I crush open a fortune cookie: If at first you don’t succeed try, try, again.
“What’s funny?” Bobby says.
“Was I laughing?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Bobby, I have to do this again. Find him. Do it all again. Until I get it right.”
“No, you don’t. You can go back to work. Solve crimes.”
He’s right. I have three cold case murders. And I’m still undercover in the shelter.
“Should I ask for counseling? I’m a cop psychologically unfit, not ready for active duty?”
“Any way you cut it, killing someone, unless you are a complete sociopath is messy business. You know that. You are on the other end now. You’ve done all the right things so far to get away with it, but this thing isn’t over yet. You took out a civil servant, a prison guard. It’s lower than a cop, but they won’t let it go. You’ll be a suspect. You need to clear your head, be sharp. And be careful: they could put someone smart on this, someone like you.”
Bobby’s right. I run down the list of cops I know I don’t want on my ass, starting with Lieutenant Hagen. Bobby knows I brought him into this, this shit in my life; he is my accomplice. If I go down, so will he. We are bound together now more than ever. I try to remember: Did I ask him to do this for me, or did it just happen?
“Bobby, I’m sorry.”
“Sweetheart, we still need to come up with your alibi.”
Of course. It is only a question of time before my name is added to the list of suspects and I am questioned by law enforcement. The US Attorney in Maui knows I was looking for Clyde. I have a motive: revenge. I need to be ready. I am going to have to account for where I was the night Clyde Fairbrother was shot. The days of I went to the movies or I was home watching television won’t cut it. There are too many CCTV cameras to trace my movements, computers installed in cars; my phone is a vault of information—it’s why I left it with Bobby. If any law enforcement agency decides to consider me seriously as a suspect, I will be put under a microscope, a forensic one.
Therefore, Bobby suggests, we will take a cue from Susan Steevers, Ronald’s widow, who wouldn’t give an explanation of her movements on the night he disappeared, even if she went to jail; that’s how strongly she wanted to protect the women at Artemis—and that gave her eventual alibi more than a ring of truth. As for me, Bobby says I will begin by claiming I was home with him. He will corroborate this. The police will be reluctant to believe him. Bobby has a shady past, a dicey present; he is a loan shark. The police will demand more substantive proof from me. Bobby says I should hint there is an alibi but I can’t give it to them. I was home, I was home, I was home. Be like Susan, Bobby says. To get me to give them an alibi, they will have to badger me, threaten me, until I break down and finally give them the thing that will absolve me, prove my innocence, and account for me being three hundred and forty-three miles from Malone on the night Clyde Fairbrother was shot to death.
The alibi Bobby proposes is a home video of us having sex.
“No.”
“It’ll work,” Bobby says.
“We’ll be like Pamela and Tommy, Kim and Ray J. No, no, no.”
“You’ll be in good company,” he says.
“What about the time code?”
“A buddy gave me a program that can change it to when Clyde Fairbrother was killed. If the police want to prove that the time was altered, they can’t. I’m not saying you hand it over—you fight not to show it, you will be humiliated when you do, but they will buy it and leave you alone. And me.”
“It’ll get out. Every male cop will have it on his phone. They’ll be showing it in the locker room.”
“It beats an arrest and a possible conviction. You can also make it clear if you discover the one who posted it (always possible now), you will sue his ass, own his house.”
That is the future, and it’s irrelevant.
“Then I will be free to resume the search for my father’s killer. Nothing else matters.”
“If you like.”
“Bobby?”
“Yes?”
“Get the camera. I’ll light some candles.”
Chapter 32
Twelve hours ago, I killed a man. I covered my tracks, erased the murder weapon, destroyed the evidence, and prepared an alibi. On my way to the station, I worry it will show on my face, be revealed in my behavior. Will anyone at the police station notice anything different about me? She’s acting strange. Did she just kill someone? What’s up, Karim? You look like you took somebody out.
It is not completely fanciful. My fellow detectives are suspicious, observant; we study behavior; we are trained to read faces. On the other hand, we are also trained to deceive, role-play, hide our emotions, nod sympathetically when a child molester seeks our understanding, though we would like to rip out his throat. It is how we get information. The cops in my department consider me a bit weird anyway. My personality is mercurial; my little frozen smile confuses, I think I can appear normal despite the fact my stomach is gurgling like a broken pipe, and I feel like I am still wearing the sign that told Clyde who I was in the moment before I shot him.
When I enter the detectives’ room, I am mostly ignored. No one seems to notice anything different about me except Emile Keller, a loathed member of the vice squad, standing at the water fountain. We call it Keller’s “other office.” He stares at me with his usual mixture of curiosity and contempt. Keller has never gotten over the fact there are female detectives. I could be a three-headed turtle. He always looks at me as if he is going to say, Can I help you, miss?
When I worked alongside Keller during my obligatory term in vice, I came away feeling like I would rather be in the company of the felons we were looking for. Keller called himself old-school. I hate that expression. Was he nostalgic for the days when varying degrees of brutality, racism, and corruption were acceptable? Does he long for those days? Keller wasn’t dumb, just lazy. He knew how to disappear, cover his tracks, yet find a way onto every overtime assignment. His size and gruff demeanor gave the impression he was a tough guy. He was the office bully; he enjoyed pushing new recruits around, loved practical jokes.
