When my father closed his medical office and began commuting to Albany, my mother was freed from her role as my father’s nurse/assistant. A few credits short of an MA degree from New Paltz in music education, she applied for a position at the new central school. She was hired with the understanding that she commute to New Paltz and complete her degree. We would have to cook our own dinners, she would need time to study, write her master’s thesis, and practice her cello for a required recital.
“I would like a vote taken, please. It can be a secret ballot,” she said.
“Will we still have pie?” Sammy asked.
“Bought.”
“I vote no,” Sammy said.
I offered to learn how to make my mother’s apple pie, and Sammy changed his vote to yes. She got her degree and taught string instruments to the children of dairy farmers. One night a week, she conducted the Rondout Valley Adult Education Orchestra. At the first meeting, she told her adult players they would play a Mozart symphony for their first concert, six months away. Vern Farquhar, who played his fiddle on his knees, asked how that would be possible. “We’re mostly beginners.”
My mother said, “We will learn it one note at a time.”
At the memorial service for my father, the orchestra played Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. They had learned it one note at a time.
I hear the notes in my head, the steady sadness of the chords, and tears flow; I can see the waiter is concerned as he arranges the shiny tin bowls in front of me. I smile and dab my eyes with my napkin. I am back in the present. I will seek justice for the Steeverses. For them, it will be an arrest, a trial, a conviction, and a prison sentence. For my father, my way will be quicker.
Chapter 11
After three rings on his Sunny Gardens Apartments doorbell, Brian opens the door. The odor of burned marijuana mixed with a hasty burst of Febreze wafts out of his apartment. Brian doesn’t ask me in.
“Brian, I need to find Susan.”
“Have you tried her doorbell?”
Is he being a wiseass or just stoned?
“Sorry?”
“She’s home. I saw her just a while ago,” he says.
Brian gives me a frozen smile to show it’s information, but coming from him it’s also just a bit wiseass.
“Anything else?” he adds unwisely.
“Say thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“That I don’t haul your ass back to the station with all your weed.”
“Thank you.”
I remember Susan’s apartment is 216, the corner unit above the Indian family. I see a window curtain part. The woman is watching me. There are no secrets in Sunny Gardens Apartments. I ring the doorbell. A woman opens the door to the length of the chain. I show her my police ID.
“May I come in, Susan?”
She opens the door, so she must be Susan. I photograph her mentally, consider adjectives I might use later to describe her in my detective’s log: wispy, slender, fragile, flowery, lithe. One thing is clear. I seriously doubt this petite woman standing at the door could overpower six-foot-two Ronald, shoot him, tie his body to a handcart, and move it to a deserted factory in Queens—unless she had help.
As Susan shuts the door, her hand goes to her mouth just a moment too late to hide the gap in the row of her bottom front teeth. There are the faintest bruise marks on her cheeks and around her eyes. I assume they are the marks of her marriage to Ronald. A halo of Orphan Annie–orange hair frames her face. She has a ’60s Woodstock look. Should I also consider cute, vulnerable, optimistic, folkie green vegan? What does she listen to? Aimee Mann? Edie Brickell? None of this will appear in my detective’s log. I will simply write: Susan Steevers, female Caucasian, age thirties, height five two, weight 110 lbs. (estimated).
“I know about Ronald,” she says. “If that’s why you’re here.”
I am relieved that I don’t have to give her bad news, but I continue with the detective response. I know it by heart. My words are as scripted as the ones on the wall of a Calcutta call center.
“I’m sorry about your husband.”
Susan doesn’t look like a grieving widow, or any kind of widow at all.
The apartment is in better shape than when Brian first showed it to me. The kitchen is spotless, and the ants are gone. I peer into the bedroom through an open door. Bed made, floor waxed to shiny. It doesn’t look abandoned; there is a feeling of optimism. I’d like to look in the closet.
