by Adam Mitzner
“If Lauren knew him, that shines a pretty bright light on Richard,” Gabriel says.
Stuart’s eyes move back and forth like he’s a spectator at a tennis match. I’ve always thought that prosecutors and cops have a rhythm to their thinking and a specialized jargon that make it difficult for an outsider to fully grasp. I’ve had more than one past boyfriend ask me to translate discussions like the one we’re having now.
“I can’t say that I cared very much for McKenney’s eulogy,” I say. “Especially given that Lauren was thinking about running against him.”
This disclosure apparently takes Dana by surprise. “Really?” she says. “She didn’t mention that to me.”
There’s a bit of a proprietary air about the comment. As if Dana is insulted that I was the first to hear. Apparently the sibling rivalry cuts both ways.
“It was very preliminary,” I say.
“When did she tell you this?” Dana asks, apparently still trying to get her arms around the fact that I knew something about her boss that she didn’t.
“We had dinner the other night. She mentioned it then.”
She looks over at Gabriel, her ire now directed at him for not sharing this information as part of the investigation. It then clicks for me why she’s so upset: she realizes that Lauren was going to make me bureau chief if she won.
Gabriel says, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I wanted to wait until a little more evidence was developed. Quite frankly, I wasn’t quite sure how you’d react to your boss being a suspect.”
She smiles as if he’s making a joke. “You’re serious? You think Drake McKenney committed murder to avoid a primary challenge?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, “but the one thing I do know is that everyone always says Drake McKenney would kill to keep his job.”
17.
DANA GOODWIN
After the funeral, I head back to Hogan Place. Stuart goes home to relieve Livie at the usual time. Before saying our goodbyes, Gabriel and I agree to connect later in the day to compare notes.
Lauren’s decision to run for DA against McKenney has me confused. Not Gabriel’s suggestion that it makes McKenney a suspect, but the idea that Lauren actually was going to run for DA. And, of course, that she didn’t tell me. Win or lose, that meant that she was going to leave Special Vics. That’s what her dinner with Ella Broden was about. She apparently wasn’t thinking of firing me after all.
At six, Gabriel calls. He tells me that a team of cops has already been through all the surveillance footage available. It’s a goose egg. Even though every building along Park, Madison, and Fifth Avenues has security cameras, each one only films its own entryway. Anyone walking down the side streets goes undetected.
“The cameras don’t even pick up Lauren. Aside from when she leaves her building at around ten after one, she’s not seen again. And the worse news is that Richard Trofino never appears.”
“He could have left through another exit,” I say. “One without a camera.”
“I know,” he says, then sighs. “With that bit of positive news, I’m going to call it a day. Let’s meet first thing tomorrow and strategize for a bit about how to approach Trofino.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I’ve now lived in New York City for nineteen years, the longest stretch I’ve spent in one place. For the first eighteen years of my life, I called suburban Virginia, right outside of DC, my home. It was a nice enough place to grow up, but boring as hell. For reasons that I still don’t understand, I chose to go to college and law school in similarly low-key environments, which meant that by the time I had my JD degree, I was more than ready for city life.
I started out in the East Village, because that was the place young professionals ended up. Back then, I called a run-down one-bedroom walk-up home. Two of us shared the bedroom, and a third paid a share of the rent to sleep on the pullout in the living room. After a few years, I wanted a place of my own but couldn’t cover the rent in Manhattan anywhere south of 110th Street. Commuting from Harlem or above didn’t make sense because I worked downtown, so I migrated to Brooklyn. First to Park Slope, and then, after Stuart and I married, we rented the garden floor of a townhouse in Carroll Gardens. Jacob’s arrival necessitated a second bedroom, and Brooklyn proved too up-and-coming for us to expand our living quarters and also pay for a regular babysitter, so we relocated to Queens—the “new Brooklyn” as it’s sometimes called in the press.
My neighborhood in Astoria is an eclectic mix of working-class families, land speculators, actor types—which is why it’s referred to as “Actoria”—and people like Stuart and me, priced out of a family home in Brooklyn or Manhattan. The broker described the place in the real-estate listing as a “jewel box,” which really just means that it’s small.
Stuart and Jacob are in the living room when I come through the front door. As he invariably does when I enter, Stuart jumps up to greet me with a kiss on the lips. In this way, he reminds me a bit of when I was a kid and Harry, our cocker spaniel, would start wagging his tail the moment I stepped into the house. Jacob, by contrast, remains on the sofa, his eyes glued to the television. I wonder if he even knows I’m home.
I plop down next to Jacob, which at least breaks his focus from the screen. If only for a second.
“Whatcha watching?” I ask.
“It’s a movie.”
“I know. Which movie?”
He looks over at his father.
“Jungle Book,” Stuart says.
“Is it good?” I ask Jacob.
He doesn’t answer.
“Your mother asked you a question.” Stuart reaches over for the remote and with the press of a button freezes the screen. A boy wearing a red loincloth is talking to a much bigger black bear. “Jacob, please tell Mommy about your day.”
