Long Bright River: A Novel (32 page)

Despite looking healthy, she also looks frazzled, running late, her belly protruding through an unzipped jacket. Under her coat, she wears a white shirt and gray sweatpants. Perhaps the only pants that fit her at the moment, I think. She is weaving, now, past the receiving line.

The woman in purple jeans glances back at her friends and then, wordlessly, two of them come toward me and take me by both elbows.

—Don’t say a fuckin’ word, one of them mutters into my ear. Be respectful. You’re at a funeral.

But instinctively, my police training kicks in, and I spin hard enough to knock one of them over onto her hands and knees. The other lets go.

—Oh, no, says the one who’s still standing. She did not just do that.

I hold up my hands. Listen, I say. I think there’s a misunderstanding here.

Suddenly, Kacey is at my side.

—Hey, she says, looking at the four women, not me. Hey. What’s going on?

—This bitch just put her hands on me, says the woman who was knocked to the floor—forgetting, I suppose, who actually laid hands on whom first.

Kacey won’t look at me.

—She’s sorry, says Kacey, about me. Mickey, tell them you’re sorry.

—I don’t, I begin, and Kacey elbows me, hard. Say it, Mickey. Say you’re sorry.

—I’m sorry, I say.

The woman in purple jeans is looking not in my eyes but at my forehead, as if a target were painted there.

She turns to Kacey. She shakes her head. No disrespect to you, Kacey, she says. No disrespect, I know she’s your sister. But you should watch your back. You don’t know everything about her.

Kacey is quiet for a second, looking back and forth between me and this woman, and then—as if a decision has snapped into place in her brain—she flips the woman off and puts her hand roughly on my shoulder, steering me out of the church, past Fran and his mother, who are watching us, confused. I think suddenly of Kacey as a child, rising over and over again to my defense, just waiting for someone to cross me.

A chorus of jeers follows us out of the church, down the steps, to the street.

From inside, the woman calls out to Kacey one more time.
Watch your back.

My sister says nothing to me for a while. I walk toward my car, parked just around a corner, and she walks next to me, her breathing heavy.

I don’t know what to say to her either.

—Kacey, I say at last. Thank you.

—No, she says, too quickly. Don’t do that.

We’re at the car already and I pause, embarrassed, uncertain how to proceed.

She looks me directly in the eye for the first time.

—Dad says you came looking for me, she says.

—I wasn’t, I begin. I am about to deny it.
I wasn’t looking for you.

Instead I say, I was worried.

She folds her arms over her middle defensively, above her belly. She doesn’t respond.

—Mickey, she says finally. What were they talking about? Those girls?

—I have no idea, I say.

—Are you sure? she says. Is there anything you want to say?

I swallow. I think of Paula. Of my betrayal of Paula’s response, when I asked her to make a report.
No fucking way,
she said.
Get on every cop’s shit list in this godforsaken city.

—No, I say. Kacey, I don’t know what they’re talking about.

She nods, assessing me. For a long time, we’re quiet. On the street, a pack of kids goes streaking by on dirt bikes, popping wheelies, and Kacey doesn’t speak again until the noise of them is gone.

—I trust you, she says.

Kacey declines a ride.

—I took Dad’s car, she says. He’s expecting me home.

So I walk her to his car, and then I say goodbye, on the side of the road, feeling so racked with guilt that my stomach hurts.

It’s time to pick up Thomas at Lauren Spright’s house in Northern Liberties. She invites me in. The house itself is big and modern, across from a park that bad kids used to frequent when I was small. Back when this neighborhood was still ours.

The kitchen, which looks like it was built for a show on the Food Network, is on the ground floor, in a big open room with a sliding glass door that leads out to a patio. There’s a Christmas tree out there, a real one, covered in white lights. I’ve never seen this before: a Christmas tree on someone’s back patio. I like it.

—The kids are upstairs, says Lauren. What can I get you to drink? Do you want some coffee?

—Sure, I say. I’m still shaken from what happened at Paula’s mass. Holding something small and warm in my hands would be nice.

—How was the funeral? says Lauren.

I pause.

—Strange, actually, I say.

—How come?

Lauren is pouring hot water directly onto ground coffee in a tall glass
cylinder. She puts a lid on it that has a kind of stem at the top, and lets it sit there. I’ve never seen coffee made this way before. I don’t ask questions.

—It’s a long story, I say.

—I’ve got time, says Lauren.

From upstairs, the sound of a crash, and then a pause, and then smothered giggles.

—Maybe, says Lauren.

I consider her. It is tempting, actually, to unburden everything I know to Lauren, who’s a good listener, who seems to have an organized and happy life. Lauren Spright and her people seem to have everything figured out. There is a part of me that thinks, looking at her,
I could have had this.
I could have had a different career, a different house, a different life. When we first became involved, Simon and I used to talk about making a life together, after his son Gabriel was grown. I want to tell Lauren about all the plans I had. I want Lauren to know that I did well in school. I want to pour out the facts of my life into the open, friendly vessel of Lauren Spright, whose broad, pretty face is turned toward me welcomingly, whose very name sounds like something innocent and charmed.

