“April, would you like to go first?”
“I liked her. Ah, that’s kind of dumb. We all did. She was great at helping the kids with their math. I told her she should get out of banking, become a teacher; she said she just might. She had a real gift. Ask my kids.”
She pauses. Closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.
“So here’s where I start to cry, which I haven’t done in a long time. You know what she said? ‘The one thing we have in common, all of us, is the people we love and are supposed to love us back are the ones we’re most afraid of.’ Isn’t that crazy?”
We all agree. Yes, it’s crazy.
Byron is asleep on Paula’s lap. She raises her hand and lowers it. It’s not school, it’s not group.
“Sorry. I’m just thinking how hard it is to be here. We’re afraid to go out, afraid to let our kids go to school, afraid to have lives. It’s not fair. I want to say, and I know Haneen would agree with me, we are all grateful to be here. We have to take care of one another. Thank you, Phyllis, for this place. Really. Thank you for the love you all have shown me and Byron.”
There is a silence. Do we applaud?
Janice says, “I guess it’s my turn. I don’t have anything to add except . . . yeah, I agree with Paula. We owe you, Phyllis.”
Sofia is next. “You know what happened to Haneen was, like, baggage that should have been left behind in Pakistan. You come to America; you have to leave stuff behind. We all bring something, don’t we? Sometimes we bring the best, sometimes the worst. It’s too bad. It was an honor killing. I think the two words don’t go together. There is no honor in killing. No honor at all.”
I’m next. The one who also killed. Was there any honor in mine? I put that away. This is about Haneen, not me. My thoughts:
Yeah. I messed up. I believed her. I believed her about her mother having a heart attack. Where did I leave my police skills, my skepticism, my trained mistrust of anything people say to me? I wasn’t doing anything, my friends and I are just lost, Officer. Is the subway that way, Officer? My son wouldn’t do anything like that, Officer. He’s been here all night watching television, Officer. I have been bullshitted by the best. Why I fell for the not-so-elaborate trap set by Haneen’s father is my own mystery. All I can do as a homicide detective is solve crimes, not prevent them. I can’t say this to the people around the table. All I can do is apologize.
Then my words:
“She was a beautiful, generous, sweet woman who obviously touched us all. I don’t have much to say about her that you all haven’t covered. I have to live with another reality. I shouldn’t have let her go. I should have tied her to the chair; I should have locked her in the cellar. I let her go. But she was so convincing.”
“Like there was something you could have done to stop her,” Gerri says. “That girl was going, no matter what.”
April takes my hand.
“You would have had to tie her down. You can’t blame yourself. It’s just awful. That’s what it is. Awful.”
Phyllis removes her glasses, places them on the table.
“I want to add something that’s really important to us here. It’s trust. I don’t have to tell you we live in a dangerous world. I want to remind you about whom we trust and whom we don’t. We need to learn not to trust. Men who threaten us, men who swear to kill us, men who are crazy, hopelessly jealous, sick, and damaged. Yes, there are laws to protect us from them. These men won’t obey courts, they won’t respect restraining orders; the police can put them in prison where they spend their time planning how to kill us when they get out. These men are sick. Mentally. Can they be cured? I doubt it.
“It is clear to me society is not interested in spending the money, the time, the resources —here I sound like someone who thinks that will be a solution to take these men and cure them. I have long ago given up hope it will happen. Instead, I see us in a war; we and our children are the innocent victims who are told we can call the cops after we are murdered. I’m sorry. I don’t buy that anymore. If a man tells you he wants to kill you, or threatens to kill you, you’d better believe him. You trust him to do it. You must protect yourself and your children.”
She scans the women at the table. She says what she knows we are all thinking.
“Easier said than done.”
Done. We all silently repeat it, like amen in church. We get up from the table. April, Gerri, and Janice go into the living room. They plop on the couch and take their children into their arms in front of the television set. It is all they can do, to make them feel safe, make them feel loved as they sing along with Elsa’s “Let It Go.”
Sofia catches my eye and puts her fingers to her lips. Time to go outside for a cigarette. We sit on the swings, next to each other, kicking our legs out, stretching after the confinement of the dining room table.
“What will happen to the boy?”
“He’ll plead guilty. He’s underage, so he’ll go to a juvenile facility and get out with good behavior in a few years.”
“His father?”
“He could be named as a coconspirator; depends on the boy—if he testifies against him, if he says he told him to kill Haneen. He probably won’t. It’s why the father made him do it. The boy is another victim. He killed his sister; he’ll have to live with that. The father, he’s a cowardly bastard.”
I’ll add him to my list of cowardly bastards.
I decline Sofia’s offer of another cigarette. I remember smoking in the winter after high school, cupping my hands around the lit end, feeling for warmth. Now we are two girls on swings. We don’t talk about boys. Sofia and I talk about murder, personal safety, sex trafficking, and escape.
“I have a plan for my life,” she says.
“Let’s hear it.”
“A friend told me to commit a crime and get caught. My visa is expired, so I will be deported back to Slovenia. Is this true?”
