by Liz Moore
I keep my hands in my pockets, warming them up, while the woman disappears briefly into the kitchen and then reemerges, holding a glass of water in her hands. She hands it to me.
—Drink that, she says. You don’t look good.
I do as I’m told. Then I wait. I feel as if there’s been some misunderstanding.
—How’d you hear about me? the woman says.
I pause. A friend, I say.
—What friend?
I hesitate, deciding. Matt, I say.
A safe gamble of a name, in this neighborhood.
—You’re a friend of Matty B’s? says the woman. I love Matty B!
I nod.
—Drink that, she says again. Obediently, I take a sip.
—You sober today? says the woman.
—Yes, I say. It’s the first truthful thing that’s come out of my mouth since I’ve been here. I’m starting to feel bad.
At this, the woman reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. Good work, honey, she says. I’m proud of you.
—Thank you, I say.
—How many days you have?
It’s only then that I notice the framed Twelve Steps print on the wall behind her head, small enough so it would only stand out to someone who was looking for it. Jesus’s head, in the picture next to it, is tilted mildly in its direction, as if he’s contemplating the steps alongside the viewer. I wonder if this is by design.
I cough into my hand. Um, I say. Three days.
The woman nods seriously. That’s great, she says. She looks at me. I bet it’s your first time getting clean, she says.
—How’d you know? I say.
—You don’t look too tired, she says. People who’ve been at it for years just look more tired out. Like me, she says, and laughs.
I feel tired, though. I have felt tired since Thomas was born. I have felt overwhelmed since moving to Bensalem. And I have felt exhausted since Kacey went missing. But I know what she means: I’ve seen the same people the woman is referring to, people who have been in and out of sobriety for a decade, for two decades, for more. In sobriety, they often look like they just want to go to sleep and stay there for a while.
—Anyway, says the woman. Are you going to meetings? Do you have a place to stay?
She glances at the stairs.
—I got about six people staying with me right now or I’d give you a bed. Actually, she says, let me think. Wait here a second.
The woman marches over to the bottom of the staircase and calls up it. TEDDY, she says. TED.
—It’s okay, I say. I have a place to stay.
The woman is shaking her head. No, she says, we can get you in here.
A man calls down the stairs. What’s up, Rita?
—Really, I say. I have a good place to stay. My grandmother’s house. No one’s using there.
The woman, Rita, looks at me doubtfully.
Still watching me, she calls up the stairs. When you going to West Chester?
—Uh, says the invisible Ted, Friday?
Rita says to me, There. We can get you in here Friday if you want. Maybe Thursday night if you don’t mind the couch.
I begin shaking my head, and Rita says, I know, I know, you have a place to stay. Just keep it in mind, she says. Then her face changes. I’m not gonna charge you anything, honey, she says. Is that what you’re worried about? Oh no, this is something I do for myself. Pay it forward, that kind of thing. Only thing I ask for is that you bring in food to share when you can, toilet paper, paper towels, that kind of stuff. And if I think you’re using again I’ll kick you out.
—All right, I say.
I’m starting to feel terrible, misleading this woman.
She looks at me.
—You’ve got a funny way of talking, she says. You from around here?
I nod.
—Whereabouts?
—Fishtown, I say.
—Huh, she says.
All I can think about is how to gracefully leave. But I still haven’t gotten a chance to ask her about Kacey.
—Here, says Rita, let me give you my number. You have a phone?
I take it out. Rita recites the digits of her phone number, and I enter it. While I’m looking at the screen, a text comes in from Truman.
Where are you?
Not far from K and A, I write back.
Then I pull up a picture of Kacey, and I hold the phone out to Rita.
—What’s that? says Rita.
—I’m just asking people in the neighborhood if they’ve seen her around, I say. I’m her sister and she’s been missing for a while.
—Oh, honey, says Rita. I’m sorry to hear that.
She takes the phone from my hand and holds it at arm’s length from her face, trying to focus. She brings it a little bit closer. Her brow furrows.
—That’s your sister? she says, looking up at me.
—It is, I say. Do you know her?
In an instant, a cloud passes over Rita’s face. She is calculating something, realizing something, making connections that I can’t understand.
—Get the fuck out of my house, she says to me suddenly. She is pointing to the door. Leave.
I receive no further explanation. By the time I’m walking down the front steps, the door has slammed behind me. I turn back once to look at the horse and carriage silhouette before picking up my pace and heading back toward where Truman’s car is parked.
I can see my breath. I tuck my chin down inside my jacket. My eyes water.
I watch for any more sightings of Simon. No luck.
Truman texts me again.
How fast can you be at Kensington and Somerset?
2 mins, I respond.
A moment later, another text comes in.
K and Lehigh now, he says.
He’s moving. Not wanting to stop. Wanting to lose anyone who’s tailing him.
