them off her."
"What about socks?"
"No socks."
"Isn't that weird? It's freezing. What kid goes out without socks in this weather?"
"Yeah, I don't know, there were no fucking socks, anyhow. Or maybe the socks are some other place. That's why they're digging all those holes." His voice was flat, affectless.
I threw my half smoked cigarette on the ground and looked down at the black bag again, at the zipper that threw silver sparks in the bright sunlight. Sonny held onto my arm like a dog caught in my sleeve and I followed him away from the van and back towards the site.
A construction guy—someone must have called him in—was using a jackhammer to dig into a piece of still frozen ground. People milled around. Somewhere I heard a flag flap in the wind, that eerie sound a flag makes when it's battered by the wind, and the metal pulleys clank against the pole. I couldn't see it and it bothered me, no flag in sight, only the noise, the whipping of the fabric like wet laundry.
"Art?" Sonny was moving again, back to the ambulance.
I was distracted. I put on my sunglasses.
"Why the bags?" I asked finally.
He shrugged. "I didn't know where to put the clothing," he said. "I didn't want it out in plain sight."
I lit a fresh cigarette for myself.
"What do you need?" I said.
"I need help. I need to follow this. How are you fixed this weekend?"
"Nothing special," I said. "It's a holiday Monday so I took the three days, but I'm OK for whatever you need. Just tell me. You want me to go into the office, whatever; just say."
"I wanted you here because the jogger who found the baseball jacket is a Russki, you know, and her English isn't great. She's over there." He gestured to one of the police cars. A woman in sweatpants leaned against the hood of Lippert's car, head down, her hands over her face.
"You want me to talk to her?"
"Yeah, talk to the jogger, man, and go home and wait. I want you by the phone where I can get you."
"I have my cell."
"I want you by your regular phone. I don't want people listening in, the cell's like a megaphone, any fucker can clone it, you know? I don't want some rookie dickhead at the station house out here either fucking it up. They're obsessed now, make a collar, get a case. I want you by the phone, twenty-four seven, you understand? So talk to the Russian. I'll put it around I want you on the case because of your language skills. I'll make that the deal."
I was surprised. "But it's not?"
He shrugged.
"You'll have a dozen people working this," I said. "Including a detective I saw from the local house who probably speaks some Russian. So why am I really here?"
"I trust you."
"I don't understand, you mean there's cops involved, you think there's other guys in this?"
"I just want someone I trust in a clean space. It's just a feeling," he added. "I'll say it's because of you speaking Russian, OK?" He repeated himself for the second time: "Like the old days, man? I'll say I need you because you speak Russian, that you know the community, OK, man? Which is true, right? More or less."
I nodded.
"Evidence like this, a little girl dead someplace, no one knows anything, no one even knows who the fuck she is, when the body turns up, we'll get blamed. They'll say we didn't work fast enough. We didn't care about it because it was out here, out in Brooklyn, by the water, in certain communities where there's only immigrants, you know? The shit will rain down on us, you know that. Media shit. Everyone just waiting to stoke the fear," he said. "And there's nothing you can do about it, you say, remember the snipers, you say, remember the other kidnappings, you remember, and you beg them, we beg the fuckers give us a little space to deal with this and their lawyers scream First Amendment. Christ, I'm sick of the fucking Constitution."
He reached out again as if to take my hand, a gesture I'd never seen him make; all he did was grab the sleeve of my jacket.
He said, "I'm scared, man. I'm scared about
"What about socks?"
"No socks."
"Isn't that weird? It's freezing. What kid goes out without socks in this weather?"
"Yeah, I don't know, there were no fucking socks, anyhow. Or maybe the socks are some other place. That's why they're digging all those holes." His voice was flat, affectless.
I threw my half smoked cigarette on the ground and looked down at the black bag again, at the zipper that threw silver sparks in the bright sunlight. Sonny held onto my arm like a dog caught in my sleeve and I followed him away from the van and back towards the site.
A construction guy—someone must have called him in—was using a jackhammer to dig into a piece of still frozen ground. People milled around. Somewhere I heard a flag flap in the wind, that eerie sound a flag makes when it's battered by the wind, and the metal pulleys clank against the pole. I couldn't see it and it bothered me, no flag in sight, only the noise, the whipping of the fabric like wet laundry.
"Art?" Sonny was moving again, back to the ambulance.
I was distracted. I put on my sunglasses.
"Why the bags?" I asked finally.
He shrugged. "I didn't know where to put the clothing," he said. "I didn't want it out in plain sight."
I lit a fresh cigarette for myself.
"What do you need?" I said.
"I need help. I need to follow this. How are you fixed this weekend?"
"Nothing special," I said. "It's a holiday Monday so I took the three days, but I'm OK for whatever you need. Just tell me. You want me to go into the office, whatever; just say."
"I wanted you here because the jogger who found the baseball jacket is a Russki, you know, and her English isn't great. She's over there." He gestured to one of the police cars. A woman in sweatpants leaned against the hood of Lippert's car, head down, her hands over her face.
"You want me to talk to her?"
"Yeah, talk to the jogger, man, and go home and wait. I want you by the phone where I can get you."
"I have my cell."
"I want you by your regular phone. I don't want people listening in, the cell's like a megaphone, any fucker can clone it, you know? I don't want some rookie dickhead at the station house out here either fucking it up. They're obsessed now, make a collar, get a case. I want you by the phone, twenty-four seven, you understand? So talk to the Russian. I'll put it around I want you on the case because of your language skills. I'll make that the deal."
I was surprised. "But it's not?"
He shrugged.
"You'll have a dozen people working this," I said. "Including a detective I saw from the local house who probably speaks some Russian. So why am I really here?"
"I trust you."
"I don't understand, you mean there's cops involved, you think there's other guys in this?"
"I just want someone I trust in a clean space. It's just a feeling," he added. "I'll say it's because of you speaking Russian, OK?" He repeated himself for the second time: "Like the old days, man? I'll say I need you because you speak Russian, that you know the community, OK, man? Which is true, right? More or less."
I nodded.
"Evidence like this, a little girl dead someplace, no one knows anything, no one even knows who the fuck she is, when the body turns up, we'll get blamed. They'll say we didn't work fast enough. We didn't care about it because it was out here, out in Brooklyn, by the water, in certain communities where there's only immigrants, you know? The shit will rain down on us, you know that. Media shit. Everyone just waiting to stoke the fear," he said. "And there's nothing you can do about it, you say, remember the snipers, you say, remember the other kidnappings, you remember, and you beg them, we beg the fuckers give us a little space to deal with this and their lawyers scream First Amendment. Christ, I'm sick of the fucking Constitution."
He reached out again as if to take my hand, a gesture I'd never seen him make; all he did was grab the sleeve of my jacket.
He said, "I'm scared, man. I'm scared about
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