I put my arm around Bobby’s waist and draw him in. My lips find the side of his neck so that when I speak, my mouth is within inches of his ear. “You’re a good guy, Bobby.”
“You mean the issue was in doubt?”
“Yeah, it was. But there’s no issue now. It’s not just that you helped us. Others, not many but a few, have done the same. What you’ve done, my darling, is make yourself part of the family. Well, it’s time you told us why. Why would a normal guy involve himself with a psycho named Carolyn Grand? Or five psychos named Carolyn Grand? Or any psychos at all? What’s in it for Bobby Ortega?”
He leans over to kiss me and I’m instantly thinking, Okay, fuck this, let’s mess up Martha’s bed. Then he lets me go and sits up straight.
“I stopped needing reasons a while ago,” he tells me. “Is that good enough?”
“No, I … The thing, Bobby, is that I’m pretty sure that I’m in love with you. But if my sisters and my brother told me to give you up, I would. We’ve never let anyone into our lives, and maybe it’s too late to get started. We have to know.”
He slides forward onto the couch. Lays his head on the backrest. “The best I can do is describe the road I walked to get here. Then it’s up to you.” He slides his arms around my shoulders and pulls me tight against him. “But I just want to ask, before I testify voluntarily, if this is a trial by jury. And if it is, does the verdict have to be unanimous? Can I appeal? Is there a Supreme Court?”
“Uh-uh, Bobby, just a scared little girl who can’t afford to lose her way.”
“Okay, no more bullshit. I had a twin sister, Isabelle. We were as close as identical twins and we did everything together. We were even on the same Little League team. Isabelle played third base.” Bobby’s eyes soften as they reach back. “As teenagers, we … what’s the right word? Vetted? We vetted each other’s boyfriends and girlfriends. Is he a good guy? Is she still seeing her old boyfriend? Does he have a big mouth? The trust we had in each other was absolute. When she finally got married, I walked her down the aisle. Our father was gone by then.”
This is more than I had any right to ask of him and I know it. I begin to speak, but he waves me off.
“Four hundred and thirty-three days ago, Isabelle left her Rockland County home to go to work and vanished. Women do that sometimes, when they’re afraid of their husbands. They abandon their former lives altogether. That wasn’t the case with Marty and Isabelle. They got along well. But even if she had a secret lover, there was nothing to prevent her from simply walking away. She had children, children she loved dearly.
“The case was handled by the State Police, but I stayed close. Isabelle’s credit and debit cards were never used. No attempt was made to access her 401K, the family checking and savings accounts, or a checking account held in her name. Her car was located two months into the investigation, abandoned in Brooklyn. The only trace evidence recovered belonged to the family, including her two children and a family dog. There was no evidence of a physical attack, no blood or tissue.
“The posters went up, the website was created, the flyers were handed out. MISSING: ISABELLE KNOWLES. Her photo below, smiling that mischievous smile. Your smile, Eleni. Isabelle had your smile.
“I’m a cop, a homicide cop. I knew she was dead within two weeks. That’s not—” He stops to stare at his hands. “All cops make notifications. It’s part of the job and I’ve done my share. Sometimes it’s simply that a relative has been taken to the hospital. Sometimes it’s that a sister, brother, mother, daughter, father, son is dead, gone forever, no more hopes, no more dreams, wiped out. The look, Eleni, the disbelief, the sudden knowing, the horror and the wail, the awful wail. I’m a cop, of course, so I’m prepared to catch the ones who stagger and faint.
“I rarely do notifications now. Too busy with the crime scene. Uniformed officers do it. No, what I get to do is interview the family later on, after they’ve fully absorbed the loss, after they’ve walked through their homes, examined every family photo, looked into her room at an unmade bed, inhaled the lingering perfume on a cocktail dress, slipped that turquoise ring she loved on their own fingers.
“The words come by rote. First, I’m sorry for your loss. Then, do you know anyone who may have done this? Did she have any enemies? Have you noticed any strangers in the neighborhood? Can you spare a photograph? Would you make a list of her friends?
“Mostly, they break down at some point and what you want to do is take them into your arms, to protect them in some way. But you’re not allowed to touch them. You have to hold it in. You have to be a professional.
“With Isabelle, I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew better. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what happened to her. She wasn’t killed immediately. The car was clean, remember? No, Isabelle was taken somewhere and worked on. For hours, for days? And how many ways did he, or they, find to hurt her? What instruments were used? Was she aware until the very end? Did she sense her life slipping away? Did she plead for mercy, or did she finally give up, the pain too overwhelming? Did she finally beg to be killed? I’ve seen the bodies, Eleni, the bodies of human beings, usually women, after days of torture. I’ve counted and analyzed the wounds on their bodies, scraped their blood off the walls, collected bits of their skulls, measured the bruises on their throats.”
He stops suddenly, repressing a groan, then continues. “Bad as it is for me, though, it’s much worse for Marty. Last week, he told me that even now, when he hears a car climbing the hill late at night, he thinks, for just a moment, that Isabelle’s coming home.”
I’m lying with my head against his chest, close enough to measure the beating of his heart. I try to think of something to say, but I can only come up with: “I’m sorry for your loss.” As he leans over to kiss my forehead, I feel his heart rate slow.
“I stopped being able to fend it off,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact now that he’s finally put his heart on the line. “I’m talking about the day-to-day misery, the victims, the families, Isabelle. They’re my own personal zombies. They’re why so many cops kill themselves.”
Bobby’s hold eases. “I’m quitting,” he tells me. “I’ve put twenty years into the job. That qualifies me for a pension and medical benefits going forward. The lieutenant knows. I told her last week. As soon as your case is resolved, I’m gonna turn in my papers.”
“And do what?”
His kiss this time is more demanding. “I’ve got a cousin in Queens. He owns a lumber yard, and he’s looking for a partner. But I’m not worried about that part.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“I’m worried about the only thing that matters, Eleni. The DNA.”