Victims (6 page)

To a degree, her mother was right.

Miranda could not decide, however, whether it was because of herself and her actions or because of the most totally unanticipated good fortune that she, Miranda Torres, for the first time in her life, had a powerful protector.

When they worked together, Miranda Torres hadn’t even known that her partner, Kevin Collins, had a brother. They rarely discussed family. He knew that she was divorced; that her son lived with his father in Florida. He knew that there was a man in her life, some trouble recently, and that she lived in a small, neat apartment in Astoria, Queens. She knew that he was a widower, that his children were grown, married, scattered across the country.

She liked working with Collins. He was very different from the hard-nosed Irish she had encountered before. They were an exceptionally good narcotics team. There was a great deal of the actor in Kevin. He played his various roles with such zest, he seemed to truly
be
whoever he presented himself as.

There were times when Miranda felt a little tense with Kevin, a little worried. There were times when he seemed more than just into his role, more than enthusiastic—times when he seemed so excited, so exuberant, so taken with whatever game he was playing, that he forgot the danger, the realness. He seemed to slip over some invisible line, then quickly pull himself back again, very close to the edge. It had been happening more and more lately, and when she tried to talk to him about it he brushed it off and told her to stay loose and play the game.

Of course it wasn’t a game. It was very real, and people got killed. One careless slip was all it took, and Kevin brought them perilously close at times. Close, but Kevin always managed to pull off the caper.

They were a great undercover team. They made contacts, connections, gathered intelligence and floated off. They set things up and drifted. There was enough territory and they took on enough identities to build up an extraordinary record.

Then Kevin began to quiet down. And down and down until he became almost motionless.

At first, Miranda thought he was on something. It seemed unlikely, but always possible. She approached it directly. She had an absolute right—her life was literally in his hands. She couldn’t work with a partner on drugs.

No. He was fine. Just down in the dumps. Nothing special. Probably needed a vacation. It would be okay.

They had a long weekend off. Miranda had spent the whole time alone, thinking, trying to come to some decisions; she was at a crossroads. She was at the end of four years with a man she no longer wanted to know or be with, and she had mixed feelings of sadness and relief.

The knock on her door was very soft, almost a scratching sound. The voice wasn’t familiar.

“Miranda. Open the door. Please, Miranda. I need help.”

It was Kevin. He had never been to her apartment before. He looked terrible. The forty-three-year-old man seemed to have aged twenty years. The look in his eyes was one of terror. He had seen something so horrible that his eyes seemed forever fixed on it: he had seen his own nightmares.

“Take my gun,” he said in a grating voice, drawing his .38 snubnose out of its holster and handing it to her, butt first. “Just take it. I came so close. I don’t even know why I’m... Get Johnny... Or give me the gun. I’ll leave... I’ll leave.” He was agitated, plucking at his clothing, then at his skin, seeming not to realize the difference.

“Kevin, what are you on? Just tell me and I’ll get help.” She broke open the revolver and dumped the cartridges onto the floor.

He reached for her, his hands bit into her shoulders. “No. Nothing. You don’t understand, Miranda. Here. Wait.
Here!”
He dug out a scrap of paper with the name “John” and a telephone number on it. “Call John. Tell him. Miranda, where can I hide from... from myself?”

He looked around wildly, pulled open the bathroom door, closed it, found a closet. He crept quietly to the floor of the closet and whispered, “I’ll stay here. It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

“It’ll be all right, Kevin. It’ll be all right.”

She dialed the number, and on the second ring a sharp, tight, suspicious voice answered. It sounded like a cop’s voice.

“Yes? Who is this?”

“Is this John?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

She wasn’t sure how to get into this. She didn’t know whom she was talking to or what was wrong with Kevin.

“This is a friend. Of Kevin’s.”

“You’re a friend of Kevin’s?”

“Yes.”

“Just a minute.”

She heard some off-the-phone conversation. The person who had answered was obviously in charge. He dismissed someone and then he got back to her.

“Where are you?”

Again she hesitated. Then she took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know who you are. Or...”

“It’s all right. I’m Kevin’s brother. Kevin Collins, right? That’s whom you’re calling about, right? Well, tell me where he is and I will get there.”

She gave him her address.

“What’s his condition?”

He didn’t sound surprised when she told him. Miranda had the impression that this was something he had been expecting or had gone through before.

“All right. Wait a minute. Astoria. Where the hell is that, in Brooklyn? No, in Queens, right? How do I get there? From the East Side.”

He was at her apartment within twenty-five minutes. When she opened the door and looked at him, she felt a thrill of recognition. She knew she knew him from somewhere, from television, the movies, newspapers, from somewhere.

