When It's Time for Leaving Read online

  Advance Praise for When It’s Time for Leaving

  “Solid, spare and completely terrific. And though the talented

  Ang Pompano may wince at this—it’s absolutely charming.

  With an authentic knowing voice and a confident hand, Pompano honors Robert B. Parker’s legacy of wry, laconic PI’s—smart and engaging detectives with history, honor and heart.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, nationally bestselling author

  of The Murder List

  “Ang Pompano’s debut novel, When It’s Time for Leaving, is

  a corker. Thoroughly likeable former cop, Al DeSantis, wants

  to get out of the crime business but inherits one that,

  fortunately for readers, won’t let him go.”

  —Hallie Ephron, New York Times bestselling

  author of Careful What You Wish For

  “Crime fiction has boasted some famous fathers and sons,

  from Inspector Richard Queen and his son Ellery to Jim

  Rockford and his dad Rocky. Add to that list the unforgettable duo of Al DeSantis and Big Al—building on that tradition but with some provocative twists. Ang Pompano’s first novel proves tough-minded and warm-hearted in equal measure.

  A fine, multi-layered debut.”

  —Art Taylor, 2019 Edgar, Anthony, Agatha,

  Macavity, and Derringer Award–winner

  “Author Ang Pompano serves up the PI for the double 20s.

  Al DeSantis is a classic, damaged gumshoe but with a youthful energy that pulls you through the pages.”

  —Barbara Ross, author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries,

  and winner of the 2019 Maine Literary Award for Crime Fiction

  “In When It’s Time for Leaving, debut mystery author

  Ang Pompano has created the most unusual and appealing

  duo of detectives since Holmes and Watson.”

  —Lucy Burdette, national bestselling author of A Deadly Feast

  When It’s Time for Leaving

  Ang Pompano

  Encircle Publications, LLC

  Farmington, Maine U.S.A.

  When It’s Time for Leaving Copyright © 2019 Ang Pompano

  Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-948338-92-9

  E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-948338-93-6

  Kindle ISBN 13: 978-1-948338-94-3

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.

  Editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent

  Book design: Eddie Vincent

  Cover design: Christopher Wait, High Pines Creative

  Cover image © Getty Images

  Published by: Encircle Publications, LLC

  PO Box 187

  Farmington, ME 04938

  Visit: http://encirclepub.com

  Sign up for Encircle Publications newsletter and specials

  http://eepurl.com/cs8taP

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Dedication

  For Annette — I’m glad you saw the Four Seasons

  Acknowledgments

  IT’S ONLY PARTIALLY TRUE that writing is a solitary act. It’s also a team undertaking. When It’s Time for Leaving would not be a published novel if it were not for a host of family, friends and colleagues who have encouraged me over the years.

  First, I have to thank my beautiful and talented wife, Annette, for all of her patience. Not only has she never complained about the hours I’ve spent on the computer, she has even prompted me to get my butt into the chair to write. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  I also want to thank my uber-talented writing group Roberta Isleib, a.k.a. Lucy Burdette, and Christine Falcone for endless hours of reading and rereading, giving suggestions, and pointing out weak spots. When It’s Time for Leaving is a much better book because of you.

  Thank you to my agent Paula Munier who went above and beyond in giving me editing advice and helping me find the right setting. And thanks to Gina Panettieri of Talcott Notch Literary Services for her fearless leadership. My deepest gratitude to Cynthia Brackett-Vincent, who asked for the full manuscript, and to Eddie Vincent of Encircle Publications who took a chance on a “new” old writer. Many thanks to Chris Wait of High Pines Creative who designed a beautiful eye-catching cover. Also, to his wife and fellow designer Deirdre Wait who had unlimited patience when I told her I loved the cover, but I wanted three more versions so I could run a contest.

  I have been encouraged in countless ways by my family. They include my daughter Rose who lent her expertise in marketing, and her husband Sam Inati who helped me design a wine label. Also, my son Mike and his wife Michele Pompano who have given tons of encouragement. And of course, to my grandkids Melody, Joey, and James who made me laugh when the going got tough. My sister Joanne Pompano, and cousins Annette and Dennis Flanigan, and Ralph and Ruby Caruso. Thanks to all of you. You can now stop asking, “Are you going to finish that book or not?”

  My friends have been invaluable. Julie Alicea has been an eagle-eyed first reader, and her husband John has provided much comic relief. Rory McNeil, a born story teller, has given advice and encouragement. Karen Colburn-Boyce has been a faithful reader. Bill Furness and Peter Alley have helped me figure out the finer points of blowing up a truck. John Orsini, a natural born researcher, and his wife Viv have given me countless helpful articles and points of interest. Rick and Sue Lundin have been the leaders of my cheering section since my first published story. Bev and Tony Nunes are good friends who have taken me on research expeditions and have listened to me babble about my fiction for hours.

