A Cruel Season for Dying (35 page)

In the living room Hanae waited for her husband, standing again before the exposed pane of glass. The birds slept inside their
covered cages. Taiko curled at her feet. She waited for her husband, attempting to empty her mind. For her, there was no day
and no night. She lived according to her own cycles of time. It was night because Jimmy was home.

A headache had caused her to miss sculpting class this afternoon, something she did not like to do. But there was no help
for it. She placed her fingers to her temples, still troubled by a remnant of pain pressing against her forehead. If she massaged
and breathed in the correct rhythms, she could perhaps ease the tension. This unaccustomed discomfort, she hoped, had no real
physical origin but resulted from the anxiety about keeping her pregnancy so long a secret from Jimmy.

She reached for the pins that held her chignon and shook her hair loose. Against her will the unformed image of the murdered
child hanging in the church forced its way behind her eyes. She thought of her cousin’s dream, the sound of her voice from
the tape. Was the
form,
if not the substance, of Nori’s nightmare a mirror of this death— a prophetic screen upon which the murder of this little
girl was to be projected?

She heard the muffled clopping of Jimmy’s
geta
against the
tatami
as he approached her. The scent of his soap settled in her throat as he moved her hair and pressed his lips against her neck.
She could feel her pulse against his mouth. He turned her in his arms. Her fingers found his still damp hair as she pulled
his face to hers. She had learned long ago that she could not remove her husband’s pain. But tonight she would offer him whatever
comfort she could.

Michael’s apartment building was not what Willie had expected. She had known it was old, the top floor occupied by some member
of the Llewellyn family since Michael’s great-grandfather had had the building put up nearly a century ago, according to what
Hanae had told her. What she had expected was a renovation. This lobby with its dead fire-places looked as though it hadn’t
been touched by a designer’s hand in at least the last six decades. It wasn’t dilapidated or dirty. Its oddity was that it
looked well kept and deserted in equal proportions. An abandoned movie set that might, at any moment, be put into operation.

She’d been waiting for over an hour when he came into the lobby. She had never seen him dressed as he was, in tight faded
jeans, with a denim jacket lined in shearling, half opened over a flannel work shirt. Thrown over his shoulder was a kind
of duffel bag she imagined held his carpenter’s tools. In the mellow lighting he seemed to move toward her in a kind of halftime
rhythm. As he came closer, she saw he needed a shave.

She stood up as he approached. “I thought you might want to take a look at these.” She held out the three VCR cassettes.

“Come up,” he said. He hadn’t asked her what the tapes were or taken them from her hand.

“I’m exhausted.” She shook her head.

Michael ignored her excuse, guiding her with a proprietary touch to the small of her back toward a narrow marble hallway.
He worked the keypad of a private elevator. Then his hand found her waist again, directing her inside.

The elevator went straight to the top, opening onto a small foyerlike hallway with a single impressive door. Michael reached
above the frame for a key. He unlocked the apartment, switching on a light just inside.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He followed her in. “I need to grab a shower.” He walked past her with the duffel, disappearing
through a doorway.

She stood for a moment, looking around the huge living room. The space was architecturally beautiful with alcoves and elaborate
molding. The few furnishings were quality. An Oriental carpet formed an
island, where a glass slab of coffee table fronted a long sectional sofa and love seat. Audio and video equipment sat in a
recessed wall, along with an impressive collection of CDs. And near the windows, a gym occupied the place where a dining-room
set should have been.

She walked to the coffee table, where a book lay open. She picked it up and sat down on the sofa.

“I never took the bar.” Michael stood backlit in the doorway, in jeans again, working a towel through his still damp hair.
He moved into the room, took the law book out of her hand. She noticed he’d cut himself shaving.

“Would you like some wine?”

“Sounds good.”

He took out a bottle and some glasses, then pushed the button on the CD player. Something bluesy came out, the wail of an
alto sax. She was acutely aware of him, of the pressure of his body, as he slumped into the sofa.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?” He poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her.

“Why didn’t you take the bar?”

“I decided being a cop was closer to the action.” His face had become fixed, and it was quiet again, except for the music.

“Well, here’s the action.” She pointed to the cassettes she’d set on the table.

His eyes avoided them.

“We’ve had some developments,” she pressed on. “The tapes are interviews with three men we’re calling potential witnesses.”

“Suspects,” he said. His tone feigned disinterest.

She put down her glass. She hadn’t been lying about being exhausted and was suddenly too tired to keep up her end of this.

He took a sip of his wine. “Who are these … potential witnesses?” He finally looked down at the tapes.

