Long Bright River: A Novel (24 page)

It’s my turn, now, to tell him about Simon.

—He drove straight to Kensington, I say. He didn’t hesitate. Just got into his car and drove straight there. I lost him when he got out on foot.

—No kidding, says Truman.

—He has no business in this neighborhood, I say. He’s in the South Division.

Abruptly, I pull into a parking lot. A small, sad strip of stores is in front of us: Chinese restaurant, laundromat, shuttered hardware store, Dunkin’ Donuts. I put my visor down, not wanting to be seen by anyone exiting these shops. Someone gets into the car next to mine. I keep my gaze down.

—I think it’s time, says Truman.

—For what?

—We’ve gotta bring this to Mike DiPaolo, he says.

But I’m already shaking my head. No way, I say.

—Come on, Mickey, says Truman. He’s a good person. I’ve known him since we were kids.

—How do you know? I say.

He looks at me.

—What are your other options? he says.

—Keep doing it on our own, I say.

—And then what? says Truman. Say you find out who the killer is.
What do you, take him out yourself? Go to jail for the rest of your life? No. At a certain point, Mickey, he says.

He trails off.

—You really trust him, I say.

Truman thinks. Then he says, He never cheated at sports.

—Excuse me?

—When we were kids. He never fudged the scores, says Truman. I trust him, he adds, clarifying.

—What about you, I say. Are you sure you want to be linked to this? You might be risking your job. We haven’t exactly been following protocol.

Truman says, Mickey. I’m not going back.

There it is. I’ve been wondering.

—Why not, I say.

—I don’t want to, says Truman plainly. Look. I get along with people. Keep my head down. People like me. It’s too easy, you know? It’s easy to forget that the system isn’t right. I’m not just talking about Philadelphia. I’m not just talking about these particular homicides. I’m talking about the whole thing. The whole system. Too much power in the wrong hands. Everything out of order.

He pauses. Takes a breath.

—I can’t sleep, he says. You know what I mean? People dying. Not just the women. Innocent people. Unarmed people. I can’t sleep.

This is probably the closest Truman will ever come to disclosing his politics.

I’m silent for a while.

—I can get out now, says Truman. Get my pension. Get a different job if I want it. Go to bed at night with an easier mind.

—People are dying, he says again. All over, people are dying.

—I understand, I say.

And, more and more, I agree.

Truman calls Mike DiPaolo while we drive, in my car, to his.

—Got a question for you, says Truman. Probably not something you can get into at work. Can you meet at Duke’s tonight?

Duke’s is a bar in Juniata, near where the two of them grew up. It’s Truman’s favorite—someplace that’s been in the neighborhood for decades. He knows all the bartenders. I’ve only been there once, for Truman’s birthday, with a group of other officers. But never aside from that. It’s not a police hangout, which makes it a good place to meet when one wants to talk shop.

I can’t hear DiPaolo’s reply, but apparently the idea works for him.

—Eight o’clock? says Truman, and then, Good. He hangs up.

—Think you can get there then? he asks me, and I say, I’ll make it work.

Happily, surprisingly, Bethany comes through for me. She can stay late, she says. No problem.

Duke’s, when I arrive, is quiet and uncrowded. Wood-paneled walls, dark lighting, a pool table in the back. It’s one of the few places in Philadelphia where one can still smoke, and although no one is exercising that right at the moment, the place still reeks of stale tobacco.

Truman is sitting in a booth in the corner, away from everyone. DiPaolo hasn’t arrived yet. A Corona is on the table in front of Truman: the only kind of alcohol I have ever seen him drink. The one lowbrow vice he has. He’s almost finished with it. I ask him if he wants another.

—Sure, he says, and at the bar I order two. One for him, one for myself. I have never been a drinker—I suppose when Simon and I were together, I would partake on occasion—and now I try to remember the last time I had anything alcoholic at all. Maybe a year ago. Tonight, it tastes wonderful.

DiPaolo walks in. He’s Truman’s age, early fifties. But while Truman could pass for someone a decade younger than he is, DiPaolo wears his years heavily, and he walks heavily, too. He’s pouchy and tired, perpetually a benevolent crank who, every once in a while, really lets loose. At Truman’s birthday party here, DiPaolo got drunk and set the jukebox to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer,’ by Bon Jovi, and then led everyone in song. I like him.

—Looks like you needed that, he says to me now, gesturing at the Corona, not saying hello.

—I did, I say. Would you like one?

—You’re kidding, he says. What are we, at the beach? Jameson on the rocks, he says to the bartender. And another Corona for the lady. How you doing, Pete.