  I cannot forget the generous and supportive mystery writing community, especially Sisters in Crime New England, and Mystery Writers of America. Authors Barbara Ross, Edith Maxwell and so many others have given so much counsel and support on getting published. Author Joseph Rigo not only has given encouragement, but has designed covers for my stories. Blogger Dru Ann Love guided me through a cover reveal. I have to thank authors/publishers Kate Flora, Ruth McCarty, and Susan Oleksiw for publishing my first crime story in a Level Best anthology, thus giving me the wild idea that I could write a mystery novel. The members of the New England Crime Bake Committee with whom I’ve had the pleasure to work with for fourteen years have been an invaluable resource. And if you are reading this, thank you to you. Because without readers, writers would still write but it would be pointless and a lot less fun. And finally, I thank Annette again, not only for her support, ideas, and advice, but because anyone who is married to me deserves to be thanked twice.

  1

  EVERY TYPE OF RESCUE VEHICLE you could imagine was on the bridge. It was standard procedure, even though there was no one to rescue. I refused medical assistance a dozen times before I began the long walk off the span, leaving the mess of angry traffic and the dead druggie—who called himself Psycho—for the state cops to worry about.

  A trooper called after me. “Wait up, DeSantis. I’ll get you a ride.”

  “I’m good.” I told him.

  Truth was, I wasn’t good. The red Mustang I had pulled from the New Haven Police motor pool looked like a Twizzler. I was amazed I got out of that twisted
mass of metal alive.

  “I gotta walk it off,” I called back.

  I took a selfie with the wreckage behind me then continued my hike to police headquarters about a mile away.

  *****

  Maybe it was the impact of the air bag, or maybe it was the mistake of looking down at the river below, but the city skyline was all wavy like a mirage. At last, I reached the end of the bridge and climbed over the guard rail, slipping and sliding down the snow-dusted embankment until I reached Water Street. A cruiser stopped along the way. It was Charlie Moss, an older cop and one of the nicer guys on the force.

  “Hop in, Al.”

  I waved off his offer. “I’m on it, okay?”

  “Sure. Sure, detective. I didn’t mean you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

  He took off, and I continued my march toward the station looking at the picture of me and the mangled car every once in a while. On impulse, I sent it in a text to my ex.

  Me: You’re going to hear about this anyway.

  Kim: R-U-O-K?

  Me: Yeah

  Kim: Then try your bartender for sympathy.

  I missed Kim a real lot. I also missed the house we used to own together. She bought me out, I got ¼ and she got ¾. She lives in it now with another cop, my former best friend, Tom Donahue. He turned out to be a relationship lurker, and when he saw we were having problems he hooked up with her before I could make things right. Good-bye ten-year relationship, house, and old friend.

  A van passed me. It was the soccer mom who Psycho had cut off on the crest of the bridge just after he’d recognized me driving alongside him. He had done a double take, then swerved at me. I pulled the car to the right scraping the side of the brand-new structure. Then his souped up Honda Civic veered toward her.

  “Good for you!” I called out to the mom, even though she couldn’t hear me. She had done some serious maneuvering to avoid Psycho. Then she gave him the finger and floored it to get the hell out of there.

  Psycho totally lost it after that. He jammed the brakes and laid rubber all over I-95. There was smoke, and screeches, and more horns than in Springsteens’s “E Street Shuffle.” The druggie spun his car around and headed right for me like a runaway Acela train.

  My phone rang. The caller ID said it was Kim. I wasn’t going to answer at first.

  “Jesus, Al. It’s already on the news. Where are you?”

  “I’m talking to my bartender. Why?”

  “Okay, I may have been a little harsh. But it’s always something with you.”

  “It wasn’t my doing. All I was trying to do was get back to the station to log out. I still am. I’m ordering tickets for the Florida Georgia Line concert as soon as the website opens at 7:00.”

  “You’re thinking of concert tickets. Are you in shock?”

  Could be. When we hit head on, I ended up on the deck of the bridge.

  “No shock. I’m fine.”

  “They said there were gun shots.”

  “Not on my part. He blew out every window in the car.”

  He had been shooting like it was Grand Theft Auto right there on the Q Bridge. And like in a video game, he didn’t show the least bit of worry about dying, and even less about killing me. They didn’t call him Psycho for nothing.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He was pissed that I was driving his brother’s Mustang. The dude’s in jail. It’s not like he needs it. Then it was…” I realized I was spilling more than I wanted to.

  “Shit, Al. It was what?”

  “A mess. A semi barreling down I-95 took out Psycho before I had a chance.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  It was the nicest she had talked to me in months. Sometimes it pays to almost get your ass blown off.

  “I’ve never been better. Do you want to go?”

  “Where?”

  “To the Florida Georgia concert.”

  “You know that isn’t happening.”

  Sure, I did. But I couldn’t resist asking. “I just thought I’d ask.”

  “Al, I worry about you. You’re self-destructive.”

