Long Bright River: A Novel (18 page)

Overnight, I open my eyes to find that we are in the thick of it.

Out my bedroom window, snow is falling heavily in the shaft of light sent out by the streetlamp at the foot of Mrs. Mahon’s driveway.

In the morning, I wake to my phone alarm, snatch it off my bedside table, and press
Cancel.
There on the screen, unsurprisingly, is a text from Bethany, sent at six in the morning:

Roads r crazy! Can’t make it
: (

—No, I say aloud. I stand up and walk to the window. A thick coat of white over everything. No, I say again.

I hear Thomas’s footsteps as he walks down the hall toward my room. He knocks, and then opens the door.

—What’s wrong? he asks.

—Bethany can’t come today, I say. She’s snowed in.

Or, just as likely, she’s pouting because of the exchange we had yesterday.

—Yes! says Thomas, and it occurs to me too late that he thinks this means I will stay home with him.

—No, I say. I’m sorry, Thomas. No more time off. I have to go to work.

His small face crumples, and I take it in my hands.

—I’m sorry, I say again. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

I sit down on the edge of the bed again, thinking.

Thomas puts his small chin on my shoulder, light as a bird.

—Where will I go? he says.

—I’m not sure yet, I say.

—I can come to work with you, he says. I can ride in the backseat.

I smile. I’m afraid that’s not allowed, I say.

I pull him onto my lap. Together, we wonder what we’ll do.

Reluctantly, I try Gee first. In the past, she’s watched Thomas on a handful of occasions, true emergencies. But I’m not optimistic. Sure enough: she doesn’t answer her phone.

I try Carla, Thomas’s former part-time babysitter, next.

But Carla works at an insurance company in Center City these days, and she tells me regretfully that her office is open.

Ashley, I think. A last resort. I call her cell phone. No answer. I send her a text.

While waiting for Ashley to reply, I feed Thomas breakfast and gaze out the window. It’s still snowing. There’s the driveway to shovel, before I do anything else.

—Put on your boots, I say to my son.

Outside, the work puts me in a better mood. I used to exercise regularly when I lived in Port Richmond. I did CrossFit, very briefly. Even joined a coed soccer team. Working up a good sweat three or four times a week has always kept me calm. But recently I’ve had no time.

I give Thomas a trowel and tell him to help. He spends twenty minutes on the same spot, and then turns his attention to trying to build sandcastles out of snow.

I’ve got maybe five feet of driveway to go when Mrs. Mahon appears in her doorway.

—You don’t have to do that, she calls to me. Not your job.

—I don’t mind, I say.

—I can pay Chuck, says Mrs. Mahon. Usually do.

Chuck is the teenage son of our next-door neighbor. He comes around to make a buck by raking or sweeping or, I imagine, shoveling when it snows.

I keep working.

—Well, anyway, says Mrs. Mahon. Thank you.

—No problem, I say. And then I have a thought. I check my phone. No reply yet from Ashley.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say. Do you have plans today?

Mrs. Mahon frowns.

—I never have plans, Mickey, she says.

I have never once been inside of Mrs. Mahon’s house. When I signed the lease, it was in the apartment upstairs. Today, when Mrs. Mahon opens the door for us, I am surprised. Somehow I was picturing something along the lines of Gee’s house, knickknacks all over, old carpet that needs replacing. Instead, it’s sparsely furnished and impeccably clean. The floors are hardwood except where they are covered by small rugs. The furniture is mainly well made. The apartment has modern art all over it, large abstract paintings, textured with brushstrokes. They’re not bad. Did Mrs. Mahon do these herself? I can’t imagine asking that question, but I’m curious.

—I like your paintings, I say instead.

—Thank you, Mrs. Mahon says, but she doesn’t elaborate.

—I’m so sorry to do this, I say.

Thomas is standing very still. I can tell he is both intrigued and frightened. He leans slightly to his right, craning to look up the staircase. I imagine Mrs. Mahon’s bedroom is up there.

I dig in my pocket, pull out my wallet. I open it and pray I have some cash to proffer, but all I can come up with is twenty dollars.

—Here, I say, holding it out to Mrs. Mahon. Take this. I’ll get more while I’m out today.

Mrs. Mahon waves it off. Don’t be silly, she says, brusquely.

—Please, I say. Please let me. I’ll feel terrible.

—I insist, says Mrs. Mahon. She’s standing up straight. She will not be reasoned with.

I hold out a bag I’ve brought down from our apartment. There’s an extra change of clothes in here, I say, and some books and toys. I’ve packed him lunch, too, I say.

What I don’t tell her: He’s only four. He wets his pants still, sometimes. He gets very frightened of scary things on television, including the news. Looking at Thomas, I know he would not appreciate my saying these things to Mrs. Mahon.