Cops get burned out in vice; they’re dealing with drug dealers and their customers, prostitutes and their customers, the bottom rung of crimes—gambling, number running, alcohol abuse, loan sharking (sorry, Bobby). After a while you can’t tell whom you are protecting, whom you are serving. There are too many people willing to pay you off in cash, drugs, or sex. Keller claims a stable marriage, is a devout Catholic. As for corrupt, there are rumors, but they mean nothing. He may just be better at covering his tracks. The only good thing about Keller is that he plans to retire soon. He’s on the wrong side of history, the poster boy for cops that enlightened urban police are trying not to hire now. When Keller once bragged that his sons wanted to grow up to be cops just like him, people shuddered. I never underestimated Keller, I just will be glad to see him go.
When I graduated from the academy, Bobby gave me a lecture on what to expect. “Law enforcement is binary. There is a line. As a cop, you stand on one side or the other on a number of issues: the line between the brutal and the nonbrutal cop, the line between integrity and corruption—there is nothing in between. The line between assholes and nonassholes. Plus, you’re a woman, a cop, and smart. The assholes will resent you, and try to fuck you up, and probably try to sleep with you, too. It’s hard, Nina. People are offering you money to pretend you didn’t see something, look the other way. You also got people hating you, and it’s easy to hate them back, or hard not to. It is not a job for the immature, either. They make cops too young. You have kids in uniforms with guns. They’re in their twenties, just past teenagers; you know what teenagers are like—they have to be right, they think they know it all, and worse, they have no introspection. By the time they grow up, they are fixed in those same personalities as when they were teenagers.”
It was mostly true but Bobby was wrong about cop
s falling into one category or another: they were also on different sides of the line in certain areas. There was a detective who had the gentlest, most caring, sympathetic presence, polite to suspects, lawyers, and fellow officers. He ended up in jail for taking bribes, extorting businesses, and selling information to the mob.
But Bobby was right about Keller: he was a case of arrested development.
“Haven’t seen you around much, Karim,” Keller says.
“Busy, busy.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Asshole won’t let it go.
“It’s a secret.”
Keller knows undercover work is confidential. There have been plenty of cases where undercover cops are betrayed by corrupt cops in the same department. To be exposed in narcotics or gang cases can be a death sentence. Lieutenant Hagen and I are the only people who know I am undercover in Artemis. On the other hand, I’m not undercover in a Colombian drug cartel. I’m in a women’s shelter. But I don’t like it.
“You want to know what I’m doing, ask Lieutenant Hagen; otherwise it’s none of your fucking business.”
Keller tosses his paper cup in the basket without looking. He doesn’t need to aim; he’s been doing it so long. He adjusts his pants, moves toward me slowly. He wants to make sure everyone in the detectives’ room gets a good, long look. I know what he’s doing. He’s going to invade my space. In martial arts, it’s called the ma-ai zone. If he crosses into it, I am supposed to attack. Of course, I can’t or won’t; he’s twice my size. So he will get right up on me, tower over me, be a wall, one that might fall on me and crush my bones. I will back away, then he will mark me humiliated and it will give him pleasure. He won’t be the first. I know how to deal with guys like him.
“It won’t work, Keller, so back off. All you’re going to do is inflict some of your bad breath on me. And I’ll tell your mother.”
That stopped him.
“My mother?”
“Yeah. You’re being a bad boy.”
The detectives watching this little drama laugh. I’m not humiliated. Keller is. Such is the workplace situation in Long Island City homicide. Before he can determine his next move, Lieutenant Hagen opens her door. “Karim, in here, please.”
Keller gives me the finger. I enter Hagen’s office. Lieutenant Hagen closes the door. She doesn’t make it to her desk.
“Talk to me.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Who the hell are you, Karim?”
I take my time with the question. I know it is not an existential one. It might be Who do you think you are? I play it safe. Polite.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lieutenant. Have I done something wrong?”
“You’re under suspicion of murder. I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“By whom?”
“Take your pick. Let’s just say I got a call asking about you. So again, who are you?”
There is a copy of the New York Post on her desk. Aha. She pushes the newspaper into my view. I glance at it.
“It’s about this murder, right?”
“Right. The victim was active in the anti-abortion movement,” Lieutenant Hagen says.
It is time to tell Lieutenant Hagen everything. On the other hand, she may already know what I am about to reveal concerning my past. It happens sometimes when a suspect finally confesses. He thinks you are going to be surprised, but you already know what he was going to say. Lieutenant Hagen will have her moment, then she will hear it from me. I tell my story wearily. It is not the first time I have had to explain; it’s like being an ex-con. You are always a suspect.
“I assume you know about my father. He performed abortions at a Planned Parenthood clinic.”
“Yes. He was assassinated by a pro-life zealot.”
