Long Bright River(32)

—All right, Truman, I say. All right, you’re smarter than I am, I get it.

Then Truman turns serious.

—Have you reported her missing yet? says Truman.

—No, I say.

—Why not?

I hesitate. The truth is, I’m embarrassed. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.

—They’ll take a look at her record and put it on the bottom of the stack, I say.

—Make the report, Mick, he says. You want me to tell Mike DiPaolo?

DiPaolo is a friend of his in the East Detectives, someone he grew up with in Juniata. Unlike me, Truman has friends in the department, allies. It’s always been Truman who pulls me into things, shows me how to get what I need.

But I shake my head.

—Then tell Ahearn, says Truman.

I frown. The thought of telling Sergeant Ahearn anything about my personal life makes me stubborn. Especially after my episode from earlier. The last thing I want is for him to imagine, falsely, that I’m having some sort of breakdown.

—Truman, I say. If I can’t find her, who can?

And it’s true: patrol officers are the eyes. More than detectives, certainly more than sergeants or corporals or lieutenants. On the streets of Kensington, patrol officers are the ones families ask to find their missing children. We’re the ones children ask to find their missing mothers.

Truman shrugs. I know, Mick, he says. But just tell him. Can’t hurt.

—Fine, I say.

I might be lying. I’m not sure.

—You’re lying, says Truman.

I smile.

Truman looks at the floor.

—I’ve got someone I think I can ask about this Dock character, he says.

—Who? I say.

—Never mind. Let me make sure I’m right. It’s a place we can start, anyway, says Truman.

—We? I say.

—I’ve got time at the moment, he says, gazing down at his brace.



* * *



—

But I know he has another reason, too.

Like me, Truman loves a good case.





I try to follow Truman’s advice. I do.

Ahearn doesn’t like to be bothered before roll call, but I get to work early the next morning and tap softly on his doorframe anyway.

He looks up, annoyed at first. His face changes just slightly when he sees me. He actually smiles.

—Officer Fitzpatrick, he says. How you feeling?

—Great, I say. All better. I’m not sure what happened yesterday. I think I was dehydrated.

—What’d you do, go out partying the night before?

—Something like that, I say. I want to add, Just me and my four-year-old. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Sergeant Ahearn has forgotten I even have a son.

—You scared me, he says. That ever happen to you before?

—Never, I say, lying only slightly.

—Okay, he says. He looks down at his paperwork. Then looks up again. Anything else? he says.

—I was wondering if I could speak with you briefly, I say.

—Real quick, he says. Roll call in five. I still have to put out a dozen fires.

—All right, I say. The thing is.

Suddenly I am tongue-tied. I have never known how to tell the story of Kacey—let alone quickly.

—You know what? I’ll just send you an e-mail, I say.

Sergeant Ahearn looks at me impassively. Whatever you like, he says. Relieved.

Walking out of his office, I know I never will.



* * *



—

All morning, I’m agitated. My brain keeps sending signals to my body: Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Subconsciously, I am expecting Dispatch to come through with a call about another body. And on some level, I am expecting that body to be Kacey. It is difficult, in fact, not to picture Kacey dead, when I think of her: I’ve seen her close to death so many times.

I jump, therefore, every time a crackle comes over the radio. I turn it down slightly.

The good news: it’s freezing outside today, and that means less activity. I stop and get a coffee from Alonzo at the corner store. I scan the Inquirer on a stand, procrastinating, but I see no sign of either Kacey or Paula.

For some reason, Alonzo has the music off, and for a moment I let myself be lulled by the calm interior of the store: the buzzing of a fluorescent light, the hum of refrigerators, the yowling of Romero the cat.

It’s so quiet in here that when my cell phone rings, I jump.

I look at the caller ID before answering. It’s Truman.

—You working? he asks me.

—Yes.

—Listen, he says. I’m at K and A. I’m with someone who says he knows Dock.

I tell him I’ll be there in ten, and pray nothing comes through over Dispatch.



* * *



—

When I arrive at Kensington and Allegheny, Truman is standing on the sidewalk with a coffee, looking very casual. For just a moment, I watch him. The women who pass him stop to speak to him—making him an offer, no doubt. Truman is a handsome man, and I know that people often tease him about being well liked by women—a subject he assiduously avoids speaking about—but his looks have never concerned me. I have always seen him mainly as my respected teacher. And I have always been very careful to avoid any suggestion that Truman and I were anything more than work partners. Still, anytime a male and female officer are partnered, it is inevitable that one or two sophomoric rumors will be spread about them, and I regret to say that it has been no different for the two of us, despite the fact that, for years, Truman was married. In fact, on at least one occasion, I have overheard a joke made at our expense. But largely, I believe that our professionalism has put to rest any ridiculous notions about what I will term ‘extracurricular activities.’