CHAPTER 63

Dr. Alvin Jeong turned out to be a veterinarian. His practice was on Steinway Street, three blocks from his apartment. Kylie and I walked in unannounced, and in less than a minute we were escorted inside, leaving the owners of an overweight beagle and a hyperactive Yorkie wondering how two petless latecomers got bumped to the head of the line.

Dr. Jeong was sitting behind his desk, waiting for us in his office. I carry two different business cards. The one that says homicide tends to intimidate people. I gave him the more benign version that simply says NYPD.

“Detectives,” he said, wasting no time. “I cannot for the life of me imagine what this is about. What’s going on?”

“There’s been an increase in racially motivated crimes in the area,” I said, “and the department is taking a closer look at a number of grievances that were filed in the past. We know you’ve called with complaints about one of your neighbors, and we’d appreciate it if you could take us through some of the issues one more time.”

Jeong was in his mid-forties, relaxed, confident without being cocky. “If you’re talking about Priscilla Ackerman, there’s only one issue. She’s a racist.”

“I’m sure you know that in and of itself, racism isn’t a criminal act,” I said. “A bias-motivated crime occurs when a perpetrator targets a victim because of their race or religion.”

“I was born in Newark, New Jersey. I grew up with a target on my back, so I know what a hate crime is. In the grand scheme of things, she’s just another ignorant person who gets her jollies shoving Chinese menus under my door.”

“We all get those unwanted menus, sir,” Kylie said.

“Mine come streaked with human excrement. Also, someone—I can’t prove it’s her—smeared duck sauce on my doorknob and left me a fortune cookie with a strip of paper that said ‘Go back to China, slant eyes.’”

“Subtle,” Kylie said.

“And factually incorrect. I’m Korean, not that that would make a difference to a bigot. I called the cops twice, and it didn’t go anywhere, so I stopped calling. But when that flowerpot came whizzing by my ear, I gave it one more shot. I have a wife and a two-year-old. I couldn’t ignore it. The detective was polite, but I had no proof that it was anything more than an accident. So I gave up.”

“I’m sorry if you quit trying to do the right thing because of the department’s response,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. Tell us what you can about Ms. Ackerman.”

“She’s agoraphobic. I’ve never seen her come out of the house. I guess she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t work. She’s on disability, so the city pays her rent.”

“How do you know that?”

“She brags about it. Takes pride in the fact that taxpayers like me are footing the bill for her three-bedroom apartment.”

“Three bedrooms? Why does she need that much space?”

“They started out as a family of four. The mother died before I moved in, but her legend lives on. Evil incarnate. The father was no better. Nasty. Heavy drinker. Some nights, he’d come home so shit-faced, he couldn’t open the door, and the daughter wouldn’t let him in. So he’d sleep in the hallway. If he needed a bathroom, he’d ring for the elevator, piss in it, and go back to sleep. I don’t blame her for fucking him over.”

“How so?”

“He moved to Florida about six months ago. But his union pension checks still come to the apartment building. The super brings the mail up and leaves it outside her door. I doubt if the old man ever sees the money, because I know for a fact that the brother cashes them over at Smitty’s, the local bar.”

“What can you tell us about the brother?”

“Vincent. He’s the only decent one of the lot. I nod to him in the elevator, and I see him at Smitty’s. He’s quiet, but people seem to like him. The other night, Smitty bought a round for the entire house to help him celebrate.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“He’s getting married and moving out of the country.”

“Out of the country?” Kylie said. “Where?”

“Wow, you ask a lot more questions than the other detective,” Jeong said. “I appreciate how thorough you are, but I think I’ve given you all I’ve got on Priscilla. I really should get back to my patients.”

“No problem,” Kylie said, “but just to finish up where we left off, you said the brother is moving out of the country. Do you know where?”

“Somewhere in the Caribbean. I wish he would take his sister with him, but I think she’s what he’s running away from. Her and that horrible job of his.”

“What horrible job?” Kylie snapped.

Jeong tried to maintain a genial attitude, but I could see that his patience was wearing thin. He was done. But Kylie wouldn’t let him go.

“Vincent works for the MTA,” he said. “He’s a trackwalker for the subway system.”

A trackwalker for the subway system. A big fat yellow barrel bobbed up out of the water, and I could almost hear the dadum . . . dadum . . . dadum, dadum, dadum shark theme from Jaws.

Jeong stood up and came around his desk.

“Thanks for your time, Dr. Jeong,” I said, shaking his hand. “Just to be clear, when you say trackwalker . . .”

“I know, it even sounds awful, doesn’t it?” he said. “Basically, he walks miles of subway tracks all day every day, looking for anything that might need repair and picking up shit people throw on the tracks. You know, like newspapers, coffee cups, soda cans . . .”

Handguns, I thought. I looked at Kylie, knowing she was thinking the same thing.