The James Deans

pointed at Sarah. “Look at her sleeping there. Bad things happen to lots of people’s little boys and girls. Most of the time, they’re strangers to you. Sometimes you might know the family. Sometimes, God help us, it’s your own kid.”

He shifted in his seat, preparing to leave. My mind was racing. This might be the last chance I would have to talk to the man, and not only hadn’t I learned much, but I’d already run out of questions.

“John,” I blurted out, “what was the last thing you talked about? When did you talk to her last?”

He hesitated, thinking back. “We talked that Monday,” he answered in a rough, distracted whisper. “The Monday before Thanksgiving. She called me.”

“What about?”

“She wanted to know what to bring to her aunt Millie’s for Thanksgiving.”

“Was there something else, another question maybe? What did you guys talk about after you talked about Aunt Millie’s?”

“Yeah, Moira asked me something. She wanted to know about the statute of limitations.”

“What?”

“Don’t get excited, Prager. It was no big deal,” Heaton assured me. “Moira did that sometimes, asked me law shit when she couldn’t get hold of a legal aid lawyer. She probably had some woman at her desk wondering if her kid stole a car ten years ago, could he go to the slammer for it now. It was always about some poor woman or some homeless guy who needed help.”

I perked up anyway. “What exactly did she ask you? Try to remember.”

“She asked if the statute of limitations was different from state to state and if there were any crimes that it didn’t apply to.”

“And what’d you tell her?”

“That as far as I knew, it was different from state to state and that I didn’t think there was a time limit in any state on homicide, but that I couldn’t be sure. I told her she should check with a lawyer.”

“Did she?”

He was suddenly agitated. “Did she what?”

“See a lawyer?”

“How the fuck should I know? I told you, it was the last time we talked,” he barked, the two beers fueling his anger. “You fuckin’ stupid or what? Waste a my fuckin’ time, this crap. I don’t even like the damned Mets.”

He was gone before I could explain about my enthusiasm getting ahead of me. Not that he was in any mood to understand. Of course he couldn’t have known if Moira consulted a lawyer. Finally, I had something to hang my hat on. It wasn’t much. And like Heaton had said, probably nothing more than an innocent question. It was, however, a place to start.

Shit! I could have kicked myself. There was something I’d neglected to ask him: Had he shared the details of this last conversation with the cops? I looked after Heaton, but he was long gone. I made a mental note to call Detective Gloria as soon as Sarah and I got back home. And the Mets were trying their level best to ensure that Sarah and I got an early start to the exits.

They had batted around, tacking four runs onto their lead, and there were still runners on second and third with only one out.

I scooped Sarah up, cradling her in my arms, her sleepy head on my shoulder. Damp wisps of red hair spilled out from beneath her cockeyed Mets cap. She barely stirred as I carried her along the sloping ramps that led down from the mezzanine and out to the subway. Several roars erupted as we made our way. No doubt more runs for the boys in white, royal blue, and orange. Sarah’s first game would be a win, but she wouldn’t remember the victory. That would be my job, to remember it for her.

On the subway ride from Flushing, I found myself staring across at the front page of the Post. There was a big picture of a man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had shoulder-length, scraggly hair, a cruel smile, and dead black eyes. The kind of face nightmares are made of. I was glad Sarah was still sleeping. Whenever I looked away, I found my gaze drifting back. There was something about those eyes gazing back at me, beyond me, through me, all the way to hell. Above his photo, the headline read:

IVAN THE TERRIBLE SAYS:

“CATHERINE WAS GREAT”

So this was the animal I’d heard about on the radio yesterday. I could only imagine what the headline was referring to. I didn’t have to imagine for long. A few stops along the line, the gentleman who’d been reading the paper stood up to exit the number 7, leaving the paper in his seat.

“Do you mind if I have a look?” I asked.

Seeing that Sarah had her head resting against my leg, the man retrieved his Post and handed it to me. “To be a kid again, huh?” he said wistfully. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

He gave me the thumbs-up. “Let’s go Mets.”

There was another picture of Ivan the Terrible on page 3. His hair was shorter. He was dressed in a suit. His eyes were still dead.

The story went on to explain the front-page headline. Ivan Alfonseca was alleged to have stalked, raped, beaten, and robbed at least twelve women in Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx over the past two and a half years. While at Rikers awaiting trial, Ivan, already having been convicted of three counts in the Bronx, had shared the gory details of his alleged escapades with cellmates. It hadn’t taken long for some of these to filter into the press.

Catherine Thigpen, one of his last victims, had been courageous in fighting him off and in identifying herself in the press. She had already been victimized by him once, she said, and wasn’t about to let him force her into a life of silent shame. Hearing that she had come forward and was anxious to testify against him at trial, Alfonseca had bragged to his fellow Rikers inmates. Hence the headline. Cops are seldom ambivalent about the death penalty, and the Ivan Alfonsecas of the world are why.

I could feel my grip getting tight on the edges of the paper. He had gotten to me. The little piece of crap was a natural victimizer. I’d run into his type before. They were like human tornadoes, incapable of doing anything except leaving damage and destruction in their wake. I folded the paper up and slid it down the long plastic bench as far away from Sarah as I could.

I felt that dull ache again, that queasiness from the night before, but I couldn’t hang it on Ivan the Terrible. No, I had to focus. I had to call Detective Gloria about Moira’s last conversation with her father. I had to stay on point.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Sarah mumbled, her eyes fighting to stay open.

“Nothing, kiddo,” I lied. “How’d you like the game?”

“It was hot.”

“It was too hot. I’m sorry about that. Next time we’ll go to a night game when the sun isn’t out, okay?”

“Okay.” She sat up and straightened her cap. “Did we win?”

“We did.” I was guessing, but she didn’t have to know that.

“I’m firsty.”

“Me, too, kiddo. When we change trains in Manhattan, we’ll get vanilla egg creams.”

She squeezed the life out of my arm and kissed me on the cheek. Her love was almost enough to make me forget the evil in the world. Almost.

Detective Gloria was gone for the day. Though I left a detailed message, I wasn’t going to rely on his receiving it. I was determined to call him every hour on the hour from the start of his next shift until we spoke. I tried not to get too excited about the statute-of-limitations conversation between Moira and her father. I wasn’t succeeding. It just seemed like such an odd question. There had to be an extraordinary reason why it’d come up. I knew I was blowing this way out of proportion, but a man lost in the desert celebrates even a thimbleful of water.

My edginess hadn’t escaped Katy’s notice. I’d hardly eaten any dinner, and now, having put Sarah to bed, I couldn’t sit still. Katy poured me a few fingers of scotch without my asking.