Brad Parks - The Good Cop

But I knew someone who did.

After crossing the street, I surfed through my received calls until I reached a 315 number. As I walked through the garage toward my car, I dialed my new favorite intern, Geoff “Ruthie” Ginsburg.

“This is Geoff,” he answered.

“Geoff!” I said, feigning as much enthusiasm as I could. “How you doing, pal? It’s Carter Ross!”

“Oh, hey! I’m so glad you called! You wouldn’t believe it, but every single pregnancy test has come back negative.”

“Every. Single. One?” I said, now trying for incredulity. Good thing I took a drama class at Amherst. True, I only took it to meet cute girls. But I paid attention. A little.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I need to go to the drugstore and get some more. I’m starting to run low on food coloring, too. You were right, that stuff wasn’t easy to find. I went to three stores before I-”

“Yeah, yeah, Geoff, that’s great, now I…” I tried to interrupt. But Ruthie had been hard at work and wanted to get full credit for it-the interns often act like they’re still in school, still being graded, and don’t want to settle for that B plus. So he kept yammering:

“… found the exact stuff we needed-they have it in Bernardsville, by the way-but it comes in these small bottles. I’ve been squirting it in pretty liberally because I wanted to make sure the tests were accurate. I didn’t want any false negatives. You were right about having people flush their own toilets, by the way. Some of them are a little hesitant about it. The first guy looked at me like I was out of my-”

“Geoff, this is really amazing and you’ve done great w-”

“-mind, but most of them have been really into it. This one lady even had me do it again just because she liked the flushing part so much. It cost me another pregnancy test, but I figured no one would mind too much. I’m going to be expensing all this-”

That was going to be a sight on an expense report: “24 First Response pregnancy tests … $375.58.” I’m glad it was going on his, not mine.

“-stuff. And I figure the paper won’t mind when they see the article we’re going to get out of this. You should hear some of these people’s stories. They’ve been on a waiting list ten, fifteen years to get into these town houses. And now to have them be defective? Can you just-”

“Yeah, Geoff, slow down, big guy. I got something you need to-”

“-imagine what that feels like? And then-this is maybe a sidebar-but I talked to some guys out on the street in front of the town houses and-”

“Geoff!” I said. “That’s all great. And we’ll-”

“But let me just tell you about what these corner boys told me. According to these kids-”

“Okay, okay, take it easy, Geoff,” I said. “I’m sure it’s great, and later you can tell me all about the corner boys. But for right now, we have a bit of an emergency situation and I need your help.”

“Oh!” he said eagerly. “What is it?”

“I need you to do a Good Neighbors feature.”

There was a brief but deliberate silence, followed by: “That … that’s an emergency?”

“I’ll explain later. But for right now, I need that Good Neighbors and I need it quickly. This afternoon if possible. Tomorrow morning at the absolute latest. You know what they’re looking for with a Good Neighbors?”

“Yeah,” he said, sighing. “I spent the entire first month of my internship doing nothing else.”

“Terrific! So you’re pro. Give me a shout when you’re done.”

“O-okay,” he said. “But I really want to tell you about these corner boys and-”

“Yeah, we’ll talk later, okay? I gotta run.”

I hung up before I could hear his dejected response. I really felt bad for the kid. But in the endless war that is putting out a daily newspaper, there are always going to be casualties. And I’m afraid Ruthie Ginsburg needed to be tallied among today’s body count.

* * *

A light drizzle was falling as I pulled out of the parking garage. Right around the time I passed the seamless border between Newark and East Orange, it had turned into a steady rain. My windshield wipers could keep up, but the sky was so dark I’m not sure I could say the same for my headlights.

I spent the drive giving my brain its first real chance to grind on the big picture: the why, who, and what of a murder. Why would someone want Darius Kipps dead? Who would profit from it? What would they gain?

They were the kind of questions a good detective like Kipps had probably asked himself a thousand times on a hundred different cases. But for as much as I tried to spin a variety of theories, I had neither the information nor the imagination to make any kind of brilliant deductions. By the time I arrived at the Kipps residence, I was no closer to anything resembling an answer. So I focused on the small task at hand-getting a comment from Mimi Kipps for my story-and left the rest for later.

There were no family members milling outside the house on a day like this. I could see light pouring out of those curtainless second-floor windows, so I suspected someone was home. I parked on the opposite side of the street, folded my printouts and tucked them in an inside pocket of my peacoat, where they wouldn’t get wet, then grabbed my umbrella, doing the awkward open-the-umbrella-while-getting-out-of-the-car move. As I walked up the front walkway with my head down, I could feel the chill and the damp trying to work their way in through my coat.

The porch had an awning so I shook out the umbrella, then dropped it to the side. I rang the doorbell and waited.

No one answered. I rang again. Was she in the shower again? Feeding the baby? Maybe I should have called first.

I pressed the bell again, impatient and cold, holding it for a second, listening hard to make sure it was working. And, yes, I could hear a chime. But no Mimi.

Still standing on her front stoop, I pulled out my phone and dialed her cell number. Maybe she was out at the grocery store and left the lights on. She answered on the first ring with, “Please go away.”

“Mimi? It’s Carter Ross.”

“I know. And I know you’re standing on my porch right now. But I have nothing to say to you.”

“I … I’m confused. Did you not like the story today?”

“The story was fine, but I need you to leave.”

“Can I … can I come back later?”

“No.”

“Can we talk on the phone later?”

“No.”

“Uh,” I said, at an unusual loss for words. I had been rehearsing parts of my conversation with Mimi on the drive out, and this was not in any of the versions that had played out in my head. “Mimi, am I missing something here? Yesterday I spent a few hours at your home in the morning. Then I came back in the afternoon. You seemed very keen to have me working on this and now you’re freezing me out? What gives?”

There was a pause. Then: “Pastor Al says I shouldn’t talk to you.”

Ah. The anointed man of God strikes again. “And why did he say that?”

“He … he says you’re an agent of Satan.”

I couldn’t help it: I laughed. “Mimi, no offense, but that’s absurd. Do I look like an agent of Satan? Do I talk like an agent of Satan?”

“Pastor Al says Satan comes in many forms and can be very persuasive.”

“I grant you the prince of darkness is probably a little too subtle to send someone here with horns and a forked tail showing,” I said. “But, honestly, use your head. Use your heart. I was holding your baby yesterday. The little guy was sucking on my finger, for goodness’ sake. You really think one of Satan’s minions would go for that?”

In my time as a newspaper reporter, I had stood on a lot of front porches and tried to talk my way into a lot of houses. This, I was fairly certain, was the first time I had to convince someone I wasn’t shilling for Mephistopheles.