Change the topic of conversation? Okay:
Bobby B: Like a young Denzel Washington but better looking. Taller? Blacker? The sinewy muscles of a wide receiver that harden to the touch like his beautiful cock? That part I learned later. Bobby B, who had to wear boy’s belts, his waist was that narrow. When he took a seat next to me in the Long Island City Police Academy auditorium, I lost my breath. This man is so amazingly beautiful all I wanted to do for the first thirty seconds was not be engaged to my doctor. When I calmed down, he whispered, “I would love it if you would lend me a pencil.”
Which could also be taken as I love you; please lend me a pencil. I was back in the seventh grade, sitting next to Neil Smith, trying not to look at him when he said the same words. I gave Neil the pencil and ended up doing his homework for the rest of the year. Was this police cadet named Robert Booth—it said on his badge—another Neil Smith? I hoped so. He had the looks, but unlike Neil, I found out he also had the brains. What he didn’t have was a real desire to be an upright citizen. He was more into the other side. Bobby chose to be a criminal.
Or, in his own version: “When I graduated from high school, I was looking at job offers from my parents. They could place me in one of their kiosks in the JFK terminal and I could sell smartphone covers—fuck that. I had a buddy who owned an ad hoc banking institution. He had an opening for a credit counselor, aka loan shark. I told him I was considering law enforcement. He thought it would be an excellent career move as there was a lot of money to be made as a corrupt cop. They could use me to our mutual advantage.”
This conversation took place shortly before he washed out of the academy, as Bobby suspected he would.
“I don’t know what made me think this would be a viable career for me. Was I rebelling against my parents? I knew I could either be a cop or a crook, but I couldn’t be a crooked cop.”
Later, in the wake of the 2008 economic collapse, he defended his profession.
“Banks won’t lend any of the money the government gave them as bailouts, so I’m just filling in the gap. My interest rate is slightly higher than payday loans, and we don’t break people’s legs anymore if they can’t pay it back. We work with them. I do credit checks—not the kind you get for free on the Internet but the ones I get asking around the neighborhood. I’m also a job creator. I loaned some money to Adela Nubelo so she could buy a sewing machine and do piecework at home. She makes some money; she pays me off, then borrows enough for another one and hires one of her friends. With the profit from the two machines, she buys another one, and another, and soon she has a shop of women doing piecework for bubkes, so they have to come to me for loans. I’m a real job creator.”
Bobby and I stayed in touch through my graduation, rookie year, broken engagement, and promotion to detective three years later, which we celebrated with sex and a lovely dinner in a suite at the Carlyle Hotel.
“We should do this more often,” he said.
I disagreed. “It would ruin everything. I would have Internal Affairs on my ass, you eat too fast for me, I’m a country girl, and you’re from Queens.” Neither of us had any idea what that meant, but it silenced us until the next course.
We don’t live together, but we share keys and stash enough clothes and toilet articles at each other’s apartments to make it feel like we do. We say, Your place or mine? and sometimes I come home and find Bobby on the couch reading one of my books at his usual breakneck speed. Or one of his own for his bizarre book club whose members float on the fringes of criminality: a marijuana delivery kingpin, a disbarred lawyer, a retired bank robber, an ex–call girl who sells high-end real estate, and Bobby’s bookmaker. The book group is led by a Hofstra English professor who is working off his debt to Bobby. The members refuse to read anything having to do with crime, as the arguments regarding veracity take up too much time. At the moment they are reading Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children.
After dinner, Bobby and I play chess or watch movies Bobby downloads from the Criterion Collection. He is partial to French New Wave: Truffaut, Godard, and Melville. I know he sometimes imagines himself a Queens version of Bob le Flambeur. I prefer gentle comedies: Wes Anderson to lift me out of my darker moments, or anything with Will Ferrell or Reese Witherspoon. In bed, I hold on to him, before, during, and after we make love. Aside from tender sex, letting me cry when I tell my sad story, and eating pizza in bed, Bobby also occasionally informs for me. Not that he would rat anyone outright, or by name, but if there is a crime he could help me with, he points me in the right direction—without naming names. If he said, Check out the Rainbow Lounge in Kew Gardens, it meant it was where a suspect liked to drink and I could make an arrest. The fact that Bobby was a loan shark meant I had to look the other way in exchange for information. That applies to all informants, whether one is sleeping with them or not. It is the essence of detective work. Bobby was also part of a small circle of people who knew I was looking for my father’s killer, people who kept their eyes out for any information that might lead me to the cowardly bastard.