“Yes. Just make sure you steal something expensive, so it will be burglary, not just petty theft. Go to a high-end department store like Bloomingdale’s. Put on a cashmere sweater in the changing room and walk out. You’ll get as far as the front door. The police will deliver you to an INS detention center, where you’ll spend a lot of dead time, but you’ll be safe. If you can give them a false name, you might be able to come back someday under your real name.”
“I don’t think so. I like America, but I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder.”
Cigarettes done, like the children we once were, we take a few more swings and jump off onto the sand.
Chapter 34
At Ducky’s, Bobby takes a last sip of his coffee and says, “Do you mind if I ask you how I’m supposed to be murdered? Like how she is planning to kill me?”
“We’re not there yet, Bobby.”
“In the interest of my own safety.”
“She doesn’t know where you live.”
“And when you tell her?”
“I may not. The whole thing has gotten out of hand.”
“Do I hear the sound of mixed feelings?”
“Yes. Surprised?”
“Hell, no. Way I see it, you’re in a tough spot. If you don’t go through with this sting, you will betray your—what shall we call it, your chosen profession? You’re a cop. You’re supposed to solve murders, find the people who committed them, see them off to jail. That’s the way the system works. Excluding you, of course. On the other hand, if you follow through with this entrapment of some very good people, you will betray the women’s shelter, the lady who fell for your line of undercover shit and took you in, and the poor women and children who depend on her to save their asses. Honey, I don’t want to be in your sneakers. It’s why I couldn’t become a cop. I didn’t like the idea of getting people to trust me so I could arrest them.”
“I would be lying to you if I said these weren’t my own thoughts,” I say.
Bobby runs his hand across my cheek. It is so gentle and comforting and I want to cry. I wish I could.
>
“Honey, it’s why I love you.”
“What am I going to do?”
“The right thing.”
“You know what that is?”
“I’m working on it.”
I add up my life, I list my missteps, my failures. I failed to stop a crazed son who believed killing his sister would save the family honor. I am now bringing my lover into a sting operation that may cost him his life. I killed the wrong person. The cowardly bastard is on the street. I am unavenged. Is that a word? I am merely a bobcat in the snow with one paw in the air.
“I’ll call it off,” I say.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You think the police don’t know what I do? Even though I have all kinds of fancy names for it, in the end I’m just a fucking loan shark. The DA can either not give a shit about me, or his office can find enough statutes to charge me so I will spend every dime I have on defense lawyers.”
“Who told you this?”
“It doesn’t matter. For me, going along with this deal is now a business decision.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And if it helps you, too, then it’s a win-win.”
“The shelter, the women in it?”
“Lose-lose.”
“I’ll need a threatening phone call.”
“No problem,” he says.
Then in unison we say, “I didn’t know there was one.”
And smile because we both hate it when people say, No problem.
But this time it isn’t that funny.
Chapter 35
Phyllis is waiting for me. “I made tea. We can share that last cupcake.”
I follow her into her office. A tea service sits ready on a tray, with a red velvet cupcake on a paper napkin, sliced into two equal parts. Phyllis hands me a cup, I look up at the country cottage pictures on the wall, where life is cuddly and warm.
“Sweet, aren’t they?”
“Very.”
“A friend and I saw them in a hospital thrift shop. We also discovered a beautiful Indian linen skirt. We fought nicely about who got what. In the end I took the pictures; she bought the skirt. She was wearing it in her car when she got into an argument with her husband. He liked to flick lit cigarettes at her for his own sick amusement. This time a cigarette bounced off her and dropped into her lap. The skirt burst into flames. She suffered third-degree burns from the waist down. She lives in a wheelchair now.”
“Her husband?”
“He said it was an accident. Felt terrible about it. They got a divorce, and I don’t know what happened to him. Or care.”
I look at the pictures and imagine a cigarette-flicking husband buried under one of the cottages.
“The pictures are not exactly my taste in art,” Phyllis says.
“I’ll never look at them the same way.”
“Yes, that’s the point. There was her insurance money, a big settlement from the hospital store that sold the skirt—it was enough to start Artemis.”
“How do you keep it going?”
“We have a couple of ex-residents who widowed well. We can survive.”
“Widowed well?”
She laughs. “A joke. Two of them lost husbands who were rich. They give us a lot of support.”
We drink our tea.
“You can move into Haneen’s room, if you’d like.”
Murder will wait. Lieutenant Hagen won’t.
“I don’t think so. Use it for the next person who comes in. I have a feeling I’m not going to be around much longer.”
“Are you leaving us?”
“I don’t see any alternative. My neighbor tells me my husband’s been coming around looking for me. He’s drinking. He leaves me scary messages.”
“Can I hear one?”
I take out my phone, play my voice mail. “Listen to me. I’m at the end. I’m feeling like I got nothing else. Just you and Lucas. Got to be a family again. I can’t live like this—life isn’t worth shit.” Then his voice modulates, settles into another timbre: lower, threatening: “I’ll find you. When I do, we will be together. In heaven if we can’t be together here.”