  “Are you saying I caused the accident?”

  “I’m saying you’re always trying to prove something and you don’t use common sense. Why can’t you be more mature like Tom?”

  I was almost killed and not only was she blaming me, but she was comparing me to Donahue, the laziest cop on the force.

  “I gotta go.” I shoved the phone into my pocket.

  *****

  Word must have gotten back to headquarters on Union Avenue that I was on the way because everybody in the building was standing in the lobby when I got there. I was so pissed from the conversation with Kim that I couldn’t look at them. There was a buzz of voices as they watched me head toward the chief’s office where I lifted my fist to knock on the door. I changed my mind and barged in. He happened to be in a conference with the mayor when I threw my shield on his desk.

  It bounced off the desktop and landed on the mayor’s lap. He picked it up, looked at it for a second and then tossed it to my boss.

  “What’s this, DeSantis?” the chief said.

  “I’m gone.”

  I shouldn’t have taken it out on the chief. He’s a pretty laid-back guy who doesn’t bust the chops too much.

  “I thought you were waiting until you turned thirty-six to cash out.”

  After the breakup, I’d invested my share of the house in a condo out in L.A. It wasn’t under construction yet which gave me a year. Then it was going to be guacamole pizza with a woman on my arm every night.

  “I decided what happened today was a sign to speed up my plans before the job kills me first.”

  “DeSantis, I’m going to consider you’re upset right now and give you a chance to think about it before you throw away your career.”

  “Career? What kind of career makes you drive around waiting for the next loony who wants to bag a cop?”

  “As I said, think about it.” The chief turned to the mayor and added. “That’s what I was saying. We’re spread too thin.”

  The mayor didn’t say a word. Those faces on Mount Rushmore show more emotion.

  When I walked out of the chief’s office it was as quiet as Starbucks at midnight. Then someone clapped. Someone else joined in and before I knew it they were all clapping, and congratulating me.

  “Way to go, Al.” Bill Collins, a rookie I had taken under my wing, put out his hand.

  “For quitting?”

  Bill put his hand in his pocket. “For taking out Psycho.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. Some dude with a semi took care of him. And I’ll bet he’s trying to wash away the memory at some bar right now.”

  The poor bastard would be dealing with it for the rest of his life even though there was nothing he could have done to stop it. Little did he know he probably saved a lot of people from a fentanyl overdose by eliminating Psycho.

  I trudged to my desk. There was paperwork to do. Tons of it before I could go online to buy the concert tickets.

  Documenting every detail of what happened on the bridge took that much longer because I kept thinking of how the guys cheered for me as if I was some kind of hero. Why? I didn’t need their kudos and I didn’t want the burden of phony valor.

  Three hours later I was still at it with my two-finger typing when Charlie Moss, the officer who offered me a ride, came up to my desk.

  He stood there for a minute smirking and shaking his head. It was his way of saying he was glad I came out of the ordeal alive.

  “I got you a going away present. After they hauled the car away I found this on the bridge. Look at it if you ever question if you made the right decision.”

  He put a pretty well banged up GPS on my desk. The same gizmo that had been stuck on the
window of the Mustang with a suction cup.

  I dipped my head in thanks and started pecking at the computer again. I worked for another hour and a half making sure I got everything right.

  On my way home over the Q Bridge, I glanced to the southbound lanes where Psycho and I had our showdown. The traffic was moving freely by then and no one would guess that a few hours before, I came close to checking out there. And Psycho. Nobody, no matter how bad, deserved to be obliterated like that.

  My car began to drift. With an abrupt move, I pulled my attention back to my lane, and got that same feeling that I’d had when I was walking off the bridge. My vision blurred and I felt cold and sweaty at the same time. I tapped the brakes and rolled down the window for air. As I got off the bridge, the feeling went away as quickly as it came.

  By the time I got home to my computer, the Florida Georgia Line concert was sold out. I was tired and I was hungry. Not a good combination for me. I found a couple pieces of pizza in the back of the refrigerator. Only God knew how long they had been there. They weren’t moldy so I ate one cold while I heated the other in the microwave. Even old New Haven “apizza” is better than pizza from any place else. I was washing down the second slice with a beer as I watched Steven Colbert when I got a text. It was from Charlie Moss’s number. Charlie was also our union president.

  Charlie: By contract, physical required within twenty-four hours of a trauma.

  Me: That’s just to cover the department’s ass.

  Charlie: It covers URs 2. Do it.

  I wouldn’t have bothered except that I didn’t want to lose my pension. The next day I was on the way to Yale New Haven Hospital to get checked out when I had another spell of light-headedness as I crossed the bridge. I hoped that this wasn’t going to become my new norm.

  I mentioned the dizzy spell to the doctor. Playing it down, I explained that I was probably over-tired. The doc declared it due to the stress of the incident. I was too proud to tell him that it had happened twice. He gave me a clean bill of health and I didn’t take the bridge home.

  *****