Chasing Curves: A Ronan Marino Mystery

One

"It’s the bottom of the ninth and the Red Sox are down to their last out and behind by three here in game seven of the World Series. The bases are juiced and coming to the plate is the wily veteran Ronan Marino."

He’s had a tough night at the plate, Jack. Striking out twice and hitting into a 6-4-3 double play to end the seventh inning.

"True, but he is batting well over .300 for this series. Let’s see if Marino and the Sox have one more miracle left in them."

It may take more than a miracle to pull this one off.

"Agreed. Kershaw takes the sign, winds and pitches. Marino swings and misses, strike one."

Wow! He completely fooled him with that curve ball.

Marino steps back and shakes it off. That pitch made him look just plain silly.

"Flat out foolish, I’d say. He’s had a history of problems hitting the curve."

"This crowd is on their feet as their hero steps back into the batter’s box. Kershaw goes into his windup…strike two! He gets Marino to chase another curve ball."

"That was just plain ugly. You can almost hear the Fenway faithful start to deflate."

They’re used to disappointment here in Beantown, Buck; curse of the Babe, Buckner, Bucky Bleeping Dent and Boone.

"They beat the curse a while ago."

"Yeah, but the painful memories linger on for many."

"Um, yeah, okay, Tim. Maybe you had a few too many homeplate collisions. Kershaw waives off the sign as Marino steps back out of the batter’s box and scans the crowd."

Isn’t that his father sitting there in the first row by the Sox dugout?

"I believe it is. He’s shaking his head in disgust. I heard he didn’t want his son to play professional ball, he wanted him to go in the Marine Corps."

The pressure on Ronan must be unbearable.

I’d say. I’d hate to have my father sitting there staring at me from the front row with the entire season on the line and the whole world watching.

"Well, let’s see how he responds. He’s been cool under pressure for most of his career. He steps back in the box and is actually staring down Kershaw, almost daring him to throw that curveball again."

Not a smart thing to do.

"Agreed. Kershaw scowls and takes the sign; here’s the windup and the pitch. Marino swings hard and misses, falling to his knees."

Is that blood on his hands, Jack?

It sure looks like it, Buck.

Wow, listen to that crowd booing; they are not pleased.

Especially his father…

Hey, hey, Ronan, wake up! Detective Eddie Garcia chided, shaking me gently.

Huh?

You fell asleep and were breathing really heavy. Bad dream?

Not exactly a nightmare, but something like that, I replied.

Anything you want to talk about?

I nodded no, not really sure what to make of the dream.

Come on, man, you can’t sleep on surveillance, Garcia said. You know better than that.

Sorry, that’s never happened before. I’m not sure what happened.

I’ll bet you say that to all the girls, he laughed, punching my arm.

****

It was spring in New England and the night sky was full of twinkling stars; a near perfect evening for anything but working a case. Unfortunately for me though duty called. It was a self-imposed responsibility but I generally took these things very seriously. Just because I could afford to never work again, didn’t mean I could stand not to.

Right now however, there were about a million other things I’d rather have been doing, chief amongst them was sleeping in a nice warm bed next to one Dr. Katrina Sadolovaki; the woman I’d been dating for the past six months. With every boring minute of this surveillance that passed, the desire to be here was fading faster than Kevin Costner’s film career after Waterworld…or maybe it was The Postman. Either way, it wasn’t good.

Like the previous two nights, it was starting to look like this was going to be a complete waste of my time. Kat’s brand-new Acura had been stolen a couple of days earlier by some miserable bastard who had the audacity to pluck it right out of the hospital parking garage. In a moment of sheer machismo and what would later most likely prove to be an act of stupidity, I promised that I’d see if I could track it down. I guess I felt the need to impress her with my detective skills; since she often questioned why I put myself in jeopardy when I didn’t need to.