Bobby once suggested I go underground and into the anti-abortion movement, join the Army of God and find the cowardly bastard. I thought about it, but I wouldn’t get any further in the movement than marching in a demonstration in front of a Planned Parenthood clinic. They have their own intelligence, too. I would be asked to leave, politely at first, and then less so.
After my drink with Mr. McDermott, I text Bobby that I’m coming over to his condo in Rego Park. We eat the pizzas he ordered. Mine is always a margherita with anchovies, his a sausage with goat cheese. I tell him about my cases. He says I should be careful about Mr. McDermott, the forgetful but self-confessing murderer.
“Don’t get involved with amateurs. This guy sounds like one. Digs you, or is a cop freak, loves to hang out with the police. Ditch him fast. Ronald and Susan are interesting. I would say she killed him, but what do I know? The TV weatherman’s lost cat might be your best bet.”
“Who killed the woman in the car?” I ask.
“It’s a confession crime. Give it a couple of days; the killer will show up.”
We brush pizza crumbs off the sheets and rub our feet together under the blanket. Sex is on the horizon, but I need something else first; it comes out like this:
“Bobby?”
His hand is on my calf.
“Tell me what you like about me.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a matter of even thoughs. I like your laugh even though there’s not a lot of stuff in your life that’s funny.”
His hand is on my knee, then behind it. Why does it feel like a hot massage stone?
“I like the way you smell even though you don’t use perfume, deodorant, or scented shampoo.”
His hand is on the top of my thigh; his fingers dance.
“I like your body, and there isn’t any even though.”
His other hand is under my T-shirt.
“I can’t get enough of the sides of your breasts”—he is caressing my nipple—“or the soft lower spot just below your belly button on the way to your sweet well. Enough?”
“More. I’m enjoying this.”
“Even though you have a funny little bump on the end of your nose, it makes you interestingly beautiful, not just plain beautiful.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
His hands retreat from my body, and he sits up. He locks his forehead against mine. It feels as sweet as his soft knuckle on my clit.
“One more thing I like,” he says. “Your desire for revenge. It’s primal, strong. I am attracted to it. Clint, Bruce, Liam don’t fuck with my family Neeson, these are our heroes. You do bad shit to them, they don’t call the cops, they don’t sue—they come after you. We cheer the bad guys getting it in the chest with the .357, tossed off a building, shot sitting on the toilet. We feel better. Then society tells us it’s wrong, we can’t be vigilantes. You’re supposed to say, I will let justice take its
course. You don’t. So that’s another thing I like about you. Even though it’s all the way to hell.”
I take off my T-shirt and pull him to me.
The next morning, I wake up. Bobby is gone, the side of the bed where he slept restored to smooth, the duvet flattened, the pillows stacked and fluffed. It’s as if he were never there. How does he make his exit so silently? Did I get a farewell kiss? Does our sex put me into such a deep sleep I don’t witness his departure the next morning? I carry his smell and sweat to his shower. I make them disappear, like him.
Outside, it is a lousy March morning in Long Island City. I’m driving cold, waiting for the heater to kick in. I pass Hunts Point Produce Market, where workers are loading boxes of food on trucks bound for Manhattan supermarkets. They are dressed in wool caps, thick gloves, and bulky jackets. For a moment, I envy them; their lives seem so much less complicated than mine. They don’t have to deal with a young woman knifed to death in her car. I recognize the cop mentality I swore I wouldn’t own: I see the underbelly of life, I work in the sewer, I see the worst of people, and so on, it’s just cop talk. Maybe one of the workers is related to the woman knifed in her car; the ever-expanding ripples of murder. Cops just see the stone hit the water first. We are all in this world together. As the men warm themselves around a steel-drum fire, they carry the burden of wayward teens, unpaid bills, health problems, elderly parents, addictions, and the pain of exile. I open the window and let the freezing air empty my mind.
