He reminded her a little of an actor she’d seen somewhere. In a film, maybe with Ingrid Bergman. Something that was on the TV one afternoon.
He was still looking at her and she realized he’d said something. She had to get him to repeat it.
“I’m Sergeant Devlin, ma’am. I’m in charge here.”
His voice was pure Bronx.
Jerry, that was the actor’s name. Jerry something.
She nodded, began to turn away. And then, “We ran your name through our files, Mrs. Malone. Seems like our officers have been here before. Several times.”
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Noise complaints in April and June last year. And March 5 and May 19 this year.”
“I don’t . . .”
“And one count of public intoxication. November 12, 1964.”
She smoothed her hair. Cleared her throat. “What does this have to do with my children?”
He just kept looking at her. Then suddenly, “We need to search the apartment. Might need to take some things away with us. That a problem, Mrs. Malone?”
She shook her head. What else could she do?
She and Frank sat silently. She chewed the skin around her nails, stared at the clock again. Every noise made her jump. Then Devlin was back in the doorway.
“We need you to come with us for a moment.”
She looked at his face. “Did you find them? Did you find Frankie and Cindy?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Just come with us, please.”
She stood. “Both of us?”
His eyes flickered to Frank. “Yeah.”
She expected him to lead them to the kids’ room, but instead, they went outside and around to the trash cans. She almost laughed when she saw what they’d done. The cans were empty, their contents all over the ground. Two more cops in uniform were raking through piles of garbage: empty milk cartons, food packaging, cans of dog food, pieces of orange peel, papers, coffee grounds. The smell turned her stomach. Devlin pointed to a plastic sack, the top untied. “Is this yours, ma’am?”
She looked at him, looked at the bag. She walked over and looked inside. There were nine or ten empty bottles. Gin. Bourbon. Wine. She looked back at him. Was he serious?
“I don’t know. I can’t remember what I threw out recently. Maybe.”
His face didn’t change. Frozen, just like an actor in a still. He nodded at one of the uniforms, who came over holding an envelope. He thrust it into her face and she recoiled; it had been lying under old food.
“It has your name on it, Mrs. Malone.”
She saw it had contained a bill for something, she couldn’t remember what. But she remembered opening it and throwing the envelope away and putting the bill in the drawer. Wondering when she’d be able to pay it.
“That was in the same bag.”
“Oh. Then . . . yeah, I guess it’s mine.”
“And the bottles?”
She looked again. “Well, yeah, I guess they’re mine too. If the bill was in this bag with them.”
“All of them?” He did something with his mouth.
“What does this have to do with the kids? Why aren’t you looking for Frankie and Cindy?”
“Just trying to establish some background, ma’am.”
“I was clearing out the apartment. My lawyer told me . . . there’s going to be an inspection by the court. He told me to clean the place. Paint it. Make it look nice.” She didn’t look at Frank.
Devlin looked at her for a long time and then, without taking his eyes off her, spoke to the cop in uniform standing behind him. “Make a note, Officer. Related to the custody case.” He made them sound like dirty words.
She turned, but Frank was avoiding her eyes.
“I was just clearing up.”
He nodded, but he still didn’t look at her.
More time passed. Ruth drifted into the hallway, paced the living room, chewing her nails, smoking past the lump in her throat. There was a man with a brush and a pot kneeling by the coffee table, dusting it with powder. He was working his way through all the rooms, leaving a white trail behind him. He glanced up at her but didn’t speak.
Back in the hallway, she noticed that the door to the kids’ room was ajar, the light spreading over the worn carpet. She took a step toward it, saw three men bending over the bureau by the window: Devlin, the pink-faced cop, a guy with a camera.
“Make sure you get it all.” Devlin’s voice was low, his tone intense, focused. It made her stop and lean against the doorframe.
The shouts from the searchers outside were a hundred miles away, distant and distorted through the hot, shimmering afternoon.
There was nothing on the bureau: a couple of Frankie’s books, a lamp, a tube of cream for Cindy’s eczema. Ruth had tidied up a couple of days before, put away a pile of laundry that had been on top of the bureau, some of the kids’ toys. She remembered wiping it, rubbing at the rings of a dozen cups. Remembered the smell of beeswax polish.
The photographer looked up at Devlin. He was short, with thin hair and round glasses. There were damp patches under his arms and his tie was crooked. She watched as he bent over, as he lined up his camera. As the sunlight through the window made a cloud of white dust specks dance.
The shutter clicked once. Twice.
Her head ached. She turned away.