Long Bright River(58)

* * *



—

I interrupt Truman.

—Did you get the house number? I ask.



* * *



—

—I was trying to figure it out, he says, but I couldn’t. It’s a house with white siding on it and there’s graffiti on a board over one of the back windows that says BBB. Three letters.

Anyway, says Truman, as soon as he disappears inside I go up to one of the windows and try to get a look inside. I’m peering through cracks in the boarding. But it’s dark in there. I can’t see much. I think I can make out at least four people, maybe more. Everyone’s in different states of nodding out. One of them looked dead. Might have been dead, Truman says.



* * *



—

I have seen houses like this more times than I can count. To me they look like a circle of hell.



* * *



—

—I’m listening, Truman says, and from inside I hear what sounds like someone pounding up a staircase. A second later he comes back down and suddenly I see this guy Dock walking toward me, toward the back of the house. I jump back, turn around, and pretend to be minding my business.

Here, this guy goes. You sure you don’t want me to shoot you up? Five bucks.

Nah, I tell him. I got it.

He eyes me up. Don’t shoot up near my house, he says. And test it first.

I thank him, go to leave. I’m wishing I could get one more look inside. And maybe he notices me hesitating, because he says to me, You looking for something else?

Like what, I say.

A girl, this fucker says.



* * *



—

I get cold. Truman watches me a little before going on.



* * *



—

—I said, Maybe.

He says, You want to see pictures? I got pictures.

I said I did. He takes out his phone and starts flipping through photos of girls. And, Mick. I saw Kacey.



* * *



—

I nod. I knew this was coming.



* * *



—

    —See anything you like? this shithead says. I say I do. But I want to get fixed up first. I tell him I’ll be back another time. He gives me his phone number. Call me when you need something, he tells me. I’m your guy, okay? I’m the doctor.



* * *



—

I’m looking straight ahead.

—You okay? says Truman.

I nod. What I am feeling is a loathing that begins very deep inside me.

—How did she look, I ask Truman, but I realize only after I say it that I was too quiet to be heard.

Again I ask.

—What do you mean? says Truman.

—In the photo. How did she look?

Truman sets his jaw. She was, he says. She wasn’t wearing much. She was skinny. Her hair was dyed bright red. She looked like she was maybe roughed up. One of her eyes was swollen. I couldn’t get a good look.

But alive, I think. But maybe she’s alive.

—One more thing, says Truman. Right when I was about to leave, someone comes around the corner. Tough-looking guy, tattoos everywhere, looks like a friend of Dock’s. He points right at Dock, happy to see him, and goes, McClatchie. How you been?

—McClatchie, I say.

—Right, says Truman.

—Connor McClatchie, I say, remembering the Facebook photo, Connor Dock Famisall underneath.

Truman nods. Then nods toward the MDT on the center console.

—May I? he says.

—Go ahead, I tell him. It feels like old times: like my partner, doing the paperwork while I drive.

Truman’s login is disabled while he’s on medical leave, so I give him mine. Using it, he runs a search in the PCIC.

I keep trying to look while I drive, and I almost swerve into oncoming traffic.

—Jesus, Mick, says Truman. Pull over.

But I don’t want to. Not until we’re far enough out of the neighborhood so that Truman won’t be recognized either. I keep scanning the road ahead of me, glancing in my mirrors, waiting to encounter a colleague. Or Sergeant Ahearn.

—Just read it aloud to me, I say.

Truman reads to himself for a while. Then he says, All right, here we go. McClatchie, Connor. DOB March 3, 1991, Philadelphia. Youngster, he says, glancing over at me.

—What else, I ask him.

He gives a low whistle.

—What? I say. Tell me.

—Okay, says Truman. We’ve got everything from armed robbery to assault to illegal possession of a firearm. Guy’s been incarcerated three—wait, four—five times.

Again, he pauses.

—And? I say.

—Looks like he does have a charge here for promoting prostitution, says Truman.

Pimping. Unusual, actually: most of the women in Kensington work for themselves. But there’s always an exception to the rule.

He pauses. He also has a warrant on him, he says. That could be helpful somehow.

—Could be, I say.

I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s close to the end of my shift. Almost time to rescue Thomas from Mrs. Mahon, and Mrs. Mahon from Thomas. I also haven’t answered a call in too long.