When he arrived at NYU Medical Center, he bought some blue flowers in the lobby. He headed up to the floor where his wife, his love, his partner for the last thirty-eight years was recuperating. The instant he entered the room and caught sight of her lying there, a shapeless lump under the sheets, wired to the electronic equipment all around her, his eyes welled up. She was so brave. He had been shot three times in the line of duty. He had received five department commendations for bravery, three awarded by three of the four mayors that had spanned his career. He was brave by accident. Each time was a surprise; he had not expected to get shot that day. Cynthia, on the other hand, faced her dragon, looked it right in the eye, and went forward fearlessly.
No, that’s not true. She experienced fear, but she was brave enough to not let it stop her.
Dennis didn’t know if he would have had the grit to look into the maw of eternity with the dignity and calm she exhibited. Unlike him, she quietly steeled herself, without anger, agitation, or any of the male testosterone-laced peer pressure that always diluted his initial instinct to run and hide under the covers. As he tiptoed over to her, she appeared as if she were about twelve years old and in the middle of a sweet dream. He caressed her hair with gentleness out of character with his big, meaty mitts. At that moment, she was his little girl and he was her daddy. This was as vulnerable as he’d ever seen his wife and it brought up feelings that he’d only known with his Kelly when she was much younger. He wanted her to have no pain, no fears, no worries — all the unreasonable requests a father would make to God as he sits marveling at a sleeping daughter.
She began to stir. Dennis withdrew his hand, fearing he had brought her back to this reality, with all its pain and scary, grown-up consequences. He placed his palm on her pale hand and focused on it, trying to direct into her any life energy and other stuff he never believed in ’til now. Her eyes opened and he was glad that he was there. He liked being the first thing she saw.
“Hi, baby. You did great!” This was the same thing he’d said to Cynthia’s opening eyes back when Kelly was born and she awakened after her caesarean delivery. He kissed Cynthia on the forehead. She felt warm and smelled of some kind of ointment. She managed a smile. He placed his head next to hers and stayed bent over like that, in silence, for more than thirty minutes.
Within an hour, Cynthia was talking. Even though the test results wouldn’t be known for a week, they dangerously entertained the notion of a European holiday, perhaps a house in Italy, possibly sharing it with her sister and brother-in-law. She and her sister were the only two left in their family. It would be good for them to spend time together, now that they realized how precious time was.
And so the night progressed. Eventually she fell off into a restful sleep. After a while, he stopped hearing the soft beep of her heart monitor. He slept in the chair that he had moved close to her bed, awaking whenever he shifted only to realize he wasn’t in their own bed. Cynthia awoke around 4 AM. Automatically, as happens after years of sleeping together, Dennis slowly awoke looking right at her.
She had a look of contentment as she lay there and just looked at him for a long time, then smiled. “Hey, handsome, I’m hungry. What does a girl have to do to get bacon and eggs around here?”
Appetite being one of the best signs of recovery, he determined a little thank-you prayer to God was appropriate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It had been two weeks since Cynthia’s procedure and the news was looking good. Although the doctors made the usual disclaimers about being vigilant against any recurrences, it was as clean a bill of health as anyone given her history could expect. Dennis wanted to shake the hand of every doctor and nurse involved. Instead, he wrote a check for two thousand dollars to the National Institute for Neurologic Disorders and Stroke.
In keeping with that good news, there came another break in the case. Benton had shown several photographs of the beard to the office workers of the Work with Pride Foundation. The staff didn’t recognize him as anyone who purchased a ticket. Dennis experienced an inspiration only bestowed on a cop who has had his antenna fine-tuned to crime as long as he had. Did anyone report losing a ticket? Indeed, someone did recall a man who claimed to have lost his ticket. His name was Enrico Hernandez of the Bronx.
Dennis went to Enrico’s Body Shop at 2935 Southern Boulevard. There he found Enrico screaming at a guy who was having difficulty smoothing the Bondo on a hammered-out fender of an ’87 Impala with a sanding wheel. The man was making a mess of the compound filler. Eventually, Dennis got Enrico to focus on the missing ticket.
“Yeah, I lost the ticket, but the girl at the table outside remembered me and let me go in.”
“Why did you go to the dinner?”
“You see this neighborhood? The homeless people here were coming out of the woodwork. This Work with Pride thing really helped them. Two of their guys work across the street. I might hire one myself next month. So, yeah, I wanted to go and support them.” He then gave an exasperated gasp as he yelled to the worker, “Hey pendejo, large slow circles, por favor!” He waved his hand in big round motions to emphasize his point to the hard-of-Spanglish. Dennis tried to get him back on track.
“Did you know Mr. Taggert?”
“Who?”
“The man that was being honored that evening.”
“Oh, him. No. I was there because they give Jimmy an award.”
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“One of the guys from across the street. I chased him away a few times. I mean every day he was here with his hand out. After a while it got to be too much, you know?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Then one day I don’t see him come around anymore. I figured he’s dead. Then he shows up one day working across the street for Julio. Now, he brings me coffee most mornings, says it makes him feel good to hand me a cup, instead of the other way around.”
“Yeah, I remember that guy. They gave him that plaque.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were a cop!” Enrico said with a laugh.
“You’re good. No, I retired three years ago.”
“So why you asking me all these questions?”
Dennis pulled out the picture of the beard. “You ever see this man?”
“No.”
“We have reason to believe he was in the office when you went to purchase your ticket.”
“Let me see that again. Yeah, now that you mention it, he looks like the guy that was hanging out while I was there. I remember thinking he looked too clean to be homeless, but not by much. I thought he must have been a new program member.”
“When did you lose your ticket?”
“Don’t know. Could’ve been anytime before the dinner.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“The day I got it. Then I forgot about it until that night.”
“Did you have any robberies or break-ins during that time?”
“No.”
“Mind if we check your home?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Agent Brooke Burrell exited her car first. The NYPD Tactical Patrol Force emptied out of a step van as five more agents surrounded her. She knocked on the door. Enrico answered as expected, it being 6 AM, after all.