I hear a bing from my purse. It’s a text from Mrs. Steevers telling me she wants to share some new information about her daughter-in-law Susan. Fine, I like to share. It is followed by two more. One from Artie Crews, who still wants me to search for his son’s cat; the other from Lieutenant Hagen: Found Ronald. Pick me up at the station.
Sorry, Artie. Your son’s cat will have to wait.
Chapter 10
Lieutenant Hagen is waiting for me. I lean over and open the passenger door for her.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’d rather you drive.”
I will skip the details we’ve seen a hundred times on TV. Yellow plastic tapes, news trucks, forensics technicians in white jumpsuits, uniformed cops directing traffic, detectives standing around, freezing their asses off.
Ronald Steevers met his end in a deserted warehouse near the exit of the Queensboro Bridge. Al Zitowitz, the night watchman, accompanied by his German shepherd, made daily sweeps of the property to roust, as gently as possible, the few homeless people who had worked their way inside, looking for a warm place to live. Al, a former homeless Vietnam veteran himself, carried cards with the names of shelters and churches in the area. As he escorted people out of the building, he gave them MetroCards and directions. In exchange, they told Al how they got inside, he would then report the broken window, jimmied door, or hole in a wall to a group of enlightened trust-fund kids who bought the building with the intent of developing it into an arts complex. They wanted the homeless out for risks of fire while they debated various solutions to the contradiction of creating a space for artists while evicting the poor and dispossessed. The window or door would be repaired, and a few days later Al would repeat the process. This time, as he was leaving, one of the men told Al he should check the basement near the furnace. Al discovered Ronald Steevers, standing erect, his body duct-taped to a handcart that had transported him to his final destination.
“You own this one,” Lieutenant Hagen says. Translated, it means that aside from solving the homicide it is also my responsibility to visit Ronald’s parents to tell them their son is dead. Whatever Ronald’s sins and shortcomings, his errors, his arrogance, even beating his wife, none of it added up to a reason to wrench two parents out of their comfortable lives into the horror and endless sadness of a child lost, grown or not. I would have to tell them this. It is the part of my job I never learned how to do. Then, after I have informed the parents of the death of their son, we will try to find out who killed him.
My colleagues are thorough, but not in a hurry to find a murderer. This deed is, according to preliminary opinions from the professionals in the white jumpsuits, the work of an extremely careful person(s). There is no murder weapon, no shell casing, and the bullet that went into the back of his brain just above the cerebral cortex was dug out with a scalpel. We are left with Ronald as he exited the world. The only possible clues might be that the person(s) who did it knew how to use a scalpel (a surgeon?), or where the duct tape was purchased and by whom (impossible), and to make matters worse, there are no witnesses, no swatches of clothing to dangle over the noses of bloodhounds to course over the plains of Queens. Then again, the Long Island City Police Department doesn’t have bloodhounds.
Ronald’s death was carefully planned and executed—forgive the pun. The killer is unlikely to commit another. On our side, it is clear the murder was personal. Ronald pissed someone off. Revenge. I’m into that. But first, his parents must be informed. It is their right. It will be their misery.
I pull up in front of the Steevers house. Mrs. Steevers is waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“Well?”
“Can we go inside?” I say, getting out of the car.
“No. Right here. Right now.”
Mr. Steevers comes out of the front door and watches us.
“You tell me. I’ll tell my husband,” she says.
“Ronald is dead, Mrs. Steevers.”
Mrs. Steevers turns around to face her husband.
“See? I was right.”
Later, sitting at the Steeverses’ kitchen table, before I can say how sorry I am for your loss, or ask if Ronald had any enemies, or if Ronald ever discussed being threatened by anyone, Mrs. Steevers says, “That evil bitch killed him.”