I brace for my son to object to this interruption in his viewing pleasure, but he takes it in stride. Jacob is like his father in that way. Very even-tempered. Rarely prone to crying or tantrums, which I hear from other parents and the child-rearing websites is pretty unique among little boys.
I now have a small window in which to engage my son. Our conversations are often terse—especially when initiated by me. I’ve learned the trick to get him to talk more is to be specific in my questions. Asking “How was your day?” invariably results in a one-word response: “Good.” Regardless of whether his day was actually positive. But if I ask who he sat with at lunch, the answer often gives me a peek into what transpired at school. It’s actually a technique that works with suspects too.
“Tell me one thing you learned today.” Tonight’s query.
“I don’t know,” he says, an answer that tells me he wants to get back to watching the movie.
“It doesn’t have to be something you learned in school. It could be from a friend. Or a teacher. Or even something you learned about yourself maybe. Maybe a new food you tried. Just something about your day that I don’t know. Let’s see if you can stump Mommy.”
He looks at me with a scrunched-up face, rising to the challenge. “Did you know that Owen is going to get a puppy?”
“No, I did not know that.” I don’t tell him that I also don’t know who Owen is.
“Owen is going to get a puppy.”
“That’s nice.”
“Can we get a puppy too?”
I want so much to say yes, to be a hero in my son’s eyes. What I don’t want so much is to walk a dog in the rain at eleven o’clock at night.
Stuart saves me from the being the killjoy. “I told Jacob that a dog is a big responsibility and that when he gets a little older, we could certainly revisit the topic. Owen has a brother who is ten. That seems like the right age for a boy without an older brother to get a dog.”
Stuart at his best. My weakness, as a parent and perhaps a human being, is that my first instinct is to confront. It serves me well in the courtroom, less well with my family. But Stuart is a natural peacemaker, knowing exactly how to defuse
even a situation as fraught as denying a boy a dog.
I nod at my husband, both to denote my agreement and to thank him for being the heavy. “Your father is right. I think a few years from now we can certainly add a new member to our family. Would we get a big dog or a little dog?”
“Big dog.”
“Of course,” Stuart says, more to me than to Jacob.
“What would we name this big dog?”
Jacob shrugs. “I don’t know. I’d have to meet the dog first.”
“Maybe Mr. Big Dog,” I say, “to go with Mr. Big Tiger.”
Jacobs laughs. “That’s a silly name for a dog, Mommy.”
This time Stuart smiles at me. I suspect it’s because I’ve been able to put aside the tragedy in my day to engage our son about the trivial. Although it wasn’t Stuart’s intent, of course, realizing that’s what I’ve done quickly erases my smile.
I press the play button, and the man-cub is once again talking to the big bear. Stuart takes the opportunity to engage me.
“Do you want to talk?”
I look over to Jacob. I could scream “Fire!” and he wouldn’t look away from the movie. Still, I’m not going to have a discussion about murder in front of our five-year-old.
“Not now,” I say. “I really just want to spend some time with Jacob.”
“Do you want to do the reading honors again tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say, “that would be great.”
“What shall we read?” I ask Jacob once he’s snuggled under his blankets.
“Mike Mulligan.”
“Again? Don’t you want to try something new?”
“No. Mike Mulligan,” he says emphatically.
It’s a repeat of the other night. I read the same words, and Jacob asks the same questions, almost verbatim: “What happens to steam shovels when they’re not needed anymore? Why doesn’t Mike realize that he hasn’t left a way out? Can we go to the place where they live?”
I patiently answer each query, remembering what I’d told him the other night so that I’m consistent in my explanations. That’s all children want. To feel like the world is safe for them and they can anticipate what is coming next. Not to be surprised.
I try not to focus on just how much I’ve failed my son in this regard. God willing, he’ll never know.
Stuart offers to microwave the leftover Chinese food he and Jacob had for dinner. I take the opportunity to change into my home clothing, which amounts to sweatpants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt I’ve had since college. The chicken and broccoli is already on the table, steam rising off it, when I return to the kitchen.
We have a small, square table in our kitchen with three chairs around it. It’s my favorite place in the apartment because it fits only our family. There’s something I find comforting about outsiders not being permitted here. We use the dining room for visitors, but the kitchen feels like home to me.
I take my seat across from Stuart and scoop up a forkful of chicken. It’s bland, the way Jacob likes it, but I still enjoy the warmth in my mouth.
“Did you know about Lauren running for DA?” he asks.
“No,” I shake my head.
“What would that have meant for you? I mean, if she ran?”
“I don’t know. I suspect she would have resigned as bureau chief. Maybe McKenney would have fired her. I don’t know what that would have meant for me, though.”
He looks at me with as much sadness as I feel. I know what he’s going to say next, and I don’t want to hear it.
“I’d rather not talk about it, Stuart. It’s all just too much.”
“I understand. If you change your mind, I’m here.”
I nod to accept his offer, even though I know that I’m not going to ever feel differently. There’s nothing about Lauren Wright that I want to discuss with Stuart.
18.
