where he was going and what he was going to do.
She couldn’t really see what he looked like in the dim hall light. She didn’t recognize him, but it didn’t surprise her when he addressed her by name. She wore an identifying name tag just above her detective’s shield. She was a little surprised when he took a plastic credit card from his wallet and used it to open the locked door that led to the hall. He saw her surprise and he shrugged.
“Look,” he said. “There’s a lady in there who’s going to need you. All you gotta do for now is be there, okay?”
He stepped back and let her enter first; his hand on her shoulder directed her to apartment 1-A. He took a deep breath, then rang the bell. It set off a long, soft chiming sound.
There was silence after the sound stopped, and then there was a long, low moaning sound: a wounded-animal sound. Miranda Torres looked at Stein in alarm, but he was watching the door intently.
“Come on, Mrs. Hynes,” he said softly. “Open up.”
They heard chains fall away and locks being undone, and the door opened onto a long dim hallway. The woman stood there, arms dangling at her sides, large black-lensed glasses set into her bandaged face.
Mike Stein called her name again.
The woman shook her head, and her voice was a whispery, painful sound and she said, pleading, “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t come here to tell me this. Please. Please no!”
She reached out and grabbed at Miranda Torres’ arms and said in a terrible whisper, “I thought it was the Spanish girl!”
2
B ILL GRACE STARED AT the two uniformed policemen standing in his doorway.
“Yeah, I’m Bill Grace, Officer, what’s up?”
“Listen, Mr. Grace, can we come inside? It’s real hot out here.”
“Sure, gee, sure. C’mon in, I got the air conditioner up high. Want a brew or something?”
When they both declined, Bill Grace extended his hand, indicated the couch. He tried very hard not to let them speak. Whatever they had come to tell him he did not want to hear. He realized that he was doing all the talking, his voice pitched soft and low, his words tumbling over each other, as though he were creating a screen around himself, to protect him from whatever they wanted to tell him.
“I work for the city, too. Fire Department. I’m a fire fighter. We used to call ourselves firemen, but you can’t do that anymore. Not with women’s lib and equal opportunity and all that.”
He stopped speaking abruptly. His mouth went dry; he couldn’t swallow. He could feel his heart accelerate. He saw the younger cop glance at the older cop.
He had been in this situation God alone knew how many times. Bringer of bad news: Mr. Jones, I’m sorry, but your wife didn’t make it. Asphyxiation. If it’s any consolation, she went very fast, like falling asleep. But the kids, Mr. Jones—Jesus, that was a tough one. Incinerated. Burned up. How did you soften that one? Whatever these guys were selling, he did not want to buy. No way.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grace, but there’s been a terrible accident.”
The young cop, his first experience in this kind of situation, caught on: You start out slow and easy. An accident; they’ll find out the details soon enough.
“Your wife, Anna, Mr. Grace. She’s dead and we need you to come and identify her body. She’s in Forest Hills.”
The fire fighter shook his head and let his breath out with relief. It was a mistake. Jesus, what a mistake!
“Look, my wife is a nurse. She’s on duty at St. John’s Hospital in Elmhurst right now, late shift. Hell, I’ll show you.”
He reached for the phone, dialed and began to speak.
“Yeah, hi, Miss Parson. Bill Grace. Okay. Listen, can I speak to Annie for a minute? Something’s come up.”
He knew she wouldn’t be there. But he had to try to make things right. He knew guys like these didn’t make that kind of mistake any more than he did.
Speaking very carefully, he asked, “Well, what time did she leave?”
He caught
She couldn’t really see what he looked like in the dim hall light. She didn’t recognize him, but it didn’t surprise her when he addressed her by name. She wore an identifying name tag just above her detective’s shield. She was a little surprised when he took a plastic credit card from his wallet and used it to open the locked door that led to the hall. He saw her surprise and he shrugged.
“Look,” he said. “There’s a lady in there who’s going to need you. All you gotta do for now is be there, okay?”
He stepped back and let her enter first; his hand on her shoulder directed her to apartment 1-A. He took a deep breath, then rang the bell. It set off a long, soft chiming sound.
There was silence after the sound stopped, and then there was a long, low moaning sound: a wounded-animal sound. Miranda Torres looked at Stein in alarm, but he was watching the door intently.
“Come on, Mrs. Hynes,” he said softly. “Open up.”
They heard chains fall away and locks being undone, and the door opened onto a long dim hallway. The woman stood there, arms dangling at her sides, large black-lensed glasses set into her bandaged face.
Mike Stein called her name again.
The woman shook her head, and her voice was a whispery, painful sound and she said, pleading, “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t come here to tell me this. Please. Please no!”
She reached out and grabbed at Miranda Torres’ arms and said in a terrible whisper, “I thought it was the Spanish girl!”
2
B ILL GRACE STARED AT the two uniformed policemen standing in his doorway.
“Yeah, I’m Bill Grace, Officer, what’s up?”
“Listen, Mr. Grace, can we come inside? It’s real hot out here.”
“Sure, gee, sure. C’mon in, I got the air conditioner up high. Want a brew or something?”
When they both declined, Bill Grace extended his hand, indicated the couch. He tried very hard not to let them speak. Whatever they had come to tell him he did not want to hear. He realized that he was doing all the talking, his voice pitched soft and low, his words tumbling over each other, as though he were creating a screen around himself, to protect him from whatever they wanted to tell him.
“I work for the city, too. Fire Department. I’m a fire fighter. We used to call ourselves firemen, but you can’t do that anymore. Not with women’s lib and equal opportunity and all that.”
He stopped speaking abruptly. His mouth went dry; he couldn’t swallow. He could feel his heart accelerate. He saw the younger cop glance at the older cop.
He had been in this situation God alone knew how many times. Bringer of bad news: Mr. Jones, I’m sorry, but your wife didn’t make it. Asphyxiation. If it’s any consolation, she went very fast, like falling asleep. But the kids, Mr. Jones—Jesus, that was a tough one. Incinerated. Burned up. How did you soften that one? Whatever these guys were selling, he did not want to buy. No way.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grace, but there’s been a terrible accident.”
The young cop, his first experience in this kind of situation, caught on: You start out slow and easy. An accident; they’ll find out the details soon enough.
“Your wife, Anna, Mr. Grace. She’s dead and we need you to come and identify her body. She’s in Forest Hills.”
The fire fighter shook his head and let his breath out with relief. It was a mistake. Jesus, what a mistake!
“Look, my wife is a nurse. She’s on duty at St. John’s Hospital in Elmhurst right now, late shift. Hell, I’ll show you.”
He reached for the phone, dialed and began to speak.
“Yeah, hi, Miss Parson. Bill Grace. Okay. Listen, can I speak to Annie for a minute? Something’s come up.”
He knew she wouldn’t be there. But he had to try to make things right. He knew guys like these didn’t make that kind of mistake any more than he did.
Speaking very carefully, he asked, “Well, what time did she leave?”
He caught
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