In the back of my closet is a soft-cornered shoe box and I’m relieved to see it’s untouched. Underneath a pair of suede chocolate Mary Janes is a dog-eared business card with Detective Maslow’s contact information. I dial the number and sit cross-legged on the bed.
When the other line picks up, I rush on, talking over the clipped, soft voice on the phone. “Hello, this is Zoe Whittaker. I mean, Swanson. Hilary Lawlor.” And then I laugh because it sounds ridiculous.
“How can I help you?” The woman sounds like she’s speaking through a tin can.
“I need to speak with Detective Maslow. It’s an emergency.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Not immediately, I don’t think. My apartment has been broken into. But there’s no one here now.” My fingers are tapping on my knee; I can’t seem to sit still.
“Hold, please.” A hold line clicks on and I hear classical music, which strikes me as ironic. Anyone calling this line is dealing with a possible life-or-death situation. Here, have some Chopin. “Detective Maslow, you said?”
“Detective Maslow retired close to three years ago. Do you have a case number?”
“I do.” I relay the seventeen-digit number back to her, written in Maslow’s careful script on the back of the business card. Maslow. With his painfully thin frame and jutting cheekbones, but honest smile and appraising eyes.
She murmurs the numbers back to me and puts me on hold again. Pachelbel this time. I pace the length of the bed, sit, stand up again, walk the hallway, all while being careful to avoid the toppled boxes spilling from the closet.
“Ms. Lawlor?” She clicks back on the line. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I need to know if Michael Flannery or Jared Pritchett is out on parole?”
There is silence and clacking while she types. “Ms. Lawlor? I don’t see these names in here. What do you want this information for?”
“Five years ago, I testified against them in a grand jury. Then I was kidnapped and brutally beaten for information, which I did not have. Then I ran away, forgoing witness protection. Now, my apartment is broken into. Can you see why I might be concerned that one of these men are paroled?”
“I understand. I will work on sorting this out. I’ll contact Maslow. In the meantime, I encourage you to contact your local police department regarding your break-in.”
“That’s it?” The abandonment feels like a heavy boulder on my breastbone and I can’t breathe.
“Call us back after you talk to the police. Make sure to get the report number.”
“The report number.” I repeat dumbly. “Okay.”
We hang up and I sink down onto the floor. I stare at the paper in my hand and know I won’t call back. It was a risk in the first place. Then I panic, wondering if they’ll trace my call. If Maslow will come out of retirement to find his missing witness. I stole their money. It’s laughable, no one cares anymore. It occurs to me that I could probably find out what happened to Jared or Mick myself.
I call Henry. I don’t call him at work often because he generally calls me several times a day. I’m surprised when he doesn’t pick up. I get voicemail at his office and cell phone. I pick up the phone and stare at the numbers, trying to think of who else I can call. I think of Lydia and her ’Enry ’Iggins.
There is no one.
• • •
Our building has six doormen who rotate shifts, and I like all of them. Then again, it is their job to be liked by the occupants of the building. Today, Trey is on duty and I sigh with relief. Trey is youngish, with smooth coffee skin and a smile to swoon over, but he has the build of a bouncer at a rough nightclub. I would have felt a lot less safe with Peter, who I’m guessing is around eighty and looks like a strong wind might be the thing that kills him.
“Our apartment was broken into,” I say, panicky, in Trey’s direction and he looks at me disbelieving. I dial 9-1-1. I relay all my information and the woman on the line promises a police car in five minutes. I hear the quick blirrrp in less than two.
Two uniformed officers approach the revolving door. They appraise the building with raised eyebrows and whispers. I can’t imagine they’ve ever covered a reported break-in here. I watch them scan the gold elevators, the inlaid mosaic tile. Their shoes squeak on the floor of the silent lobby. Trey wrinkles his nose with concern. A break-in on his watch may cost him his job. I lightly tap his arm and shake my head.
“Hi, I’m Zoe Whittaker.” I extend my hand to the officer standing slightly in front, an athletic woman of about forty.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a severe bun and her eyes are heavily rimmed with blue eyeliner. “Hi Ms. Whittaker. I’m Officer Yates and this is Officer Bernard.”
The man standing behind her steps forward and we shake hands. I give them a quick rundown of what I found.
Officer Yates turns down the volume on her belt-clipped radio. “We need to ensure that no one is still upstairs, okay? Please stay here.” She motions for Bernard to follow her and they both walk efficiently to the bank of elevators and punch the up button.
I turn to Trey, who is pacing along the bank of mailboxes. “Don’t worry. This is not your fault.”
