I wouldn’t want this guy to be my adjunct professor of anything. I decide to go crude. “Tell me, Brian, were you fucking Susan?”
It works. Brian blushes around the edges of his beard. He’s smart enough to take his time to plan his next steps. It may not be the truth, whatever it is. “Look, we got into a friendly thing. If I had to fix something in the apartment, she’d make me a cup of coffee, we’d talk. She told fascinating stories. Did I tell you she was from Alaska? For me, it was exotic, you know? Windswept villages, dark days, long nights, people freezing to death on their way home from the supermarket, polar bears eating your garbage. Then one night when Ronald was at a hockey game she came down to my place and we smoked some weed. Oops.”
Brian looks at me to see if I am going to arrest him for confessing to using marijuana. I ignore the misdemeanor. He continues, “Ronald had seats behind the Rangers goal, so we could see him on TV. It was safe; we knew where he would be for the next three hours. She felt guilty afterward, swore it would never happen again. But it did. I had the feeling she was so insecure that she thought sex was the only thing that would keep me interested in her, you know?”
“Was it?”
“No, there were other things. Like I said, she was exotic.”
I didn’t hear Brian mention love or affection, so I guess he’s happy to go along with her insecurity as part of the deal. Prick.
“Did they fight?”
“She told me they did. You mean did I hear them? I couldn’t if they did. I’m too far away, you know?”
“What else did she tell you about the marriage?”
Brian strokes his beard. He thinks I believe he is thinking.
“That was about it.”
I ask him to make a copy of their rental agreement and give me a list of the names of their neighbors who live in units next to them. What did I know so far, you know? Ronald and Susan had a lousy marriage. No, Ronald had a good marriage; Susan had a lousy one. Do I care? Ronald’s Mustang is in his parking spot in the garage. Actually, this is a bad sign. He’s missing, his car isn’t. I peek in the windows—spotless inside—inspect the tires—October in Queens means fallen leaves everywhere: his are clean; Ronald hasn’t driven recently.
The Bermans’ apartment on the right and Dixons’ on the left aren’t answering, so I knock on the floor directly below. An Indian woman in a sari cracks the door open to the chain’s length. She tells me I’d have to wait for her husband to come home from work. I can hear children behind her. I say I will return. I explore the ravine. There are no dead bodies.
On the way to my car, I think about Brian and his basket of lies.
Chapter 4
Lieutenant Lily Hagen stops at my desk. I give her an update on my two active cases: the missing Ronald Steevers and the forgetful potential murderer, Mr. McDermott. I tell her I am looking for his photograph. She is interested in Mr. and Mrs. Steevers and their missing son. McDermott is not worth the effort, and it’s not an appropriate time to mention Artie the TV weatherman and the case of his son’s missing cat.
Lily Hagen rose to lieutenant and chief of detectives the hard way, before enlightened promotion, diversity programs, or hiring quotas. She didn’t get the benefits of Title 1, or Gloria Allred filing sexual discrimination lawsuits on her behalf. She endured the jokes, slurs, misogyny, and occasional “good-natured” groping from her fellow male officers as a beat cop, or as a partner in a patrol car. A couple of times, it almost cost her her life when backup didn’t arrive. She’s a gym rat. I once worked out next to her and marveled at her strength, but we both knew her body was where it was and would stay that way. She has a husband who works in Weights and Measures for the city, a married daughter in Virginia. The only other thing I know about her is she’s sixty-one years old. She will retire in four years at her present rank and won’t go any higher. She is aware that every woman who joined the force after she did has had it easier. Sometimes with women police officers, this knowledge results in solidarity, sometimes resentment. In her case, it was the latter.
“I worked on feeling charitable, Nina, I really did, but it just wasn’t in my bones. I think of all the shit I had to go through and how you women who come in today have it easy.”
“Easier,” I say. “I haven’t seen any copies of Ms. in the duty room.”
She laughs.
Lieutenant Hagen is called unkind. Behind her back, some women officers refer to her as the Clarence Thomas of the Long Island City Police Department. It’s a lousy rap. She fought battles, toughed it out, and made enemies along the way. Over get-to-know-you drinks, she asked me, “Why did you become a cop, Karim?”
“TV shows. Columbo, Charlie’s Angels, Baretta—Police Woman was my favorite. I loved seeing Angie Dickinson kick ass when I was a little kid.”
“Reruns. You weren’t born when it aired.”
“Yes, reruns.”
She downed the last of her Chablis. “Police Woman. I used to get shit for drinking white wine.”
The thing I like most about Lieutenant Hagen is that she keeps a framed embroidery on the wall behind her office chair. In the style of American Dutch Folk Art, a tulip border encircles the words: your job is to arrest, not punish.
Driving to Home Depot on Queens Boulevard, I make a mental list of the items I need for my apartment. Any time I can combine police work with shopping is a bonus. I imagine a new washer/dryer combo, but that isn’t going to happen. Home Depot isn’t like Costco, where I come home with enough pasta, Tylenol, and toothpaste to last the rest of my life. Home Depot is about fixing, improving, adding, growing plants, and buying lawn mowers. I find the paint department, wander around, and try to consider who is likely to be Ronald’s boss.
Owen Kunkle—it says so on his name tag—is at the paint counter. He’s got a big smile, bright blue eyes, blond whitish hair on a big frame. When he says, “Now, how can I help you?” I know he means it. He will be my friend. I open the Behr color sample booklet, where my police ID rests in the outdoor section. Owen nods, comes out from behind the counter, and leads me away to a wall of outdoor paint cans.
“How can I help?”
“I’m looking for Ronald Steevers.”
Owen takes a deep breath. “Well, since he hasn’t come to work for the past week, I assume he’s quit. Of course, he didn’t call in.”
Owen doesn’t seem worried about Ronald.
“Were you friends?”
“I wasn’t a fan of the man, and if he doesn’t ever come back it’s just fine with me, and probably with some other people I could mention.”
“Your fellow workers, or customers?”
“Workers. Before Ronald got here, Al Eidelman was running the paint department with a simply marvelous crew. We were loyal and dedicated, and there wasn’t a color we couldn’t match. Word got out to the design community. You wouldn’t believe it, but we had big-name decorators coming in for paint. Al not only believed in diversity, but he practiced it. Our team was like the UN: Korean, Sikh, Afro-American, Israeli, Syrian, moi: your basic Midwest, apple-cheeked, farm-raised frustrated artist.”