They both waited. Benjamin stared at Detective Rivera’s smooth, impassive face. She had warm, light hazel eyes, almost golden. He was disappointed in her. She had seemed like she was on his side. He guessed that was her job.
“Okay,” he said. “I was in college. I was at a bar with my friends. A guy hit on one of the girls I was with. When she told him to go away, he threatened her, said he was going to rape her. So we called the college cops, and this old white Berkeley cop showed up and was really shitty to the girl, Tracey, who was black. He kept asking where her parents were from and why she wore her skirt so short. I was impatient, because the cop wasn’t doing his job. But I was just standing on the street with my friends, talking to him, and all of a sudden I was flat on my back on the concrete. The cop had sucker punched me before I even knew what had happened. But he can’t hit a college kid in the face without some reason, right?”
The cops said nothing.
Benjamin sighed and went on. “So he said in his report that I assaulted him, which wasn’t true. My father hired a lawyer, who told me it was my word against the cop’s, with some drunk witnesses, and I should plead nolo contendere. I didn’t want to, because it sounded like ‘no contest.’ But he said if I did, the incident would be expunged from my record. So I could honestly answer ‘no’ when asked if I’d ever been arrested for a crime. Which is what I did, when I talked to you. But obviously it wasn’t expunged, if you guys dug it up.”
Officer Arnal didn’t seem to have followed the story.
Benjamin wished he could explain in Spanish. “Sucker punched?” he said. “What’s the word for that here? No warning. He cold-cocked me. Punched me in the face, out of nowhere.” He mimed it, fist tapping his chin, head turning away from the impact.
He remembered the strange violation of it, the way the pain hadn’t kicked in until he was lying on the sidewalk, looking up at a streetlight, watching Tracey in her short skirt yelling at the cops. She later told him that he’d called the cop a racist asshole before he got punched, though he didn’t remember that. He’d never been hit before. His face had been tender and bruised for days.
The whole thing had made Benjamin disgusted and depressed. He’d thought about dropping out of school. He lost weight. Everything seemed pointless, if people with power could abuse it like that, and get away with it. Tracey had told him to get on with his life. Shit like that happened all the time, just not so much to white dudes. He shouldn’t be so surprised.
“You should have told us,” Detective Rivera said now.
“It happened over twenty years ago,” he said. “Honestly, I’d forgotten it. And it has nothing to do with my kids.”
“But it could make us think you have other things to hide.”
“I would never, ever assault a police officer,” he said.
But the truth was that he might, if he thought he could get away with it. It seemed like a very satisfying thing to do, to leap across the table and throttle them both. The only question was: Which one first? The guy, to be gentlemanly. And also because Detective Rivera could probably take him.
Instead, he said, “Please tell me you’ve uncovered some information besides this. Please tell me you’ve investigated the actual, immediate crime of this kidnapping. What about Pedro, the guide? Have you investigated him this thoroughly?”
“We have,” Detective Rivera said.
“And?”
There was a knock at the door and young Kenji Kirby came in, looking neat and cool in a light suit and an open collar, even at this ungodly hour. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“There was some confusion,” Detective Rivera said. “It’s okay now.”
“They dragged me out of bed,” Benjamin said. “And they’ve done nothing to find my kids.”
Kenji stood looking at the three of them as if they were children fighting in school. “Tell him what you found,” he said to the cops.
“We don’t have to,” Arnal said.
“Just tell him,” Kenji said.
“What?” Benjamin said. “Tell me!”
Detective Rivera hesitated. “We think we’ve identified the people the courier was working for.”
“And?”
“We’re following up leads.”
“How hard can that be?”
“We’ve eliminated one house, at least,” she said. “Two officers went to check it out, and the kids weren’t there.”
“You didn’t go yourself?”
“We can’t be everywhere,” Arnal said.
“No, you have to be here, doing bullshit investigations of my college drinking career.” He could feel his blood pressure rising. He was definitely capable of assaulting a police officer now. He didn’t care if Rivera could beat him up. “What about the other leads?”
“We’re working on it. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Bring people back! Pay them overtime! I will pay them overtime!”
Kenji gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you back to the hotel,” he said.
19.
RAYMOND WOKE EARLY and watched his wife’s face as she slept. Her hair was coming loose from the ponytail that held it back, in dark wisps around her face. It was the third morning since the kids had gone missing. If an abductor was going to kill a kid, they usually did it in the first five hours. He’d learned that on some cop show. He hadn’t said it to Nora. But it meant that if the children hadn’t been dead by the time he got to that clearing, they were probably still alive.
He couldn’t believe that people were still drinking coffee, making breakfast, going to work, when his kids were gone. He’d had so many worries about his children, because of the melanin in their skin. But their disappearing on a zip-line tour had not been on his mind. He’d been blindsided.
Nora woke and blinked, her eyes wide and green, with tired circles beneath them. He could tell she didn’t remember. Then he saw the awareness slowly return, her mind fighting it. Pain took over her face, her forehead crumpled. “Oh God,” she whispered. “I can’t bear it. I can’t.”
He put his arms around her until she fell asleep again. Sleep was insulation and armor.
He was fully awake, so he went to the hotel gym to try to work out some of his misery by causing himself pain. If he didn’t exercise, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t shit. The gym was a smallish converted hotel room crammed with four weight machines, a treadmill, and a stationary bike, with mirrored walls and fluorescent lights. A TV mounted on the wall played the morning news at top volume. Raymond turned it off, in case he might be on it.
Liv had described the guide pretending to be dragged under the water, at the beach. At that moment, Raymond would’ve picked up his family and left. He didn’t care about being able to take a joke. He didn’t care about being cool. He would’ve walked back to the road and waited for a taxi to drive by.
He had that fantasy a lot: the taxi back to the ship. Just him and Marcus and June waiting by the road. The other families could fend for themselves. He didn’t know where Nora was, in his fantasy. Maybe the women had gone golfing, and the men had gone to the zip line. But Marcus and June were very vivid, packing up their beach stuff, leaving that joker of a guide, hiking back to the road. They were hot and sweaty and a little whiny and reluctant. June gave him side-eye in the cab. But they were dumped out safely on the dock, next to the enormous ship. They trooped back to the metal detector at the gangway, and showed their ship cards to José, the Filipino officer at security.
“You’re back so soon!” José said.
“Our dad made us come back,” Marcus said. “Over a stupid joke.”
Junie said, “Yeah.”
José gave Raymond a sympathetic grin.