Another Part of the City

2

Homicides were rare in the Fifth Precinct.

By Reardon’s count, there had been only eighteen of them this year, and the average was about twenty annually. That suited him just fine. He liked working down here; transfer him to an A-House like the Four-One in the Bronx or the Ninth right next door in Manhattan South, and he might have quit the force altogether. The Fifth was definitely not a high-crime area. This past year, there’d been something over a hundred burglaries, some eighty-five robberies, and forty-six arrests for grand larceny. In fact, the Chinese youth gangs here — involved as they were with extortion and felonious assault — constituted the most serious criminal threat. Fancy names, the gangs all had — Ghost Shadows, and Flying Dragons, Eagles, and Ching Yee. All punks in Reardon’s estimation. But the activities of the gangs were limited to Chinatown, and that was only a small corner of the entire precinct territory.

Most people in the department referred to the detective unit at the Fifth as the “Chinatown Squad.” Well, that was to be expected; the station house was smack in the center of Chinatown, on Elizabeth and Canal, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant named Y.S. and a dime store. But the precinct territory was bordered on the east by Allen Street, on the west by Broadway, on the south by the East River and on the north by Houston Street, and the ethnic boil here was a volatile one. From Pearl to Canal, you had your Chinese. Bowery to Allen was largely Hispanic and black. From Spring to Houston, the streets were filled with Dominicans, Cubans, and Puerto Ricans. The Bowery was populated with vagrants of every stripe and color. And in Little Italy, which ran from Canal to Houston, an Italian restaurant owner had been shot dead at seven-thirty tonight — in a precinct where murders were rare.

Still, it was the “Chinatown Squad” and all the detectives at the Fifth carried a blue card printed in both English and Chinese. Reardon’s card was a duplicate of the one Chick Hoffman carried:

It was almost ten o’clock when they got back to the station house. They had started the evening tour at four that afternoon, expecting the usual run of occurrences great and small, but nothing so great as a homicide. There had been eighteen already this year, hadn’t there? Well, now there were nineteen. As they mounted the low flat steps leading to the front door of the precinct, both men were thinking they didn’t need this.

The black wooden numerals 1881 — for the date the station house was completed and occupied — were set into the arched pediment over the entrance door. The Fifth had celebrated its centennial five years ago, the detectives opening a bottle of champagne (against departmental regulations, but what the hell) in the rec room on the third floor of the ancient building. Lieutenant Farmer hadn’t known about the midnight celebration; they tried to keep as much as they possibly could from Lieutenant Farmer. Beneath the arched pediment was a wooden panel with the words “5th Precinct” on it. Beneath that, another date: 1921. Reardon guessed that was the last time the precinct had been painted. Over the door itself was a brown sign lettered in yellow with the words:

The door was set with a glass panel, odd for a police station, but no one down here expected anybody to try forcible entry. A sign in the lower half of the glass panel read ALL PERSONS MUST STOP AT DESK. The same words were repeated below this in Chinese. And below that in Spanish.

Reardon shoved open the door.

The muster room was cold. The Fifth still had a coal-burning furnace in the basement, maybe the only precinct in the entire city that was so blessed. It was impossible to keep the place warm in the wintertime. In the summertime, because there was no air-conditioning, it was impossible to keep it cool. Reardon guessed he preferred winters here at the Fifth. At least you could put on more clothes. In the summer, no matter how far down you stripped, you couldn’t slip out of your skin.

Sergeant McLaughlin sat behind the high muster desk on the right of the room, the telephone to his ear, a huge American flag on the wall behind him. McLaughlin was in his shirtsleeves. He weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and he was probably the only man in the precinct who constantly complained that it was too hot in here. “Just a second, Mike,” he said into the phone, and then, to Reardon and Hoffman, who were crossing the room toward the steps at the far end. “Your Santa Claus is kicking up a storm back there.”

“Back there” was what the cops called the 124 Room, which housed the precinct clerk, the computer, and the now virtually defunct Arrest Process room with its small detention cage and its fingerprinting table. Nowadays, most arrests were brought to Central Booking at Headquarters, not six blocks from the precinct itself. But where property was involved, as in robbery, burglary, or narcotics arrests, the perps were taken first to the precinct itself — where they were printed and where all the paperwork was done — before they were taken to Headquarters for formal booking. There were no holding cells at the Fifth. The only detention cage was in the 124 Room. Santa Claus was in that cage now, screaming his head off about his rights.

“Send him to the North Pole.” Hoffman said.