Kat was probably the most stable woman I’d ever been with and I appreciated her seeming tacit tolerance of all of my little idiosyncrasies; like the near obsession to find the first ten issues of Amazing Spiderman in very fine or better condition. What she didn’t quite get was why I put myself into harm’s way when I didn’t need to. I had a difficult time putting it into words; especially as it related to a murdered girlfriend. It really was fairly simple…I just wanted to help those in need. What was so hard to understand?

While our relationship seemed pretty secure, it bothered me that as hard as I tried I couldn’t get her to commit long term. While I knew she cared about me, her Hippocratic Oath and patients came first right now and my ego sometimes had a hard time coming to terms with that, even though deep down I understood.

After Kat told me about the theft, I called my pal Detective Eddie Garcia of the Lowell Police Department to see if he knew anything. I learned he was working a rash of luxury car thefts from the downtown area and I asked if I could ride shotgun. His boss and my old college professor and mentor, Lieutenant Gary Shea, reluctantly agreed.

No shooting, he warned both of us, pointing a thick index finger right at me.

I wanted to argue, but recent events had painted me as a cowboy with the leadership downtown. It wasn’t like I asked for people to shoot at me or throw me out of second story windows or run cars into storefronts trying to kill me. Shea sometimes kidded that I must have had a personal body count goal and unfortunately my recent actions did nothing to deter that idea. I often wondered if I was simply just a magnet for trouble and the giant magic eight-ball in the sky said "all signs point to yes".

I always hated working surveillance despite the rewards that often came from it. To add to my misery, even though he had been running circles around detectives with far more time on the job, Garcia’s lack of seniority didn’t afford him a decent car. I had no idea they still made Crown Vics with vinyl benches and was brutally reminded how uncomfortable they could be. The last time I could remember sitting in a vehicle without cloth seats was as a brand new second lieutenant in the Air Force and I got assigned the worst car in our Office of Special Investigations detachment’s fleet.

This was our second evening watching the parking lot of the UMass-Lowell Inn & Conference Center where two enticing targets sat; a shiny black Mercedes and silver BMW Z-3. I wasn’t sure how many more nights of this I could take before I went out and just bought Kat another car myself. I did know one particular place that seemed to be happy we were out here, Dunkin Donuts. Garcia and I drank enough coffee to keep an army wired for weeks and my bladder was definitely not very happy about it.

What’s up with you? Garcia asked.

What do you mean?

You were dozing. That’s so out of character for you. That’s something I’d have expected from my old partner.

Sorry, man. I think it was the boredom.

Oh, I’m sorry, Ronan. Am I boring you?

It’s not you, Eddie, I replied. I just got a lot on my mind.

You know, for a guy with all your money, you sure seem to have a lot of problems.

I know, and I don’t understand it.

He shrugged. I doubt anyone does.

I was about to respond when I spotted a couple of Cambodians exiting the parking garage, both wearing jeans, sneakers and white t-shirts under dark blue windbreakers. They walked fast across the parking lot, looking around suspiciously to make sure no one was watching. They appeared to be in their late teens, though with Asians I sometimes found it hard to tell their true age; they almost always seemed to be older than I guessed.

They might just be coming to work at the hotel, Garcia said.

It’s a little early for the morning shift.

They stopped at the Mercedes and looked it over. One of the kids pointed to the BMW and they moved two spaces over to it. The taller one took out a hammer from under his jacket and smashed the driver’s side window. The car alarm immediately wailed and broke the calm of night, but within seconds the kids had gotten inside, silenced the alarm and hot-wired the Beemer.

So much for the latest in anti-theft technology, Garcia said as he picked up his radio. Control, this is Delta One-Seven, I’ve got a late model silver BMW Z-3 moving east on Warren towards Central, two Asian males inside. We are tailing.

Copy that One-Seven, keep me posted, Shea replied over the radio, his voice more gravelly than I’d ever heard it.

What the hell is he doing up so late? I asked.

His mother in-law is visiting.

Ah, hiding out.

He started the car and we followed the Beemer. There were two other unmarked LPD cars in the area that would be looking for it as well. I just hoped they didn’t get squirrely and stop the kids too soon because another night of this overwhelming excitement was not in my plans.