—You didn’t have to do that, says Mrs. Mahon. I could have made him something. Unless this young man doesn’t like peanut butter sandwiches, says Mrs. Mahon, turning to Thomas. Do you like peanut butter sandwiches? she asks him.

He nods.

—All right, then. Sounds like we’ll be fine.

I kneel down next to Thomas. I give him a kiss on his cheek. Be very, very good, I tell him. You know what good means, right?

Thomas nods again. Listen, he says, pointing to one ear.

He’s trying to be brave now. What will he do here all day?

I write my cell number down on a notepad next to Mrs. Mahon’s landline, even though I think she has it.

—Call anytime, I say. About anything. Really.

Then I walk out the front door, trying hard not to turn around and look at Thomas, whose chin was trembling ever so slightly when I kissed him goodbye: an expression that I know will haunt me as I go through the motions of my shift.

I spend my commute worrying. What have I done? Whom have I left Thomas with? I barely know Mrs. Mahon. I don’t know any of Mrs. Mahon’s family by name, though I have heard her talk about a sister. I don’t know what kind of health Mrs. Mahon is in. What if she falls down? I worry. What if she’s unkind to Thomas?

And then I remind myself, as always, not to baby him. He is nearly five years old, Michaela, I tell myself. And more capable by the day.

It’s warmer out today than it was yesterday, and the snow has stopped. It’s already beginning to melt, forming brown puddles where the plows have come through. Bethany, if she had wanted to, could definitely have made it to our house.

Sergeant Ahearn is leading roll call this morning, and at the end of it, I go up to him and ask him if he got my message.

—Message? he says.

—I left you a voicemail last night, I say.

—Oh yeah. I got that, he says. What’s up? You wanted to talk?

I glance around the common area. At least three officers are standing within hearing range.

—It’s kind of sensitive, I say quietly.

Sergeant Ahearn sighs. Well, there’s a ride-along getting fitted with a bulletproof vest in my office right now, he says. So unless you want to take me into the bathroom, you might as well talk to me here.

Again, I look at the other officers. Two of them fit Nguyen’s prediction: white men in their forties.

—Do you have twenty minutes to meet me out at lunch today? I ask him.

—Fine, says Ahearn. Scottie’s?

It’s a sit-down place that’s frequented by police. I want, therefore, to avoid it, and every other place we might see colleagues, as well.

—Let’s meet at Bomber Coffee on Front Street, I say finally.

The morning goes by slowly. But around ten a.m., something catches my eye: a man in an orange jacket, standing under the El stop on the corner of Kensington and Allegheny, looking alert, arms crossed. He has a plastic bag dangling off one of them.

Dock.

I pull over half a block away and watch him for a while.

If he sees the cruiser, he doesn’t react to it. He’s too far away, in any case, to know that it is me inside. From this vantage point, visor lowered, I see that his lips are moving slightly each time someone passes him by. I think it likely that the word he’s repeating is
works
,
works
,
works
: clean syringes that can be purchased for only a little money. Many people make a small living this way in the neighborhood, just enough to keep them high. Some offer more services than that: they’ll help you shoot up, generally in the neck, when you’ve run out of other promising veins; less commonly, if the free clinic is closed or too far away, they’ll try to treat infections, drain abscesses—often with disastrous results.

I take out my phone and pull up Truman’s number. I hesitate for a moment, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

Are you busy?
I text him. I recall the female voice in the background, the last time I phoned him. I don’t want to start any trouble for him.

Very quickly, he responds.
What’s up?

Feel like a stakeout?
I ask him.

It takes Truman half an hour to arrive. For that long, I sit still, tensely, praying that Dock won’t leave the intersection, praying that no one will take him up on his offer to work them up. To my relief—to his distress, most likely—no one does.

My phone rings, finally. It’s Truman.

—Look to your right, he says.

Subtly, I turn. It takes me a moment to spot him across the street, but eventually I do. There he is, Truman, dressed much differently than he was when I saw him last week: today he is wearing a backpack, baggy athletic pants, a puffy jacket, a winter cap, and a scarf pulled up around his mouth and nose. He’s got on sunglasses, too. Only his runner’s build gives him away.

—What do you think? he says to me. He’s looking straight ahead, studiously avoiding any glance in the direction of my police vehicle.

—Where did you get that outfit, I say.

—Vice squad, he says.

Truman worked undercover for about a decade in his twenties, before I knew him. Mostly narcotics.

—See the gentleman in the orange jacket? I say.

Truman nods.

—That’s him, I say.

Truman watches him for a moment. Everyone’s got a hustle, huh, he says.

Two girls walk past Truman and eye him.

—All right, says Truman. I’m on it. I’ll call you later.

He starts off toward our target. I recognize in his gait a familiar sense of determination. The same demeanor he always bore during our years of working side by side.