“When you gonna book him?” McLaughlin asked.

“Later,” Reardon said. “We’ve got a homicide.”

Inside the 124 Room, the clerk was sitting at the computer, performing whatever ritual was necessary to make the damn thing work. Santa Claus kept yelling and ranting, but the clerk never looked up from the keyboard. The computer’s true and honorable designation was FATN — Reardon didn’t know what the letters stood for. All the cops at the Fifth called it Fat Nellie. It was used to check warrants, car registrations, and so on, and it stored information from every precinct in the city. Only three men at the Fifth knew how to use it. In the detention cage, Santa Claus said, “I want a fucking lawyer!”

On the phone in the muster room, McLaughlin said, “So how’s it going up there, Mike?”

Hoffman and Reardon started up the steps to the second floor.

Behind them, Santa Claus was still yelling.

Their footfalls echoed on the iron-runged staircase.

The second-floor corridor opened almost immediately onto a half-wall behind which was a small room with metal filing cabinets, desks, and chairs. An American flag hung on the far wall, smaller than the one over the muster desk downstairs. A wooden cabinet with glass-paneled doors was against the wall under the flag. The inside of the cabinet was stacked with books. Its top was decorated with departmental trophies from when the room was used as part of the clerical office. The room, at ten o’clock on a cold night in December, was empty. A handsomely painted sign set high on the half-wall read — first in Chinese and then in English:

The Chinatown Project had been started initially to assist Chinese-speaking citizens with criminal complaints. Civilians speaking Chinese were now available at the precinct on a twenty-four-hour basis, but nowadays they seemed to be helping the residents of Chinatown with all their problems, including photocopying. A hand-lettered sign taped to the lower part of the half-wall read:

Reardon and Hoffman turned to the right.

They had both been turning to the right for a good many years now.

To the right was a doorway over which hung a sign reading:

An arrow was under the sign. It pointed to the left.

A smaller sign was beneath the arrow:

There was another arrow on this sign, and it too pointed to the left.

The detectives walked through the doorway and turned to the left.

This was home to them for a goodly part of each day. Up the staircase, turn to the right, walk through the doorway, turn to the left and into the small office that housed the Precinct Investigating Unit, a title now nonoperative. One of these days, Reardon thought, somebody is going to change the signs around here. Meanwhile, the 5th Precinct Investigating Unit was now known as the 5th P.D.U., which stood for 5th Precinct Detective Unit, but anybody who answered the telephone said, “Fifth Squad,” as a hangover habit from the old days. The NYPD changed its titles, and its rules and regulations, and its procedures as often as it changed its underwear. The only thing that never changed was the look of a squadroom. Detective squadrooms looked the same in every precinct in the city, no matter what they were called. Flaked and peeling apple green paint. Grilles over all the windows. The windows themselves encrusted with the grime of — in the case of the Fifth — more than a century. Bulletin boards with wanted notices. Clipboards hanging from nails on the walls. Metal filing cabinets: DO NOT REMOVE ANY FILE WITHOUT PERMISSION. An electric wall clock with a dangling wire leading to a wall outlet. Naked hanging light bulbs. No detention cage here in the Fifth’s squadroom; that was downstairs. Three teams of detectives worked out of this room, day and night. Four men to a team, day and night. This room never rested. This room was home to Hoffman and Reardon and ten other detectives like them. There were fifteen men working out of the Detective Unit: a lieutenant, two gold-shield sergeants, one Detective/1st Grade, one 2nd Grade, and ten 3rd Grades.

Detective Gianelli was on the phone when Hoffman and Reardon walked into the room. Detective Ruiz was at another desk, reading. Gianelli was forty years old, with curly black hair, a swarthy Mediterranean complexion, and a handlebar mustache. Ruiz was twenty-eight, light-skinned, as slender as a toreador. Neither of the men greeted Hoffman and Reardon.

“So what do you mean?” Gianelli said into the phone.

“Any calls for me?” Reardon asked Ruiz.

Ruiz did not look up from his book. “Who you expecting?” he asked. “The Commissioner?”

“I don’t want to know about twists, lands, and grooves,” Gianelli said into the phone. “I don’t understand twists, lands, and grooves.”

“Impossible to get a straight answer from this guy,” Reardon said to Hoffman. “Yes or no, Alex?”

“No, your Honor,” Ruiz said.

