Chapter 73
EARLY THE NEXT morning, I woke to the sound of my phone ringing and saw it was Maggie Chin calling me. This couldn’t be good.
Maggie danced around the idea that she had a hot lead. Obviously, she didn’t want to drag me away from the family after my time out west. I appreciated that, but it took a little extra effort to get her to come to the point.
Now, forty-five minutes after I broke the news to Mary Catherine that I would need to return immediately to the bombing investigation, I was riding to Queens with Maggie in her government-issued Chevy Impala.
It was not much different from mine. About the only thing that distinguished it from my trusty city car was that hers was a slightly darker shade of blue and had black rubber floor mats.
Maggie spoke in her usual fast-paced manner.
“I have to give you the credit for this idea. Walter and I made some decent headway. First, I figured out which neighbors might be driving past Sergeant Rose Vega’s house on a regular basis.
Then we started figuring out who had adult kids who still live at home.
When I ran across this family only two blocks away who pinged a few criminal histories, I knew I might be onto something.
” She took a break to gulp some air, then continued: “That’s how we got this name. ”
“Tell me about the suspect.”
From a narrow caddy between our seats, she handed me a tablet already open to an arrest record.
“His name is Leonard Barr. He’s twenty-six.
He’s listed at six foot five and around 250 pounds.
What really stuck out for me are all of his arrests.
Specifically the most recent one, which was for throwing acid in the face of a parking cop.
His lawyer claimed in open court that it was just a ‘prank.’ Can you believe that shit? ”
I scrolled through the file, which contained some vital statistics and a few photographs of Leonard Barr.
Two were mug shots and one was from his New York state driver’s license.
All three looked about the same. Barr seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t mind being arrested once in a while. He was smiling in his mug shots.
“I believe pretty much anything can happen in the volatile mix of criminals, cash-hungry attorneys, and cops. What were his other arrests?”
“The usual. A couple of drunk and disorderlies. A fight at a bar. Some shoplifting.” Maggie pulled her car to the side of the road.
A tidy single-family house sat behind a dormant maple tree.
A Cadillac sedan was in the driveway. “Barr lives here with his mom and stepdad, Dora and Vic Watson. That’s his mom’s Cadillac.
He has a suspended DL, so he might be home.
” Then she added, “Unless he doesn’t respect the law and drives anyway. ” That made both of us laugh.
I said, “We’re here. Let’s give it a shot.”
We got out of the car and walked up the path through a winter-brown lawn.
Garden gnomes decorated the front of the house, and a seasonal doormat said, WE SAY MERRY CHRISTMAS IN THIS HOUSE.
It was three steps up to the solid front porch.
A couple of plastic Adirondack chairs and a lounge chair that didn’t match anything else sat on the porch.
It took a long time before anyone came to the solid-oak door.
It was finally opened by a woman in a colorful, loose polyester kaftan—the kind my grandfather would describe as a “muumuu”—with what I suspected was a Bloody Mary in her hand.
She was probably close to six feet tall and had her hair wrapped in some kind of bandanna that made her look even a couple of inches taller.
The woman appraised us, then said with a slight slur in her words, “What’s all this, then? ”
I’d dealt with too many drunks in my career to ever choose to engage with one, knowing how erratic they could become in a heartbeat. Luckily, Maggie’s experience with the ATF meant she was well-versed in how to handle them too.
Maggie held up her ID and said, “We were hoping to speak to Leonard Barr.”
“Not here.” Mrs. Watson started to close the door.
Maggie gently placed her hand on the door. “Are you his mom?”
Mrs. Watson hesitated, then said, “Why do you want to speak with my son?”
“We just want to clear a few things up.” Maggie tried to look past her into the dark house.
The woman looked down at Maggie and said, “Don’t be nosy.” She grabbed a parka from a hook by the door and stepped onto the porch, pulling the coat on while transferring her half-full glass between shaky hands. After she shut the door behind her, her eyes flitted to me. “You a cop too?”
I nodded.
She shook her head and said, “Never had much use for cops myself.” She looked at Maggie, again at me, and said, “Nothing personal.”
Maggie said, “No, of course not. Why would we take that personally?” Any sarcasm was lost on this woman.
I kept my yap shut. This was Maggie’s show. My role was making sure this woman didn’t get aggressive, as well as continually checking the house to make sure there was no one else around. The last thing we wanted was to be surprised by an angry husband or a fleeing Leonard Barr.
Mrs. Watson said, “Does this have anything to do with that prick at parking enforcement? We already handled that.”
I had to say, “You mean the cop with burns on his face and impaired vision?”
Mrs. Watson swayed slightly and said, “You goddamn cops fake all kinds of injuries to get disability. Don’t try and blame my son for that kind of foolishness.”
This is where Maggie showed her common sense and experience. She got the woman to focus back on her and asked, “Do you know where Leonard is?”
“What do you want to clear up with him?”
“We can’t really say at the moment.”
“Then get the hell off my property before you have your own vision problems.”