Too Quiet in Brooklyn by Susan Russo Anderson Page A

my prayer for Barbara and for Charlie.
    The trip to the morgue had worn her out, Barbara told me, a big hint for me not to visit. “At first she didn’t even look like my mother. I thought it was a grotesque joke that someone was playing. I still can’t understand it. When I woke up this evening, I thought I’d been dreaming. I felt it all over again, like I was hearing the news for the first time.”
    I knew what she meant. I wished I could see her face as she talked to me, but I could tell by her voice the loss and the pain were getting to her. I could almost hear the tears sizzling through the phone lines.
    “Is your friend with you?”
    She hesitated just a second too long, but told me he’d arrived and was a comfort and she’d just gotten up, somehow managing to sleep for a few hours. I’ll bet.
    “Although what he sees in me now, I don’t know. One minute I’m here, the next I’m not. One minute I’m yelling at him and telling him to get out, the next I’m crying and telling him how much I need him. I’d like to punch him in the groin, I love him so much. I’m not in control, a bitch.”
    I laughed, relieved. It was what I needed to hear from Barbara. “Sounds like grief to me.” I asked her if they were going to release the body and she said they had. She’d called the minister and the viewing and funeral were early next week. She needed to call distant cousins, but the church was taking care of everything and one of her mother’s friends was planning the service, even helping her write the obituary.
    “One thing I forgot to ask, the name and address of your ex.”
    Silence on the other end of the line.
    “Why do you need to know?” she asked.
    “I need to talk to everyone who’s close to Charlie.”
    “But he could care less about Charlie. And he’d never have taken him. In his way, he loved him, I guess. He’s got visitation rights but never uses them. Hasn’t seen his son for over a year.”
    “Still, I need to contact him. Does he send alimony?”
    “No, but so far I haven’t needed his money. I just want out of the relationship. Frank has a drug problem. Never could hold down a job. Has one get-rich-quick scheme after another. I’m sick of writing him checks.”
    “Is that Frank or Franklin?”
    “Just Frank. That’s all I ever called him.”
    “What’s Frank’s last name?
    “Alvarez.”
    “Middle name?”
    “Thomas.”
    “Does he have a fourth name?”
    “Huh?”
    Getting information out of her was like pulling threads off a vacuum brush. “Do you have an address and phone number, maybe the name of his employer or his work number?”
    “I’ve no idea where he is, but I’ll look around. I might have it in the divorce papers. I’ll text you whatever I find out after we get off the phone.”
    When I asked for them, she gave me their marriage and divorce dates, Frank’s social, his birthdate, his mobile number and carrier.
    I hung up with Barbara after telling her I’d get in touch as soon as I had any new information.

    * * *

    There was a lot of speculation going through my head as to why Charlie was abducted, a lot that I didn’t feel was necessary to share with Barbara, and images I couldn’t get out of my mind, none of them pretty. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to talk to the ex. But before I searched the internet, I thought I’d take a ride and cruise Barbara’s neighborhood. Might save some time, and lots of time I didn’t have. I hoped I’d get lucky, somebody walking a dog or taking out the garbage may have known Frank Alvarez and kept in touch.
    While I walked to the car, I phoned my contact at the morgue. We became friends after Mom died. He was one of the guys who sat at the front desk logging in visitors. I don’t know how he stands the smell of cheap cleaner not quite masking the odor of death, but he told me once it wasn’t so bad, “Smells like the swimming pool at a hundred and thirty-fourth after a bunch of us been pissing