“All I want to know is what kind of gun it was that fired the bullets,” Gianelli said into the phone. “That’s all I want to know.” He listened. “So okay, tell me then.” he said and picked up a pencil. “Yeah,” he said, writing. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, thanks.” He put the phone back onto its cradle. “These guys at Ballistics give me a song and dance everytime I call,” he said to no one.

“Maybe they know you’re a musician,” Hoffman said.

“I send them some bullets, they start telling me about microscopes.”

“Go blow your horn at them, Gabriel,” Hoffman said.

“Who caught it out there?” Gianelli asked Reardon. “And don’t call me Gabriel,” he said to Hoffman.

“Guy named Ralph D’Annunzio,” Reardon said. “Owns the Luna Mare.”

“On Mulberry?” Ruiz asked, looking up from his book.

“Yeah.”

“My name is Arthur,” Gianelli said. “My mother calls me Arthur, my father calls me Arthur, the whole fuckin’ world calls me Arthur. Only in this shithouse does anybody call me Gabriel.”

“Sorry, Gabe,” Hoffman said, and winked at Reardon.

“He just opened that a few weeks ago,” Ruiz said. “Around Thanksgiving sometime.”

“You know him?” Reardon asked.

“I ate there once,” Ruiz said, and went back to his book. He was reading Cary and Eisenberg on corporations.

“Sixteen years playing trumpet for the NYPD band,” Gianelli said, “nobody called me Gabriel. Only in this shithouse...”

“You shouldn’t have been such a hero, Gabe,” Hoffman said.

“I was stopping for gas!” Gianelli said.

“You shouldn’t have stopped for gas, Gabe,” Hoffman said.

“Who knew there was an armed robbery going down in there? Rotten thief smashed my lip and ruined my career.”

“Ah, but you made the arrest,” Hoffman said. “That’s what counts.”

“Who needed the arrest? Who needed Detective/Third? I was happy playing trumpet. Now I’m here in this shithouse listening to a bunch of wise guys calling me Gabriel.”

“Better here than the South Bronx,” Ruiz said, looking up. “Who shot him?” he asked Reardon.

“Couple of guys wearing ski masks,” Reardon said. “Is the lieutenant in?”

“On the phone with Headquarters,” Ruiz said. “The Great White Feather does not like homicides in his precinct, Bry. You shouldn’ta caught a homicide tonight.”

“Was that Santa Claus I saw downstairs?” Gianelli asked.

“That was Andy Bertuzzi,” Hoffman said, “one of your paisans. Best shoplifter in the precinct.”

“If he’s the best, how come he got caught?” Gianelli said.

“If you want to read, go to the library,” Hoffman said to Ruiz. “I need that typewriter.”

“I need a law degree,” Ruiz said, getting up.

“Next governor of the state here,” Hoffman said.

“Four semesters to go,” Ruiz said, and took a chair across the room as Hoffman sat behind the typewriter.

“What’s your game plan, Alex? Lawyer, then assistant D.A...”

“You said it yourself,” Ruiz said. “First Puerto Rican governor of the state.”

“Are you sure I didn’t get a call?” Reardon asked.

“Positive,” Ruiz said.

Hoffman began typing. “I’ll do the paperwork,” he said. “Why don’t you go see her, Bry?”

“First I want to fill in the lieutenant,” Reardon said.

“Ah, finalmente,” Gianelli said, opening his arms wide to the doorway. A ten-year-old Chinese kid stood in the doorframe, grinning into the room, his arms laden with brown paper bags. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, and what appeared to be at least three sweaters, one over the other, all in different colors.

“What took you so long, Tommy?” Gianelli asked.

“Busy night, Captain,” Tommy said.

“Good, I’m starved,” Hoffman said, and got up from behind the typewriter.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Gianelli said. “I didn’t order for you guys.”

“Did you bring chopsticks?” Hoffman asked.

“I forgot chopsticks,” Tommy said.

“I didn’t order chopsticks,” Gianelli said. “You guys are supposed to be out on a fuckin’ murder.”

“We’re back, Gabriel,” Hoffman said. “Share and share alike.”

“Listen, you guys...”

Ruiz was already digging into one of the bags. “Where’s the fried rice?” he asked.

“Give the man his arroz con pollo,” Hoffman said.

“Give the man his chopsticks,” Ruiz said, “before he steals a pair.”

“You know who this man is?” Gianelli said.

“Sure,” Tommy said. “He’s Detective Hoffman.”

“Good kid, Tommy.” Hoffman said, tousling his hair. “But next time, don’t forget the chopsticks.”

