Long Bright River(74)

—Does he have any reason to be in Kensington during his workday, I say. That you know of.

DiPaolo looks at me hard.

—Why, he says.

I sit back. I saw him there today, I say. Middle of the day.

DiPaolo sighs. He looks at Truman, seeking his gaze, but Truman won’t return it. He turns back to me.

—If this is some sort of, he says. He puts his hands in the air, making circles. If this is some sort of lovers’ quarrel, I really can’t get involved.

I pause.

—What do you mean, I say.

—Look, says DiPaolo. I don’t want to be presumptuous. But everyone knows about you and Simon Cleare. And I just don’t want, he says.

He trails off. Sighs.

—I don’t know why he was in Kensington, he says, but he might have had his reasons, you know?

I wait for my temper to settle before responding.

—This has nothing to do with me, I say. I’m trying to give you some information you might be able to use in the case of the Kensington murders. Because no one else is listening.

—What does that mean, says DiPaolo.

—I don’t know how much of this you know already, I say. I take a long drink, and then I begin.

I tell him about Paula Mulroney, and Paula’s accusation. I tell him Paula won’t go on record saying it. I tell DiPaolo about Kacey, that she’s missing. I feel like I’m rambling, and every so often I look up at DiPaolo to check his expression, but it’s difficult to read.

—I started by telling Sergeant Ahearn this, I say. I went straight back to the station and told him I needed to talk to him. I felt it was information he should have, and I wanted to follow procedure. He said he was aware of the accusations and that he would relay them to the right people.

I pause.

—But I don’t know if he did, I say. And a few days after I told him what I’d heard, I got a call from Internal Affairs, asking to meet. When I went in, they said I was under investigation. Put me on suspension.

Saying it aloud for the first time, all at once like this, I am suddenly jolted by the injustice of it all.

DiPaolo’s face is still blank. I have no idea how much of this he knew in advance. He’s good at his job.

—Okay, he says finally.

I wait.

—What I’m saying is, I say, it may be someone on the force who’s killing these women. Simon’s on the force. And I just saw him in a neighborhood he’s always told me he hates.

DiPaolo waits. It seems like a leap to him. I can tell.

—Anything else? he says.

—He likes young girls, I say. And he’s not—ethical. When it comes to his relationships.

DiPaolo keeps his face still.

It hits me, suddenly, how insane it all sounds. The facts don’t favor me. I’m operating, I know, on a hunch, a suspicion, a gut feeling that doesn’t translate to the outside world. And yet, saying it aloud, my conviction grows stronger.

I’m looking down at the table, but in my peripheral vision I see DiPaolo looking at Truman. Trying, again, to gauge what he thinks. DiPaolo clears his throat. I know what this looks like. Here I am, on suspension for unclear reasons, coming in with some pretty serious accusations against someone I used to date, with very little evidence. He must think I’m a crazy woman. A crazy ex-girlfriend.

—I’m not crazy, I say, though I know it’s futile. I look at Truman. Tell him I’m not crazy, I say.

I suddenly realize I’m getting drunk. I’m at the bottom of my second beer.

—No one’s saying that, Mick, says Truman. Now he shakes his head at me, just as subtly. Stop talking.

DiPaolo puts his hands on the table.

—Look, Mickey, he says. I hear you, okay? But you need to let this go, all right?

Against my will, I let out a sound that isn’t very polite. Hah, I say.

DiPaolo looks at me levelly.

—You’re out of your depth here, he says.

—In what sense, I say.

—I’m not at liberty to tell you. Just trust me.

He stands. Prepares to leave.

—I’ll go to the press, I say, suddenly. I have a friend who’s a journalist for a local radio station. She’d be very interested in a story about police corruption in Kensington.

I think of Lauren Spright. Imagine her expression if she heard me calling her a friend. She’d probably laugh at me.

DiPaolo keeps his face straight. Under the table, Truman puts his hand on my knee and squeezes, just once. Stop.

—Really, says DiPaolo.

—Really, I say, at the same time that Truman says, Mick.

—Go ahead, then, says DiPaolo. Do it. You know what she’ll tell you?

I’m silent.

—She’ll tell you we’ve got our man, says DiPaolo. Because as of 4:35 p.m. today, we do. And as of—he checks his watch—ten minutes ago, he continues, a press release went out to local and national media outlets, saying as much.

I feel my mouth open.

—But if you want to talk to her about police corruption, DiPaolo says, go ahead. You might want to start by telling her what you were suspended for.

He takes a final swig of his Jameson. This time, he does make a face.

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking. But I can’t help myself.

—Who is it, I say.