An hour later, I still haven’t heard from Truman, and it’s time to meet Sergeant Ahearn.

I text him to remind him, to make sure he’s ready. Then I radio in my location—fudging a little, naming the Wawa next door to Bomber Coffee—and walk into the shop.

Sergeant Ahearn has beaten me here. He’s sitting at a table, looking around skeptically. He has better posture than everyone else in the shop.

The table he’s chosen is near the bathroom, apart from all the others.

He glances up when he sees me, but he doesn’t rise. I sit down across from him.

—This your hangout? he says.

—Not really, I say. I’ve been here once. Just figured we’d have some privacy.

—Yeah, says Ahearn, widening his eyes. It’s very fashionable.

He’s being sarcastic. He shifts in his chair. He has coffee on the table in front of him. He doesn’t ask me if I’d like to get one.

—So what’s going on, he says.

I look around briefly. No one nearby.

I take out my cell phone and pull up the video Homicide has been distributing. I lean forward and press play, facing the phone toward Sergeant Ahearn.

As the video plays, I speak to him in a whisper.

—I spent yesterday showing this around the neighborhood, I say.

—Why? says Ahearn, before I can continue.

I pause.

—Why? I repeat.

—Yeah, says Ahearn. Why?

—Because Detective Nguyen said, I begin.

Ahearn is shaking his head.

—Who do you take instruction from? Not Detective Nguyen, he says. It’s
his
job to find this guy. Not yours.

I open and close my mouth. I am trying not to get derailed.

—All right, I say. I’ll remember that. The thing is—

—We have enough to worry about every day, says Ahearn.

Will he let me finish?

I wait a beat. Ahearn waits a beat.

—I understand, I say. The thing is, somebody recognized the POI yesterday. One of my regulars on the Avenue. A woman I know fairly well. She told me—here I glance over my shoulder again, lean forward—she told me it was an officer.

Ahearn sips his coffee.

I sit back, waiting for a reaction. But Ahearn looks unfazed.

—I’m sure she did, says Ahearn finally. Did she tell you his name?

—She didn’t, I say.

I’m confused.

—She probably didn’t know it, I say. She said the women in the neighborhood know him.

I lower my voice so that only Ahearn can hear it.

—She said that he, I say.

Again, I don’t know how to phrase it. The technical term sounds so cold.

—That he demands sexual favors, I say. Threatens to bring them in if they say no.

Ahearn nods calmly.

—Listen, I say. I didn’t want to go straight to Detective Nguyen with this information because it felt sort of sensitive. I wanted to start with my supervisor.

Is Ahearn smiling?

There are many reactions I pictured him having. None of them was this. He lifts the lid off his coffee, puts it carefully down on the table. Letting it cool. Steam shimmers off it.

—Is this, I say. Is this something you knew about?

Ahearn brings the coffee to his lips, blows on it a little before slurping it. Well, he says to me thoughtfully. I can’t tell you everything. But I can tell you we’re aware of these accusations.

—In what sense, I say.

Ahearn looks at me sharply.

—In the sense that we know about them. What do you think?

—And what are you doing about them? I say. I feel it happening: my blood is rising to my face, betraying me. In my abdomen, a boiler goes on.

—Mickey, says Ahearn. He puts his hands to his temples and rubs them. He looks as if he’s deciding whether or not to continue. Then he says, Look, Mickey. Say you’re some lowlife with no money. Say you’re out on the Ave, say you’re looking for action. What’s one way you might get some for free?

I hesitate, just for an instant.

Ahearn is nodding.

—You get it? he says. You say you’re a cop.

I say nothing. I look away. It is possible, I concede, that this might happen from time to time. But Paula is smart. I can’t picture her being duped in this way.

—Anyways, says Ahearn. Listen. I’ll relay the accusation to Nguyen and Internal Affairs if it will make you feel better. Who made it?

—She won’t go on record, I say.

—Between you and me, then, says Ahearn. I can’t go to IA with an anonymous accusation. They’ll laugh me out of the room.

Again, I hesitate.

—Or I don’t have to say anything, says Ahearn. Your call.

—Off the record? I say.

—Off the record.

—Paula Mulroney, I say.

The definition of utilitarian ethics, as it was relayed to us by Ms. Powell, is the greatest good for the greatest number. This is what crosses my mind as I give up Paula.

Sergeant Ahearn nods. I know the name, he says. We’ve brought her in a time or two, haven’t we?

—Or three, I say. Or four.

Ahearn rises, still holding his coffee. He puts the lid back on. He stretches leisurely, letting me know the meeting is now over.

—I’ll pass on the message, he says.

—Thank you, I say.

—And, Mickey, he says, looking me in the eye. Just focus on your job, okay? You’re in the 24th District. You don’t have time to do much else.