I don’t. I hear Gee’s voice in my ear, telling me,
You can’t trust them.
She never said who
they
were, but I’m certain that Lauren Spright qualifies. As wrong as Gee was about everything else, there is a large part of me, maybe all of me, that still agrees with her on this point.

That night, after I put Thomas to bed, my phone rings.

I look at it.

Dan Fitzpatrick cell,
it says. When my father gave his number to me, I couldn’t bring myself to save it under
Dad.
Nothing so chummy as that.

I answer.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and then I hear soft breathing that I recognize as someone else’s.

—Kacey? I say.

—Hi, she says.

—You okay?

—Listen, says Kacey, after another pause. I’m going to tell you something important. And it’s up to you to decide whether or not to believe me.

—All right, I say.

—I know you haven’t always believed me in the past, says Kacey.

I close my eyes.

—I asked around today, says Kacey. I called some friends. Tried to figure out what people are saying about you.

—All right, I say again.

Waiting.

—Are you with Truman Dawes? she says.

—What do you mean? I say.

Hearing his name like this, so suddenly, is jarring. I haven’t heard
from him since I clumsily tried to kiss him. Out of guilt and embarrassment, I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about him.

—I mean right now, says Kacey. Is he with you. In the same car. In the same room.

—No, I say. I’m at home.

Kacey goes quiet.

—Why? I say. Kacey?

—They think he’s the one, says my sister. They think he killed Paula and all the rest of them. And they think you know about it.

Every part of me rebels.

No, I think.

This can’t be true. It isn’t possible. My fundamental understanding of Truman does not permit me to believe what I’ve just heard.

I open and close my mouth. I breathe.

On the other end of the phone, I hear Kacey breathing too. Waiting for me to respond. Measuring, in my long pause, my trust in her.

I think of the last time I doubted her: how I took Simon’s word over hers; how profoundly incorrect I was. The ways in which that one word,
No
, affected the course of our lives.

And so instead I say to her, Thank you.

—Thank you? says Kacey.

—For telling me.

And then I hang up the phone.

A churning, uncomfortable dissonance roils inside me. My belief in my own instincts conflicts with my belief in Kacey’s words. The only solution, it seems to me, lies in allowing Kacey’s assertion to be a theory that must be proved—or disproved—with evidence.

I’m down the stairs, knocking at Mrs. Mahon’s door, in a hurry.

When Mrs. Mahon opens it, I’ve already got my jacket on and my purse in my hand.

—I know, she says, before I can say anything. Go do what you need to do. I’ll stay with Thomas upstairs. I’ll fall asleep there if I need to.

—I’m so sorry, I say. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mahon. I’ll pay you.

—Mickey, she says. This is the most useful I’ve felt since Patrick died.

—All right, I say. Thank you. Thank you.

Then, cringing, I ask something else of her. I don’t think I’ve ever asked so much of anyone in my life.

—How would you feel if we swapped cars? I say. Would you mind if I borrowed yours for a while?

By now, Mrs. Mahon is laughing. Whatever you need, Mickey, she says. She fetches her keys from off the hook in her entryway, and I hand Mrs. Mahon my own.

—It’s got good pickup, says Mrs. Mahon. Just so you know.

—Thank you, I say again, and Mrs. Mahon waves a hand dismissively.

Then she follows me upstairs. She sits down on the sofa and takes a book out of her purse.

I go to the closet and reach toward the top shelf, toward the lockbox where I keep my weapon, a department-issued Glock with a five-inch handle. I’ve never had any desire for an alternate personal weapon before today. Today, I wish for something smaller, more compact, something I could easily carry undetected.

Instead, I’ll have to put on my duty belt and fit the bulky weapon into it. I have a jacket big enough to conceal the whole thing, but it still feels cumbersome.

Back in the living room, Mrs. Mahon looks up from her book.

—Mrs. Mahon, I say, don’t open the door for anyone.

—I never do, says Mrs. Mahon.

—Not even the police, I say.

Mrs. Mahon looks suddenly worried. What’s going on? she says.

—I’m trying to figure that out, I say.

I pull out of our driveway so quickly that the tires on Mrs. Mahon’s Kia squeal. It does, indeed, have good pickup. I have to remind myself that I’m not on duty, not in a cruiser. The last thing I need is to be pulled over. I slow to a more reasonable speed.

At this time of night, going slightly above the speed limit, it only takes me half an hour to get to Truman’s house in Mount Airy.

I park on his street, half a block from his house, and quietly get out of the car.