The three of us settle in: Truman and I on one side of the booth, DiPaolo on the other. Truman thanks DiPaolo for coming, somewhat formally, and DiPaolo grins.

—I know this is gonna be good, he says. What kind of trouble are you two getting into?

Truman glances at me, and I look at DiPaolo for a moment. Too long. The smile on his face fades.

—What? he says.

—Do you know Simon Cleare? I say.

He studies my face before looking down at his Jameson and taking a sip. He doesn’t grimace.

—I do, he says. Yes.

—How well? I say.

DiPaolo shrugs. A little, he says. Met him at some all-bureau meetings. He’s in South, though, he says. So it’s not like I see him every day.

I measure my words. It’s important, I think, to be calm.

—Does he have any reason to be in Kensington during his workday, I say. That you know of.

DiPaolo looks at me hard.

—Why, he says.

I sit back. I saw him there today, I say. Middle of the day.

DiPaolo sighs. He looks at Truman, seeking his gaze, but Truman won’t return it. He turns back to me.

—If this is some sort of, he says. He puts his hands in the air, making circles. If this is some sort of lovers’ quarrel, I really can’t get involved.

I pause.

—What do you mean, I say.

—Look, says DiPaolo. I don’t want to be presumptuous. But everyone knows about you and Simon Cleare. And I just don’t want, he says.

He trails off. Sighs.

—I don’t know why he was in Kensington, he says, but he might have had his reasons, you know?

I wait for my temper to settle before responding.

—This has nothing to do with me, I say. I’m trying to give you some information you might be able to use in the case of the Kensington murders. Because no one else is listening.

—What does that mean, says DiPaolo.

—I don’t know how much of this you know already, I say. I take a long drink, and then I begin.

I tell him about Paula Mulroney, and Paula’s accusation. I tell him Paula won’t go on record saying it. I tell DiPaolo about Kacey, that she’s missing. I feel like I’m rambling, and every so often I look up at DiPaolo to check his expression, but it’s difficult to read.

—I started by telling Sergeant Ahearn this, I say. I went straight back to the station and told him I needed to talk to him. I felt it was information he should have, and I wanted to follow procedure. He said he was aware of the accusations and that he would relay them to the right people.

I pause.

—But I don’t know if he did, I say. And a few days after I told him what I’d heard, I got a call from Internal Affairs, asking to meet. When I went in, they said I was under investigation. Put me on suspension.

Saying it aloud for the first time, all at once like this, I am suddenly jolted by the injustice of it all.

DiPaolo’s face is still blank. I have no idea how much of this he knew in advance. He’s good at his job.

—Okay, he says finally.

I wait.

—What I’m saying is, I say, it may be someone on the force who’s killing these women. Simon’s on the force. And I just saw him in a neighborhood he’s always told me he hates.

DiPaolo waits. It seems like a leap to him. I can tell.

—Anything else? he says.

—He likes young girls, I say. And he’s not—ethical. When it comes to his relationships.

DiPaolo keeps his face still.

It hits me, suddenly, how insane it all sounds. The facts don’t favor me. I’m operating, I know, on a hunch, a suspicion, a gut feeling that doesn’t translate to the outside world. And yet, saying it aloud, my conviction grows stronger.

I’m looking down at the table, but in my peripheral vision I see DiPaolo looking at Truman. Trying, again, to gauge what he thinks. DiPaolo clears his throat. I know what this looks like. Here I am, on suspension for unclear reasons, coming in with some pretty serious accusations against someone I used to date, with very little evidence. He must think I’m a crazy woman. A crazy ex-girlfriend.

—I’m not crazy, I say, though I know it’s futile. I look at Truman. Tell him I’m not crazy, I say.

I suddenly realize I’m getting drunk. I’m at the bottom of my second beer.

—No one’s saying that, Mick, says Truman. Now he shakes his head at me, just as subtly.
Stop talking.

DiPaolo puts his hands on the table.

—Look, Mickey, he says. I hear you, okay? But you need to let this go, all right?

Against my will, I let out a sound that isn’t very polite.
Hah,
I say.

DiPaolo looks at me levelly.

—You’re out of your depth here, he says.

—In what sense, I say.

—I’m not at liberty to tell you. Just trust me.

He stands. Prepares to leave.

—I’ll go to the press, I say, suddenly. I have a friend who’s a journalist for a local radio station. She’d be very interested in a story about police corruption in Kensington.

I think of Lauren Spright. Imagine her expression if she heard me calling her a friend. She’d probably laugh at me.

DiPaolo keeps his face straight. Under the table, Truman puts his hand on my knee and squeezes, just once.
Stop.

