Last year, I held up in a South Philadelphia hostel for the better part of a month before making the drive to Pittsburgh on August 8. Detective Fogel wasn’t in the cemetery. Neither was Stella, for that matter. I sat upon our bench until a little after midnight, then I drove back to Philly. I had been attempting to find Cammie Brotherton—she stayed at this same hostel for the summer of 1978, twenty years before me, after dropping out of Penn State. Remarkably, the manager remembered her but had no idea where she went next.
1997 was also the year I turned twenty-one, and the bartender at the Irish Rooster two doors down from the hostel was quick with refills of Guinness and kind enough to throw in a few extra shots with those I bought. I nearly stayed when the television above the bar ran the story about a man’s body found burned in New Hampshire. I even ordered another beer. When I went to pay for it, Stella’s letter fell from my pocket, and I changed my mind. I said I’d be back, but on the way out the door, I saw a white trench coat hanging on the coatrack.
I had not gone back.
In those years, I often dreamt of Stella. A longing to hold the one thing I never could.
“Move, kid. Don’t make me arrest you.”
The Bryant Park police was still staring down at me, and I scrambled to my feet before he could kick me again. An empty bottle of Jameson dropped from my coat and thudded down into the grass. Before he could say something, I bent, picked it up, and shuffled over to the nearest trash can. My legs were wobbly, and I was a little light-headed. I hadn’t eaten anything since since breakfast yesterday, and that had only been a greasy egg McMuffin.
“I want you out of my park.”
“Your park?” Phlegm caught in my throat, and I damn near choked on it before spitting it out and on the sidewalk about an inch from his shoe. I didn’t mean for it to land there. I was still groggy, and my aim was off.
He unclipped the leather case on his belt holding his handcuffs.
I took a step back and raised both hands.
“Out ofmypark.”
A woman and her daughter both stared at me. The little girl clenched her mom’s hand so tightly both their fingers were white.
I sniffled and ran my sleeve over my nose, then started down the sidewalk away from all of them. The New York Public Library loomed ahead of me.
Aside from learning about her stay at the hostel in Philly, I had zero luck tracking down anything on Cammie Brotherton and shelved her for now. I couldn’t find anything on Jaquelyn Breece either, so about a week ago I decided to focus on the next name on my list, Jeffery Dalton. I decided to start that search in New York for two reasons—the crowds and the libraries. I could easily disappear among the millions in the city, and the New York public libraries contained the largest collections of national newspapers in the country. I first found Lester Woolford here, Penelope Maudlin, too.
There was a public bathroom on the corner of the library facing West 40th Street. I ducked inside and slid the metal garbage can against the back of the door to get a little privacy, then I stripped out of the flannel shirt and jeans I’d worn for the better part of a week and went to the sink to wash up and brush my teeth. I didn’t look at my reflection because I knew it would remind me of the Phillips 66 gas station at exit 63 off I-79 I stopped at after digging up my father’s grave, after watching Ms. Leech die, and that image of her spent far too much time in my head as is. Ms. Leech, Andy Olin Flack, and Raymond Visconti jockeyed for the chance to sing me to sleep every night. Lately, a few of the people circled in my father’s yearbook vied for that opportunity, too.
None of the clothes in my backpack were clean, but I did find a sweatshirt I’d only worn a couple of times since my last laundromat visit, along with a pair of jeans that didn’t smell. I found fresh underwear and one last pair of clean socks. I was grateful for that.
When I deemed myself presentable, I shoved the rest of my belongings back into my backpack and counted the cash in my pocket—two dollars and sixty-four cents. That would not do.
Back outside, I crossed the street to the Wells Fargo Bank, fished out my ATM card, and shoved it into the machine. After selecting English, the display prompted me to enter my four-digit security code. I keyed that in and waited for the withdrawal button to come up. Instead, I received a message I had not seen before:
Please see a customer service representative inside.
A moment later, the screen went back to:
Welcome to Wells Fargo. Please make a selection.
The machine did not return my ATM card. I pressed the Cancel button a few times and nothing happened. I slammed my fist down on the Cancel button and got nothing.
“Fuck.”
Someone coughed behind me. I turned and realized there were three other people in line. “I think it’s broken,” I said, walking past them and through the revolving door into the bank. At the counter, I was told my account had been frozen.
“Frozen how?”
The teller studied her computer screen, hit a couple of keys, and frowned. “You didn’t report fraudulent activity?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“According to the notes on the account, the account holder reported fraudulent activity the day before yesterday and requested a replacement debit card. That wasn’t you?”
Matteo.
The teller at the next window gave her a sideways glance, then looked over at the security guard sitting on a stool near the door.
