playing tennis within the past few days. Only the crow’s-feet at the corners of her narrowed and sad blue eyes hinted at her age.
“You didn’t have to go to this trouble,” she said. “I could have met you there.” Her voice sounded rough and worn, as if she was an incurable smoker. Quinn thought it was probably from crying.
“It’s no trouble.”
“I thought at first this was a hired limo,” Rena Collins said. “It doesn’t look like an unmarked police car.”
“It isn’t. It’s my personal car, a 1999 Lincoln. It does look like a hired car. That makes it one of the least conspicuous rides in New York.”
“It must be,” Rena said. “Two of them just passed us.”
“Newer models, but close enough.”
Traffic was building up; almost lunchtime. The silence in the car became thicker and heavier. There wasn’t much for the two strangers to talk about, other than the dead woman. Neither of them wanted to discuss her at the moment, even though her foreboding presence was with them as surely as if she were sitting in the backseat.
It wasn’t easy, what Rena Collins was about to do. Identifying the corpse of a dead child was about the worst thing you could ask of someone. Quinn would be glad when it was behind her. Behind both of them.
He was relieved, mostly for Rena, when the dead face of Macy Collins appeared on the morgue monitor. The photo had been taken before the autopsy. Nift had done a good job of preparing Macy for viewing. The face on the screen didn’t look much like her recent photographs that the hometown media had dug up, but maybe that was a good thing, that she didn’t look like herself. Quinn recalled the horror that had been in her eyes, the constant silent scream that had been on her lips once the tape had been removed. At least Rena Collins was spared that.
“It’s Macy,” she said in a choked voice, and turned away from the monitor. Her breasts were heaving. “Christ! I need to get outside where I can breathe.”
“So do I,” Quinn said, glad she wasn’t going to demand to see the body up close and not on a monitor, as some surviving family members did. There were family members who felt it their duty to approach the dead, to touch them, as if in a magical way some life remained that would be responsive. In this case, the photo had been enough, and the law was satisfied.
Quinn led Rena Collins back outside into the warm, exhaust-hazed air of Manhattan. It seemed infinitely better than the air inside the building.
She was perspiring. Her breathing had leveled out but was still slightly ragged. He could hear it in the brief intervals when traffic wasn’t making itself known.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked, gently gripping her elbow to steady her.
She made herself smile and moved away from his grip. “I’m okay. Really.”
He stayed alert, in case she showed signs of giving in to the heat and what she’d just endured.
In the car she said, “They won’t let me take her home for burial right away, will they?”
“We’ll need to hold her for a while,” Quinn said.
“I wish I could—” She thought better of what she was about to say. “Never mind.”
He turned the Lincoln’s air conditioner on high, and after a few blocks she stopped sweating and her breathing was normal. Quinn wanted to talk with her about Macy. He drove slower.
“Need anything?” he asked.
“I want to call my ex-husband, but not yet.”
“Macy’s father?”
“Yeah. He’s out in California. He wanted to come here, to New York, but it was impossible, he said. He thinks he can be at the funeral.”
Thinks he can be ... “I see,” Quinn said. But he didn’t. Macy had been the man’s daughter.
Rena Collins stared out her side of the windshield for a while. At the windshield and nothing else, really. Her thoughts were directed inward. Then she looked over at Quinn. “Something to drink,” she said. “Not alcoholic.”
“There’s a diner in the next
“You didn’t have to go to this trouble,” she said. “I could have met you there.” Her voice sounded rough and worn, as if she was an incurable smoker. Quinn thought it was probably from crying.
“It’s no trouble.”
“I thought at first this was a hired limo,” Rena Collins said. “It doesn’t look like an unmarked police car.”
“It isn’t. It’s my personal car, a 1999 Lincoln. It does look like a hired car. That makes it one of the least conspicuous rides in New York.”
“It must be,” Rena said. “Two of them just passed us.”
“Newer models, but close enough.”
Traffic was building up; almost lunchtime. The silence in the car became thicker and heavier. There wasn’t much for the two strangers to talk about, other than the dead woman. Neither of them wanted to discuss her at the moment, even though her foreboding presence was with them as surely as if she were sitting in the backseat.
It wasn’t easy, what Rena Collins was about to do. Identifying the corpse of a dead child was about the worst thing you could ask of someone. Quinn would be glad when it was behind her. Behind both of them.
He was relieved, mostly for Rena, when the dead face of Macy Collins appeared on the morgue monitor. The photo had been taken before the autopsy. Nift had done a good job of preparing Macy for viewing. The face on the screen didn’t look much like her recent photographs that the hometown media had dug up, but maybe that was a good thing, that she didn’t look like herself. Quinn recalled the horror that had been in her eyes, the constant silent scream that had been on her lips once the tape had been removed. At least Rena Collins was spared that.
“It’s Macy,” she said in a choked voice, and turned away from the monitor. Her breasts were heaving. “Christ! I need to get outside where I can breathe.”
“So do I,” Quinn said, glad she wasn’t going to demand to see the body up close and not on a monitor, as some surviving family members did. There were family members who felt it their duty to approach the dead, to touch them, as if in a magical way some life remained that would be responsive. In this case, the photo had been enough, and the law was satisfied.
Quinn led Rena Collins back outside into the warm, exhaust-hazed air of Manhattan. It seemed infinitely better than the air inside the building.
She was perspiring. Her breathing had leveled out but was still slightly ragged. He could hear it in the brief intervals when traffic wasn’t making itself known.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked, gently gripping her elbow to steady her.
She made herself smile and moved away from his grip. “I’m okay. Really.”
He stayed alert, in case she showed signs of giving in to the heat and what she’d just endured.
In the car she said, “They won’t let me take her home for burial right away, will they?”
“We’ll need to hold her for a while,” Quinn said.
“I wish I could—” She thought better of what she was about to say. “Never mind.”
He turned the Lincoln’s air conditioner on high, and after a few blocks she stopped sweating and her breathing was normal. Quinn wanted to talk with her about Macy. He drove slower.
“Need anything?” he asked.
“I want to call my ex-husband, but not yet.”
“Macy’s father?”
“Yeah. He’s out in California. He wanted to come here, to New York, but it was impossible, he said. He thinks he can be at the funeral.”
Thinks he can be ... “I see,” Quinn said. But he didn’t. Macy had been the man’s daughter.
Rena Collins stared out her side of the windshield for a while. At the windshield and nothing else, really. Her thoughts were directed inward. Then she looked over at Quinn. “Something to drink,” she said. “Not alcoholic.”
“There’s a diner in the next
Similar Books