* * *
—
It’s faster for me to walk, actually, than to get in the car and drive. I beat Truman there, and I wait for a while on the corner. I wish I had something warm to drink. The cold has gotten its claws in me, and I can’t stop shivering.
I jump when Truman says my name.
—Come on, he says. I parked near here. Let’s talk in your car.
Inside, I get behind the wheel, and I tell Truman to start talking.
I do and don’t want to hear what he’s discovered. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks grim. He’s thinking of how to tell me something: I know it.
—Truman, I say. Just tell me.
I went to the house off Madison, he begins. The one with three Bs on it. I rapped on the plywood covering the back door. A minute later, McClatchie appears. Looking really bad, really strung out. Nodding a little, you know. Which, okay, I think is maybe gonna work in my favor. His guard is down.
Who are you? he says.
I texted you about a girl, I say.
He’s really high, I’m noticing. Can barely hold his head up.
Okay, he says.
I wait. So what’s the story, I say. You got a girl for me, or what?
He goes, Yeah. Come in.
So I follow the guy into this boarded-up house. Inside there’s a bunch of people nodded out, and a couple shooting up. Nobody says anything to me.
McClatchie leans up against a wall, spacing out, and practically goes to sleep. I’m freezing, and the house smells like shit, and this guy seems to have forgotten that I’m there. So I say to him, Hey. Hey.
He wakes up a little.
Where’s your phone? Show me the girls again.
He finally takes it out of his pocket, pulls up some photos, hands me the phone. I start flipping through them and I recognize a lot of the girls that were on there last time he showed me
. But no Kacey.
I look at him. Now I know, in that moment, that if I ask about Kacey, he’ll peg me. He’ll connect me to you.
But what do I have to lose, I think. Besides, I thought there was a small chance that he’d be so out of it he wouldn’t even put two and two together.
So I go, Where’s the redhead? I saw a redhead on here last time.
And McClatchie goes, real slowly, Aw, that’s Connie.
I said, I want that one.
And he said, Connie’s out of commission.
Then he raises his head up and looks at me, and I swear it’s like a hawk zoning in on something. His whole expression changes. He stares at me. His eyes get really focused.
Two guys across the room rise from the dead, lift their heads up off the floor and start looking at me, as if I’m causing trouble, and suddenly the mood in the room starts changing.
Why, McClatchie says. Why do you want her so bad.
I don’t know, man, I say. I like redheads.
I’m already backing out of the house. I’m facing him, still, in case he’s packing.
He comes toward me. Perking up now. Looking more alert. Who sent you? he’s saying. Her sister? You a cop?
That’s when I turned and booked it. Turns out my knee works pretty well these days.
But I heard him calling after me, all the way down the block.
You a cop? he was saying. You a cop?
* * *
—
Truman looks at me, scratches his cheek.
I’m getting a feeling: like cold water is spreading through my veins and arteries.
—What does that mean, I say. Out of commission.
* * *
—
Neither of us can answer.
It’s my turn, now, to tell him about Simon.
—He drove straight to Kensington, I say. He didn’t hesitate. Just got into his car and drove straight there. I lost him when he got out on foot.
—No kidding, says Truman.
—He has no business in this neighborhood, I say. He’s in the South Division.
* * *
—
Abruptly, I pull into a parking lot. A small, sad strip of stores is in front of us: Chinese restaurant, laundromat, shuttered hardware store, Dunkin’ Donuts. I put my visor down, not wanting to be seen by anyone exiting these shops. Someone gets into the car next to mine. I keep my gaze down.
—I think it’s time, says Truman.
—For what?
—We’ve gotta bring this to Mike DiPaolo, he says.
But I’m already shaking my head. No way, I say.
—Come on, Mickey, says Truman. He’s a good person. I’ve known him since we were kids.
—How do you know? I say.
He looks at me.
—What are your other options? he says.
—Keep doing it on our own, I say.
—And then what? says Truman. Say you find out who the killer is. What do you, take him out yourself? Go to jail for the rest of your life? No. At a certain point, Mickey, he says.
He trails off.
—You really trust him, I say.
Truman thinks. Then he says, He never cheated at sports.
—Excuse me?
—When we were kids. He never fudged the scores, says Truman. I trust him, he adds, clarifying.
—What about you, I say. Are you sure you want to be linked to this? You might be risking your job. We haven’t exactly been following protocol.
Truman says, Mickey. I’m not going back.
There it is. I’ve been wondering.
—Why not, I say.
—I don’t want to, says Truman plainly. Look. I get along with people. Keep my head down. People like me. It’s too easy, you know? It’s easy to forget that the system isn’t right. I’m not just talking about Philadelphia. I’m not just talking about these particular homicides. I’m talking about the whole thing. The whole system. Too much power in the wrong hands. Everything out of order.
He pauses. Takes a breath.