Now that it seemed her little mission might be successful, she felt strangely deflated, seized with a lethargy that had nothing
to do with fatigue. Michael was waiting, the vacuum between them building again, along with her need to fill it.

“Are you cold?” He’d seen her shiver.

“No, I’m fine. But it is cold … outside, I mean.”

It was a stupid thing to have said. She had the sudden giddy thought that walls were falling. She felt him move, sensed him
edging toward her around the raw curve of glass. She turned her face willingly enough to his, but there was still the thrill
of fear when he kissed her.

He had surprised her by coming so late. But Zoe had known he would come … eventually. She was in the shower when she heard
the banging at the door. She scrambled for her terry cloth robe and looked through the peephole.

He was standing there, his collar open, his tie loosened. He held his coat flung over his shoulder. It seemed he hadn’t slept
in a week and needed a shave. For an instant she considered not answering the door. Then she flipped the dead bolt.

At first it appeared he was only interested in the drops of water sliding from her hair, down her neck into the gap of her
robe. “Sorry about the dead bolt,” she said finally, determined to play it as nice as she could for as long as she could.

Johnny held out his hand. The key to her apartment was in it. She met his eyes, then reached out and took it.

“You’re a selfish cunt. You know that.”

She nodded. “But you knew that from the beginning.”

He looked like he wanted to hit her, but he wouldn’t.

“Are you going to stand out there to finish this?” She moved away from the door, leaving him in the hallway. She pulled up
on the thick collar of her robe, patting water from her hair. She heard the door close.

“Want a drink?” She turned, feeling her robe slip off her shoulder. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“This isn’t a social call.” He threw his jacket across a chair.

“None of our meetings were social, Johnny. It was always business.” The words oozed out.
Nice
was just not in the program.

His eyes darkened. She could count his pulse in the flesh at his neck. Then he smiled. “Except the whore got overpaid. The
info was better than the pussy.”

She laughed. “May I quote you?”

“Why not? You’ve quoted me on everything else.”

“Come on, Rozelli, you gave me piss. I had to go after the shit that really counted.”

He moved closer. She could smell his day-old cologne. “Now let me see,” he said. “How did you manage to do that?” His hands
were waist level. “I figure after I get the phone call about what’s gone down at St. Sebastian, you get your tight little
ass dressed and follow me.” His fingers made contact with the knot on her robe’s belt. “How am I doing so far?”

Her eyes tightened at the edges.

“Then you manage to sneak into the church, where you have a front-row seat. You keep your eyes and ears open. Hear about the
wings. Make the connection between the kid and the fags. All the time watching us dumb fucks play detective. How’s that?”

“Right on the button.” She felt his hand yank the belt. The white robe hung open.

“You think this is just about getting a story, don’t you?” His fingers were at one of her nipples. “Well, you’re wrong, Zoe.
This is about somebody’s eight-year-old not breathing anymore.” He twisted.

She grimaced.

“I admit I probably fed you. Enough for a couple of good bylines. Harmless enough. But you got way too hungry, baby, way too
hungry.”

What am I going to see?
he had asked her.

The television screen was now the solid blue of blank tape. But for hours Michael Darius had watched the interviews with Jimmy’s
three suspects to no discernible result. A bottle of scotch on the coffee table in front of him was empty. The ashtray was
full.

I don’t want to prejudice your judgment.
Willie had denied him an answer.
And I’ve really got to go and get some sleep.

She had looked tired when she’d left, with violet shadows haunting her eyes. But there was more than a lack of sleep, he suspected,
behind her obvious need to escape. She’d been uncomfortable with that kiss, with what now seemed inevitable between them.

He had not spoken to Jimmy since the murder scene in the church, but the image of the winged child above the crèche had never
left his mind and had now materialized on the cover of the
Post,
which Willie had left for him.

He rubbed his eyes and tapped a cigarette from the pack. He had not slept much since Saturday.

Despite all his objections, it seemed he could not escape this case. But if he had once had some special talent for investigation,
he did not know how it worked. The process was a mystery that did, or didn’t, occur. He could not turn it on like a faucet.
A million years ago he had enjoyed that indefinableness. Now since Hudson, he felt naked and out of control, with instinct
alone, a wild animal’s instinct.

This was the real reason he’d left the force. The reason he’d tried to beg out of even an informal involvement in these murders.
He felt suffocated by this case, unable to get a perspective. Although he knew he was less shocked than the others by the
fact of Lucia’s death. He had never been convinced that the homosexuality of the victims was the defining quality that marked
them.

He had no idea what did.