popularity. The old-timegangsters were patrons of their communities and of the people. The politicians were neither.
A woman’s voice called from inside: ‘Who is it?’
‘Señora Valdez?’
The door opened a few inches and a middle-aged woman peered out, her face lined with fatigue.
‘May I come in?’ Rafaela asked her. ‘I have news about your daughter.’
The door closed again, there was the rasp of a chain being removed and then it opened. Rafaela stepped into a low-ceilinged room. There was a sofa, a coffee-table and a television set, which was switched on with the volume turned down. Rafaela recognized a couple of popular soap-opera stars. Her eyes settled on a table behind the sofa. It was covered with framed photographs. Rafaela’s heart sank as she saw that every picture was of the same young girl; only the settings and the age varied. There was one of her as a toddler, dressed in white for her confirmation; the most recent showed her in her late teens. An only child.
Señora Valdez’s hands grasped Rafaela’s arms. ‘Tell me she’s safe.’
In such circumstances there was a procedure to follow, a series of steps, a liturgy of words to mouth. Rafaela believed in none of this. When she had to arrest someone, or interrogate someone, or shoot someone, she was a cop. But at moments like this she was a woman.
Rafaela touched Señora Valdez’s hands, feeling the calluses on her palms and the tips of her fingers, the result of all those hours in the factory. ‘She’s with the angels, Señora. I’m so sorry.’
The woman’s body slumped, her chin falling on to her chest as she began to sob. Rafaela put her arms around her. They stayedlike that for a long time. Rafaela spoke to her gently, as she would to a child. She had never known what it meant to cry your heart out until she had made the first of these calls. Then she had been brittle, detached, professional. Afterwards she had realized that there was no harm in showing her humanity. If nothing else, she reasoned, it must comfort the bereaved a little to know that one other human being cared.
Slowly, the woman’s sobs ebbed away as, over her shoulder, the soap opera continued, with beautiful, wealthy people grieving over a missed promotion, perhaps, or an extra-marital affair. She peeled herself away from Rafaela, eyes puffy and glistening. She glanced at the photographs of her murdered daughter and something new came into her eyes, something far worse than the grief. Surrender. It disturbed Rafaela more than the blood and mayhem. Your daughter left the house. She never returned. And that was life in this city.
‘Shall I take you to see her?’ Rafaela asked.
The woman looked around the room, searching for her coat. Rafaela helped her put it on and then they walked out into the night.
Seventeen
ROSARY BEADS CLASPED in her right hand, Melissa’s mother, Jan, sat quietly by her daughter’s bedside. Although her face was lined with worry and her eyes were pouched from lack of sleep, Ty could see where Melissa had got her looks from. Watching her vigil, he was glad that she had her faith to sustain her.
Part of him wished he believed more than he did. His mother was a churchgoer and, as a child, he had gone with her on Sunday, sitting there listening to the preacher, swinging his legs and counting the minutes until he could get home and change out of the suit she insisted he wear. He had never really taken to it.
A nurse flitted into the room to check on Melissa. She spoke to Jan, scratched some notes on the chart at the bottom of the bed and made for the door.
‘How’s she doing?’ Ty asked her, as she left.
The nurse smiled. ‘All her vital signs are stable and she’s not bleeding now. That’s all in her favour.’
‘How long until she can leave?’
‘It’ll be a while,’ the nurse said, heading past him and into the next room.
Ty rose from the chair and stretched his long, lean frame. He tapped gently on the door and Jan
A woman’s voice called from inside: ‘Who is it?’
‘Señora Valdez?’
The door opened a few inches and a middle-aged woman peered out, her face lined with fatigue.
‘May I come in?’ Rafaela asked her. ‘I have news about your daughter.’
The door closed again, there was the rasp of a chain being removed and then it opened. Rafaela stepped into a low-ceilinged room. There was a sofa, a coffee-table and a television set, which was switched on with the volume turned down. Rafaela recognized a couple of popular soap-opera stars. Her eyes settled on a table behind the sofa. It was covered with framed photographs. Rafaela’s heart sank as she saw that every picture was of the same young girl; only the settings and the age varied. There was one of her as a toddler, dressed in white for her confirmation; the most recent showed her in her late teens. An only child.
Señora Valdez’s hands grasped Rafaela’s arms. ‘Tell me she’s safe.’
In such circumstances there was a procedure to follow, a series of steps, a liturgy of words to mouth. Rafaela believed in none of this. When she had to arrest someone, or interrogate someone, or shoot someone, she was a cop. But at moments like this she was a woman.
Rafaela touched Señora Valdez’s hands, feeling the calluses on her palms and the tips of her fingers, the result of all those hours in the factory. ‘She’s with the angels, Señora. I’m so sorry.’
The woman’s body slumped, her chin falling on to her chest as she began to sob. Rafaela put her arms around her. They stayedlike that for a long time. Rafaela spoke to her gently, as she would to a child. She had never known what it meant to cry your heart out until she had made the first of these calls. Then she had been brittle, detached, professional. Afterwards she had realized that there was no harm in showing her humanity. If nothing else, she reasoned, it must comfort the bereaved a little to know that one other human being cared.
Slowly, the woman’s sobs ebbed away as, over her shoulder, the soap opera continued, with beautiful, wealthy people grieving over a missed promotion, perhaps, or an extra-marital affair. She peeled herself away from Rafaela, eyes puffy and glistening. She glanced at the photographs of her murdered daughter and something new came into her eyes, something far worse than the grief. Surrender. It disturbed Rafaela more than the blood and mayhem. Your daughter left the house. She never returned. And that was life in this city.
‘Shall I take you to see her?’ Rafaela asked.
The woman looked around the room, searching for her coat. Rafaela helped her put it on and then they walked out into the night.
Seventeen
ROSARY BEADS CLASPED in her right hand, Melissa’s mother, Jan, sat quietly by her daughter’s bedside. Although her face was lined with worry and her eyes were pouched from lack of sleep, Ty could see where Melissa had got her looks from. Watching her vigil, he was glad that she had her faith to sustain her.
Part of him wished he believed more than he did. His mother was a churchgoer and, as a child, he had gone with her on Sunday, sitting there listening to the preacher, swinging his legs and counting the minutes until he could get home and change out of the suit she insisted he wear. He had never really taken to it.
A nurse flitted into the room to check on Melissa. She spoke to Jan, scratched some notes on the chart at the bottom of the bed and made for the door.
‘How’s she doing?’ Ty asked her, as she left.
The nurse smiled. ‘All her vital signs are stable and she’s not bleeding now. That’s all in her favour.’
‘How long until she can leave?’
‘It’ll be a while,’ the nurse said, heading past him and into the next room.
Ty rose from the chair and stretched his long, lean frame. He tapped gently on the door and Jan
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