—I can’t sleep, he says. You know what I mean? People dying. Not just the women. Innocent people. Unarmed people. I can’t sleep.
This is probably the closest Truman will ever come to disclosing his politics.
I’m silent for a while.
—I can get out now, says Truman. Get my pension. Get a different job if I want it. Go to bed at night with an easier mind.
—People are dying, he says again. All over, people are dying.
—I understand, I say.
And, more and more, I agree.
Truman calls Mike DiPaolo while we drive, in my car, to his.
—Got a question for you, says Truman. Probably not something you can get into at work. Can you meet at Duke’s tonight?
Duke’s is a bar in Juniata, near where the two of them grew up. It’s Truman’s favorite—someplace that’s been in the neighborhood for decades. He knows all the bartenders. I’ve only been there once, for Truman’s birthday, with a group of other officers. But never aside from that. It’s not a police hangout, which makes it a good place to meet when one wants to talk shop.
I can’t hear DiPaolo’s reply, but apparently the idea works for him.
—Eight o’clock? says Truman, and then, Good. He hangs up.
—Think you can get there then? he asks me, and I say, I’ll make it work.
Happily, surprisingly, Bethany comes through for me. She can stay late, she says. No problem.
Duke’s, when I arrive, is quiet and uncrowded. Wood-paneled walls, dark lighting, a pool table in the back. It’s one of the few places in Philadelphia where one can still smoke, and although no one is exercising that right at the moment, the place still reeks of stale tobacco.
Truman is sitting in a booth in the corner, away from everyone. DiPaolo hasn’t arrived yet. A Corona is on the table in front of Truman: the only kind of alcohol I have ever seen him drink. The one lowbrow vice he has. He’s almost finished with it. I ask him if he wants another.
—Sure, he says, and at the bar I order two. One for him, one for myself. I have never been a drinker—I suppose when Simon and I were together, I would partake on occasion—and now I try to remember the last time I had anything alcoholic at all. Maybe a year ago. Tonight, it tastes wonderful.
DiPaolo walks in. He’s Truman’s age, early fifties. But while Truman could pass for someone a decade younger than he is, DiPaolo wears his years heavily, and he walks heavily, too. He’s pouchy and tired, perpetually a benevolent crank who, every once in a while, really lets loose. At Truman’s birthday party here, DiPaolo got drunk and set the jukebox to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer,’ by Bon Jovi, and then led everyone in song. I like him.
—Looks like you needed that, he says to me now, gesturing at the Corona, not saying hello.
—I did, I say. Would you like one?
—You’re kidding, he says. What are we, at the beach? Jameson on the rocks, he says to the bartender. And another Corona for the lady. How you doing, Pete.
* * *
—
The three of us settle in: Truman and I on one side of the booth, DiPaolo on the other. Truman thanks DiPaolo for coming, somewhat formally, and DiPaolo grins.
—I know this is gonna be good, he says. What kind of trouble are you two getting into?
Truman glances at me, and I look at DiPaolo for a moment. Too long. The smile on his face fades.
—What? he says.
—Do you know Simon Cleare? I say.
He studies my face before looking down at his Jameson and taking a sip. He doesn’t grimace.
—I do, he says. Yes.
—How well? I say.
DiPaolo shrugs. A little, he says. Met him at some all-bureau meetings. He’s in South, though, he says.
So it’s not like I see him every day.
I measure my words. It’s important, I think, to be calm.
—Does he have any reason to be in Kensington during his workday, I say. That you know of.
DiPaolo looks at me hard.
—Why, he says.
I sit back. I saw him there today, I say. Middle of the day.
DiPaolo sighs. He looks at Truman, seeking his gaze, but Truman won’t return it. He turns back to me.
—If this is some sort of, he says. He puts his hands in the air, making circles. If this is some sort of lovers’ quarrel, I really can’t get involved.
I pause.
—What do you mean, I say.
—Look, says DiPaolo. I don’t want to be presumptuous. But everyone knows about you and Simon Cleare. And I just don’t want, he says.
He trails off. Sighs.
—I don’t know why he was in Kensington, he says, but he might have had his reasons, you know?
I wait for my temper to settle before responding.
—This has nothing to do with me, I say. I’m trying to give you some information you might be able to use in the case of the Kensington murders. Because no one else is listening.
—What does that mean, says DiPaolo.
—I don’t know how much of this you know already, I say. I take a long drink, and then I begin.
I tell him about Paula Mulroney, and Paula’s accusation. I tell him Paula won’t go on record saying it. I tell DiPaolo about Kacey, that she’s missing. I feel like I’m rambling, and every so often I look up at DiPaolo to check his expression, but it’s difficult to read.
—I started by telling Sergeant Ahearn this, I say. I went straight back to the station and told him I needed to talk to him. I felt it was information he should have, and I wanted to follow procedure. He said he was aware of the accusations and that he would relay them to the right people.
I pause.
