when she was young. In the fifties, in the Cultural Revolution, Tienanmen Square, now.
“Never forget best friends, even
Chinese
best friends, stab in front easy as back.”
April went to bed with those words in her ears the way she knew American children did the prayer “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
She and Mike hadn’t talked yet. Maybe they wouldn’t have a chance today. She couldn’t help noticing how tan he was, must have spent his whole ten days in Mexico out in the sun with some Maria or other. Suddenly April was aware that Sergeant Joyce had hung up the phone and was frowning at her, as if already she had done something wrong. She hadn’t done anything wrong. All she did was take a call, cross the street to a fancy boutique—where neither of them could even think of shopping—and find a dead salesgirl in the storeroom. April wasn’t responsible for killing her, or hanging her up on the chandelier.
She clenched up inside, but refused to look down. It was a daily trial to her that Sergeant Joyce, who was so tough and so good with men, and smart enough to pass every test, didn’t seem to like her. Every day April was aware Joyce could orchestrate her removal to some other precinct, and this kept the edge on April’s anxiety nearly all the time. She didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn or Queens or the Bronx and get lost in the backwater. She wouldn’t mind being assigned to a special unit. Special Crimes, Sex Crimes. DEA. Even go home to the 5th in Chinatown. But not now, sometime in the future.
After a full year in the Two-O, April had seen a lot of things she had never expected to see, met people she never would have known. In Chinatown she spoke the language of the powerless and ignorant, the prey of every kind of predator. She knew how they thought, where to go to ask the questions. No matter what the case, she knew the path to follow, knew the secrets. And she had never known that she was one of them, as powerless as they, until she was summarily moved up to the Two-O.
Now she was in a different world, a world of random violence, where rich, educated whites tried not to rub shoulders with the disenfranchised blacks and Hispanics all around them. And the people of color refused to be ignored, pounded white heads whenever they could. But this homicide was no street crime.
April held her ground as Joyce stared at her with apparent hostility. “Have you located the other salesgirl?” she demanded. “Maybe she knows who the guy is.”
When in the world would April have had time to check out the second salesgirl? It took her and Sanchez three hours to get someone from the Sheriff’s office in Seekonk, Massachusetts, to locate Maggie’s parents. It was the part of the job she hated most. She was glad this time she didn’t have to be the one to knock on their door and tell them.
April had learned that the Wheelers had six kids, but the number of kids never made the slightest bit of difference. She once knew a Chinese couple who had five kids. Baby drowned in the Central Park reservoir, where they were picnicking in a rowboat. Afterward, the mother went crazy, sat in a chair staring at the wall. Never recovered even though she had four other children to care for.
“I’ve got her number and her address,” April said about the missing salesgirl. “She was first on my list.”
Joyce nodded. “Okay, get the hell out of here and find out what she knows.”
April shoved off the windowsill with a small sigh of satisfaction. Released without bail. Wow. She pushed through the crush of detectives, who didn’t exactly make way for her because Joyce gave her the show in front of everybody. It felt good. Two minutes later Mike was at his desk, and they began trying to find the other salesgirl, Olga Yerger.
It was an hour later when they finally located her. She wasn’t at home and the girl she lived with didn’t want to say on the phone where she was.
“Gee, I
“Never forget best friends, even
Chinese
best friends, stab in front easy as back.”
April went to bed with those words in her ears the way she knew American children did the prayer “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
She and Mike hadn’t talked yet. Maybe they wouldn’t have a chance today. She couldn’t help noticing how tan he was, must have spent his whole ten days in Mexico out in the sun with some Maria or other. Suddenly April was aware that Sergeant Joyce had hung up the phone and was frowning at her, as if already she had done something wrong. She hadn’t done anything wrong. All she did was take a call, cross the street to a fancy boutique—where neither of them could even think of shopping—and find a dead salesgirl in the storeroom. April wasn’t responsible for killing her, or hanging her up on the chandelier.
She clenched up inside, but refused to look down. It was a daily trial to her that Sergeant Joyce, who was so tough and so good with men, and smart enough to pass every test, didn’t seem to like her. Every day April was aware Joyce could orchestrate her removal to some other precinct, and this kept the edge on April’s anxiety nearly all the time. She didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn or Queens or the Bronx and get lost in the backwater. She wouldn’t mind being assigned to a special unit. Special Crimes, Sex Crimes. DEA. Even go home to the 5th in Chinatown. But not now, sometime in the future.
After a full year in the Two-O, April had seen a lot of things she had never expected to see, met people she never would have known. In Chinatown she spoke the language of the powerless and ignorant, the prey of every kind of predator. She knew how they thought, where to go to ask the questions. No matter what the case, she knew the path to follow, knew the secrets. And she had never known that she was one of them, as powerless as they, until she was summarily moved up to the Two-O.
Now she was in a different world, a world of random violence, where rich, educated whites tried not to rub shoulders with the disenfranchised blacks and Hispanics all around them. And the people of color refused to be ignored, pounded white heads whenever they could. But this homicide was no street crime.
April held her ground as Joyce stared at her with apparent hostility. “Have you located the other salesgirl?” she demanded. “Maybe she knows who the guy is.”
When in the world would April have had time to check out the second salesgirl? It took her and Sanchez three hours to get someone from the Sheriff’s office in Seekonk, Massachusetts, to locate Maggie’s parents. It was the part of the job she hated most. She was glad this time she didn’t have to be the one to knock on their door and tell them.
April had learned that the Wheelers had six kids, but the number of kids never made the slightest bit of difference. She once knew a Chinese couple who had five kids. Baby drowned in the Central Park reservoir, where they were picnicking in a rowboat. Afterward, the mother went crazy, sat in a chair staring at the wall. Never recovered even though she had four other children to care for.
“I’ve got her number and her address,” April said about the missing salesgirl. “She was first on my list.”
Joyce nodded. “Okay, get the hell out of here and find out what she knows.”
April shoved off the windowsill with a small sigh of satisfaction. Released without bail. Wow. She pushed through the crush of detectives, who didn’t exactly make way for her because Joyce gave her the show in front of everybody. It felt good. Two minutes later Mike was at his desk, and they began trying to find the other salesgirl, Olga Yerger.
It was an hour later when they finally located her. She wasn’t at home and the girl she lived with didn’t want to say on the phone where she was.
“Gee, I
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