It is possible I may agree with her, for sometimes, when evil bitch wives who have been slapped, punched, thrown down flights of stairs while hearing their children scream in panic (if it’s the first time they’ve seen Daddy beat on Mommy) or watch in sullen silence, yes, sometimes those evil bitches do kill their husbands. It is, in my experience, very rare. I will admit in my own evilest bitch moment the husband may have had it coming.
“Tell me why you think so, Mrs. Steevers.”
“Ronald was afraid of her. Said she was crazy, said she was violent.”
“He feared for his life,” Mr. Steevers added, swallowing his third shot of vodka, which is no comfort to the numbness that comes and goes in waves until he must retreat to their bathroom and throw up.
“She poured boiling water on him while he was asleep,” Mrs. Steevers says.
I take out my notebook. For the moment, we are done with grief. “Ronald told you this?”
“He showed us his arms. They were all red from where she did it.”
“When was this?”
“Back when he was working at Farmingdale. Two years ago.”
“Did he report this? Did he file charges?” I know this is specious—cops usually don’t call cops—but I’m interested in Mrs. Steevers’s answer.
“No. He said it wouldn’t look good on his record. He was thinking of quitting Farmingdale, getting a job closer to the city.”
Not close to interesting.
“So he quit Farmingdale?”
“Yes.”
“Home Depot was just temporary?”
“He was waiting to hear from the NYPD,” said Mr. Steevers, sitting down. There are wet spots on his shirt from his cold face rinse. We all look at one another. I want to leave, but I have to ask more questions.
“As much as you can tell me about Ronald’s wife, anything that will help me find her.”
“Try Alaska,” Mr. Steevers says. “She’s from there.”
I know this. Her lousy lover Brian Robbins at Sunny Gardens told me. “Does she have any family here? Do you know of any friends?”
Mrs. Steevers is shaking her head. I wait for more information. She gets up and puts her arms around her husband. It is a signal for me to leave.
“You
’ve helped me a lot. We’ll start looking for Susan. I might have some more questions. They can wait.”
I walk down the path to my car, knowing I have left behind sadness and despair. In a way, I was just a diversion, a distraction; now that I am gone, the Steeverses will be left alone with their loss. I have to find Susan, find out if she killed Ronald, and if she didn’t, then find out who did and go back to the Steeverses, give them . . . what? Justice? I’m looking for some myself.
I know a Punjab Indian restaurant in Jackson Heights on the way back to Long Island City. There is no way to eat Indian food and drive a car. When I eat Punjab, I want the side dishes spread out in front of me, moist garlicky naan, snow-white rice, flecks of green with cucumber floating in a choppy sea of tomasalat, a golden dhal to go with the chicken tandoori. As I am led to a table, I check my cell phone. I have three unimportant texts, five ignorable emails, and a request from Nancy Pelosi to send money.
I bury the phone in my purse. I give the waiter my order and wonder what is causing me to drift back to memories of Grahamsville and how my mother came to conduct the Rondout Valley Adult Education Orchestra. What is the point of this memory?
In the 1950s, in order to modernize their water supply, New York City built a series of dams and reservoirs in the Catskills. One of the rivers they needed to dam was on Grahamsville land. Our civic leaders drove a hard bargain. New York paid a huge sum for the water rights, and Grahamsville went from Podunk to Athens. Our enlightened mayor and town council turned the elementary schoolhouse into a museum of arts and crafts, tore down the high school, and built a new central school with science labs, a well-stocked library, athletic fields, and a gymnasium with an indoor swimming pool. There were music lessons with new instruments, free lunch, and for the parents, a continuing adult education program with courses in everything from The Fall of Communism to What’s New in Fertilizers. There, in the middle of the Catskill mountains, in an agricultural community, was an academy—hardly Platonic, but every child received an education taught by carefully selected teachers that would get them into a New York state college—and, for my mother, a community orchestra.
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