ELLA BRODEN
Gabriel walks through the door to my apartment and, after kissing me hello, announces that he’s hungry. I tell him I had a grilled cheese about half an hour ago and offer to make him one, but he tells me not to bother. He heads over to the pantry. After removing a box of Cap’n Crunch, he pours half of it into a large bowl that I usually use for tossing salads, then adds nearly half a carton of milk. Still standing, he begins to spoon the crunchified-sugar bits into his mouth.
“Do you want to sit down and eat that?”
I don’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I walk over to the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. It’s pushed against the wall on two sides, but that allows for two chairs. I take one of them, and Gabriel follows suit.
“Did you stay inside after the funeral?” he asks.
He’s still worried about Donald Chesterman. They haven’t been able to find him, as the man evidently left prison and the grid simultaneously. I’ve already told Gabriel several times that I couldn’t live with police protection, and that I’d be safe without it, but I appreciate his concern nonetheless.
“Yes. I came right home after the funeral. But don’t you think we can relax about Donald Chesterman? He has no connection to Papamichael.”
“I know, but stolen guns go through a lot of hands. It’d be a hell of a coincidence if a felon got hold of a police detective’s gun, but stranger things have happened.”
“But if he’s the killer, that would be the second pretty big coincidence. He’d also have to have known that Lauren would be in the park that night.”
“That I’m less troubled by. He could have been stalking her, waiting for a time when she was alone. When she left the apartment, he could simply have followed her into the park.”
I disagree, but there’s no reason to debate the issue. I’d much rather focus on whether the evidence supports Lauren obtaining the gun from Papamichael, which would tighten the noose around Richard’s neck.
“Did you find out whether Lauren and Papamichael ever worked a case together?” I ask.
“He had a bunch of cases with Special Vics. A few with you, actually, and some others in the unit. But he also had cases with virtually every other ADA. So I’m not sure it’s a real connection to Richard.”
“But any case with the unit means access to Lauren. She was pretty hands-on.”
“Since when do you hate Richard Trofino so much?”
“Since he killed his wife. But the better question is: since when are you such a Richard Trofino defender?”
The two types of people Gabriel despises most are millionaires and politicians. I suppose criminals would be a close third. Richard fits the first two bills, and quite possibly the third too—even before the murder.
Gabriel shrugs. “I’m just trying to keep an open mind, that’s all. Besides, the two doormen on duty that night both say that they remember Lauren leaving at around one a.m., and they never saw Richard. And he doesn’t show up on any of the security cameras in the building either.”
“I’ve lived in doorman buildings, Gabriel. There are always exits that don’t bring you past the doormen. And I’m sure there are ways of avoiding the cameras.”
“I know. That’s what Dana said too.”
“Listen to the women in your life, Gabriel. You might just learn something.”
This at least gets a smile out of him. “Did Lauren ever mention to you she wasn’t happily married?”
“No, but . . . well, I’m not sure she would have. But if you’re looking for motive, there’s always one when it’s the husband. Especially a husband like Richard Trofino.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what I said. You know the guy’s capable of it.”
Gabriel nods that he agrees. “What about Drake McKenney?”
“What about him?”
“Like I said at the funeral, everyone always says he’d kill to keep his job. Do you think that’s a legit motive?”
Drake McKenney’s even higher on Gabriel’s shit list than Richard Trofino. Maybe at the very top, in fact. McKenney has focused on prosecuting co
ps as a way of burnishing his image with the political left, and cops don’t forgive that kind of thing. Perhaps that’s why Gabriel doesn’t want to focus on Richard Trofino. He’d rather bring down the DA.
I shrug. “I’ve heard better.”
Gabriel gets up from the table and heads for the cupboard. The Cap’n Crunch comes back off the shelf. I’m tempted to tell him that the box is supposed to have ten or fifteen servings, but I don’t. I’ve never been that type of girlfriend, and I don’t see any reason to start now.
When he rejoins me at the table, I ask for a taste. He holds his hand underneath the spoon to catch any dripping milk and guides it into my mouth.
I had forgotten just how sickly sweet children’s cereal tastes. I didn’t even like it much when I was a kid.
“Mmmm,” I say.
He knows I’m mocking him. “You don’t have to eat it; I only ask that you stock it.”
“And that I do.”
He takes another spoonful. “Delish.”
I listen to him chomp. He’s enjoying his Cap’n Crunch as if it were manna from heaven. I like this side of Gabriel. Jeffrey was always so serious. Not just about work, which on some level I understood—even though I didn’t know how anyone could get so worked up about litigation between two giant corporations—but about everything. He found no pleasure in life other than his own success, and that’s a tough row to hoe. Gabriel, on the other hand, understands that it’s the small joys that make life worth living.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about how the minister ended the funeral. The biblical quote,” I say.
“I don’t remember it. What was it?”
“I googled it. It was from First Corinthians. The part I wanted to understand better was the line about how sin was the law.”
“Was that really what it said?”
“Not exactly.” I pull out my phone. I’d done some research from it earlier in the day, but the search was no longer on my Google page. I rerun it while Gabriel inhales more cereal.