“Friends? Name one,” I said.
He can’t. He finally confessed he bought the handicapped-parking badge on Canal Street. Can you believe he began to cry? I forgave him and kept the badge.
My face? My favorite V. S. Pritchett story is about a woman who owns an irresistibly lovely nose and a devoted dog. A handsome gentleman woos her, but just as he is about to propose, the dog bites off the tip of her nose. The man disappears. She and the dog live happily ever after. My nose? Like hers, also missing a little piece.
The rest? I was born with a slight smile. It tends to confuse people. A tiny turnup at the mouth that makes me look perpetually happy, in opposition to my naturally discontented soul. I have been told at various times in my life by disgruntled teachers and superior officers, “Karim, wipe that smile off your face.” I can’t. A smile doesn’t come in handy at funerals, disciplinary hearings, or breakups. But it can be disarming when I tell you that you are under arrest, move along, show me your driver’s license, or, in a movie theater, Get your hand off my knee.
Anthony, my hairdresser, who keeps me blonde, says I have Dutch hair; he means wild and salty. If I keep it short, I will stay presentable. My eyes are blue and lively, my cheekbones prominent enough to make a difference. I have been told I look like Geena Davis or Victoria Beckham. Have they been told they look like me? I will add that I take after my mother. I have her eyes, her complexion. Looking in the mirror makes me miss her, and thus sad. I tend to avoid mirrors. Back to work.
The manager of the Sunny Gardens apartment complex is Brian Robbins, a shortish, bearded early thirties adjunct professor of psychology at Fordham. We both know the title means nothing as he works too hard teaching freshman classes and earns just a bit too much money to qualify for food stamps. In addition to being essentially disposable, adjuncts don’t get tenure, health care, retirement, or offices. They are paid by the course unit; their teaching loads vary from part-time to overloaded. Brian’s managerial job at Sunny Gardens gives him a free apartment in a building that is new enough not to need any serious care while Brian works on his PhD and dreams of a professorship with tenure. At Sunny Gardens, the tenants are all employed and they pay their rent on time.
Brian leads me to the Steeverses’ apartment, number twenty-two, second floor, rear. Since first impressions are best gotten alone, I ask him to wait outside. Inside is an apartment of no consequence: low ceilings and clean rooms with wooden floors. There is a picture window with a view of a copse of trees that enclose a deep ravine. I wander around making simple observations. The walk-in closet has empty hangers and few women’s clothes: a pair of torn jeans, a blouse, and two dresses—size two. One from Target, the other Macy’s. A drawer contains a rumpled T-shirt, one pair of pantyhose, and two mismatched sweat socks. On the floor of the closet, there are a pair of flats and a lone flip-flop. She’s gone.
Ronald’s side of the closet contains three pairs of jeans, two khaki Dockers, a baseball jacket, a gray Gap hoodie, a John Tavares Islanders jersey, and a navy blazer with a pair of gray flannel slacks. His drawers are a mess of socks, underwear, rumpled T-shirts, a white dress shirt, and a stack of baseball caps. There is a pair of worn Nike sneakers, and scuffed black loafers on the floor. Ronald tends toward slob, and Susan took her good clothes with her.
Apart from a few lonely ants marching around the toaster, the kitchen is spotless. The fridge holds man food: cold cuts, Ball Park hot dogs, yellow mustard, Kraft Singles, beer, a jar of pickles, a head of browning iceberg lettuce, and a plastic jar of Muscle Max. No yogurt, almond milk, probiotics, or Diet Coke. I assume Susan left first. Or, if Mama Steevers was right, Susan returned, killed Ronald, and took off. I make a note to search the ravine for Ronald’s body.
Then, while my brain is in murder mode, I suddenly remember where I have seen Mr. McDermott, the man who didn’t know who he killed. Six months ago, I was called to a high-rise apartment building in Lefrak City in Queens. The victim was a dancer at the Gallery, a gentlemen’s club—surely an overstatement—in Manhattan. She did pole work and lap dances. Occasionally, when the manager was away, she took a customer back to her apartment for further pleasure (his). Her last customer strangled her and left her sitting upright on the couch. Two days later, her sister, a stewardess for Singapore Airlines, discovered her body. NYPD was thorough in trying to identify her clients that fateful evening, but whoever he was, he’d paid cash, and the club’s CCTV cameras were out of commission. The employees were interviewed and all had the same useless response: “He was a middle-aged white man in a suit.” The murder became another cold case—a victim without an advocate, a woman in a problematic profession, her interest to the homicide squad somewhere between the homeless and the undocumented.
Because she lived in Queens, our homicide department had a piece of her. I was assigned to find out who murdered her. I subscribe to the theory that often killers return to the scene of the crime, join the gawkers behind the yellow tape to watch the parade of police and forensic and medical personnel. They like to catch a glimpse of their grim work being wheeled to the waiting ambulance. So, while my colleagues are inside dusting, scraping, and cataloguing, I take photographs of people standing outside. I may have a picture of Mr. McDermott. Back to work. I open the door for Brian.
“Okay, Brian, you can come in now. Tell me about the Steevers.”
Brian is a man full of pent-up information who lectures about psychology for a living. I try not to get in his way. I know I’ll get more insights into Ronald and Susan than I need.
“Ronald and Susan. Ronald and Susan. You know?”
Not a smart beginning, Brian. I don’t know anything and I hate it when people say You know? On my list of speech warts, it comes right after No problem or people who say Thank you after you say Thank you. But I nod encouragement, and Brian continues.
“Ronald works at Home Depot; he told me he’s a big deal in the paint department. He’s six two, about two twenty, an ex-jock, but I don’t think he’ll keep the body. I can tell from the beer cans. He complained about stuff I couldn’t control, like pool noise, slow Internet, and jerks who take his parking spot. He leaves at eight, comes home at six, works Saturday and Sunday, with Mondays and Tuesdays off. He gets up early Sunday to wash his Mustang GT. For him, it’s church.”
I laugh insincerely along with Brian.
“Sunday nights, he and Susan drive to South Flushing for dinner with his parents. Lately, I notice Susan doesn’t go with him. How do I know?” You took the words right out of my mouth, Brian. “My apartment looks out over the garage. Ronald customized the Mustang’s exhausts, and he puts the top down. I hear the engine, look out the window—it’s Ronald driving away. Alone. You know?”
I consider complimenting Brian on his powers of observation but resist.
“He’s an Islanders fan. Bragged he had his boss’s seats. He’s a gamer. I am, too, so once in a while he drops by; we play World of Warcraft. I never heard him mention a book, music, politics, church or state, you know? That’s all superficial. You want me to go deeper?”
“Ronald’s missing. Go deep,” I say.
“Okay. At first, I thought the guy had no qualities. He was a cliché. White male Long Island kid, finished high school, had a little community college, didn’t like school and school didn’t like him, lucky to have a pretty good job, loves his car, his work buddies, his Islanders, and his wife in that order. You know? At a certain point, I assumed one of two things would happen: his wife would get pregnant and he would grow up or she would leave him. But now I think it’s more complicated. You know?”