“I’ve been here since seven a.m., Ms. Whittaker. I have not seen anyone suspicious or anyone I didn’t know come in or leave.”
I nod. “It’s okay. It will be okay. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you. You might want to call Mr. Price.” Mr. Price is the manager of the building.
Five minutes later, Yates returns alone. “The apartment is empty. Whoever did this seems long gone. Would you two mind coming down to the station and answering some questions?”
I nod, but Trey hesitates. “I’ll need to call my supervisor and get a replacement before I can leave.”
Yates nods and motions me outside and into the squad car. She opens the front door and I’m surprised. She gives me a wide smile, the edges of her mouth forming deep creases in her tanned cheeks. She has cartoonishly big features all competing for space: wide lips, large nose, thick lashes. “The backseat is for criminals,” she explains, with a quick grin. I relax and I adjust the sleeves of my shirt, pulling it away from the dampness underneath my arms and on my back, above my bra strap. My mouth is dry.
“What about Officer Bernard?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat as I climb in the front seat. I pick imaginary lint off my linen pants and smooth the crease with my thumb.
“He’s waiting for the forensics crew. We’ll take some prints and we’ll need either you or your husband to establish what’s been taken.”
“Oh, I have to try Henry again,” I say dumbly, but when I call I am again sent to voicemail. I leave yet another message.
Yates chatters the entire four blocks to the station and, despite being in a squad car, I’m oddly relaxed. At the station, she pulls into a small underground garage that seems to house only marked police cars and leads me up a concrete walkway, dimly lit by sickly fluorescent bulbs, the walls painted a greenish-yellow. I can hear a low buzzing, the intermittent zap of a bug catcher. Inside, the station is a veritable hub of activity, police officers zipping this way and that, and I follow her to an interview room. On the way, she deftly grabs two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a handful of creamer and sugar packets. She gives the door a quick kick closed and indicates for me to sit with a jut of her chin. Her movements are quick and efficient. She places a burnt-smelling coffee in front of me and I thank her, knowing I won’t drink it.
She opens a folder and clicks a pen, at the same time hitting record on a digital recorder. She studies me with open interest; her eyes are two different colors, one brown one yellow-gold.
“This should be quick, I think,” she reassures me. “What time did you arrive home?”
“About one, I think.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I’d left the house around ten thirty.” I blow across the top of the black coffee, just for something to do.
“Okay, that’s a good, narrow time frame.” She writes something down in a notebook and chews a thumbnail. “Then what happened?”
I tell her about doing a quick inventory and returning to the lobby to call 9-1-1.
“Your husband is Henry Whittaker?” She gives a low whistle. I nod. I never know what to say when people are impressed by Henry, by virtue of who he is or what he has. Thank you? That seems proprietary, like I earned something. It might be easier if I was a guy, I could nod knowingly, maybe wiggle my eyebrows Groucho-style or lightly punch them on the arm. Women don’t have a female version of “dude speak.” Maybe I mistakenly imagine all men as overgrown teenage boys.
“Have you been able to get in touch with your husband?” Yates asks.
I shake my head. “Um, no. I tried. Twice.”
“Okay, this is pretty much it. You can hang out here until we clear your place. It’ll be another hour or so.” She squares the folder in front of her and half-stands up, clicking stop on the recorder.
“Um, I have one thing. I feel like it’s important.” I take a deep breath and wipe my palm on the table top. I jostle the Styrofoam cup and coffee spills onto the table. Yates says nothing, but sits back down and opens her file. She clicks the recorder back on and waves her fingertips in my direction. Go on.
“I’m . . . God, I haven’t told another person this, ever. In 2009, I testified against two men, Michael Flannery and Jared Pritchett, in a human-trafficking case in San Francisco. I was threatened and kidnapped. I left San Francisco, changed my name, and started over here. Could they have found me? Come back for me?”
Yates stares at me, unflinching. I know she’s a New York City cop and has heard and seen it all. I still imagine she wasn’t expecting this from a routine break-in.
“It’s possible. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Kindly, she touches my hand. She has a long scar that runs along her jawline and I wonder what it’s from. She holds my gaze and reaches over, hitting the off button on the recorder again.
“This.” She runs her hand along her scar, turning her head slightly to the left so I can see it, glinting and silvery in the bright light. “Isn’t from the job. It’s from a man. A man who owned me and beat me, within inches of death until I ran away. I had to hide, too, for a while. Then, fuck it, I became a cop. I was the oldest one at the police academy.”
“Where is he now?” I play with a small lock of hair, twirling it between my index and middle fingers and as I wait for her answer, I pull. Hard. My eyes tear.