Garcia stayed back from the stolen car, trailing it a distance of close to a hundred yards.

You’re getting good at this, I said.

Much better than the time I tried to follow you.

That’s because you’ve been tutored by the master.

You mean Shea, right? he asked with a chuckle.

Ouch, was the only response I could muster.

The stolen car crossed the river over Bridge Street and headed north up the boulevard.

They’re not going into the zip neighborhoods, Garcia said.

Heading to a chop shop…I hope.

You work a lot of these car theft cases?

This is the first.

Never?

Not a lot of cars stolen off an Air Force base.

I suppose not. You fucking goody two-shoes fly boys would never get their hands dirty.

I never minded getting my hands dirty.

Yeah, a bit too much if you talk to our superintendent.

He talks about me?

Only in general terms.

What do you mean?

He says things like ‘make sure that asshole stays out of trouble.’

I hope Shea defends me.

Oh yeah, he tells the super you’re a pretty good asshole.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was the only response I could muster.

We followed the car as it wound its way up along the Merrimack River heading north towards New Hampshire. We passed UMass-Lowell’s North Campus and the McDonald’s on the boulevard where it was believed that local Native American, Chief Passaconaway’s wigwam had sat. He had once ruled all the tribes from here all the way up to Canada, which was fitting because Mickey D’s had once ruled the fast food business. I’m not sure what the connection was but that’s how my mind works sometimes.

Just before the Rourke Bridge, I looked over to my right where the old Speare House restaurant, which looked very much like a castle, had once stood. Like so many other landmarks of my youth, the restaurant was gone, now only a memory. The bowling alleys, real movie theaters with balconies and drive-ins were all gone; the sites often reborn as a Dunkin Donuts or a home superstore. In the case of The Speare House, a towering condo building had taken its place.

I slipped into a daydream, thinking about the embarrassing argument I’d had with my father there the last time we ever went before it closed; my sixteenth birthday dinner. We always went there to celebrate important events like graduations, birthdays and anniversaries. This was largely because as a prominent fireman in town, my dad was tight with the owner and we never had to wait to be seated, even on holidays.

This particular time he was chastising me in front of our extended family because he thought I wasn’t being serious enough about school and going to college. It turned into a shouting match and I rebelliously stormed out of the restaurant. I later had to swallow my pride and apologize for making a scene. It wasn’t the time or the place for it but like so many other times in my life, he knew everything and I knew nothing…or so he thought. Even today I sometimes get the feeling that he’s talking down to me, especially when it comes to my current profession.

I snapped out of my stroll down memory lane as the stolen car sped right by my house and entered neighboring Tyngsboro; a small town still struggling to grow from its sleepy days as a vacation community with a large transient summer population.

These kids are just joyriding, Garcia said. I’m going to pull them over.

Patience, boy wonder.

I ain’t no boy, and you certainly aren’t Batman.

I never showed you my cape?

No, and I don’t even want to know what kind of weird shit you’re into.

He reached for the blue lights, but I put my hand out to stop him.

Let them go, I said.

All right but if we lose them I’m going to kill you.

If we lose them, Shea will kill me first.

Good point.

I sat back in my seat and watched the car in the distance. Just as it reached the end of the boulevard at the Tyngsboro Bridge, the car pulled up to an old riverfront warehouse that had once been a carpet outlet. They cut their lights and waited outside a large rollup door.

Pull into the parking lot across the street, I said.

Garcia nodded and turned off his own lights, gliding into the vacant lot and jamming the car into park.

What now? he asked, just as the rollup door opened and the car slid into the warehouse.

Let’s go take a look.

Hold on, Ronan. You’re only supposed to be observing.

Looking is observing and I swear that’s all I’m going to do.

The last time you said that I had to nearly shoot someone.

These are just kids stealing cars. What could happen?

Okay, but let me call it in first.

I stepped out of the car and waited for him. At my side, I could feel the weight of my trusty Colt .45 Defender and I patted it like a security blanket. It probably wouldn’t be needed tonight but it was comforting to know it was there just in case.

