All of Us (ARC)

by A F Carter

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  stumbled on these boys? Carolyn, I ran that movie four

  times and one thing I can say for sure. It looked to me like you were enjoying yourself.”

  The game continues on, Greco alternately berating me

  and leaving me to stew in the swamp of my own thoughts.

  I want to give up, to feed Greco whatever he needs to hear

  even knowing that I can’t be held forever. I believe myself

  eternally damned, a trapped and battered woman seek-

  ing any escape, a crack in the wall, a crack in the world, let me out, let me out. Eleni’s whispered advice—endure, just

  endure—becomes my shield, a barrier, not against Greco’s

  assault but against my own words, until Greco’s frustration

  dissolves into sentences that are no more than profanities

  dangling from a string, until finally the door opens and the black woman I saw earlier appears in the opening.

  “Detective, a word outside.”

  “Lieutenant, please.”

  “Outside, Detective.”

  I wait and I wait and I wait. I eat the corn chips and I wait. I drink the soda and I wait. I’m expecting an arrest, the physical evidence too strong to ignore. Instead, the door finally opens, and Bobby walks into the room. I should be angry,

  should be enraged. Instead I’m ready to fall into his arms, to be cradled, to feel my head against his chest. He looks at me for a minute, his features tight, his breath shallow. Finally, he drops his chin and sighs.

  “C’mon, Serena, let’s go. It’s over.”

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  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ELENI

  We’re in Bobby’s car and driving before I notice the

  blood. Bobby’s wearing a light-blue shirt and a gray

  jacket. Both are spattered with tiny red drops. The left side of his face, too, and his hair.

  “I didn’t rescue Serena,” he tells me. “She saved herself, at least temporarily. It was Lieutenant Ford who called a halt.

  She watched most of the interrogation and she doesn’t think

  Carolyn Grand killed her father. That’s because Serena stood up to everything Greco threw at—”

  I reach out to stroke the side of his face. “Tell me what happened. No bullshit, Bobby. I’m so tired I’m ready to collapse.”

  The sun’s not quite up yet, but the doughnut shops, the

  fast-food joints and the diners are doing business. Men and

  women on their way to work drift through the dawn light.

  They move toward a subway platform two blocks away.

  Bobby seems focused on their progress, his eyes moving

  from side to side. Finally, he speaks.

  “O’Neill’s dead. I killed him.” He flinches and his fingers

  tighten on the wheel. “I can’t really focus on this right now.

  In fact, I’m supposed to be in an emergency room undergoing

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  some kind of evaluation. But I’m gonna tell you what happened anyway. Just one time, right?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I’ve been tracking O’Neill ever since he disappeared. I

  talked to anybody who knew him, sisters, brother, mother,

  cousins, parolees at the shelter, hookers and pimps at the inn.

  They wouldn’t tell me where he was, if they knew, but they

  claimed he told people that he wasn’t going back to prison.

  Me, I’ve done this hundreds of times and I stayed with it until his sister gave him up. According to her, O’Neill borrowed

  money from the family, then threatened his mother when

  she asked him to pay it back.”

  Bobby stops talking, the transition too abrupt, and my

  first impulse is to fill the empty space. I wait instead, only reaching out to lay my hand on his arm.

  “I drove from the sister’s apartment in East Harlem,” he

  finally resumes, “to the address she gave me in the Bronx.

  No way did I intend to knock on the door, so I set up down

  the block and settled in. He came out an hour later and I

  confronted him. As it turned out, he meant what he told his

  sister. He pulled an automatic and got off two shots. They

  missed.” He runs his fingers through his hair but doesn’t

  look at me. “Security cams recorded the confrontation. The

  shooting was righteous, a hundred percent righteous.”

  Bobby’s tone doesn’t project defiance or even certainty.

  He seems oddly wistful. Far away for now but knowing

  he’ll pay later on. For me, when I finally lock the door to

  our apartment, I become dizzy with relief. A big part of me

  thought I’d never see home again.

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  ALL OF US

  Bobby reaches out to steady me. “Take it slow, honey.

  You push it, you’ll collapse.” He leads me to the couch, sits me down, drops down beside me. I don’t have all that many

  words in me, but I can’t contain myself.

  “I was only there for bits and pieces of Serena’s question-

  ing,” I say. “But I have to believe that the only reason Greco didn’t arrest us was because he was lying. About the witnesses and the DNA both.”

  “Exactly right. From what I was told, the two witnesses

  were so wrecked they had problems standing up. Neither

  ID’d you in the lineup. As for the DNA, the test results aren’t in yet. That’s the last barrier, Eleni. You come up clean,

  you’re home free.”

