Kathy read the words on the screen. "I know. You risked your life for him."
April's chin moved from side to side. There hadn't been any heroism involved. Just reflex. He promoted me. He was my rabbi. He brought me along when other people wouldn't. Lot of people thought I was a wimp, a girl. A lesbo Chink.
April finished typing the last two words and flushed. There hadn't been many Chinese cops even in Chinatown a decade ago, but no one had thought very much of them. They were small of stature, insecure in the white culture, had a nerdy look. She'd never revealed her feelings about this to anyone before. Out loud she always said that people were fair, that the old guard was fair. You didn't have to be a guy, and a white guy at that, to get ahead in the Department. But when she was coming up it hadn't been true. Not at all.
"I know how much he admired you," Kathy murmured. "He might have pretended to be a chauvinist, but he wasn't really. He had his prejudices. He didn't like the agency, but he was proud when I was accepted."
April nodded. I'd like your help… . She typed in the dots, hinting without asking outright.
"I understand," Kathy said.
April typed some more. Her fingers were beginning to feel the strain. Look, I don't want anything to disappear from here. Who knows what's here. We need the materials, all of them. His old notebooks, whatever files he has, everything in the computer, in the e-mail file. We can zip it right out. The letters and requests he got. I need to go through everything. We don't want any problems down the line.
"I understand," Kathy repeated. April could see her considering her brother's take on it. There might be things he'd want to hide. But finally she said, "Okay, you have a good resolution record. A hundred percent. I'm glad you're working the case."
April flushed at the misconception. Not a hundred percent at all. Occasionally she didn't solve one.
Kathy sniffed and went on. "At least he wasn't a creep. He wasn't into porno or computer dating or anything like that," she said about her dad.
How do you know? April typed.
"I checked. He had no funny names for the chat rooms. His on-line buddies were all cops, retired cops. He had no girlie files. Probably the only man in America…" Her eyes teared up again.
Bernardino's on-line buddies were all cops. April shivered. She'd have to check them out, every single one of them. Every old army buddy. It was getting late. Bill would be arriving soon. She had a headache. The typing was getting her down.
Zip his computer now, okay? she typed. I'll be back for the written stuff. You could identify his regular contacts. I may need photos. Who knows… maybe we'll get lucky.
Kathy nodded and got up to lead the way. April followed with her laptop and the zip drive.
"He turned Bill's room into an office. You're welcome to it," Kathy said as she picked her way up stairs that were littered with piles of women's clothes and shoes, probably Lorna's. "I'm really sorry about this."
The upstairs hallway looked like an attic, but Bernardino's office was another story. All signs of Bill's adolescence were long gone except for the red-and-green-plaid curtains on the windows and a matching spread on the single sleigh bed. Everything else was perfectly neat. The large office-type desk showed that a tidy adult had worked here. The phone had a blinking message light and caller ID with eighty-three calls stored in it. April's heart thudded with excitement. His whole world was opening. The computer was a Micron with a flat screen. April punched the on button and Windows 98 came up.
Good old Bernardino. Everything on his desk was labeled and arranged just so, his notebooks, stacks of old files, the proposals Kathy had mentioned. Boxes of photos. It looked as if he'd trashed his home life, but had been carefully cataloging his work life. As if for some future reference. Amazing.
"He was a good guy, right?" Kathy said.
April sat down at the desk, cleared the screen, and typed, The best! Then she got to work.
Thirteen
Jack Devereaux's right arm was bent at the elbow, frozen in a cast that pretty much immobilized him right down to the fingertips. Eighteen hours after he'd been treated, assured that he'd be fine, and sent home, pain started chewing him up again. Home was a one-bedroom apartment on the parlor floor of a falling-down town house in the heart of Greenwich Village. It wasn't even the whole floor, just half of it. Twenty-five feet long by sixteen feet wide, broken up into a tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom, and a tiny bedroom, all without windows to the outside, and a living room that faced the street. Jack, Lisa, and Sheba had been living there for a year and a half. Until two weeks ago the couple had felt very lucky indeed to have found a place in such a great neighborhood that they could just about afford.
Now, with an unimaginable fortune heading his way, Jack's concept of the bare essentials was only starting to change. What does a person dream of acquiring when suddenly he can have anything at all in the world he wants? A week ago he'd been thinking of a bigger apartment and a new printer. Now all he wanted was for the pain to stop.
He was settled uncomfortably on the sofa. The sofa had been his mother's, and was a restful tan-and-white tweed number that was long enough to sleep on. It fit snugly in the handsome bay windows with an excellent view of the street, the only windows they had. And even after years of continuous service the sofa still didn't show its age. Jack's computer and desk chair were placed outside the curve of the windows where the room widened. The computer sat on what might have been the dining room table if they ever actually dined, which they didn't.
Until last night, Jack's task had been to accept the gift of sudden enormous wealth that would come when the estate lawyers got through with whatever it was they did. Tonight, as he fought the pain in his arm and shoulders, he tried to adjust to this new twist in his life. He didn't know which made him more uncomfortable, the unexpected riches or the unexpected role of hero. He sat awkwardly on the sofa, propped up by all the pillows off the bed, watching the TV version of his valor. Every word a lie.
Nobody in the hospital had told him that two cops had been attacked, that one was dead and he'd saved the life of the other. Lisa hadn't known it either. But now, despite that cop's promise last night to keep Jack's part in the incident out of the news, the whole world knew it anyway. His picture was on the screen, the same photo they'd used before. And his personal story was back on the front page. Lisa sat beside him, watching with pride and delight.
"Jack, this is so cool. My boss is all over me to sign you," she said excitedly. "You know, he's been talking TV movie. But now it's much bigger than that. You're a phenom."
Jack didn't feel like a phenom, but he cracked a feeble smile for her.
"What can I do for you?" She sat on his left side and squeezed his good hand. "I love you so much."
"Well, just don't leave me," he said. And actually meant it, as if his new persona might actually put her off.
God, my boyfriend turns out to be rich. What a bummer. She smiled at the joke. "Why would I leave when I love the dog?" she said seriously.
Lisa was a petite, dark-haired girl with a pretty face and a knockout figure. They'd met in Washington Square two years ago when she stopped to play with Sheba, the puppy he'd gotten to keep him company and attract pretty girls. Lisa always said she'd fallen for the dog first and him much later. And it was true that he wouldn't have dared talk to her without a subject and certainly wouldn't have fallen in love with her if she hadn't been smitten by the subject, the dog in question.
In fact, Jack loved everything about Lisa but her job. Lisa worked for a top literary agent who screamed at her all the time and wouldn't let her take private phone calls or go to lunch in case an important call came in while she was out. Kingsley Bratte wasn't just a literary agent; he was a famous one, and his name suited him perfectly. Bratte had fired his last assistant just for habitually being five minutes late, so Lisa was always early and never dared to take a day off. Because Jack was in the hospital she'd taken today off, but Kingsley had kept constantly in touch. He'd called her on the cell he'd given her. He'd left messages on their home phone, too, tasks and reminders for things she had to do upon her return tomorrow. He called as if it hadn't sunk into his selfish brain that she didn't need his job anymore. And of course he called constantly, asking to speak to Jack: possible new client with a great story to tell.