Little Deaths(9)

She swallowed hard, then took a long drag on her cigarette. Shook her head, although by then he’d left the room.

It burned down to her fingers and she threw the butt in the sink, ran cold water over her hand. The icy spattering on her skin woke her: she became aware of the sourness in her mouth, the sick feeling in her stomach.

Time passed. Frank came in, asked if she’d eaten that morning. She made a gesture with her shoulder, pushing him away. Drank more coffee. All she could hear was Frank’s harsh breathing as he smoked, occasionally the murmur of the other cop’s voice on the phone.

Frank left the room and she heard water running in the bathroom. Then there was a knock at the door and she heard Carla Bonelli’s voice. There was a low murmur and she heard “. . . to help. Can I see her?” Another low rumble, then the door closed. Frank came in and said, “Carla wanted to come in. I told her it was best not to.”

She didn’t understand, but she nodded.

He said, “I asked her to take the dog too. Just until . . . for now.”

She nodded again, lit another cigarette, stared at the clock on the wall until she remembered it had stopped the week before. It had made them late for Frankie’s dentist appointment.

Another knock at the door and footsteps in the hall. She looked at Frank and he looked back at her. Voices. Two men stood in the doorway: one was the kid cop with the pink face.

The other man was older. There was a stillness about him that let her mind rest for a moment. He was big, square-shouldered, wearing a loose-fitting suit that hung from his large frame. His skin was yellowish, waxy, with large pores, his face sagging above his thick neck, heavy eyes drooping above a scowl. His nose twitched as he looked at her, like she smelled bad. She smoothed her skirt. Patted her hair.

He reminded her a little of an actor she’d seen somewhere. In a film, maybe with Ingrid Bergman. Something that was on the TV one afternoon.

He was still looking at her and she realized he’d said something. She had to get him to repeat it.

“I’m Sergeant Devlin, ma’am. I’m in charge here.”

His voice was pure Bronx.

Jerry, that was the actor’s name. Jerry something.

She nodded, began to turn away. And then, “We ran your name through our files, Mrs. Malone. Seems like our officers have been here before. Several times.”

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“Noise complaints in April and June last year. And March 5 and May 19 this year.”

“I don’t . . .”

“And one count of public intoxication. November 12, 1964.”

She smoothed her hair. Cleared her throat. “What does this have to do with my children?”

He just kept looking at her. Then suddenly, “We need to search the apartment. Might need to take some things away with us. That a problem, Mrs. Malone?”

She shook her head. What else could she do?

She and Frank sat silently. She chewed the skin around her nails, stared at the clock again. Every noise made her jump. Then Devlin was back in the doorway.

“We need you to come with us for a moment.”

She looked at his face. “Did you find them? Did you find Frankie and Cindy?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Just come with us, please.”

She stood. “Both of us?”

His eyes flickered to Frank. “Yeah.”

She expected him to lead them to the kids’ room, but instead, they went outside and around to the trash cans. She almost laughed when she saw what they’d done. The cans were empty, their contents all over the ground. Two more cops in uniform were raking through piles of garbage: empty milk cartons, food packaging, cans of dog food, pieces of orange peel, papers, coffee grounds. The smell turned her stomach. Devlin pointed to a plastic sack, the top untied. “Is this yours, ma’am?”

She looked at him, looked at the bag. She walked over and looked inside. There were nine or ten empty bottles. Gin. Bourbon. Wine. She looked back at him. Was he serious?

“I don’t know. I can’t remember what I threw out recently. Maybe.”

His face didn’t change. Frozen, just like an actor in a still. He nodded at one of the uniforms, who came over holding an envelope. He thrust it into her face and she recoiled; it had been lying under old food.

“It has your name on it, Mrs. Malone.”

She saw it had contained a bill for something, she couldn’t remember what. But she remembered opening it and throwing the envelope away and putting the bill in the drawer. Wondering when she’d be able to pay it.

“That was in the same bag.”

“Oh. Then . . . yeah, I guess it’s mine.”

“And the bottles?”

She looked again. “Well, yeah, I guess they’re mine too. If the bill was in this bag with them.”

“All of them?” He did something with his mouth.

“What does this have to do with the kids? Why aren’t you looking for Frankie and Cindy?”

“Just trying to establish some background, ma’am.”

“I was clearing out the apartment. My lawyer told me . . . there’s going to be an inspection by the court. He told me to clean the place. Paint it. Make it look nice.” She didn’t look at Frank.

Devlin looked at her for a long time and then, without taking his eyes off her, spoke to the cop in uniform standing behind him. “Make a note, Officer. Related to the custody case.” He made them sound like dirty words.