  We sit for a few minutes, the part about the DNA bounc-

  ing through my brain. Then Bobby gets up and walks into

  the kitchen. He returns with an open bottle of the wine

  and two glasses. I take the glasses from him, watch him fill them halfway, finally hand one back. I drink, drink again,

  oblivion sounding like a good idea. Sex and booze, a refuge

  I’ve embraced many times in the past. But Martha has other

  ideas.

  Ask him, she demands.

  I don’t want to ask him, now or later. I’m too afraid of the answer, too afraid of losing him, not a cheap fuck in a motel room, but a lover at last.

  “Ask him.”

  This time the voice belongs, not to Martha or Kirk, but

  to Tina. Tina speaks gently, even regretfully, but there’s no escape. I have to ask.

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  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ELENI

  I put my arm around Bobby’s waist and draw him in. My

  lips find the side of his neck so that when I speak, my

  mouth is within inches of his ear. “You’re a good guy, Bobby.”

  “You mean the issue was in doubt?”

  “Yeah, it was. But there’s no issue now. It’s not just that

  you helped us. Others, not many but a few, have done the

  same. What you’ve done, my darling, is make yourself part

  of the family. Well, it’s time you told us why. Why would a

  normal guy involve himself with a psycho named Carolyn

  Grand? Or five psychos named Carolyn Grand? Or any psy-

  chos at all? What’s in it for Bobby Ortega?”

  He leans over to kiss me and I’m instantly thinking, Okay, fuck this, let’s mess up Martha’s bed. Then he lets me go and sits up straight.

  “I stopped needing reasons a while ago,” he tells me. “Is

&n
bsp; that good enough?”

  “No, I . . . The thing, Bobby, is that I’m pretty sure that

  I’m in love with you. But if my sisters and my brother told

  me to give you up, I would. We’ve never let anyone into

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  our lives, and maybe it’s too late to get started. We have to know.”

  He slides forward onto the couch. Lays his head on the

  backrest. “The best I can do is describe the road I walked to get here. Then it’s up to you.” He slides his arms around my shoulders and pulls me tight against him. “But I just want to ask, before I testify voluntarily, if this is a trial by jury. And if it is, does the verdict have to be unanimous? Can I appeal? Is there a Supreme Court?”

  “Uh-uh, Bobby, just a scared little girl who can’t afford to lose her way.”

  “Okay, no more bullshit. I had a twin sister, Isabelle. We

  were as close as identical twins and we did everything

  together. We were even on the same Little League team. Isa-

  belle played third base.” Bobby’s eyes soften as they reach

  back. “As teenagers, we . . . what’s the right word? Vetted?

  We vetted each other’s boyfriends and girlfriends. Is he a

  good guy? Is she still seeing her old boyfriend? Does he have a big mouth? The trust we had in each other was absolute.

  When she finally got married, I walked her down the aisle.

  Our father was gone by then.”

  This is more than I had any right to ask of him and I know

  it. I begin to speak, but he waves me off.

  “Four hundred and thirty-three days ago, Isabelle left her

  Rockland County home to go to work and vanished. Women

  do that sometimes, when they’re afraid of their husbands.

  They abandon their former lives altogether. That wasn’t the

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  case with Marty and Isabelle. They got along well. But even

  if she had a secret lover, there was nothing to prevent her

  from simply walking away. She had children, remember,

  children she loved dearly.

  “The case was handled by the State Police, but I stayed

  close. Isabelle’s credit and debit cards were never used. No attempt was made to access her 401K, the family checking

  and savings accounts, or a checking account held in her

  name. Her car was located two months into the investiga-

  tion, abandoned in Brooklyn. The only trace evidence recov-

  ered belonged to the family, including her two children and

  a family dog. There was no evidence of a physical attack, no blood or tissue.

  “The posters went up, the website was created, the fly-

  ers were handed out. missing: isabelle knowles. Her photo

  below, smiling that mischievous smile. Your smile, Eleni.

  Isabelle had your smile.

  “I’m a cop, a homicide cop. I knew she was dead within

  two weeks. That’s not—” He stops to stare at his hands. “All cops make notifications. It’s part of the job and I’ve done my share. Sometimes it’s simply that a relative has been taken

  to the hospital. Sometimes it’s that a sister, brother, mother, daughter, father, son is dead, gone forever, no more hopes,

  no more dreams, wiped out. The look, Eleni, the disbelief,

  the sudden knowing, the horror and the wail, the awful

  wail. I’m a cop, of course, so I’m prepared to catch the ones who stagger and faint.

  “I rarely do notifications now. Too busy with the crime

  scene. Uniformed officers do it. No, what I get to do is

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  interview the family later on, after they’ve fully absorbed

  the loss, after they’ve walked through their homes,

  examined every family photo, looked into her room at an

  unmade bed, inhaled the lingering perfume on a cocktail

  dress, slipped that turquoise ring she loved on their own

  fingers.

