“It’s a steaming garbage kind of day,” Arlo answered.
Oscar took an especially long time to make change, counting and recounting the dollars and then the cents, and Arlo understood that he had seen the news. Knew about the accusation. “Happens.”
The ride service that had picked him up from CPS hadn’t been able to stop right on the crescent. The road was still closed. So he’d had it drop him here, where he’d picked up a six-pack of ginger ale for Gertie, an avocado for Larry, a fresh pack of Parliaments for himself, and more milk and cereal—Frosted Flakes—for Julia.
“Huh?” Arlo asked.
“Sometimes you have bad days.”
“Yeah. You have a good one for both of us.”
“I can try.”
Carrying his bag, he walked across the park. It was afternoon on a Sunday. The park was empty. No crickets or cicadas. No chirping birds. Just orange cones, a slab covering the hole, and a lot of bitumen. It mucked his shoes and he walked fast, never pressing down too hard, to keep the suction from stealing them.
The accusations at CPS hadn’t made sense. Three out of the four kids wouldn’t talk to the cops; only their parents had done that. The one who would go on record claimed only that Arlo had repeatedly put his hand on the kid’s knee, which the CPS people had decided was “grooming.” None of these kids’ names was given to Arlo and there was not enough evidence for an arrest or any kind of action at all.
While stuck there, Arlo had called Fred again at his office—water from a dry well. Fred called back from the Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. Turned out Bethany’s fancy new immunotherapy cancer drug wasn’t going to work. They were out of options. “What’s the trouble?” Fred had asked.
“Nothing. Just wanted to let you know we’re thinking about you,” he’d said. “We want to visit as soon as possible.”
Fred’s voice had caught. He’d taken a while and Arlo had waited, hand pressed on MUTE so the guy didn’t hear the CPS workers calling to each other, loud and oblivious. “When she got sick. It’s been years. You have no idea how many people have scattered. At this point, I’m the only one.”
Arlo let go of MUTE. “I’m here. Gert’s here.”
“That means more than I can say,” Fred said.
For the second night in a row, the CPS people asked if he could stay overnight in the GCPD jail as a courtesy. He should have said, No, thanks. But they’d made it clear that if he tried to leave, they’d have taken Gertie in for questioning.
So he’d agreed.
This morning, Bianchi showed up for the second time, his suit rumpled like he’d been up all night. He’d reassured Arlo that he’d sent a cop car over twice and had visited Gertie in person as well. “Have you considered moving away from that block?” he’d asked Arlo.
“We have to get our ducks in a row. It’s… not easy. Nothing’s easy.”
Bianchi reached through the bars and patted him on the shoulder, and for the first time, Arlo realized the guy was on his side. “These people are the kind you leave behind. Take the high road.”
A few hours later, CPS asked him all the same questions. After answering them, Arlo finally stood. “We’re not done, sir.”
“Are you charging me?”
Nobody answered. Arlo didn’t ask permission; just walked out.
He took the Uber to 7-Eleven. Carrying his groceries, he now saw Linda Ottomanelli on her stoop. Saw Margie and her wife, Sally, hosing their front walk of tar sand. The Ponti men were on their stoop, too. As he got closer, he noticed that they were looking at him. All eyes.
He had a bad feeling. Worse than usual. First the Pontis went inside, which he wouldn’t have expected. Those mooks should have been itching for a fight. Then the Walshes. Last, Linda and Rhea. They moved quickly, practically running.
He noticed that the door to 116 Maple Street, his house, was open.
Garden City Police Department
Sunday, August 1
“I didn’t do it,” Rhea Schroeder said. “Someone else.” She was sitting in Detective Bianchi’s office. Fritz Sr. was beside her. He’d insisted on coming along, which had surprised her.
“Who?” Bianchi asked.
Rhea shook her head in slow shock. She was so overtired that she was having a hard time seeing straight. Everything was bright spots of emptiness. And the weight of it. She felt heavy as an astronaut on Jupiter. “Honestly. It wouldn’t be beyond me to hurt Gertie. I can’t stand her. But Larry? I’d never do something like that. It’s not in me.”
Bianchi nodded. “I’m told there was a lockbox that’s now missing. It was originally taken from your home, by Mrs. Wilde. Someone broke into the Wilde house and took it back last night. Do you know anything about that?”
Rhea blew a deep breath out. “A lockbox?” she asked. “What do you mean, taken from my house? Was Gertie in my house?”
Bianchi waited.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Can you explain it to me?”