—Really, says DiPaolo.

—Really, I say, at the same time that Truman says, Mick.

—Go ahead, then, says DiPaolo. Do it. You know what she’ll tell you?

I’m silent.

—She’ll tell you we’ve got our man, says DiPaolo. Because as of 4:35 p.m. today, we do. And as of—he checks his watch—ten minutes ago, he continues, a press release went out to local and national media outlets, saying as much.

I feel my mouth open.

—But if you want to talk to her about police corruption, DiPaolo says, go ahead. You might want to start by telling her what you were suspended for.

He takes a final swig of his Jameson. This time, he does make a face.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking. But I can’t help myself.

—Who is it, I say.

—Robert Mulvey, Jr., says DiPaolo. I think you’re acquainted, actually.

As soon as DiPaolo leaves, I get on my phone. I can’t look at Truman. He says nothing either. He is embarrassed, no doubt, by my behavior.

I navigate to the website of one local news station after another. Over and over again, I refresh them.

Within minutes, the story pops up.

Suspect Arrested in Connection with Kensington Homicides,
reads the headline.

Robert Mulvey, Jr., looks out at me from my phone, his mug shot nearly as menacing as his expression the last time I saw him, in court.

Mulvey, the article says, was arrested today in connection with the murders after an anonymous tip placed him at the scene of the first crime. Video footage from a nearby business confirmed his presence there. And a state police DNA database linked him to the second and third victim, as well.

I look up quickly.

—That’s how, I say.

—How what, says Truman.

The first words he’s spoken in a long time.

—I recognized him, I say. I knew I recognized him. I saw him on the Gurney Street tracks when we discovered the first victim’s body. I said to him, You’re not supposed to be down here. He ignored me.

I remember him. Ghostly and defiant, a strange expression on his face, receding into the brush.

I look at Truman, finally. His expression is serious.

—What’s wrong with me? I say. What have I done?

At last, Truman exhales. Aw, Mick, he says. I get it. Believe me, I do. You’re missing your sister. You’re worried. It’s hard to think straight.

—She’s probably laughing at me, I say. Kacey. She’s probably off with some new boyfriend. She’s probably laughing at me right now. Thinking about me searching for her and laughing.

I’m shaking my head. I am perhaps more disappointed in myself than I’ve ever been. For not making the connection to Mulvey myself. For not recognizing him when he recognized me, when he was practically taunting me to my face. For letting my emotions get in the way of hard evidence.

I’ve always thought I’d make a good detective. I think the last several weeks have proved to me, definitively, that on this point I’ve been deluded.

I order another Corona. And then, remembering DiPaolo’s, I order a shot of Jameson, and then another, and then a third.

—Want one? I say to Truman, but he declines.

—Slow down, Mickey, says Truman, but I don’t want to slow down. I want to speed up, to speed past this moment in my life and out to the other side.

—All right, I say, chastened. I can feel my tongue growing heavy in my mouth. I drove here, but I know I shouldn’t drive myself home. I want to put my head on the table and go to sleep.

He hesitates for a while.

—It’s my fault, he says at last. I’m the one who put that idea in your head. I’ve never liked the guy. And there are enough rumors about him that I just thought . . .

He trails off.

—It’s easy to get carried away, you know? says Truman. After what he did to you. I never liked him, he says again.

Both of us are silent for a while.

—It still doesn’t explain what he was doing there, I say, finally.

He shrugs. Maybe he was undercover, he says. This thing has become a high-profile case. It’s all hands on deck. Maybe they’re sending in guys they think will be new faces in the neighborhood.

I shake my head. He’s a detective, I say. He’s not on Vice.

—Who knows, says Truman. Neither you nor I is exactly in the loop right now.

I look at him in the stark light of the lamp hanging on a chain above our booth. It’s a Tiffany lamp. Louis Comfort Tiffany, interestingly, spent some time here in Pennsylvania when he attended the military academy in West Chester. The lamp above us, though, does not look well made. It looks like an interrogation light in an old detective movie. And it occurs to me then that my job has taken over my life completely, that everything I do and think and see is filtered through the lens of my work. My work, which I might not have anymore, when DiPaolo sends word back to IA about what I’ve been doing. I start laughing.

—We can’t escape, I say. We really can’t escape.

Truman doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about. He’s looking at me, concerned. In fact, he looks almost tender. Like he might reach out and put a hand on the side of my face.

—Are you gonna be okay, Mickey? he says. I’m worried about you.

—I’m gonna be great, I say.

I keep laughing, a little frantically now.

Truman says, Come on. I’m giving you a ride home.