Shea wants us to stand by and wait. Tyngsboro and the State Police are on their way.

Okay, so let’s go take a peek while we’re waiting.

I don’t know…

What bad could happen?

He searched for an answer to my question and finally just shrugged in defeat. I cracked a little smile, satisfied with yet another victory for my Jedi mind powers. We ran across the street and ducked into the shadows of the corrugated tin building. It rattled a bit and made a creaking noise as the cool wind whipped up from the Merrimack River. As we got closer, the sounds of saws cutting through metal could be faintly heard from the inside. Garcia and I looked at each other, knowing we’d hit the jackpot and found the ring’s chop shop.

I motioned to him to follow and we stealthily moved around to the back of the building. We found an old rusty ladder which I immediately began to climb. Garcia grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back down.

Where the hell do you think you’re going?

Don’t you want to see what they’re doing in there?

We know what they’re doing.

Right, but wouldn’t it be helpful to know how many guys are in there so when the others get here, we’ll know if they catch all of them?

He thought it over for a brief second and nodded. I climbed the rungs of the ladder and made it to the roof, careful not to make any noise that would give us away. It wasn’t easy with the flat tin roof and work boots I was wearing.

You sure this will hold us? Garcia whispered. It doesn’t seem all that sturdy.

Step lightly.

Yeah, that always works. If I fall through, I’m going to kick your ass.

Stop being such a whiny little girl.

He shook his head the same way my younger brother Marc used to when I convinced him to do something he knew was wrong. We made our way across the roof to the dirty skylight windows that looked down into the warehouse. I could see the Cambodians chatting with a couple of Italian-looking guys. As they talked to the Cambodians, their hands were moving faster than a sign language interpreter; definitely paisans.

I see your countrymen are well represented, Garcia said.

Yours too.

I pointed to a couple of Puerto Rican men working on the cars.

Well, it’s what we do best, he chuckled. Besides, Puerto Rico’s not a country.

I am well aware of geography.

There were about five cars spread out in the warehouse in various stages of disassembly and they were already starting on the Beemer. None of them looked to be Katrina’s. If these were the guys who grabbed her car, it was surely long gone by now.

You see any weapons? I asked.

No but I count eight guys.

Someone’s got to be packing.

No doubt. Let’s get down from here and go meet the others. They’ll be here shortly.

I nodded in agreement and followed him back towards the ladder. As he had reached the edge of the roof, without warning it suddenly gave way beneath my feet.

Ronan!

I tried to grab onto something but it was too late. As luck would have it though, I landed on a pile of tarp that broke my fall. I lay there trying to catch my breath looking up at the two Italians.

Who the hell are you? the taller of the two Italians asked; pointing a nickel-plated .38 at my head. I slowly stood up and dusted myself off.

Building inspector, I groaned. When was the last time you guys had that roof looked at?

The shorter Italian motioned to a couple of the Puerto Ricans. Hold this asshole.

They moved towards me, each holding a monkey wrench that could easily take my head off with one shot.

You don’t want to do that, I said.

Oh really? the tall one said. And why is that?

Because the police have this place surrounded.

Yeah, nice try, the taller Italian said. If this place was surrounded, Mary Poppins here wouldn’t have been up on the roof.

They all laughed and the burly PRs each grabbed an arm and squeezed. I thought about making a run for it but decided to wait for Garcia and the rest of the deus ex machina to burst in and save my ass.

I don’t know who you are, dickhead, but you made a giant mistake tonight, the smaller Italian said.

To illustrate his point, he landed a punch right into my gut. I dropped to my knees gasping for air. I was going to be majorly sore tomorrow…if there was a tomorrow for me.

All right, quit fucking around with this guy or we won’t meet Basso’s quota, the taller one said.

He shuffled over and put the .38 to my head. Sorry buddy, nothing personal.

My mind was racing a thousand miles an hour. Why did I always find myself in these situations? Why didn’t I just mind my own business and enjoy the riches the California lottery had seen fit to provide? How many of these questions could I ask before I tried to fight my way out or he pulled the trigger? Before I could ask myself another question, the Cambodians ran back inside the building yelling.

