Read Online Visitation Street by Ivy Pochoda - Free Book Online Page B

again.
    “I know the girl,” Jonathan says, before the detectives have a chance to sit down. “Is she okay?”
    One of the detectives drops a manila folder onto the table. He’s heavyset. He wears a tan suit. There are threads dangling from Detective Coover’s green-and-blue-striped tie. His partner, Hughes, is younger and wears a navy suit that’s a little too sharp for the station. He leans against the window and crosses his arms as if he has somewhere better to be.
    “You teach either of them?” Coover says.
    “No. They never signed up for my class.”
    “You see either girl last night?”
    “I was in the bar last night. I made a scene. Ask any of the regulars. Then I went to bed. The bartender will tell you.” Jonathan looks at the clock.
    “You got into a fight last night?” Hughes says. Jonathan suspects that he’s recently been promoted. His inflection rises at the tail of his sentences, leaning greedily toward the next conclusion.
    Jonathan shakes his head. “I sang a show tune. Too loud.”
    Hughes glances at his partner but doesn’t catch his eye. “A show tune. Jesus.”
    “Let’s go back to the pier.” Coover opens a notepad.
    “I was taking a walk. I found the girl, Valerie.” Jonathan massages his temple. “She was cold. I don’t know how long she’d been there.”
    “Do you have any idea how she got the cut on the back of her head?” Coover asks.
    “No.”
    “Did you see a weapon?”
    “I wasn’t looking for one.”
    “But did you see one?”
    “No.”
    “She’ll be fine. But she’s got one hell of a cut. Someone or something banged her up.” Coover scratches behind his ear. “Any sign of the other girl?”
    “No.”
    “Did you see anyone else down there?”
    “No.”
    “No one on the pier? No kids from the Houses?”
    “No one.” Jonathan rubs his head. “Yes, maybe someone. I’m not sure from the Houses or not. But he was black, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “That’s what he’s asking,” Hughes says.
    “How old?” Coover says.
    “I don’t know. Eighteen. Twenty-one. I’m not an expert.”
    “What was he doing?”
    “Nothing. Walking. I didn’t get a good look.”
    “Walking. Just walking?”
    “Yeah. Walking.”
    “Can we show you some photos?”
    Hughes pokes his head out of the room and signals for an officer, who brings him a binder. The detectives place the book on the table in front of Jonathan. They flip through the laminate pages of mug shots—black kids in their late teens with sullen, wary expressions.
    Hughes’s breathing is heavy, each breath tense and expectant. He makes a small clicking noise each time Jonathan turns the page without making an ID. The photographs with their numbers and fine print make Jonathan queasy. Hughes’s musky cologne just about finishes him off. He looks toward the window, trying to take comfort in the air and light outside.
    “Concentrate,” Hughes says, tapping the book. Jonathan notices that his nails are manicured.
    But Jonathan can only think of Valerie—her chilled, drained body, the band of blood at the base of her skull. He remembers how she hung limp in his arms, the piano beat of her heart, the rasp of her breath. He feels no connection to the other girl, only to the one he found.
    Jonathan tries to focus on the book, but he’s got nothing for the detectives. If they show him the same mug shots ten minutes from now, he wouldn’t be able to say for sure that he’d seen the faces before. Hughes shuts the book and leaves the room.
    He’s back in a few minutes. “Your bartender friend wasn’t too happy we woke her up, but she confirmed your story,” Hughes says. “Lucky for you.”
    After Jonathan signs a statement, he is allowed to leave.
    When he gets back to Red Hook, the Dockyard is almost empty. The bartender is the English guy with a manicured Ahab beard and horn-rimmed glasses who spends his shift doing crossword puzzles in all three major papers.
    An old-timer sits in the