Dennis Lehane - Since We Fell

“Yes, we are.”

“It’s absurd.”

There was nothing absurd about it. Rationally, she knew exactly what she needed to do. And maybe her shock wasn’t shock at all but was, instead, her brain divesting itself of all unnecessary data in order to process only that which was vital. She’d felt the same way in the squatters camp in Leógâne, moving from tent to tent, tree to tree. Complete clarity of purpose — move and hide, move and hide, move and hide. There were no larger existential questions in play, no shades of gray. Her sense of smell, sight, and hearing were not employed in pursuit of gratification but in pursuit of survival. Her thoughts didn’t wander; they marched in a straight line.

“It’s absurd,” Caleb said again.

“It’s where we find ourselves right now.”

She headed for the bedroom to get the barbells but stopped halfway there when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t the buzzer, which is what normally rang if someone was outside the building. And it wasn’t the intercom on their phone, which is how the doorman announced visitors. No, this was the small doorbell just outside her front door, ten feet away.

She looked through the eyehole and saw a black man with a trim goatee in a brown half-fedora, wearing a leather car coat over a white shirt and black skinny tie. Behind him were two of Boston’s finest in uniform, both women.

She kept the security chain on as she opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

The man held up a gold shield and a Providence Police ID card. His name was Trayvon Kessler. “Detective Kessler, Mrs. Delacroix. Is your husband home?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Do you expect him back tonight?”

She shook her head. “He left today on a business trip.”

“To where?”

“Russia.”

Kessler had a very soft voice. “Would you mind if we came in and chatted for a few minutes?”

If she hesitated, this would turn adversarial, so she opened the door. “Come in.”

He removed his hat as he crossed the threshold and placed it on the seat of the antique chair to his left. His skull was shaven, as she’d somehow known it would be, and gleamed in the dim light of the entryway like polished marble. “This is Officer Mullen,” he said, indicating the blond cop with bright friendly eyes and freckles that matched her hair, “and that’s Officer Garza.” He indicated the dark-haired, heavyset woman with a hungry gaze that was already drinking in the apartment. The gaze fell quickly on Caleb, standing at the kitchen bar with a bottle of bourbon. Rachel noticed she’d left the bottle of wine she’d polished off earlier on the corner of the bar as well, between an empty wineglass and the rocks glass she’d just half filled with bourbon. It looked like they were throwing a party in here.

Caleb came over and shook their hands, introduced himself as Brian’s partner. Then in the silence that followed, with the three cops looking at the apartment with cop’s eyes, Caleb got nervous.

“First name’s Trayvon?” he said to Kessler, and Rachel wanted to shut her eyes in horror.

Kessler took in the bottle of bourbon and the empty wine bottle. “Everyone calls me Tray, though.”

“But like that kid in Florida, right?” Caleb said. “The one who got killed by the neighborhood watch guy?”

Kessler said, “Same first name, yeah. What, you never met no one else named Caleb before?”

“Well, sure.”

“Then...” Kessler raised his eyebrows, waited.

“Trayvon’s just a less common name.”

“Where you’re from.”

Rachel couldn’t stand another fucking second of this. “Detective, why are you looking for my husband?”

“We just want to ask him a couple of questions.”

“You’re from Rhode Island?”

“Yes, ma’am. Providence PD. These wonderful officers are serving as my liaisons.”

“What does my husband have to do with something in Providence?” She was pleasantly surprised with how effortlessly she slipped into the role of the befuddled wife.

“You got a mouse under your eye,” Kessler said to Caleb.

“’Scuse me?”

Kessler pointed and now Rachel could see it too, a red welt in the fold of Caleb’s right lower eyelid, growing angrier as they watched. “Look at that, Officer Mullen.”

The blond cop stooped a bit to get a better look. “How’d you happen to come by that, sir?”

“An umbrella,” Caleb said.

“An umbrella?” Officer Garza said. “It jump out and bite you?”

“No, a guy had one on the T when I was coming over here. I work in Cambridge. Anyway, he had it resting on his shoulder and we came to his stop and he turned real quick and it poked me in the eye.”

“Ouch,” Kessler said.

“Exactly.”

“Had to hurt twice as much when you think how little rain there’s been this week. I mean, the beginning of the month, sure, that was crazy. But lately? When’s the last time it rained?” he asked the room.

“Ten days easy,” Officer Mullen said.

“Fuck’s this guy doing carrying an umbrella then?” Again Kessler spoke to no one in particular, a bewildered smile on his lean face. “’Scuse the f-bomb,” he said to Rachel.

“No problem.”

“Crazy world we live in, dudes walking around subway cars with umbrellas when there ain’t no rain.” He looked at the bottles and glasses on the bar again. “So your husband is in Russia?”

“Yes.”

He turned to Caleb, who was clearly hoping he wouldn’t. “And you came by to drop something off?”

“Hmm?” Caleb said. “No.”

“Business papers or something like that?”

“No,” Caleb said.

“So... I mean, stop me if I’m being too personal here...”

“No, no.”

“But why are you here? Man’s out of the country, and you just drop by to get your drink on with his wife?”

Officer Mullen cocked an eyebrow at that. Officer Garza wandered around the living room.

Rachel said, “We’re all friends, Detective. My husband, Caleb, and me. Whatever antiquated notions you’re bringing in here about whether a man and a woman can hang out as good friends while her husband is away, I’d really like it if you parked those notions somewhere outside these walls.”

Kessler leaned back a bit, gave her a wide smile. “Well, all right.” The words rode a soft chuckle out of his mouth. “All right. I stand corrected. And I apologize for any offense I may have given.”

She nodded.

He handed her a photograph. One look, and the blood rushed along her hairline and behind her eyes and barreled through her heart. Brian sat with his arm around the pregnant woman she’d seen this afternoon. She wasn’t pregnant in the picture and Brian’s hair had less gray in it than it did now. They were sitting on a couch. It had gray cushions and looked to be made of white rattan that blended with the white beadboard wall behind them. It was the kind of wall you found in a beach house or, at the very least, a house in a beach town. Above them hung a reproduction of Monet’s Water Lilies . Brian appeared very tan. He and the woman sported big white smiles. She wore a blue flower-print summer dress. He wore a red flannel shirt and cargo shorts. Her left hand lay quite casually on his right thigh.

“You don’t look well suddenly, ma’am.”

She said, “How am I supposed to look, Detective, when you hand me a photograph of my husband and another woman?”

He held out his hand. “Can I have it back?”

She handed it to him.

“Do you know her?”

She shook her head.

“Never seen her before?”

“No.”

“How about you?” He handed the photograph to Caleb. “Know this woman?”

“No.”

“No?”