“Sorry we’re such a burden on you,” Melanie said, squeezing Maya even tighter.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m just saying, I’m the one who’s always here for you, unlike your father, who’s never even bothered to make the trip to meet Maya. And you don’t give me credit.”

“Do we have to get into all this now, Mom? Where’s Sophie?”

“Oh, yes, your friend. A very sweet girl, that one. Very polite, unlike some people I know,” she said, casting Melanie a reproachful glance.

“Where’d she go? Is she in the bathroom?”

“Oh, no. She left.”

“Left? When? Did she say anything?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. She said to tell you not to worry, that she would lead him away from here, and to come find her at the model-boat pond. I thought that was odd. Who was she talking about, do you know?”

Before her mother had even finished the question, Melanie sprinted into the kitchen to get Sophie’s cell-phone number, then ran straight out the door.

46

DAN O’REILLY WALKED UP THE STEEP FRONT steps of the Brooklyn row house. He hadn’t been here in years, not since the service for Randall’s son. The block was beautiful like he remembered, but shabbier now. Paint peeled off Randall’s house in strips. Garbage and graffiti were all around, and a bunch of teenage mokes stood outside the bodega on the corner, looking like they were pitching drugs. They checked him out warily, and he nodded back. Not here for you today, fellas. Used to be, a few years back, this city was shiny as a new penny. Even out here in Fort Greene. But not anymore. Fucking economy these days, bringing everybody down.

Randall lived in the third-floor apartment. Dan found the button on the intercom panel and pressed, glancing up at the sky. Looked like rain, any minute. Smelled like it, too.

“Who’s that?” asked a woman’s voice after a moment. She sounded hoarse, tired.

“Betty?” he asked, leaning down to speak into the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Dan O’Reilly. I gotta talk to Randall. He around?”

In answer the buzzer sounded, and he pushed in the heavy wooden door.

Dan always noticed architecture, and he took a second to admire the once spectacular foyer. It smelled like cabbage or some other type of greens boiling. The parquet floor was black with grime and rotting in places, the carved mahogany staircase missing rails, covered with dingy carpeting. Damn shame it wasn’t being kept up. He should offer to come out here some weekend, strip the wood and refinish it. He’d done enough construction in his day to be pretty good at it. Not like he had anything better to do with his time. But who knew? Who knew if him and Randall would even be talking after this.

He heard a door open somewhere above his head and sprinted up the three flights. When he got to the third-floor landing, Betty Walker stood waiting with the door open, her face haggard. It shocked him to see how she’d aged in the past few years. She used to be a good-looking woman. Sharp dresser, hair always done. Now she looked like she never made it out of the old bathrobe she wore.

“How you doing, Betty?”

“Thank the Lord you’re here.” She spoke urgently, in a low voice. “Whatever’s wrong, it’s beyond me to help. Maybe you can talk sense to him.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I have no idea. But he been up drinking all night, and he’s talking all crazy now. Like he might hurt himself.”

“Where is he?”

“In the second bedroom. Used to be Darnell’s room. Straight to the back.”

She held the door open and stepped aside for him to pass. The apartment was laid out front to back like a railroad flat. He entered directly into the kitchen, which boasted gray metal 1950s cabinets and a Formica table that was new back when cars had fins. You could get good money for this shit these days-he should tell Randall that. He continued on through the small living room, which consisted of two plastic-covered recliners facing a large-screen TV, and made his way back to the bedrooms. Behind the door of the farthest one, he heard a ruckus. Sounded like things getting torn apart.

The door was slightly ajar, so he pushed it in. Randall had just ripped a drawer from the dresser and turned it upside down, spilling its contents across the narrow twin bed that occupied one wall, beneath an enormous poster of Tupac Shakur burying his face in be-ringed hands. Randall rummaged frantically through clothing and other objects, oblivious to Dan’s entrance.

Dan stood dumb. He’d come all this way, and he couldn’t think of a word to say.

Randall seemed to have found what he was looking for-a packet of papers in a manila envelope. He sat down on the bed to review them and spotted Dan.

“What the fuck-”

Randall jumped up, and only then did Dan realize he was drunk. Dan had seen Randall drunk only once before-in this house, in fact, at the service for his son. Randall was no drinker. Dan always ragged him about that, about how his own partner was the only cop in the whole PD who wouldn’t lift a pint with him on a Friday night. Now, as he saw Randall’s clothes disheveled and his eyes wild, Dan’s heart sank. Things were as bad as they could be.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Dan said, raising his hands, taking a step toward Randall.

“What the fuck you doing here?”

“Your wife let me in. She’s worried about you.”

“Oh, really? The shoe’s on the other foot for a change,” Randall said bitterly.

“Is this about you and Betty?” Dan asked, confused.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“What’s going on? What’s in the envelope?” Dan asked.

Dan advanced another step, and Randall jerked the envelope around behind his back, as if Dan would try to rip it from his hands.

“I said none of your goddamn business!” he said.

“Hey, come on. We’ve been partners for years. I came here because I know something’s up. I want to help. Whatever it is, whatever you need, I want to help.”

“You wanna help? Go away and leave me alone, then!” Randall shouted, the alcohol from his breath reaching Dan’s nose.

“Randall, you’re gonna have to tell somebody sooner or later. At least me, you can trust to put your interests first.”

“Oh, is that so? The hell I can. I know you better than that,” Randall said, words slurring slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Randall backed away a step, muttering something inaudible.

“What’s that you’re saying? Speak up,” Dan demanded.

“You and your goddamn code!” Randall said.

“What code?”

“I used to have a code, too,” Randall said, his eyes glazed as if he were talking to himself. “Fucking lot of good it did me. You don’t know shit about my life nowadays.”

“Try me. Explain to me. Maybe I’m more understanding than you think.”

Randall thrust the manila envelope at Dan. “You wanna know what’s in here? My life insurance. I’m reading it to see if it got an exemption for suicide. Because if it don’t, I’m thinking I’m gonna eat my gun so Betty can get the money.”

“They all do. Exempt suicide, I mean,” Dan said.

“Even the cop ones?”

“Yeah, sure. Especially the cop ones. Those insurance companies are smart. They’d be paying out left and right.”

Randall looked at Dan for a minute, then started to chortle. He sat down heavily on the bed, laughing uncontrollably until tears streamed down his face.

“Cop ones exempt suicide! Oh, boy, that’s a good one!” Randall screamed, holding his sides. After a moment, though, he stopped, straightened his shoulders, and looked up at Dan, wiping the tears off his face with the back of his hand.

“I know there’s an explanation why you left the hospital,” Dan said soberly. “Tell me, and we’ll take it to the right people. We’ll work it out so it doesn’t affect your pension. I know you’re worried about that.”