.

Joe opened the
vertical blinds that covered a big glass sliding door leading to
the backyard. He looked down at his two brown dachshunds jumping,
scratching the glass, and licking their lips. “Greedy fucks.” He
had named them
Yin
and
Yang
because when they were younger, they had opposite
personalities.

From the broom closet, Joe retrieved a pair of
old sneakers and slipped them on.

While sliding the big glass door open, Joe had
to be sure the dogs didn’t get in the house. He went outside,
closed the door behind him, and squatted down to pet them. “Yous
two better not bark now. Michelle is in there trying to
sleep.”

The dogs just kept jumping up and down and
licking their lips while Joe pet them.

After a few minutes, he stood and said, “Okay,
okay, I know what you want.” He removed the lid from a big blue
plastic tub and used a small plastic bowl to scoop dry dog food out
of the container and into their big bowl.

While they ate, Joe slipped his hand into the
elaborate doghouse that he’d built, to make sure they still had
water in their bowl from yesterday. They did. A vent tube from the
basement brought heat up to the doghouse, but still, with these
ten-degree days they’ve been having, Joe was worried it was too
cold for the dogs, but it wasn’t. It was very comfortable in
there.

“Okay, guys, I got things to do
now.”

The dogs just kept eating while Joe went back
into the house, closing the glass sliding door behind him. He
slipped out of the old sneakers and back into his slippers, making
sure not to drop any dirt onto the polished fake wood
floor.

After putting away the sneakers, Joe washed his
hands, then checked his computer. The files were done copying. He
unplugged the flash drive and opened the folder on the desktop.
There were hundreds of documents, so he started with the original
detective’s report.

Tears began to
fill Joe’s eyes as he read his father’s name and cause of
death:
Tony Martello. Multiple gunshot
wounds to the head and chest. Dead on arrival.

Joe heard the pipes in the bathroom upstairs
and he knew Michelle was awake. After closing the files and
folders, he powered down his laptop and wiped his eyes with a paper
towel.

Michelle came in the kitchen wearing just her
thong and asked, “Where’d you go?”

“Couldn’t sleep with that sun shining through
the window. You want breakfast?” He took a dozen eggs out of the
refrigerator and showed it to her before placing it on the
counter.

“What I want is to take a shower and then for
you to fuck me, and fuck me proper this time.” She slipped out of
her panties and threw them at Joe.

He caught them and smelled them.

Michelle giggled, then turned
around.

Joe followed her juicy ass as it led him up the
stairs and into the bathroom.

After getting into the shower and adjusting the
water, Joe began to lather Michelle up with some moisturizing body
wash. He started with her small breasts. Instantly, her nipples
grew hard. He rubbed them and pinched them lightly.

Michelle returned the favor by lathering up his
chiseled hairless chest and abdominals, then working her way
down.

CHAPTER 9

Richie hadn’t slept all night, and because he
didn’t have to work, he’d spent all morning pacing the house and
checking his cell phone. His wife had picked up some pastrami
sandwiches for Lunch, but Richie had only eaten a few
bites.

That afternoon, it was time to pick up Taylor
from the hospital. Richie still couldn’t believe this was really
happening. How could it happen to his kid? He turned to Gail who
was helping Chelsea put on her coat. “When we get to the city, drop
me off at the precinct and you go for Taylor, then come back for
me.”

“Come back for you? They’ll probably arrest
you.”

He put his jacket on. “No one’s arresting
me.”

“With that attitude? I know your
temper.”

“I’ll be fine.” He opened the door. “Let’s
go.”

Richie, Gail, and Chelsea walked the skinny
path from their front door past the snow covered front lawn, and
into their ten-year-old Chrysler minivan.

Traffic on the tree-lined New Jersey highway
moved smoothly all the way up to the Staten Island crossings. It
took another thirty minutes from there just to get into Manhattan.
Richie had hoped there wouldn’t be much traffic since it was
Sunday, but he should have known, there was always traffic in New
York.

He double-parked in front of the precinct on
the Upper East Side, a fifteen-story metal and glass building
surrounded by even taller skyscrapers.

Richie got out of the minivan and leaned into
the back, giving Chelsea a kiss on the cheek while she was strapped
into her car seat.

Gail circled the car and jumped in the driver’s
seat. “Don’t get loud in there. They all have guns.”

Richie chuckled, kissed his wife, then moved
away while she took off down the avenue.

Just as he stepped onto the sidewalk, he
slipped on a thin sheet of ice and almost lost his balance. He
caught himself before falling, but his heart was pounding. “Fuck.”
He could hear his wife in his head telling him to keep calm. He
exhaled, then looked around at the few bundled-up people passing on
the sidewalk to make sure no one saw what had just
happened.

Inside the precinct, things were relatively
quiet. He figured the criminals must have stayed in this week with
this blistering cold. The gray paint on the walls was faded and
scuffed. The floor was clean, but the vinyl tiles were worn down
and full of scratches.

The cop at the desk was turned around in his
chair, chatting with another cop who was standing with a folder in
his hand.

Richie stood at the counter and waited as
patiently as he knew how.

Finally, the cop swiveled around in his chair
and asked, “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Detective McCoy.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“He’s working on my son’s case.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Is he expecting
you?”

