Hang on, you know about this already? Rashid said.
Know about it?
Tracy put her hands on her hips. She wouldnt shut up about it. She was obsessed with that shit.
Were talking about Allison Wallis, right? Francis asked, making sure he wasnt just feeding her setup lines.
Yeah, right. Allison. Whatever. The one they had articles about a couple of weeks ago. With the guy who just got out of prison, said he didnt do it.
Francis tried to give Rashid a sidelong look, but he didnt have the range for it.
What was she obsessed about? He began taking notes in longhand, trying to get her exact words.
He could already imagine Debbie A. hammering him for going down this road too soon.
Did you even consider other possibilities, Detective?
Well, as soon as they had the article about it in the newspaper, we were all over it, passing it around, said Tracy. I mean, she was a girl our age, working in an ER with kids. Even if it was twenty years ago, you still think,
mi dios,
that coulda been me. But Christine wouldnt let it go.
Whaddaya mean? asked Francis.
She kept talking about it and talking about it. I saw her cutting out that story in the paper, about whether they were going to let the kid go or try him again. She was like,
Damn,
what if he didnt have nothing to do with it? What if he was in prison for twenty years and he was just like this innocent guy?
Francis heard a tiny pop within his eardrum as he turned to Rashid. The newbie was right there with him, stride for stride.
You have any idea why she was so interested? Francis asked coolly.
No. I was like,
qué pasa,
girlfriend? You going out with that guy or something?
Was she? asked Rashid, anticipating Franciss question.
Nah. She started to bat the idea away and then caught herself. Well, not that I heard of. It was just a thing she was talking about. Far as I know.
She looked toward a doorway with an odd squint, like shed just discovered a new unfamiliar attachment for an old appliance.
What? said Francis.
Its nothing. Were a big-city ER. We got people coming and going all the time, with crazy shit. They crawl across the border from Mexico or get off the plane from Africa, with diseases you never even heard of. Eyes turning green, worms coming out of their butts. Its like
The Exorcist
some days. And then you got the guys from the rehab center around the corner, trying to walk in and steal drugs . . .
So?
So I mean Christine was kind of an easy mark with guys from the neighborhood. Id be like, Girl, cut that shit out. You encouraging those lowlifes to keep after you.
Anything bad come out of it? Rashid asked.
Nah . . . Cept the other day, she asked if Id walk her back to her block. And she kept looking over her shoulder like someone was following her.
She say who that might be? asked Francis, still trying not to jump to any unwarranted conclusions.
No. But this is New York, yo. Lot of freaks out there.
21
BY THE NEXT morning, the media carnival had moved on and Eileen decided that it was safe to go back over to the East Side.
A big black Hefty bag sat in a dented garbage can outside Christines building, a twisted little yellow piece of Crime Scene tape sticking out the top, discarded coffee cups stuffed in with it, probably by the reporters and camera crews whod been there yesterday.
Someone had set up a small memorial by one of the trees. A red votive candle dripped tears of wax by the short black fence meant to keep dogs out. Daffodils, carnations, and roses lay in bunches on the sidewalk, still wrapped in cellophane from the Korean market up the block with the price stickers left on. There was a blurred Polaroid of Christine, from the left, not really her best angle, Eileen thought, showing too much tooth and gum, smiling as she held up one of her patients, a tiny apple-cheeked black girl with a huge IV needle in the back of her hand and bright red devil-dot flashes in her eyes.
To Dr. C., said a childs scrawl on a three-by-five index card next to it. I know your with the angles now. See you soon. Love, Adelina.
Eileen looked around, noticing at least two dozen other snapshots and letters just like it, maybe even a few more than thered been for Allison. There seemed to be almost the same amount of flowers, but then again you couldnt be sure: she was getting here late and there were always a couple of heels in a neighborhood not above stealing them.
Most of the mourners would forget soon enough anyway. Theyd move on to their own little dramas and crises, their diet plans and lottery schemes, their romantic delusions and secret vices. Until finally it would just be a girls mother mourning. Other people would say they understood, would make the appropriate gestures and mouth the right words at the funeral, would probably even come by the house a few times and listen for a while. But then their eyes would start to drift. The warm smiles would come too quickly, the pat on the hand would be a little too insistent, and then would come the darting glance at the clock. And eventually the unspoken question hanging in the air:
Arent you over this yet?
Not because people were impatient or cruel but because they were afraid to get too close. They didnt want to get what you had.
She took a Kleenex out of her pocketbook and dabbed under her sunglasses. Dont let them know. They wouldnt understand. Its none of their concern.
But then she looked at Christine and the girl with the devil-dot eyes, and she went to pieces on the sidewalk, with birds singing in the trees. Children passing her on their way to school tugged at their parents sleeves and asked,
Whats wrong with that lady?
She gasped for air. It wasnt supposed to happen again. History couldnt be repeating. This awful feeling couldnt come twice in one lifetime. It was too much for the mind to take. She wasnt made to survive this. Now she wasnt sure she deserved to.
She became aware of being watched, a pair of eyes boring into her spine. She turned and wiped away the blurring tears, just as a yellow cab cruised past, with a pale red-haired girl staring out the window at her.
22
WITH THE LOSS of peripheral vision, Francis was learning to infer things indirectly. So when he walked into the 19th Precinct that morning, he knew before he even saw them that the victims family had arrived. The other detectives in the squad were moving a little too briskly for this time of day, speaking just a little too courteously on the phone, being just a little too fastidious about their paperwork.
Finally, he spotted two older petrified-looking white folks sitting by Rashids desk.