“He was murdered by a pro-life zealot,” I correct her. “Whenever something bad happens to one of those cowardly bastards, my name comes up.”
“This guy upstate, was he one of them? Ever hear of him?”
I can’t deny indifference to my father’s possible killer, or his opposition to abortion.
“I never knew his name, but I knew about him. He was always anonymous. Or was. If you want my personal opinion, he deserved it.”
I remember Mr. McDermott. It looks like something I could have done.
“I tend to agree with you, Karim, but if you are asked, I wouldn’t go there.”
No shit.
“The ex-con angle makes sense,” I say.
“Would you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If you could?”
“Would I kill him?”
Can I pull off a convincing consideration of such an outrageous idea?
“It has occurred to me.”
Pause for effect.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Lieutenant Hagen shrugs. She is convinced. I am innocent in her mind. She has more pressing matters.
“How much longer do you need at the shelter?”
“I’m close. Phyllis is convinced my life is in danger. After Haneen got killed, she is not taking any chances. She doesn’t want to lose another woman. If she is certain my husband is a real threat, I think she’ll try to have him killed.”
“She has accomplices, then.”
“She must. I think we can find them, keep an eye on them, I can let you know when Phyllis goes out. She may ask me to help her set up Bobby, but not tell me too much so I am not involved. I think that’s how she dealt with Susan and the other women. They know enough to be grateful, but not enough to turn her in. If we can run a sting for whoever is helping her, one of them will talk; we will clean up at least three murders. Who could ask for anything more, as the song goes.”
“My favorite song,” Lieutenant Hagen says.
She opens the door for me. As I leave, I hear her say in her most authoritative and unfriendly voice, “Keller, get in here.”
Sisterhood.
Chapter 33
On my way to the shelter, I stop off at Cannelle’s and buy two dozen cupcakes. I give one to Myra as I walk through her house to the shelter. Amanda and Bobo greet me at the door.
“Good thing you’re back,” Amanda says. “We’re having a funeral for Haneen tonight.”
“You mean a memorial service.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You need a body for a funeral.”
Am I being flippant with a twelve-year-old?
“Okay,” she says. “A memorial service.”
“What about the rest of the kids? Do they know?”
“They think she just went home. I’m the only one who knows. Hey, where were you? You’re supposed to call in. Phyllis was worried about you.”
“Sorry.”
Phyllis comes out of her office.
“I told her,” Amanda says.
Phyllis nods. I hand her the box of cupcakes and retreat to my basement home.
The atmosphere at dinner is subdued. The children are sullen; they complain about the lasagna, and then argue over the size of the portions. Phyllis busts Ben and Frankie for playing games on their phones under the table.
“Next time, guys, I’m confiscating them,” Phyllis says.
Byron begins to cry for no reason. Paula gets up, carries him into the living room, and walks him in circles until he calms down. The mothers are tense; everyone is in a bad mood. Phyllis raises the spirits of the children by telling them there are cupcakes for dessert and they can watch a movie after dinner.
Gerri and I clear the dishes. Phyllis places a bowl of fresh roses on the table next to a framed photograph of Haneen that she downloaded from the “Our People” page on the Chase website. It shows Haneen—Human Capital Management New York sandwiched between Dana—Global Compliance London and Matt—Private Equity New York. Haneen is wearing a hijab, smiling her infectious smile, confident, competent. She is someone you want to manage your money, your life. The message is clear. These young p
eople who work at Chase have been raised to be vibrant, responsible, caring young adults. They aced their SATs and went on to excellent colleges, then into well-paying, fun jobs in the new economy. They are your children. Of course you would trust them with your money. I want to work there. I want to be a part of that family. I also want to experience life away from the desk at Chase, river raft with my fellow traders, do yoga, wear Chase team T-shirts when we plant vegetables in urban garden plots, take cooking classes, mentor inner-city children—it is a wonderful, satisfying life/job, or is it a job/life? Either way, I would do anything to be in the company of these people. They appear content, happy. They have meaningful lives. They are safe, and unlike me, they haven’t killed anyone.
“Let’s all hold hands, have a minute of silence for Haneen?”
Phyllis speaks softly, not wanting her voice to carry into the living room, where the children are watching Frozen. They know Haneen is gone. The older ones, Amanda and Ben know why; the younger ones have been told tales designed to reassure them, ranging from “Haneen went home” to “Haneen moved away to a safe place.” It will only be a matter of time before the rumors are aired and exchanged, the adults overheard, the lies they told exposed; the children will learn Haneen was murdered. They will make their own adjustments. Added to their own numberless anxieties will be the worry that Haneen’s murder will be the fate of their mothers. It will be the subject of their nightmares when they wake up at two in the morning. But that’s for later. Now they are watching Frozen.
Phyllis sits. We all do. We release our hands from one another.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Phyllis says. “We lost a young woman who came to us for safety. She was tricked out of here. We had no way to stop her. You are all here voluntarily—you can leave anytime, but this is a lesson of what can await you outside. I’m sorry to begin like this, but I can’t say it enough. You have to be careful.”
What are we supposed to do? There is nothing.
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