Phyllis asks me to play it again. She cocks her head slightly to the phone and concentrates like a symphony conductor who has asked the violin section to replay the last three measures. Phyllis reaches for a pen and a file card. Bobby is convincing. His voice is a mixture of icy calm and maniacal rage. I would not want to be the real recipient of such a message. She makes some notes. I wonder if I get to search her office I will find others like it.
“I take this very seriously,” she says.
Success. I have convinced Phyllis my husband is a danger not only to me but also to the other women in the shelter and the shelter itself.
“So do I. It’s why I want to leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“It’s an interesting question. I could do a Google search for ‘Ten Best Places to Escape From Men Who Want to Kill You’: Pyongyang, North Korea? Aleppo, Syria? There’s Israel. The law of return says any person of Jewish origin who comes there is automatically a citizen. I’m not Jewish. Can I convert?”
Phyllis smiles. “Seriously.”
“I don’t know. If I stay here, he’ll find me. He’ll kill me. I know he will.”
“What about your son?”
“I’ll take him with me.”
“That’s kidnapping. Abusers love when you do that. It puts you on the other side of the law. He’s a cop; he can get cooperation from every law enforcement agency in the country to track you down. You know he will.”
Silence. Tea. Fantasy cottages. Fiery dresses. A burned body.
“I’m a cop, too. I’m armed. I’ll shoot him.”
“You’ll go to jail. You will not raise your son. A foster home will.”
“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” I say.
“Give me his address. Tell me where he lives.”
“And then? Will I be able to go home?”
“Yes, dear. And you will be with your son.”
“I think I know what you are talking about, Phyllis.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know anything except your life is in danger. And the less you know, the better. His existence, his craziness. He threatens the women and children in this shelter. I won’t allow that. You came here, we took you in, protected you, we made you safe. You have an obligation to us, to keep us safe. What you do with your life is your decision. But you can’t jeopardize ours. You understand? We won’t be victims. We will protect ourselves. If you want to leave the shelter, it’s your decision. There are two ways you can leave. Your way or ours.”
“Let me think about it,” I say.
The cupcake remains untouched.
On my way out, Myra looks up from her computer terminal. “There’s a couple I don’t like, been sitting in a Lexus too long. The woman shooed away a parking ticket lady. Get my drift?”
“Thank you, Myra. How’s the market?”
“Amazon up, Apple down.”
“Good or bad for you?”
“Today it’s good; tomorrow, who knows. Be careful.”
I spot them in the late-model Lexus. The car doesn’t belong to the Long Island City Police. I agree with Myra; they are cops. I’ll make life easier for the driver; I continue walking in the direction he’s parked, save him a U-turn. Their car glides out into the street and follows me. Fine. I also don’t want to be seen talking to them by anyone in the shelter. I come to the corner, turn right. The Lexus does the same. I wait for it to pull up alongside me. The woman in the passenger seat lowers her window.
“Detective Karim?”
“Are you following me?”
“Yes. We’d like to talk to you,” she says.
I stop at a red zone, and they pull in and brake to a halt. The woman holds up a New York State Police badge. She and her partner are dressed in business suits; his is dark blue with a pin-striped shirt, a paisley
tie. He has Ray-Bans pushed back on the top of his head, ready to be dropped as soon as they hit the road. I sense he’s wearing his father’s clothes or is bent on imitating his style. She’s wearing the female detective’s uniform: a navy-blue blazer and slacks, a white shirt. Carries a workingwoman’s handbag that holds her weapon. She could be me, only instead of my smile she’s got a permanent skeptical expression that says, Make me believe you.
These two can pass for a married couple on their way to dinner, the movies, or work. Who do they resemble in my recent memory? Of course, the happy workers on Haneen’s Chase website. But they are civil servants working for New York State, not bond traders or fund managers. They will never receive six-figure bonuses, have family vacations in Tuscan villas, or fly to Paris for the weekend and eat in starred restaurants. These are my middle-class police colleagues; they must be treated with respect.
I get in the back seat.
“We’re looking into a homicide that took place last night. Upstate.”
“How can I help?”
“You’re on a list of suspects,” he says. “We’d like to get you off it.”
“A suspect? Last night? Upstate?”
“Yes.”
“I was home with my boyfriend watching television.”
She gives me a condescending nod. She has heard this alibi many times.
As an informal interrogation, it resembles a conversation between fellow police officers, polite, nonthreatening, fairly benign. We remain in the car. It must be uncomfortable for these two detectives; they have to twist around to talk to me sitting in the back seat. This was obviously planned; the headrests of the front seats had been removed. They are smart enough to dispense with the good cop/bad cop routine. The male cop takes notes; there are no outdated gender roles. Most likely, I am also being recorded.
“You should know I am on an undercover assignment and I need to be discreet. If you want to make inquiries about me, or find out what I’m doing, you’ll have to coordinate with my boss, Lieutenant Hagen.”
“We want to know about Clyde Fairbrother.”
“He is?”
“Was. He’s the victim. Clyde was active in the anti-abortion movement.”
You Can Go Home Now Page 17