“I thought so too. How much do I owe you?”
“You gave me twenty last time. I owe you.”
“Then we’re even. Thanks.”
Mrs. Epstein was a heavyset woman with gray hair, and she kept brushing a strand away from her eyes. “She’s a beautiful child. You should spend more time with her.”
“I’d like to.”
He walked Mrs. Epstein to the outer hall.
“I hope it wasn’t too lousy, whatever you had to do today.”
“Not too lousy.” He watched her let herself into her apartment. He waited for the click of her door, then came back into the living-room. He tossed his manila envelope onto the table and snapped off the TV.
His gaze traveled across the convertible sofa with its hand-knitted blue woollen afghan, the lamps with plastic protecting the shades, the white spinet piano with Terri’s finger exercises open on the rack, the goldfish tank, the framed oil painting of a valley near Lourdes where he’d been on his honeymoon. It wasn’t the greatest room on earth, it would never win prizes for interior decoration, but every object spoke to him. He was comfortable here, the world couldn’t batter down the door.
He felt too wired to go to sleep. He picked up Mrs. Epstein’s paper and put his stocking feet up on the sofa. He turned to the sports page.
“Hi, Pop.” Terri stood in her nightgown rubbing her eyes. “What’s that?” She pointed at the envelope on the table.
“Pictures.”
“Can I see?”
He hesitated, feeling the same instinct he had in the morgue, the instinct to keep his daughter and his corpses in two separate compartments of his life. “You don’t want to see.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he.” Terri had opened the manila envelope and was sitting in lotus position on the rug staring at the glossy of John Doe’s face.
“Honey, I told you not to open that.”
“What you said was, ‘You don’t want to see.’”
“I meant don’t open it.”
“You should say what you mean.”
“You’re going to make a very obnoxious lawyer some day, you know that?”
She looked up at him, eyes serious. “Who was he?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
She rotated the glossy ninety degrees. “He was gay, right?”
Cardozo was interested. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, because he’s good-looking.”
“Come on. There are plenty of good-looking straight men and plenty of ugly gays too.”
“Yeah, you’re good-looking and you’re straight, but this kind of fuck-you good looks—”
“Hey, mind your language.”
“Sorry. But he wears his looks like a prom queen. I-know-you-want-me-and-you-can’t-have-me. You can tell he spent two hours a day taking care of that skin and hair.”
Did they teach her this stuff in school, he wondered? Somehow he didn’t think the sisters and the lay teachers at Saint Agnes would be capable of it. “You can tell that, can you?”
“Sure. Did he dye his hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he a model?”
“A model?” Cardozo reflected on the possibility. “I don’t know that either. I’ll have to look into it.”
Cardozo arrived at Doctors Hospital a little after seven in the morning. His shield got him past the guard and he found Babe Devens’s room.
“Mrs. Devens?”
The woman sitting in the cranked-up hospital bed gazed at him with extraordinarily large blue eyes. “Yes?”
He’d never met her, but she was no stranger to him. He’d studied her life, her friends, her habits. He’d stared at that sleeping face and wondered what she’d look like awake. What her voice would sound like. Now he knew. With her pale blond hair and her clear pale skin, she hadn’t aged a day in seven years. It was as though she’d been in deep storage.
“May I come in for a moment?” He didn’t wait for permission. “Lieutenant Vince Cardozo, twenty-second precinct, homicide. I worked on your case.”
He showed her the gold shield. There was a pause. He could feel her hanging back with that word homicide, staring thoughtfully at his face.
He pulled a chair over to the bed. The air in the room was fragrant with the scent of bougainvillea. A vase of bloodred blossoms sat on the dresser.
“I know this isn’t the best time for you,” he said, “but we’d like to close the case as quickly as possible. We thought, with your recovery, you might have something to add to our understanding.”
She wasn’t saying anything and neither were her eyes.
“I realize this isn’t pleasant for you, and I apologize, but I have to ask what knowledge, what recollections you have. Specifically, do you recall the attempt on your life?”
“Mr. Cardozo, would you kindly tell me what in the world you’re talking about?”
He looked at her. Her face was intelligent, alert.
His heart stumbled. He realized she didn’t know. Suddenly he knew he’d been set up.
He rose and went to the window. Head raised, shoulders back, he stood looking out at the jagged line of buildings high in the morning light.
He rethought his strategy. As a cop he had certain skills: how to bullshit, how to observe, how to turn on a sort of street charm. It wasn’t the kind of charm Babe Devens was used to, but he could manage the occasional three-syllable word and at least not have to duck if four syllables came zinging back at him.
He circled around to the chest of drawers and picked up the silver framed photograph. “Is this your little girl? Cornelia?”
She was watching him. “Cordelia.”
“Cordelia. Right. You meet so many people you get names mixed up.”
“You’ve met Cordelia?”
“Talked to her. Beautiful little child. A lot of poise. I have a girl around the same age—twelve.”
“Cordelia’s not twelve anymore.”
“No, I guess not.” He angled the silver frame. “Beautiful garden. Where was this picture taken?”
“My husband and I have—we had a home in East Hampton.”
“You don’t have it anymore?”
Her eyes met his. “I’ve been told I don’t have a husband anymore.”
“Mrs. Devens—I have a feeling you’re beginning to figure out why I’m here.”
“You think he tried to kill me.”
“We think you might remember.”
“I don’t remember anyone’s trying to murder me.”
“Memory’s tricky. Especially when you’ve been unconscious for a time.”
She studied him, stretching out the slightly uncomfortable silence. A questioning look was in her eyes.
“Was it you who investigated?”
“I didn’t head up the investigation. I wasn’t even lieutenant then. But I did some legwork. Asked some questions. Got some answers. Don’t know if the answers mean a hell of a lot. For what it’s worth, I know what you were wearing that night.”
“A blue gown.”
“What you ate.”
“Squab stuffed with wild rice. Raspberry mousse with white chocolate sauce.”
“What you drank. What recreational drugs you did.”
She lowered her head, like a little girl.
“Who you danced with. Who your husband flirted with.”
She looked at him quickly.
He smiled. She didn’t quite smile back.
“I liked the clothes you designed,” he said. “I’m no expert, but I thought you made women look good. Feel good. And they didn’t have to pay an arm and a leg. I know some women cops who used to swear by your stuff. It was great they could afford it. Women cops don’t get paid a whole lot. Neither do the men. You going to go back to it? Designing?”
“As soon as I possibly can.”
“Great. You’ve got a lot of fans out there.”
“Mr. Cardozo, was my husband brought to trial for my attempted murder?”
“Correct.”
“Was he found guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty of reckless endangerment.”
“Did you agree with that?”
“I thought it was attempted homicide and I thought the evidence bore that out. But I’m a cop—not a D.A. I collect the facts. I don’t prosecute the case.”