handkerchief, the doilies on the TV behind her, the Sacred Heart on the wall. Lily could even smell it, cabbage and bread dough . . . .
The old woman said that Lily had to go to Bellevue to identify Walter. Was there a cop there, Lily asked? Yes, right here, and Father Gomez. And the mayor was coming.
Lily spoke to the cop. Take care of Gloria Petty, she said, the wife of a cop, the mother of a cop. The last one alive in this family. Then, trembling with fear and grief, she’d gone to Bellevue.
No pietà at Bellevue.
Just a body, waxlike, dead, sprawled on a blood-soaked gurney, raw from the pickup. The body was wrapped in layers of plastic, like beef being moved. She noted professionally that one of the slugs had ripped off Petty’s cheek, exposing his molars; a preview of Petty as a naked skull, a reminder of Petty’s naive, happy smile. The smile that flashed every time he saw her, delighted with her presence.
She recalled a day from their Brooklyn childhood, when the two of them were seven or eight. Late fall, blue skies, crisp weather, a hint of Halloween. There were maple trees on the block, turning red. She’d been sick and had been kept home from school, but her mother let her out in the afternoon to sit on the stoop.
And here was Walter, running down the street, a paper held overhead, flapping, joy in his eyes. Her spelling test from the day before. A perfect score. Common enough for Lily, but Walter, so generously pleased for her, that smile, that young blond hair slicked down with Vaseline . . .
Come to this, the bloody teeth.
“That’s Walter Petty,” she told a tired assistant M.E.
At home again, changing clothes, preparing herself to see Petty’s mother, she thought of her school yearbook. She went into the living room, pulled a box from a built-in cupboard, and found three of them. And his senior picture: his hair never quite right, his face too slender, the slightly dazed smile.
Lily broke and began to weep. The spasm was uncontrollable, unlike anything she’d experienced before, a storm that ended with dumb exhaustion. Wearily, she finished dressing, started for the door.
And smelled Petty: Petty in the morgue, the stink of the blood and the body in her nose. She ran back to the bathroom, washed her face and her hands, over and over.
Early the next morning, after the nightmare interlude with Gloria Petty, as she fought for an hour or two of sleep, she dreamed and saw herself on the marble bench, Walter Petty draped on her lap, broken, torn, his bloody teeth leering from the side of his face. . . .
Petty was gone.
“Jesus.” Lucas was staring at her. “I didn’t know you had . . .”
“What?” She tried to smile. “That kind of depth?”
“That kind of old-time relationship. You know about me and Elle Kruger . . .”
“The nun, yes. What would you do if somebody murdered her?” Lily asked.
“Find whoever did it and kill him,” Lucas said quietly.
“Yes,” Lily said, nodding, looking straight at him. “That’s what I want.”
The late-afternoon sun had gone red, then a sullen orange. A heavy atmospheric hush, accompanied by a distant rumbling, announced the line of thunderstorms that Lucas had seen from the roof. When Lily first arrived, Lucas, sitting on the roof, had said, “You’re absolutely gorgeous.” She’d cooled the sense of contact with a quick, “Don’t start, Davenport.” But there was an underlying tension between them, and now it sprang upagain, riding with them as they moved out of the kitchen, into the living room.
Lily perched on a couch, knees together, fumbled through her purse, found a roll of Certs, tipped a couple of them into her hand, then popped them into her mouth. “You’ve changed things,” she said, looking around the house.
“After Shadow Love, the place was pretty shot up,” Lucas said. He dropped onto a leather recliner, sitting on the edge of it, leaning toward her. “Some wiring got wrecked and I
The old woman said that Lily had to go to Bellevue to identify Walter. Was there a cop there, Lily asked? Yes, right here, and Father Gomez. And the mayor was coming.
Lily spoke to the cop. Take care of Gloria Petty, she said, the wife of a cop, the mother of a cop. The last one alive in this family. Then, trembling with fear and grief, she’d gone to Bellevue.
No pietà at Bellevue.
Just a body, waxlike, dead, sprawled on a blood-soaked gurney, raw from the pickup. The body was wrapped in layers of plastic, like beef being moved. She noted professionally that one of the slugs had ripped off Petty’s cheek, exposing his molars; a preview of Petty as a naked skull, a reminder of Petty’s naive, happy smile. The smile that flashed every time he saw her, delighted with her presence.
She recalled a day from their Brooklyn childhood, when the two of them were seven or eight. Late fall, blue skies, crisp weather, a hint of Halloween. There were maple trees on the block, turning red. She’d been sick and had been kept home from school, but her mother let her out in the afternoon to sit on the stoop.
And here was Walter, running down the street, a paper held overhead, flapping, joy in his eyes. Her spelling test from the day before. A perfect score. Common enough for Lily, but Walter, so generously pleased for her, that smile, that young blond hair slicked down with Vaseline . . .
Come to this, the bloody teeth.
“That’s Walter Petty,” she told a tired assistant M.E.
At home again, changing clothes, preparing herself to see Petty’s mother, she thought of her school yearbook. She went into the living room, pulled a box from a built-in cupboard, and found three of them. And his senior picture: his hair never quite right, his face too slender, the slightly dazed smile.
Lily broke and began to weep. The spasm was uncontrollable, unlike anything she’d experienced before, a storm that ended with dumb exhaustion. Wearily, she finished dressing, started for the door.
And smelled Petty: Petty in the morgue, the stink of the blood and the body in her nose. She ran back to the bathroom, washed her face and her hands, over and over.
Early the next morning, after the nightmare interlude with Gloria Petty, as she fought for an hour or two of sleep, she dreamed and saw herself on the marble bench, Walter Petty draped on her lap, broken, torn, his bloody teeth leering from the side of his face. . . .
Petty was gone.
“Jesus.” Lucas was staring at her. “I didn’t know you had . . .”
“What?” She tried to smile. “That kind of depth?”
“That kind of old-time relationship. You know about me and Elle Kruger . . .”
“The nun, yes. What would you do if somebody murdered her?” Lily asked.
“Find whoever did it and kill him,” Lucas said quietly.
“Yes,” Lily said, nodding, looking straight at him. “That’s what I want.”
The late-afternoon sun had gone red, then a sullen orange. A heavy atmospheric hush, accompanied by a distant rumbling, announced the line of thunderstorms that Lucas had seen from the roof. When Lily first arrived, Lucas, sitting on the roof, had said, “You’re absolutely gorgeous.” She’d cooled the sense of contact with a quick, “Don’t start, Davenport.” But there was an underlying tension between them, and now it sprang upagain, riding with them as they moved out of the kitchen, into the living room.
Lily perched on a couch, knees together, fumbled through her purse, found a roll of Certs, tipped a couple of them into her hand, then popped them into her mouth. “You’ve changed things,” she said, looking around the house.
“After Shadow Love, the place was pretty shot up,” Lucas said. He dropped onto a leather recliner, sitting on the edge of it, leaning toward her. “Some wiring got wrecked and I
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