Is Susan thinking now that Ronald’s gone life can be lived in the way she likes? She doesn’t have to argue with him about anything. It’s understandable, so why does it piss me off? She doesn’t look bereaved; she doesn’t look like someone who lost a husband. She doesn’t look like my mother. She looks like a woman whose neurotic roommate finally left. “How did you find out?”
“I saw it on television.”
Susan goes to the window. A driver of a car squishing the wet concrete on Utopia Parkway might look up and catch a glimpse of a woman in a window caught between mourning and relief.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She doesn’t answer. She may be thinking that this is the part where she can tell me she wants to talk to a lawyer.
“I’m allowed,” I say.
“Okay.”
“We think Ronald was killed on the night of the twenty-fourth—that’s two days ago, Tuesday afternoon or night. Can you tell me where you were?”
“At friends. I was with friends.”
“Okay.” I take out my notebook. “Please tell me the names of these friends.” She is silent. I think she is reflecting about the answer to this question, which I suspect she has rehearsed. You will be asked for names.
“I can’t.”
I’ll wait this one out. It doesn’t take long.
“I would be betraying their trust.”
“Mrs. Steevers, you know I am investigating the murder of your husband, Ronald.”
“Yes.”
“You know what an alibi is.”
“Of course.”
“I just want to be clear about this. Your husband was murdered. You could be considered a suspect. You are telling me you have an alibi, and you won’t provide any information to confirm it. Correct?”
“Yes.”
We look at each other. I decide to be Socratic.
“What conclusion should I draw?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Susan, I can put you in handcuffs, take you to the Long Island City police station, where you will be booked, photographed, your fingerprints taken, your name released to the media, who will make you famous or notorious. You will embark on the long, expensive process of arriving at some kind of truth. And, believe me, not in a way you will enjoy.”
Silence.
“Do you want to change your mind?”
“No.”
I go to plan B.
“Look, I don’t think you killed Ronald, but murder is number one on our list. Since Ronald was a policeman, solving his murder is a priority and outweighs whatever your reason for not ‘violating someone’s trust,’ as you put it. At some point you will have to divulge that information. Unless your friends are involved in a serious criminal enterprise, we can make a promise to be discreet, use any information that clears you, and go after the real killer.”
I am lying my ass off.
“Understand? I only want to find out who killed Ronald, that’s all. So think about it.”
I give her my card and leave.
Chapter 12
Driving to the police station, I try to imagine Susan’s next move. On a hunch, I turn around and park across the street from Sunny Gardens Apartments. I turn on the radio and listen to sports talk until Susan drives Ronald’s Mustang out of the underground parking garage. I pull out behind her, call in my location for anyone in an unmarked car to follow if I lose her. Detective Higgins answers.
“A minute, okay?”
“Sean?”
“Are you busy, Sean? I need help on a tail.”
“I’m staring at a potential drug deal.”
“This is better, believe me.”
I know he’s bored out of his mind and relieved to be called away from a stakeout that could last for days.
“I’m going west, on Fifty-Seventh Avenue, toward Queens Boulevard.” I hear his car start.
“I’m on my way. What am I looking for?”
“A pristine red Mustang convertible—you can’t miss it.”
“Pristine? Damn, Karim, no wonder nobody can stand you.”
“Okay. Look for me in the crap Nissan.”
“That’s better.”
“Sean, I’m heading into the Queens Center mall. The party is white female, red curly hair, thirties, short and thin. I think she’s meeting someone. Try the food court.”
“See you there.”
Susan gets lucky and finds the only parking spot on level three. There are no spaces for me until I get to the roof. I sprint down the stairs, hoping her elevator is slow. It is. I see her come out of the elevator, follow her to the food court, a collection of fast-food franchises. If I were hungry, it would be a toss-up between Mongolian Madness, Tacos El Torero, and Nellie’s Neapolitan. Susan buys a coffee and a Cinnabon, takes a seat at a table, then does what every human being does when their butt hits plastic: she takes out her phone. I find an empty table behind hers. A few moments later, Higgins comes in from the opposite side. He sees me; I nod in Susan’s direction. He buys a slice and a Diet Coke from Nellie’s Neapolitan, finds a table near enough to Susan so he can overhear a conversation if there is one.