Detective Loughlin, this is Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, Rashid announced, with pointed formality. They came here straight from La Guardia.
Im sorry for your loss. Francis nodded, surprised to recognize them as the seventyish couple from Christines golf pictures. I have a daughter of my own.
The man, gangly and awkward in a heavy flannel shirt and thick glasses, jumped up like he was greeting a long-lost relative. Roy Rogers. I was on the Job myself. Thirty-three years, Wisconsin highway patrol.
A fraternal handshake and a cowboy star name. As if Francis needed some further incentive to take this case seriously. Hed been working until one in the morning, running back and forth between here and the task force office uptown, coordinating with the half-dozen other detectives involved so far, working the phones, checking in with the ME, combing through Christines address book and hard drive, interviewing as many of her colleagues and patients as they could round up, and trying to ignore the calls from various bosses every hour looking for updates to give the PC. By the time he got home, he was so wired that he couldnt sleep, driving himself and Patti crazy with his tossing and turning. And then, of course, the six A.M. phone call from his old friend Jerry Cronin, now chief of Manhattan detectives, telling him that the homicide had made the front page of the tabloids and word had come down from on high that City Hall would be monitoring the progress of the investigation step-by-step, with the mayor personally getting involved in paying for the parents plane tickets and hotel room in the city.
I guess you didnt expect us to be so old. The father settled back in his seat, a worried glance over at Rashid, telling Francis that these three hadnt been having a warm bonding experience before he got here.
It hadnt occurred to me.
Francis watched the mother chain-smoking by the open window. She had the long drawn-down face of a woman whod spent her whole life waiting to be disappointed. He knew without looking that the manila folder on her lap would be filled with things shed been up all night collectingcrayon drawings from kindergarten, fourth-grade report cards, National Certificates of Merit, Polaroids from high school graduation, letters from college, civic citations, copies of a medical degree, holiday greetingsin short, anything that attested to the fact that this was someone who mattered, damage had been done, there was a hole in the universe.
Francis was moved, as he always was by the parents of dead children, but he also noticed Mrs. Rogers looked nothing like her daughter.
Christine was our miracle baby, the father spoke up, as if he sensed the confusion. We prayed for her. Wed been trying for years, before they had all these fertility drugs and treatments. Wed just about given up hope and then God blessed us and let the adoption agency bend the rules when we were both in our forties.
Our friends used to call us Abraham and Sarah. The wife used the end of one cigarette to light another. And now we have nothing.
Her husband grabbed her arm and squeezed, as if hed just been pierced.
No other children? Francis asked, looking over at Rashid to make sure he was taking notes.
No, theres no one. The wife stubbed out the dead end on the window ledge. Two nieces in California who barely know us. Thats it. Once we go, thats the last of us.
Its a bitter, bitter thing. Roy Rogers shook his head. This morning on the plane, I turned to Ruthie, I said, Honey, I hope once we start to go downhill, we get to the end fast because therell be no one to keep us from wandering into the traffic.
Francis waved away the odor of smoke blowing back into the room, feeling a little touchy about the prospect of walking into traffic himself these days.
Listen, I know how hard this is. . . .
But you need to get moving quickly. The father nodded a bit too vigorously, wanting to cling to the illusion of manly professionalism. Of course.
We pleaded with her not to move here, the mother interrupted. But she just
had
to go looking for trouble.
Im not sure what you mean by that, Francis said.
She was just a girl who loved to mix it up, Roy Rogers explained. Always was that way. She used to love to ride in my cruiser and work the siren when she was little.
He showed Francis a picture of Christine at about eight, a state troopers hat falling over her eyes as she tried to reach the steering wheel.
You encouraged her, Ruth snapped. This was a girl who couldve done
anything.
She was in the finals for the state figure skating championship, for goodness sake. She had a full scholarship at the University of Wisconsin. She couldve been a sports doctor or a pediatrician in Green Bay. But, no, you had to go get her all hopped up about looking for things that shouldve been let be.
Im still not following you here. Francis looked from husband to wife and then back again.
My wife thinks I encouraged her to go looking for her birth mother here. Roy stared glumly at a
Daily News
headline on the next desk. But she always wanted to work in a big-city emergency room. She said, Daddy, every week its like being in the middle of a TV show.
Wait a second. Francis put his hand up. Run that by me again. She came to New York because she was looking for her birth mother?
No, thats not how it was. Roy scowled at his wife. It was just something she kind of got interested in once she came here. Thats just the kind of girl she was. Once she got hold of something, she couldnt let it go.
Francis found himself picturing how the blood dried under the girls fingernails. Im just curious. Who was her mother?
I think she mightve been some kind of student or teacher, something like that. Roy gave his wife an uncertain look. We did the adoption through an agency in Milwaukee that isnt around anymore. Its not like nowadays, where you get to know where the birth mother got her bachelors degree before you decide to go ahead. We were told her name was Phelps, but who knows? Christy looked into it a little once she got here, but I dont know how far she got.
Id like to see any papers or correspondence you still have from that adoption agency. Francis scratched the back of his ear.
Im not sure what wed still have, said the father. Why would you need it anyway?
You never know whats going to turn out to be important.
We
were the only parents she ever knew. The mother gathered the mementos on her lap, as if someone were trying to take them away from her.
I know that, maam. Francis gave her a deferential nod. No ones trying to say otherwise. But I think were all after the same thing here. So we have to look at every angle. Were going to need any letters or e-mails you got from Christine the last few months. The names and phone numbers of any friends you may know about. . . .
