Good Neighbors(74)

“Nothing. Just wanted to let you know we’re thinking about you,” he’d said. “We want to visit as soon as possible.”

Fred’s voice had caught. He’d taken a while and Arlo had waited, hand pressed on MUTE so the guy didn’t hear the CPS workers calling to each other, loud and oblivious. “When she got sick. It’s been years. You have no idea how many people have scattered. At this point, I’m the only one.”

Arlo let go of MUTE. “I’m here. Gert’s here.”

“That means more than I can say,” Fred said.

For the second night in a row, the CPS people asked if he could stay overnight in the GCPD jail as a courtesy. He should have said, No, thanks. But they’d made it clear that if he tried to leave, they’d have taken Gertie in for questioning.

So he’d agreed.

This morning, Bianchi showed up for the second time, his suit rumpled like he’d been up all night. He’d reassured Arlo that he’d sent a cop car over twice and had visited Gertie in person as well. “Have you considered moving away from that block?” he’d asked Arlo.

“We have to get our ducks in a row. It’s… not easy. Nothing’s easy.”

Bianchi reached through the bars and patted him on the shoulder, and for the first time, Arlo realized the guy was on his side. “These people are the kind you leave behind. Take the high road.”

A few hours later, CPS asked him all the same questions. After answering them, Arlo finally stood. “We’re not done, sir.”

“Are you charging me?”

Nobody answered. Arlo didn’t ask permission; just walked out.

He took the Uber to 7-Eleven. Carrying his groceries, he now saw Linda Ottomanelli on her stoop. Saw Margie and her wife, Sally, hosing their front walk of tar sand. The Ponti men were on their stoop, too. As he got closer, he noticed that they were looking at him. All eyes.

He had a bad feeling. Worse than usual. First the Pontis went inside, which he wouldn’t have expected. Those mooks should have been itching for a fight. Then the Walshes. Last, Linda and Rhea. They moved quickly, practically running.

He noticed that the door to 116 Maple Street, his house, was open.





Garden City Police Department


Sunday, August 1

“I didn’t do it,” Rhea Schroeder said. “Someone else.” She was sitting in Detective Bianchi’s office. Fritz Sr. was beside her. He’d insisted on coming along, which had surprised her.

“Who?” Bianchi asked.

Rhea shook her head in slow shock. She was so overtired that she was having a hard time seeing straight. Everything was bright spots of emptiness. And the weight of it. She felt heavy as an astronaut on Jupiter. “Honestly. It wouldn’t be beyond me to hurt Gertie. I can’t stand her. But Larry? I’d never do something like that. It’s not in me.”

Bianchi nodded. “I’m told there was a lockbox that’s now missing. It was originally taken from your home, by Mrs. Wilde. Someone broke into the Wilde house and took it back last night. Do you know anything about that?”

Rhea blew a deep breath out. “A lockbox?” she asked. “What do you mean, taken from my house? Was Gertie in my house?”

Bianchi waited.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Can you explain it to me?”

“Did you hear anything last night? See anything?”

She shook her head. Then whispered. She meant this as she said it. She really did. Because she had a dim memory of visiting the Wilde house that night, but only to get back what had been stolen. To teach Gertie a lesson. She would never have hurt a child. Someone else, possibly, but not her. “Could Gertie have done it?”

“Why would she do something like that?”

“Why would anyone? She’s not right in the head. I was getting aspirin in her bathroom once. She takes Klonopin. That’s not a light medication. She’s had a history. A really bad one.” Rhea’s eyes began to water, because this was just so awful. All of it. So unthinkable. “She’s been talking in baby talk. I heard her. This Arlo pedophilia thing put her over the edge.”

Bianchi looked at her for a long while. “When did you hear her talking in baby talk? Was it the night of the brick? I thought you were sleeping that night. You didn’t hear anything.”

Rhea turned red. “Another time. She did it a lot.”

There was more silence. Bianchi kept looking at her.

But something new. Fritz was looking at her, too.

“I’d like to go home now,” she said, though there wasn’t a rush. Even if he searched her house, he’d find nothing. She’d hidden the hair-gristled Pain Box in a safe place. The Benchleys’ mailbox. Not even her property. “Can I go home?”

“Yeah.”





116 Maple Street


Sunday, August 1

Julia was the one to find him. Everybody slept in late, or as late as you can sleep in summertime heat. She went downstairs. The figure on the couch hadn’t looked right. The house still quiet, she’d wondered if she was having a nightmare. Or if the world had cracked open and changed, its rules all different. The blanket had been caked to Larry’s cheek by dark blood.

She’d stood, afraid to go closer. Afraid to tell her mom, too. Afraid the person who’d done it was still in the house. She should have gone to him. Touched him. But she’d been so scared. She’d left. Walked in bare feet and grimy old sleep clothes down the crescent. She could have knocked on doors. But whose? Which one of them wasn’t an enemy? She’d gone through Sterling Park, past the hole.