Ah, what the hell. At Mongolian Madness kitchen, a Hispanic chef in a Genghis Khan hat swirls noodles and vegetables on an iron grill the size of a manhole cover. Two minutes later, he hands me a Styrofoam box with the weight of pure lead. I look back into the food court. Susan and Detective Higgins are gone. There are no texts on my phone. I don’t worry. Higgins is following her. I stop for extra napkins and notice a short, stocky woman in a vintage Tenacious Dames motorcycle club vest, with a one-percenter badge (it’s not an economic statement. Faced with bad press because of criminal motorcycle gangs, the American Motorcyclist Association declared that only one percent of motorcycle riders are outlaws). She is, therefore, announcing that she might be outlaw. But badges are cheap, so she could also be a social worker on her day off. We’ll see.
We enter an elevator together along with a mother-and-daughter shopping team. Mom rests her bulging Gap bag on the floor. Daughter is wearing a new shoulder purse and clutches a plastic Zara bag to her chest. Ms. One-Percenter Tenacious Dame is inscrutable behind her pink Choppers. We all make one another uncomfortable, no small talk, holding our individual breaths until we reach our floor. Tenacious Dame checks her phone, raises it, and takes a selfie. Or not. Could have been a picture of me. I won’t know. The elevator door opens; we all exit. The doors close.
Chapter 13
My call to Higgins goes to voice mail. The smell of the Mongolian noodles on the passenger seat is making me nauseous; I need a coffee. On my way out of a McDonald’s drive-through, I throw the noodles into the garbage. I pour out an inch of coffee so I don’t scald myself and pull into traffic just as my phone rings. It’s Higgins.
“We had a nice chat,” he says. “Susan’s from Alaska.”
“I asked you to follow her, not get to know her.”
“She needed help on buying a game for her nephew. Should it be Grand Theft Auto V or Minecraft? One thing led to another. I have her number.”
“So do I. Big deal.”
“And I met her lunch date.”
“You get a name?”
“No. But she’s in the picture I’m sending you. Am I done?”
“I’d like to know where she goes next.”
“Okay. I’ll give them another half hour, but then I have to resume the war on drugs.”
“I’ll be at the exit of the mall. Just let me know when they leave and I’ll continue the tail.”
“Fair enough.”
I drink my coffee and wait for Higgins’s call. So far, Susan is a person who will not account for her whereabouts on the evening her husband was murdered and shows little remorse. She is becoming more and more interesting. I get a text from Higgins with a picture of Susan and her lunch date, a woman in a wheelchair. Sunglasses, a knit cap, a Hermès neck-hiding scarf, and not enough skin showing for any kind of facial recognition software. A few minutes later, the red Mustang emerges, and I follow Susan back to her apartment in Sunnyside Gardens.
A waste of time. Police work.
At my desk, I enter an account of this into my detective’s log, starting with my visit to Susan and her refusal to provide an alibi for the night Ronald was murdered. I call Dave Liebowitz, my favorite district attorney, and explain the situation to him. If he wants me to arrest her, I’ll do it, but we don’t have anything on her except her refusal to divulge her whereabouts. Those situations can be embarrassing for a suspect when she does decide to tell. No one wants the Long Island City version of the country song about a guy who gets hanged for murder rather than say he was in the arms of his best friend’s wife. Liebowitz says not to arrest her, just keep the pressure on. Since I didn’t arrest her, my fear credibility is compromised. Detective Tessa Harper would be useful. She isn’t physically imposing, but she has the face and temperament of your worst high school teacher. Susan is used to physical punishment. She learned about it from her loving husband, Ronald. Frightening for Susan needs to be psychological, and Tessa knows how to do it.