“He’s Detective/First Grade...”

“First Grade, Tommy,” Ruiz said.

“... Charles Hoffman,” Gianelli said, “who nine years ago broke the biggest armed robbery case this city ever had.”

“Yeah. Mr. Hoffman?” Tommy said, wide-eyed.

“Detective Hoffman, please,” Gianelli said.

“Detective First/Grade Hoffman,” Ruiz said.

“Don’t give the kid a bunch of bullshit,” Hoffman said.

“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in that robbery,” Gianelli said.

“Wow,” Tommy said.

“Three hundred and fifty grand, kid,” Ruiz said.

“In used bills,” Gianelli said.

“Used bills,” Ruiz said.

“And guess what, Tommy?” Gianelli said. “The money disappeared.”

“Vanished,” Ruiz said.

“Gone with the wind,” Gianelli said. “The day Detective Hoffman quits the force, every cop in this city’s gonna start following him.”

“So they can find the stash, Tommy,” Ruiz said.

Grinning, Reardon said. “Where’d you hide all those bills, Chick?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hoffman said. But he was not smiling.

“Richest man in New York here,” Reardon said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hoffman said again.

“Pass the ribs,” Gianelli said.

The door to the lieutenant’s office opened.

Detective-Lieutenant Michael Thomas Farmer, fifty-five years old, iron-gray hair receding at the forehead, shirtsleeves rolled up to his biceps, blue eyes flashing, a deep scowl on his leathery face, stood in the doorframe.

“Come on in, Reardon,” he said, and saw the men eating. “What the hell is this, a restaurant?” he asked. “You want to eat, go upstairs to the rec room. You get out of here,” he said to Tommy. “Go play mah-jongg.” He turned abruptly and limped back into his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Great White Feather on warpath,” Ruiz whispered.

“Put the wagons in a circle, Bry,” Gianelli said, and took out his wallet. “What do we owe you?” he asked Tommy. Reardon already had his hand on the knob to the lieutenant’s office. “I’ll let you know what yours comes to,” he said as Reardon opened the door.

A large map of the precinct dominated one wall of the lieutenant’s office:

The room itself was a virtual cubicle, a grilled window to the left of the single cluttered desk, clipboards hanging on the wall behind the desk, a yellowing refrigerator against the wall opposite the door. Farmer was at the refrigerator when Reardon came in. He took a container of milk from it, poured a glass full to the brim, put the container back into the refrigerator, and carried the glass of milk back to his desk. He did not ask Reardon to sit. He shoved some papers aside, making room for the glass, and then said, without preamble, “I just got a call from Captain Healy at the lab. Seems a Detective Bryan Reardon of this precinct stopped one of his techs from fingerprinting a homicide victim.” He sipped at the milk, pulled a face. “I hate milk,” he said. “That true, Reardon?”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said.

“Rules and regs call for the fingerprinting of any homicide or suicide victim,” Farmer said.

“Yes, sir. But the man’s wife and son were there. They were upset to begin with, so I thought...”

“I don’t like getting calls from captains,” Farmer said.

“The man was shot down in their presence, sir. The mother and the son.”

“I don’t like departmental rank telling me I’m not running my squad by

the book.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to tell you something, Reardon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want you to listen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you like to know why I limp? Would you like to know how I got this game leg?”

“I think I know how you got the limp, sir.”

“I’ll tell you how I got this limp,” Farmer said, as if he hadn’t heard Reardon. “Some dumb jerk didn’t go by the book, that’s how I got this limp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was supposed to post the color of the day, the color was blue, Reardon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was supposed to put a blue feather in my hatband so some dumb patrolman wouldn’t mistake me for a cheap thief. And this clerk who didn’t go by the book, he posted the color as white. So I put a white feather in my hatband, and some dumb patrolman did shoot me, and that’s how I got this limp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you understand that, Reardon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard that story before?”

“Yes, sir, that’s how I understood you got the limp.”

“And the desk job. Because of the limp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think I want a desk job?”

“No, sir.”

“You think I want an ulcer? You think I want to drink milk, which I hate?”

“No, sir.”

“If the regs call for a homicide victim to be printed, then by Christ the victim will be printed or you’ll be walking a fuckin’ beat on Staten Island! Do you think you’ve got that, Reardon?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve got it.”

“Get that body fingerprinted. And let me see your report as soon as it’s typed.”

“Chick’s working on it now, sir.”

“Tell him,” Farmer said. “I don’t like unsolved murders in my precinct.”