Five-oh! Five-oh!

That was exactly the distraction I needed. I jumped up and rammed my elbow into the guy on my left and leapt over a car’s hood, all the while drawing my .45. The two Italians fired a few shots at me as the other men began to scatter. Neither of them had any combat marksmanship training and just blasted away wildly like amateurs. I squeezed off a few rounds as I took cover that sent the shooters ducking.

What I didn’t see until it was too late was the welding tank directly behind them. One of my rounds punched a hole through it and the tank exploded sending a fireball out the side of the warehouse and igniting every nearby flammable inside the cramped building. If falling through the roof was a five on the stupid scale, my errant shot was an easy ten.

I holstered my gun, grabbed a nearby tarp and ran through the fire to the back door, kicking it open just as a secondary explosion threw me forward. I was fortunate to make it out, unfortunate that the back door faced the river and the blast sent me tumbling over the bank fifty feet into the chilly currents. I hit the water hard and sank to the bottom like a stone, struggling to swim back to the surface. I was never that great a swimmer, probably one of the reasons I went Air Force and not Navy.

As I finally made it to the surface and took a long gulp of air, I could see the night sky lit up from the flames and the old warehouse quickly disintegrating. The fiery heat melted the building’s tin siding, peeling it down like a banana. Surrounding it at a distance were a half dozen marked and unmarked police cars, their blues adding to the light show. The cops had rounded up a number of the men escaping from the burning warehouse; their hands clamped to the back of their heads. Most had probably been busted before and knew the drill.

There were more sirens coming this way as a fire engine crossed the Tyngsboro Bridge. At the rate the building was burning, I doubted they’d have time to do much more than roast marshmallows. Above the sounds of sirens and explosions, a roaring came from down river. A searchlight swept across the water followed by a voice on a bullhorn. I got a shiver down my spine, and it wasn’t the cold water I was bobbing in.

Ronan, are you there!? Shea said.

I waved my arms as the light arced closer. As the boat moved toward me, I recognized Lowell’s River One unit; a twenty-one foot Boston Whaler. I was glad to see them, even though I was about to get a serious ass chewing from Shea.

Hey, hey over here! I yelled.

The water sleek craft pulled up alongside and I saw Shea, his arms crossed, foot up on the edge of the boat and his face scrunched up into an angry look.

Well, well, well, look what we found, boys. Someone dumped a perfectly good idiot in the river.

Come on, Gary, help me in.

I don’t know. You guys think we should let Aqua-man here into the boat?

Fine, I’ll swim to the shore, I said.

Then climb the banks? It’s an awfully long way up.

He loved this. The man had a sadistic streak and I hated to be on the wrong end of it. It was great though when he turned it on someone I didn’t like.

He extended his hand and jerked me up into the boat. Are you okay?

Yeah, I think so. Just a little stunned from the fall.

He handed me a wool blanket which I wrapped around my now shivering body.

You’re damn lucky that Garcia saw you fall into the river or we wouldn’t have bothered to come looking.

You always ride around in the boat, Gary?

Any chance I can get. So you want to tell my how you managed to pull this one off?

They, uh, fired first and I hit some kind of welding tank.

Of course they did, he replied in his best sarcastic tone. Next time your girlfriend’s car gets stolen, do me a favor and just tell her to collect the goddamn insurance and buy a new one.

But she really liked that one.

What in the hell am I’m going to do with you, Ronan Marino?

Two

The previous night’s events had made the front page of our local fish wrap, the Lowell Sun, and all the local news stations. The Lowell Police took full credit for busting up the stolen car ring, which was fine by me. With her busy schedule, I didn’t know if Kat had seen the reports, and one of Ronan’s Rules to Live By is to never volunteer information. I preferred to keep my nocturnal activities a secret, much like Bruce Wayne. I certainly didn’t need my loved ones worrying about me any more than they already did.

I’d spoken to Shea earlier in the day