I send another email to Lieutenant Hagen, suggesting Tessa question Susan. There is a text from Ernie: The guy in Hawaii is ready to talk. Come.
Easier said than done. My first reaction is to tell Ernie that I want more information before I get on a plane and fly five thousand miles to Honolulu. Wait a minute. Is this me, suddenly less desperate to find out who killed my father? Is my hate diminishing, the revenge fantasies fading? Have I gotten on with my life?
I close my eyes and picture my father. A moving image comes. First the smell of his Old Spice cologne, then the feel of his rough tweed jacket. His face doesn’t come. It will. I need to experience him first. He lifts me up and snuggles me to his hip and carries me. I am warm and loved, and I look up and see him now, every pore of his dark skin, steady eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, he coos, Baby, baby, and that’s all it takes for my rage to return. My mind camera pans over to Sammy, his wet tears, my mother’s slow decline, and it doesn’t take long for the physical sensation of hatred to return. My temples throb, my fists clench, my eyes tear. Fuck Ronald. Fuck Susan. I click on to my Orbitz page and make a reservation for Honolulu. I text Lieutenant Hagen that I need three days for a family matter. I’m technically off duty for two days anyway. She gives me the third. That’s better.
I’m alive.
Chapter 14
Artemis Shelter for Women
I wake up in pain; my body is sore in places where I wasn’t hit. How does that happen? My feet hurt, my ankles are weak, my back is in knots, when I take a breath my ribs protest, I have a headache. I open my eyes. Ow, ow, ow. Why does opening my eyes hurt? I’m on a couch. I wriggle out of a sleeping bag, sit up facing a window. I see morning light outside, catch a glimpse of barren tree branches sneaking under intersecting power lines. Two pigeons balance on a wire arguing their next move over the sounds of buses, horns, and a distant siren. I’m in a living room, comfortable and anarchic—it can’t reflect any one person’s taste. There is another couch, smaller, facing mine, chairs of all styles, old lamps, modern lamps, Ikea meets thrift shop, a Warhol Campbell’s Soup reproduction next to a poster of dogs playing poker. It all lives in peace somehow, side by side. I don’t care.
An angel comes into focus before me—or is it Botticelli’s Venus’s daughter? Whoever she is, she seems to be about ten or twelve years old with a bou
quet of braids and cornrows, olive skin, oval blue eyes; the miraculous offspring of an Asian and Nordic coupling. She holds a glass of water and two Tylenols in her palm.
“What’s your name?”
I take the pills. My fingers hurt. The pills go down. Act quickly, please.
“I’m Lucy,” I say.
“You look like shit.”
So much for an angel.
“I guess I do.”
“Who did it?”
“A man. More water, please.” I hear a woman say, “Bye, sweetheart,” and a door shutting.
“That was Gerri. She’s allowed to go outside.”
A floppy dog sneaks under the girl’s arm and lays its head on my lap. A giant Labrador combined with something else—I don’t know. It must weigh more than me. I’m too tired to lift its head out of my crotch.
“Does he bite?”
“She. Bobo. But only if you say the secret word. She’s our guard dog.”
Bobo nuzzles me, begging for an ear scratch or a nose rub. She doesn’t look like she could guard anything. This dog is only looking for love. It’s also drooling on my jeans.
“What’s your name?”
“Amanda. Can’t tell you my last name. But I have a different one at my school, St. Anne’s. It’s Catholic. If I make friends, I can’t go to their homes or invite them to mine. Ha. Like I have one. But it’s better than staying at the shelter all day and being homeschooled.”
The woman who let me in last night comes into the room.
“School, Amanda. Run along.”
“Her name is Lucy. I’m in the sixth grade,” she adds.
Amanda skips out of the room. Bobo wriggles free from my lap and pads off after her. The woman pulls a chair to the couch. She leans in close to my face. I feel caked blood around my nose.
“I’m Phyllis.”
“Yes, thank you for taking me in.”
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