“Too much work. Anyway, that slug was still lodged there. Of course, I saved it for ballistics, but I’m sure it’ll match the nine-millimeter from your gun.”
Rook came back to loiter on her desktop when she’d hung up. “Know what I can’t shake out of my brain since the pier this morning? Small thing, but, ask yourself—What was the odd sock about Carter Damon’s body?”
“I regret the day I ever taught you about odd socks.”
He ignored her and said, “Give up? I’ll tell you: No old scar from getting shot when he was a rookie. Remember he told us about that at lunch?”
“Maybe you just didn’t see it.”
“I didn’t see it because there wasn’t one.”
“Well, I happen to know he’s still on a mat down at the ME’s. Want me to call Lauren back to check?”
“You don’t have to. I had one of the administrative aides call down to Personnel.”
“Rook. You used one of our aides to make a call for you?”
“I had to, since Personnel has this ‘thing’ about civilians accessing confidential police records. Anyway, Carter Damon never got shot. Why would the guy lie about that?”
Rook was right, it was a small thing. But Heat knew small things often made critical jigsaw fits, and noted it on the Murder Board, although Rook complained she had written it in tiny letters.
That afternoon, through the buzz of phone conversations from detectives making rounds and lunch orders getting delivered because nobody wanted to take a break, came a holler from Rhymer at his desk. “Got one!” Opie sounded like he’d hooked a big fish. In a sense, he had.
Heat drove Rook and Detective Raley up to the Bronx as fast as she could get there. Having rolled through every yellow light and punching the accelerator when they were about to turn red, she double-parked in front of Price It Drugs and hustled inside.
The pharmacy sat three blocks from where Carter Damon had abandoned his jacked taxi the night Nikki shot him. In addition to blast e-mailing Damon’s photo to ERs and drugstores in all the boroughs, Detective Rhymer had gotten a map and worked the phones in concentric circles radiating out from the dumped cab. The first walk-in clinic he’d called came up zip. His next try was a small drugstore on Southern Boulevard near Prospect. The owner, who was elderly and not so big on e-mail, had missed the earlier alerts but pegged Damon by the detective’s description. He confirmed it when Rhymer faxed him his photo.
Diligent as she was eager, Detective Heat showed her copy of Carter Damon’s photo to the owner to double-check in person. “Yes, that is him,” said Hugo Plana, also reaffirming that the wounded Damon had staggered in just before closing at midnight, the night of the shooting. “He came in on his own, but I don’t know how,” said the old man. He took off his bifocals and handed the photo back to her. “He was a mess. Blood here and here.” Hugo pointed to the two bullet wounds Heat had given the ex-cop. “I asked him if he wanted me to call an ambulance and he shouted at me, ‘No!’, like that. Then he told me he wanted some gauze and some scissors and antiseptic to dress the wounds. He started to pass out, so I helped him to one of the chairs over there in the prescription waiting area.”
“How come you didn’t call the police?” asked Rook. “Guy came into my place like that, I’d sneak a call, no matter what he said.”
The old man smiled and nodded. “Yes, I understand. But, you see, we are a small, independent pharmacy. A family business. In this neighborhood, I see a lot of folks in bad shape. My goodness, it’s unbelievable. Sometimes a fight, sometimes a turf war—sometimes, I don’t want to know. When they come for help, I help. I’m not here to ask too many questions or to bust them. They trust me. They’re my neighbors.”