“No, sir, none of us do.”

“Tell him,” Farmer said in dismissal.

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said, and went to the door.

Hoffman looked up as he came out into the squadroom.

“He wants the body printed,” Reardon said. “Can you get the morgue on it right away?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hoffman said. “Go on, get out of here.”

“What about Santa?”

“I’ll take care of him, too.”

“You owe me two and a half bucks,” Gianelli said.

Reardon took out his wallet.

“You sure you can handle this alone?” he said.

“Go already,” Hoffman said.

The locker rooms were on the third floor of the station house. A toilet for policemen and another toilet for policewomen were on that same floor. Reardon washed his hands and face at the sink in the men’s toilet, and then headed for the locker room to change out of his working clothes and into his street clothes. The locker rooms were behind a combined recreation room/training room with a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, a weightlifting rack, and a large TV set — ostensibly there for the showing of departmental films, but tuned now to one of the local channels. A uniformed cop was shooting solitary pool as Reardon crossed the room.

On the television screen, the anchorman was saying, “... taped earlier tonight at the Sotheby gallery. Julio?”

Another man came onto the screen.

“We’re here on York Avenue,” he said, “where they are about to auction perhaps the finest and most extensive collection of Impressionist art in the world. The owner, Robert Sargent Kidd, is here with us at Sotheby’s...” The camera panned to where a man in Western gear and a white Stetson hat was standing. The interviewer joined him as a title flashed across the bottom of the screen.

“Mr. Kidd.” the interviewer said, “can you tell us why you’ve decided to sell your collection at this time?”

“Oh, just tired of it, I guess,” Kidd said, grinning.

“Eight ball in the side pocket,” the cop at the pool table said to himself. He fired at the cue ball, said, “Very good, Tony. Ten ball in the corner,” and shot again. “Excellent, Tony,” he said, “we’re putting you in for a commendation.” Looking up, he said, “Watch this one, Bry. Six ball in the corner, off the three.” He shot and missed. “Shit,” he said.

A beautiful blonde woman was on the television screen now.

“Miss Kidd,” the interviewer said, “how do you feel about your brother selling all these valuable paintings?”

Another title appeared on the bottom of the screen:

The camera was close on the blonde’s face now.

“My brother’s paintings are my brother’s business,” she said. “It’s his collection, he can do with it as he wishes.”

“Turn that off, willya, Bry?” the cop said. “It’s ruinin’ my game.”

Reardon moved to the television set.

“When do you expect you’ll be going back to Phoenix, Miss Kidd?” the interviewer asked.

“I have no idea,” the blonde said, and Reardon turned off the set.

Reardon knew this hospital well.

St. Vincent’s. Seventh Avenue and Eleventh Street. Right in the heart of the Sixth Precinct, which ran north-south from West Fourteenth to Houston, and east-west from Broadway to the Hudson — sort of adjoining the Fifth at its northwest corner. Waited out here for her more times than he could count. Cold winter nights like this one, where even the traffic seemed frozen in a stop-time crawl, sweltering summer nights with the fire hydrants open up the street and the kids romping in swimsuits under the spray. Autumn nights, when you wanted to kiss the star-drenched sky. And the spring, the scents of this city in the springtime, the scent of Kathy in the spring. Waited here to walk her home or to take her for a cappuccino or a beer farther downtown in the Village. Waited for her to step out of this gray-white building — what was now part of the Emergency wing, but what used to be the main building, the only building, in fact, before they started expanding in red brick next door and across the street — the sight of her in her nurse’s uniform, blonde head bent as she came down the steps, lines of weariness around her blue eyes, his heart leaping each time he saw her. Her shifts were like a patrolman’s — eight to four, or four to midnight, or sometimes the graveyard shift from midnight to eight A.M. — and he’d be here waiting for her, the way he was waiting now, waiting to take her hand in his and kiss the weariness from her eyes. He sometimes wondered whether it wasn’t tougher dealing with sick people than it was with criminals. All that pain and suffering. Nurses burned out as easily as cops, he was sure of that.

If she’d been relieved on time, same as cops, fifteen minutes before the hour, she should be coming through those doors at the top of the steps any—

There.

Kathy.

Blonde head characteristically ducked, that pensive look on her freckled Irish face, little white nurse’s cap a bit askew, black cape billowing over the white uniform under it, slender, well-shaped legs in the white, flat nurse’s shoes, his heart leaped.

“Kathy?” he said.