  “The words come by rote. First, I’m sorry for your loss.

  Then, do you know anyone who may have done this? Did

  she have any enemies? Have you noticed any strangers in

  the neighborhood? Can you spare a photograph? Would you

  make a list of her friends?

  “Mostly, they break down at some point and what you

  want to do is take them into your arms, to protect them in

  some way. But you’re not allowed to touch them. You have

  to hold it in. You have to be a professional.

  “With Isabelle, I couldn’t help myself, even though I

  knew better. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what

  happened to her. She wasn’t killed immediately. The car was

  clean, remember? No, Isabelle was taken somewhere and

  worked on. For hours, for days? And how many ways did he,

  or they, find to hurt her? What instruments were used? Was

  she aware until the very end? Did she sense her life slipping away? Did she plead for mercy, or did she finally give up, the pain too overwhelming? Did she finally beg to be killed? I’ve seen the bodies, Eleni, the bodies of human beings, usually

  women, after days of torture. I’ve counted and analyzed the

  wounds on their bodies, scraped their blood off the walls,

  collected bits of their skulls, measured the bruises on their throats.”

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  He stops suddenly, repressing a groan, then continues.

  “Bad as it is for me, though, it’s much worse for Marty.

  Last week, he told me that even now, when he hears a car

  climbing the hill late at night, he thinks, for just a moment, that Isabelle’s coming home.”

  I’m lying with my head against his chest, close enough to

  measure the beating of his heart. I try to think of something to say, but I can only come up with: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  As he leans over to kiss my forehead, I feel his heart rate

  slow.

  “I stopped being able to fend it off,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact now that he’s finally put his heart on the line. “I’m talking about the day-to-day misery, the victims, the families, Isabelle. They’re my own personal zombies. They’re

  why so many cops kill themselves.”

  Bobby’s hold eases. “I’m quitting,” he tells me. “I’ve put

  twenty years into the job. That qualifies me for a pension

  and medical benefits going forward. The lieutenant knows.

  I told her last week. As soon as your case is resolved, I’m

  gonna turn in my papers.”

  “And do what?”

  His kiss this time is more demanding. “I’ve got a cousin

  in Queens. He owns a lumber yard, and he’s looking for a

  partner. But I’m not worried about that part.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “I’m worried about the only thing that matters, Eleni.

  The DNA.”

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  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  MARTHA

  Halberstam’s become chatty. He’s somehow concluded

  that he and we are buddies. He can brag about the

  games he plays with his patients and we’ll approve. There’s

  nothing we can do about it, at least until we’re free of him.

  But he’s no l
onger a threat, thanks to Marshal and Kirk, and that’s enough for now. True, I tend to leave his office feeling soiled (perhaps the way Eleni’s supposed to feel, and never

  does, after a one-night, multipartner stand) but that’s a small price to pay and we don’t intend to miss any appointments.

  Bobby’s waiting for me when I turn onto South Portland

  Avenue, standing in front of our building, one hand jammed

  into his pocket, the other holding a plastic bag that can only contain a bottle of wine. He takes a moment to recognize

  the particular Carolyn Grand advancing toward him. Then

  he smiles and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Hi, Martha.”

  Is he disappointed? Bobby’s not only added Serena to his

  sleep mates, he’s got Victoria in his sights. I joke about it with him. Sheikh Bobby and his concubines. It’s gotten to the

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  he’s always been there. That doesn’t mean I trust him. Too

  many games, like our trip to the morgue. I lead him upstairs, sit him on the couch and head for the kitchen. As I open the wine, he calls out to me.

  “The DNA’s back, Martha.”

  I think he means to rattle me, but I’m not fazed. If our

  DNA had been found at the crime scene, we’d not only be

  under arrest, it would be Detective Greco come to do the

  arresting.

  “Do I hear the rattle of handcuffs?” I call back.

  He laughs but doesn’t speak until I come into the living

  room with the wine (a pinot noir) and a couple of glasses.

  Then he says, “They recovered fragments of DNA at the

  crime scene that don’t exclude you, fragments too small to

  be used as evidence. Seems they also don’t exclude six sus-

  pects on our list, not to mention seventy or eighty thousand other city residents.”

  I think I’m supposed to celebrate, but something in Bob-

  by’s tone puts me off as I listen to Kirk’s voice in my ear: Don’t you dare ask. Don’t you dare.

  Kirk thinks we can avoid an answer, that he and Bobby

  can watch another baseball game or go to the bar for a drink.

  He thinks we can leave our questions on a dark shelf we’ll

  never visit. I like Bobby too much—Eleni’s in love with

  him—and we have to know. We have to.

  “Do you think O’Neill did it, Bobby?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What about the others? The prostitutes and the pimps,