Long Bright River(56)

Feel like a stakeout? I ask him.



* * *



—

    It takes Truman half an hour to arrive. For that long, I sit still, tensely, praying that Dock won’t leave the intersection, praying that no one will take him up on his offer to work them up. To my relief—to his distress, most likely—no one does.

My phone rings, finally. It’s Truman.

—Look to your right, he says.

Subtly, I turn. It takes me a moment to spot him across the street, but eventually I do. There he is, Truman, dressed much differently than he was when I saw him last week: today he is wearing a backpack, baggy athletic pants, a puffy jacket, a winter cap, and a scarf pulled up around his mouth and nose. He’s got on sunglasses, too. Only his runner’s build gives him away.

—What do you think? he says to me. He’s looking straight ahead, studiously avoiding any glance in the direction of my police vehicle.

—Where did you get that outfit, I say.

—Vice squad, he says.

Truman worked undercover for about a decade in his twenties, before I knew him. Mostly narcotics.

—See the gentleman in the orange jacket? I say.

Truman nods.

—That’s him, I say.

Truman watches him for a moment. Everyone’s got a hustle, huh, he says.

Two girls walk past Truman and eye him.

—All right, says Truman. I’m on it. I’ll call you later.

He starts off toward our target. I recognize in his gait a familiar sense of determination. The same demeanor he always bore during our years of working side by side.





An hour later, I still haven’t heard from Truman, and it’s time to meet Sergeant Ahearn.

I text him to remind him, to make sure he’s ready. Then I radio in my location—fudging a little, naming the Wawa next door to Bomber Coffee—and walk into the shop.

Sergeant Ahearn has beaten me here. He’s sitting at a table, looking around skeptically. He has better posture than everyone else in the shop.

The table he’s chosen is near the bathroom, apart from all the others.

He glances up when he sees me, but he doesn’t rise. I sit down across from him.

—This your hangout? he says.

—Not really, I say. I’ve been here once. Just figured we’d have some privacy.

—Yeah, says Ahearn, widening his eyes. It’s very fashionable.

He’s being sarcastic. He shifts in his chair. He has coffee on the table in front of him. He doesn’t ask me if I’d like to get one.

—So what’s going on, he says.

I look around briefly. No one nearby.

I take out my cell phone and pull up the video Homicide has been distributing. I lean forward and press play, facing the phone toward Sergeant Ahearn.

As the video plays, I speak to him in a whisper.

—I spent yesterday showing this around the neighborhood, I say.

—Why? says Ahearn, before I can continue.

I pause.

—Why? I repeat.

—Yeah, says Ahearn. Why?

—Because Detective Nguyen said, I begin.

Ahearn is shaking his head.

—Who do you take instruction from? Not Detective Nguyen, he says. It’s his job to find this guy. Not yours.

I open and close my mouth. I am trying not to get derailed.

—All right, I say. I’ll remember that. The thing is— —We have enough to worry about every day, says Ahearn.

Will he let me finish?

I wait a beat. Ahearn waits a beat.

—I understand, I say. The thing is, somebody recognized the POI yesterday. One of my regulars on the Avenue. A woman I know fairly well. She told me—here I glance over my shoulder again, lean forward—she told me it was an officer.

Ahearn sips his coffee.

I sit back, waiting for a reaction. But Ahearn looks unfazed.

—I’m sure she did, says Ahearn finally. Did she tell you his name?

—She didn’t, I say.

I’m confused.

—She probably didn’t know it, I say. She said the women in the neighborhood know him.

I lower my voice so that only Ahearn can hear it.

—She said that he, I say.

Again, I don’t know how to phrase it. The technical term sounds so cold.

—That he demands sexual favors, I say. Threatens to bring them in if they say no.

Ahearn nods calmly.

—Listen, I say. I didn’t want to go straight to Detective Nguyen with this information because it felt sort of sensitive. I wanted to start with my supervisor.

Is Ahearn smiling?

There are many reactions I pictured him having. None of them was this. He lifts the lid off his coffee, puts it carefully down on the table. Letting it cool. Steam shimmers off it.

—Is this, I say. Is this something you knew about?

Ahearn brings the coffee to his lips, blows on it a little before slurping it. Well, he says to me thoughtfully. I can’t tell you everything. But I can tell you we’re aware of these accusations.

—In what sense, I say.

Ahearn looks at me sharply.

—In the sense that we know about them. What do you think?

—And what are you doing about them? I say. I feel it happening: my blood is rising to my face, betraying me. In my abdomen, a boiler goes on.