Richie felt like sending this cop bastard
straight to the moon, but instead, he smiled and said, “No. He is
not expecting me.”

The cop picked up his desk phone and asked
Richie, “What’s your name?”

“Richie Carson.”

He dialed a number, then said, “A Richie Carson
here to see McCoy?”

Richie kept his fake smile on while
waiting.

After about a minute, the cop spoke into the
phone, “Okay. I’ll send him up.” He hung up, then turned to Richie
and said, “Second floor.”

“Thank you.” Richie headed up the stairs and
entered the area where all the detectives’ desks were.

Detective Perez was at the front door. She
shook his hand. “Hello Mr. Carson.” She led him to the back of the
room where McCoy was typing on a computer.

McCoy stood and shook his hand. “Mr.
Carson.”

Richie said, “Hello detective.”

Perez said, “We weren’t expecting
you.”

“I know.”

McCoy said, “Should have called me. I could
have saved you a trip.”

“We had to come into the city anyway. My wife
is at the hospital picking up Taylor.”

There was silence for a moment.

Perez said, “I bet he’ll be happy to get back
home to his Xbox.”

Richie chuckled.

McCoy said, “Well, Mr. Carson. I wish I had
something for you, but we still don’t have any solid leads
yet.”

“But he told you who did it. He described an
Asian man. I only remember seeing two Asian men, so he shouldn’t be
too hard to find.”

“I assure you Mr. Carson we are doing our best
here.”

Perez added, “Haven’t you noticed we’re still
in the same clothes as last night? We haven’t been home yet. I took
a two hour nap this morning on the cot, and I need a
shower.”

“What my partner is trying to say is that we
are doing everything humanly possible to catch the man who did
this.”

“If you were doing everything humanly possible,
then you would have rounded up both of those Chinks and demanded a
DNA sample.”

McCoy shook his
head, “We’re not the
Gastapo
. This is America, and we have
a constitution to follow. Besides, one of the men you’re talking
about is a surgeon and the other is an
ambassador.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Chinese fucking
Jesus! I want this animal caught!”

A few detectives stood and began getting closer
to where Richie and McCoy were standing. He remembered his wife
telling him not to get arrested.

McCoy motioned for the detectives to stand
back. “It’s okay fellas. I got this.” He turned to Richie and said,
“I’ve got the same Irish temper as you, so I won’t hold that
against you, but you better cool down. Go home and wait for my
call.”

Richie stood there for a moment, looking down
at McCoy, then he nodded, turned around, and walked
away.

CHAPTER 10

Joe had on a pair of jeans and boots and his
heavy coat when he drove his five-year-old yellow Mustang to his
mother’s house, which was only a few blocks away from his
house.

He rang the bell twice, then used his key to
let himself in. A few pieces of black furniture sat against olive
green walls with white trim. Everything was as spotless as it was
at Joe’s house.

Joe’s mother zipped out of the kitchen in her
electric wheelchair. “I couldn’t get to the door. I had a meatloaf
in my hands.”

“Don’t worry, Ma.” He sniffed the air. “Smells
good. What is that?”

“Scalloped potatoes.”

“I told you not to go crazy with all this heavy
cooking.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Shrivel up and
die?” She spun her wheelchair around and zipped back into the
kitchen.

Joe followed her.

Mrs. Martello had thick red hair and freckles
with pale blue eyes. Joe inherited his brown hair and brown eyes
from his father’s side of the family, which were dark haired and
dark skinned Sicilians. Joe’s complexion, however, was much lighter
than his father’s family, due to his mother’s Irish
genes.

A former district attorney, Joe’s mother was
paralyzed from the waist down after a car accident in 1984 that
also killed the fetus in her womb and made it impossible for her to
have any more children.

Mrs. Martello took a bottle of Sam Adams out of
the refrigerator. “You want one?”

“I’m working tonight.”

She opened the beer and took a big gulp, then
said, “Everything is done. Just have to let the meatloaf settle for
five minutes before I can cut it.”

Joe opened a can of soda. The only time he had
soda, or beer, was Sunday dinner at his mother’s house.

“So, how’s things going with that new
girl?”

“Michelle.”

“Yes, Michelle.”

Joe knew what his mother wanted to hear, so he
humored her. “Things are going good. She seems like a nice girl.”
He then tried to change the subject. “Did that lazy nurse do
anything today, or was she on Facebook again all
morning?”

“So I guess the conversation about Michelle is
over. I’ll cut the meatloaf now.”

After dinner, Joe kissed his mother goodbye and
left the flash drive in her china cabinet next to the extra set of
keys for his house.

Snow flurries and icy highways forced Joe to
slow down and drive cautiously all the way to Manhattan. He thought
he would be late, but was lucky to find a parking spot just around
the corner from the precinct. He made it in with just enough time
to put on his uniform and make roll-call and briefing.

After a typical meeting, Joe was on his way out
the front door for another night of walking the cold
streets.

Just as he got outside, he ran into Detectives
McCoy and Perez.

Both detectives nodded at Joe, but didn’t say
anything.

Joe stopped and said, “Detectives.”

They stopped.

McCoy said, “Officer?”

Joe asked, “How’s the Carson family
doing?”

McCoy said, “Why don’t you just walk your beat
and let us worry about the Carson family?”