It’s eleven at night now. Most of the houses are dark. Truman’s is still light inside, though, and from the street I can see his bookshelves and the many volumes they contain. I don’t see Truman. I walk unseen to his porch.

Tiptoeing now, I ascend the stairs and look through a window. Both Truman and his mother are in the lit-up living room, Truman reading, his mother dozing in her armchair.

I look hard at him. He seems very interested in whatever he’s reading: I can’t get a look. He’s prone on the couch, barefoot, and with one foot he scratches the other.

He says something to his mother that I can’t make out. Maybe
Go to bed, Ma. Wake up, time for bed.

Then his gaze shifts from his mother to the window. For a second, it seems like he’s looking right at me. I drop to the ground. I huddle there, my back against the wall of the house. But the front door doesn’t open, and finally my breathing slows down.

Eventually, I creep back down the steps, staying low. I head to Mrs. Mahon’s car. Get inside.

From this vantage point, I watch the house.

Five minutes go by. Ten. Then, at last, Truman rises from the sofa. In the window, he is silhouetted by the lamp behind him. He walks across the room. There is still, I notice, a slight hitch in his step.

That’s when the first glimmer of doubt settles into my stomach. And
a question occurs to me that, perhaps, I should have been asking all along. Was the attack that sent Truman out on disability random, as he led everyone to believe?

Or was his assailant motivated by something else?

More questions occur to me, one after another.

Was he telling me the truth about visiting Dock? He went to find him twice, and each time reported back to me about his day. But I have no evidence, in fact, that either of these visits actually happened.

Was any of it true?

Abruptly, the lights in Truman’s house go off.

It’s then that a final thought occurs to me, sickly. One that I can’t push aside. It was Truman who first suggested to me that Simon might be the culprit. Standing on the other side of his house, in the backyard, he asked me to make that leap with him. And then he left me hanging out to dry when Mike DiPaolo told me I was crazy.

It’s getting cold now. I can see my breath. Every so often, I turn the car on, run the heat, and then shut it off again. I turn on the radio.

My goal: to stay awake until Truman Dawes leaves his house. And then to follow him, just as I followed Simon, at Truman’s urging.

At 7:30, I wake up with a jolt. I’m freezing, so cold that I can’t feel my fingers or toes. I rub my hands together quickly. I will my stiff joints to move. I turn the key in the ignition and let it run for a while, waiting for it to warm up.

Truman’s car, I am glad to see, is still in his driveway.

Slowly, the blood returns to my hands and feet, throbbing as it does. The car is warm enough to blast the heat now, and I do.

I check my phone. No messages, no calls.

I know I’m going to be hungry soon, and I also have to use the bathroom. I look at Truman’s house, calculating. There’s a Wawa only five minutes from here. If I go, there’s a chance I might lose him, but I might have a long day ahead of me, and I doubt I can hold it.

Impulsively, I pull out and head for the convenience store, still going just a little too fast.

When I get back to Truman’s street a little before eight—bladder relieved, water and coffee and breakfast and lunch obtained—his car is backing out of his driveway. I pull over, nervous that he’s going to drive right by me and see me in the car. But he drives in the opposite direction, and after a few beats, I pull out and follow him.

Mrs. Mahon’s Kia is a very forgettable white sedan, nothing that will look familiar to Truman. I wish again that I had some undercover training. Without it, I do my best to drive on instinct: following him a couple
of car lengths behind, praying that I hit the same lights he does. Once, I run a red to keep up with him. A nearby driver honks incredulously, flips me off.
Sorry,
I mouth.

Truman follows Germantown Avenue southeast for several miles. All roads, I think, lead to Kensington. I know where we’re headed, and I’m not surprised, but a feeling of dread is growing inside me.

I don’t want to know the truth.

He makes no stops. He drives slowly, ambling, not rushing. It takes all of my willpower to do the same, to refrain from passing him. Truman used to make fun of me for being a speed demon, for driving recklessly, when we were in the car together.

When he gets to Allegheny, he turns left. So do I. He follows Allegheny east, and then parks abruptly just before Kensington Ave.

I pass him and park slightly ahead. I watch him in my rearview, now, and then my side mirrors, not turning around.

He gets out of his car.

He’s walking slowly, maybe because of his knee. He turns a corner onto Kensington.

Only when he’s out of sight do I jump out of Mrs. Mahon’s car and run in the direction of the Ave. I don’t want to lose sight of him.

I’m relieved to see the back of Truman when I turn the same corner he did, but now I’m too close on his heels. My jacket has a hood, and I pull it up over my head and lean against a wall for a minute, trying to put some distance between the two of us while not looking suspicious. I’m probably failing.

I glance at Truman sideways as he slowly recedes. A hundred feet away from me, he turns left and opens the door of a shop. Before going in, he glances to his right and left, and then disappears out of sight. And at last I realize where we are, where Truman is going.