She was coming down the steps, almost to the sidewalk now. The traffic light on the corner changed, tinting the white cap red. She blinked at him, surprised, and squinted into the gloom.

“Hello, Bryan,” she said.

No enthusiasm in her voice. The formal name “Bryan.” Her voice dead.

He fell into step beside her.

“I’ve been calling all day long,” he said. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

“Yes, I got your messages,” she said. “And I wish you’d stop trying to...”

“We’re still married,” he said. “You could at least return...”

She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

“The lawyers don’t want any private communication between us,” she said. “The lawyers...”

“Fuck the lawyers,” he said.

“All right, fuck the lawyers,” she said. “I don’t want any private communication, either. I thought I made that clear to you.”

She nodded once, briefly, punctuating the sentence, driving the point home with the nod. Her eyes met his, challengingly. Do you understand? her eyes said. Is it clear now? She began walking again, turning the corner onto Seventh Avenue, heading uptown. The night was very cold. A fierce wind hit them the minute they turned the corner. They walked side by side in silence, their shoulders hunched, the cape flapping wildly around her, like a bat caught in the wind.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” he said.

“I don’t have to answer that.” she said.

“Yes, you do. She’s my daughter. Where is she? I’ve been calling the apartment, there’s no answer there.”

“Talk to my lawyer,” Kathy said flatly.

“I’m talking to you. Where’s my daughter?”

She did not answer him.

“Kathy, what have you done with her?” he said.

“She’s in Jersey, all right?” she said, sighing.

“Where? With your parents?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell is she doing there?”

“I’m working again. You know that. I can’t find baby-sitters who’ll put up with the different shifts I have to...”

“Why didn’t you discuss this with me?”

“Why? Is somebody on the squad moonlighting as a sitter?”

“I have a right to know what plans you make for my daughter.”

“Our daughter.” Kathy said. “And I’m not sure you do have that right.”

They were approaching Fourteenth Street now, the subway entrance with its orange globes on the corner, the Chemical Bank behind it. The bus stop was on Fourteenth itself. She would catch the M-14 there, and it would take her crosstown to First Avenue — if she was heading home. He did not know if she was heading home. He reached for her arm.

“Kathy,” he said, “can’t we just...?”

She pulled away at once, as though burned by his touch. They stood facing each other.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She did not answer him.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“Where do you think? Home.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“Kathy... what’s happening? Can you please tell me what’s...”

“We’re getting a divorce,” she said. “I thought you knew.”

“I mean... Jesus, do we have to snarl at each other like animals?” People were coming up out of the subway now, a train must have just pulled in. They stood looking at each other as a crowd of strangers streamed past them into the night. The wind was fierce. Their eyes were watering. She kept searching his face.

At last she sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Bry. This is as difficult for me as it is for you.”

“No, I don’t think it is,” he said.

“Believe me.”

“Then call it off.”

“No.”

“Let’s pretend it’s eight years ago, Kath. Let’s pretend you’re just out of Bellevue Nursing, and I’m a young cop investigating...”

“Bry, don’t. Please.”

“Do you remember that day?” he said.

Softly, she said, “I remember it.”

“Detective Bryan Reardon, Miss,” he said, re-enacting the moment for her. “I understand you were in the grocery store when the...”

“Please,” she said.

“... robbery took place.” he said, his voice trailing. He looked into her eyes. “We might not have met at all,” he said. “It was pure chance that...”

“I’m sorry we did,” she said.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean it.”

“Kathy,” he said, “I don’t want this divorce.”

“I do,” she said, and turned to start for the corner.

“Kathy, wait,” he said. “Please.”

She hesitated.

“Look at me,” he said.

She would not meet his eyes. Her head was ducked against the wind. She kept staring past his shoulder, down the avenue.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t love me anymore,” he said.

She raised her head. A sharp gust of wind almost lifted the nurse’s cap from where it was pinned to her blonde hair. Her left hand came up, caught it in time. He saw that she no longer wore her wedding band.

“I don’t love you anymore,” she said.

“Kathy,” he said, “honey...”

“I don’t love you, Bry,” she said, more firmly this time, and started to turn again. “Goodnight,” she said.

He reached for her at once, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Don’t touch me!” she said sharply, pulling away from him so fiercely that she almost lost her balance.

He backed off, his hands dropping. She glared at him for a moment, her face contorted, oh, Jesus, that beautiful Irish phizz. And then, without another word, she turned and went around the corner, out of sight.

He stood looking after her.

Then he put his hands in his pockets and walked off.