“Sorry. No escorting for me. But maybe you can tell me where I might find Detective Lester in the Homicide Unit.”
Then another set of whistles.
“Oh well, she’s here to see the boss!” shouts Whistle Boy, turning to Bill, who finally straightens up from the car and says, “Please excuse him; not all of us are like this jerk over here. Follow me inside. I’ll take you to Lester.”
Suzy is glad that it is the quiet one who is leading her inside. Before following Bill through the door, she turns around once as Whistle Boy hollers after her: “See, I knew it. The bastard always gets the girls!”
Once inside, she is led upstairs, away from the commotion of the general area. Detective Lester is being held up with a real head-case, Bill tells her, motioning her to wait in one of the wooden chairs in front of the door marked “Private.”
“A thirteen-year-old, just brought in for blowing some grandpa in the back of his Nissan for twenty bucks,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s the fifth time we’ve taken her off the street in the last six months. A kid hooker with her pimp daddy on crack. The city’s filled with them, and the juvenile agencies are way too swamped and fucked up, and the kid ends up back out on street in a matter of days. Except this time somebody’s popped her daddy.” He brings her a can of Coke from the vending machine. Too cold, it is the last thing she wants, but she takes it anyway.
The corridor is curiously designed so that the end appears interminably long, although the distance couldn’t be more than thirty yards. There are three rooms on each side of the corridor. Each room is marked “Private,” which must mean that inside is where serious questionings take place. She can hear nothing. No noise escapes. It is eerily silent, as if the entire building were soundproof, and bulletproof.
Two bullets total. Not one wasted. Not one straying off its course. Not one missing its target.
“So you here for a case?” Bill is making small talk. He seems reluctant to leave her, or perhaps he is not allowed to leave anyone unattended. After all, this is the inner world of the police station. It is probably not safe for her to be here alone. Who knows, one of those being questioned inside could set himself free and burst out the door. Imagine, to be held as a hostage while waiting for the Bronx detective who’s done nothing at all for the past five years.
“Yes, a case,” answers Suzy, taking a fuzzy sip from the can.
“Which one? Maybe I know something about it.” He is trying to be helpful. He is not being cocky, like most policemen she’s met before. But she knows that he could not possibly know anything. Five years ago, he must have only just finished the Police Academy.
“I doubt it. It’s an old case.” Suzy smiles, not wanting to sound dismissive.
“Unsolved, then. Parents?” he asks placidly. It is the first time, she thinks, someone has mentioned her parents’ death without the inevitable gulp of hesitation and stammer.
“Yes, both of them. How did you know?” She is surprised at the casualness with which she answers him.
“We get a hunch in our field. A smart-looking young woman like you showing up here in the middle of the day looking for Lester, it’s gotta be serious. Besides, you being Asian helps. Model citizens, hard workers, all that stuff is pretty much true, except for some of those punks out in Queens. You’ve got no business coming in here unless it’s family trouble. Parents most likely, since you don’t look married to me.”
His voice is soothing, she thinks. A young man of her age. No wedding ring. Polite, straightforward. She never talks to men like him. They remain out of her range, always. Something about them belongs in another world. Something about them suggests a home, a different kind of home from what she knows.
“I’m not trying to impress you, although maybe just a little. But the real clue is your face. I hope you don’t mind me saying this…” Bill takes a gulp from his can of Coke and says, “You’ve got the face of a mourner.”
Even that does not deter the sudden calm of the moment. Face of a mourner. He is probably right. The years must wear on her face, the five-plus immense years.
“Why, you feel sorry for me?” she asks with a tight smile. Desperation. This must be what desperation is, to beg a stranger for his heart.
“No, I don’t. But it’s okay to let people feel sorry for you.” Then he adds quickly, “But don’t get me wrong, I’m not pulling my friend Don Juan out there.”
“I know.” Suzy nods, to reassure him. She wants him to know that she understands.
“Listen, if you have any questions, or just wanna talk or something, feel free to call me at the station. Ask for Officer Edwards. Bill Edwards. I’m usually here, unless out there hauling kid hookers off the street.”
He grins bashfully. A nice guy. The sort of guy who probably won’t make a good policeman. Too soft. Too sincere. She will never call him. It would not be fair to him.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”
Detective Lester emerges from the room, wiping the sweat off his face. He motions Bill to go inside; Bill waves at Suzy with a big warm smile before following the order. And just like that, the momentary calm breaks. She is back here now, back in the Bronx police station where the record of her dead parents has been gathering dust among the forgotten files.
“C’mon. We should go into my office for a talk. You look good. Five years, hah! Long time. I swear, the only thing that flies is time. How’re you doing, married yet? Any kids?”
He is one of those jovial older men who ask several questions at once, none of which is meant to be a real inquiry. He is stocky, not quite big, but solid. His balding head is supported by a remarkably rotund neck. His dark-brown bomber jacket squeaks each time he moves.
“Good to see you. What you been up to? Are you never home? We tried you several times last week.” He removes a dusty leather armchair from the corner, filled with stacks of paper and a few gold medals and piles of photographs. Suzy just smiles in return. She knows that he is not expecting a response.
“I gather you don’t know why you’re here?” He finally sits down, facing her across the desk. He looks suddenly more alert. No more of the avuncular chatter. He means business now. That’s the tricky thing with these guys who work for Uncle Sam. You never know what they are thinking. You can never be sure which side they are on.
“I know coming here like this isn’t exactly a ball game for you. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten your parents’ case. I know you haven’t either.” His voice is almost deadpan, as though the speech is already rehearsed, as though he has run these lines before with another sad girl, another heartbroken family member.
“But something funny turned up. Or not funny at all, in fact. About two weeks ago, I got a call from the AOCTF in Queens, that’s Asian Organized Crime Task Force, the special unit of the FBI. Supposedly they got a tip about some sort of trafficking and raided a pool hall in Flushing. During the search, they found, hidden underneath a pool table, a bag filled with ice. Twenty kilos, probably the biggest stash of ice they’ve seen in Queens in years. You know what ice is?”
She shakes her head. A sort of drug, obviously. Cocaine. Heroin. Suzy’s never been into that culture. She tried pot once in college and threw up violently. It didn’t suit her system. A lucky break, which confirmed nicotine as her only vice.
“Crystal methamphetamine. You might be familiar with its other names. Rock candy. Shabu Shabu. Tina. Krissy. Same thing. Speed, the nineties version. Lethal. Harder than cocaine. Ice has always been the West Coast thing, definitely not the drug of choice around here, which means that those boys in the pool hall were up to something bigger than what we’ve seen recently, a much higher game than the usual gambling and racketeering. So, right away, the Narcotics Squad goes ape-shit. They round up the suckers and narrow down on three connected to Triad, the international Chinese gang. Except these are Korean. Three former members of Korean Killers, which disbanded in the early nineties. You following all this? You wondering why I’m telling you all this?”