“He’s locked up now. Couldn’t get him for what he did to me, but I got him for what he did to the next girl. Almost killed her. I have guilt about that.”
I nod again. I feel tongue-tied around this weathered woman who wears all her scars on the outside. I’m jealous of her many physical reminders, the ones that tell the world she’s a warrior. Sometimes, I forget who I am. I have one thin pink line on my right wrist to remind me.
She pushes away the file and folds her hands. Her nails are manicured bright red. She catches my stare and fans her fingers out for me to see. “I’m Not Really a Waitress.”
I shake my head, confused.
“That’s the name of the color. It’s a . . . reminder.” She winks at me. She takes one of those red manicured hands and touches my arm. “Tell me.”
I know she’s not talking about nail polish. I tell her. I tell her about San Francisco and Mick, and I find myself loosening, spilling long locked-up details. Jared twisting my arm behind my back, that glint of the gun in his coat. Things I thought I’d forgotten. The smell of Mick’s aftershave, mingling with the tang of sweat. The sharp sting of betrayal from Mick, how I’d thought he was shady, a borderline abuser, but never really evil, until later, then I knew. I wondered how close Evelyn came to his circles, how involved he’d been when he’d known her. I said all this, and more, rambling and disordered. She nodded like she was following.
I told her how later, two men—Jared’s lackeys, I assume—broke into Evelyn’s apartment and, pressing a gun against the small of my back, threw me in a white utility van, the back stripped and separated from the front with a stainless steel cage. They cut my clothes off, tied my wrists and calves together with electrical cable. I tell her how they wound duct tape around my middle anchoring my wrists to my back. I tried to knee the larger of the two between the legs, and he brought his boot down on my forehead, quick and shockingly forceful.
I tell her how sometime around the three-day mark, near as I can figure, the smaller guy came back in the middle of the night, alone. He’d asked me, where are the girls? And no matter how I pleaded, he wouldn’t believe I didn’t know. I don’t know how he thought that I had the resources to hide anyone. I was barely getting by. He was a bottom-feeder, scared and hung out to dry. I had shrugged. I was gagged. My seeming indifference enraged him and he pushed a gun against my temple, screaming in my face, Tell me where the fuck they’re hiding! I know she talked to you. You helped her. But I couldn’t. Before he got out, he kicked my foot so hard, he snapped my left ankle, clean in half. I could see the white knob of bone pushing out against my skin.
I studied the inside of the van, favoring my right side so my left ankle was supported. In the corner lay a child’s white sock, the kind trimmed with white lace. A sock for church, or preschool graduation. Maybe Easter Sunday or Christmas Day. I was able to flip it over with the toe of my shoe, exposing a quarter-size bloodstain. I was tortured by images of a little girl, blonde and freckled. Pink-ribboned pigtails. Covered in blood.
When I began to lose my grip, my sanity sliding through my fingertips, I began to dream I was little again, going to church with Evelyn and her lady friends, bright lipstick and large hats. Sunday best. Lacey socks. Bloody feet. I’d wake up screaming.
I tell her how they left me there for five days—a time I couldn’t discern and would learn later. They might have left me there forever, to rot in the back of an unidentified vehicle parked outside an abandoned construction site. Except I had figured out how to kick the metal floor in the right way to make a racket. Initially, I kicked for hours. Then later, I faded in and out of consciousness, waiting for the right moment, listening for a noise, straining my eyes against the crack in the van door, searching for any faint light. I heard the muted whirp of the siren before I saw the quick glint of headlights, and I hit my right heel against the gas tank, banging hollow and empty, again and again. My left ankle, flopping lifelessly. I don’t remember it hurting. The headlights beaming in after they’d crowbarred the van doors open—that hurt. The noise, the sirens that came later, the ambulance, and inexplicably a fire truck—that hurt. My body did not. My body felt blissfully numb.
The whole time I talk, I rub the thin, pink scar on my wrist, from where the cable ties tore into my skin. I had seven stitches there to hold the flesh back together. It’s barely visible. Lately, I find myself running the pad of my finger along the edge, a reminder of where I’ve ended up and maybe what I don’t deserve.
I tell the entire story, which is something I’ve never done before. Not to Detective Maslow, not to the lawyers, or the cops, or later to a psychologist I saw a total of three times. Everyone knows bits and pieces of the story but no one has ever heard me tell it, all at once in a rush. I say it all, quickly but flatly, dispassionate, almost like it happened to someone else.
Which is true, when you think about it. It happened to Hilary.