Then she realized. She had voted for him in the last election. Kevin’s brother was the junior U.S. Senator from the state of New York: John F. Collins.

An aide came with him, and they took Kevin away. The Senator told Miranda, “I’ll get back to you, Miranda, as soon as we get Kevin settled in.”

“Settled in? Where? What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain it later. May I... may I come back later? You’re entitled to an explanation, and I want to tell you exactly what’s going on with Kevin.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Kevin Collins was a manic-depressive, presently in a severe depressive swing. He had been functioning for years without serious problems, under medication, and in the care of a psychiatrist. For some reason, he had recently stopped all medication. He had first gone through a modified manic cycle, then gradually he had slid down into a despair he could never describe. It took a great deal of desperate, forced energy and determination for Kevin to go to Miranda. For whatever reason, he could not bring himself to call his brother. The Senator got him into a discreet treatment program upstate, and the word was that Kevin Collins had a drinking problem and was drying out.

The Police Department could understand and accept alcoholism. That was the way things were. Psychiatric problems on the other hand, could not be admitted, condoned or accepted. Jesus, imagine getting on the witness stand and having some attorney ask you, “Officer, when was your last visit to the nut house and what was your problem? And what does your shrink say about your condition now, you screwball?”

The Senator told Miranda that he and Kevin had the same father, different mothers. No one knew that Detective Kevin Collins was the older half brother of the popular, respected, ambitious Senator. It had been Kevin’s decision, and John had respected it. Any smoothing John ever had to do to protect his brother had been done through complicated channels. No one knew the connection.

Except Miranda, now.

The Senator was a chain smoker. He lit a fresh cigarette from the glow of his last. Inhaled deeply, blew the smoke up and away from his face. He was a handsome man, a more carefully sculptured version of his brother. There was something theatrical about him. He was accustomed to being watched closely, and his gestures, his pauses, his quick smile and studied attentiveness were all very effective. He was an energetic man, but suddenly he seemed to run out of effort. He seemed to collapse with weariness, to lose the easy ability to display a certain, particular façade. In Miranda’s small neat apartment, exhausted by the emotional demands made on him this night, he realized he had no need to present any particular aspect to this girl. He stubbed out his latest cigarette, and when he looked up at her Miranda was startled by his resemblance to his brother. The Senator had a wounded, vulnerable look.

“Miranda, I am in your debt. Totally.”

She sensed his anxiety and told him, “Kevin has been my partner and my friend. We learned to trust and rely on each other. There is a matter of great discretion involved. It is always that way: trust and discretion. I wish only that he becomes healthy again, that he does not suffer the way I saw him suffer tonight. And,” she added carefully, “I consider that a private and confidential matter altogether.”

“Miranda, the telephone number that my brother had you call. It is unlisted. He is the only one who uses it. It is his direct line to me. I have a system, a feed-in, so that, wherever I am, if that number is activated the fact is revealed to me and I pick up the recorded message and get back to him. Until tonight, Kevin’s was the only voice I ever heard on that line.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet and wrote the number on the back of it. “I want you to have the same access. If, at any time, for any reason whatsoever, you feel the need of my friendship, call the number. Whenever, Miranda, day or night, twenty-four hours a day. I will return your call. Because I know that
if
you call, it will be a
very serious matter.
And I will be privileged to respond.”

She took the card and nodded. Her mouth went dry. She had never been in the presence of such power before. She had never been the recipient of such a gift before. She had never expected anything like this—never.

His voice, his tone, his manner changed. He became crisp, light, as though merely mouthing polite words as he asked her: What were her ambitions? What would she like her life to be like if given a choice? He understood she had a bachelor’s from John Jay. Was she interested in perhaps teaching in the field someday?

Law school, she said softly. Surprised at herself. It had been in the back of her mind, never had she said it.

“That’s a good thing, to get a law degree. What are you doing about it?”

“Well, not yet. Not for a while. There is time.”

“Yes. Right. Well, Miranda, when you decide to apply to law school, let me know.” He waved his hand casually. “You leave a message at my
office
for that, and I’ll get back to you.” He made the distinction between his office number and his private number sharply clear.

“Senator,” she said carefully, “I will never use the number you have given me except for some very...
very
special reason.” She paused, shook her head. “I will
never
use it, but I will know that I
have it
and
can
use it. And that gives me a very special feeling.”

He slipped out of his public character again as he took her hand and looked down directly into her eyes.

“Miranda. Thank you. For my brother’s life. You use the phone number whenever you feel you must. Without reservations. I promise you, I will be there for you as you were there for my brother.”

She had never spoken to him again. About anything.

She was told in her squad office that Kevin Collins had gone on sick leave. After a few weeks, she heard he had put in his papers. Twenty-two years on the job were enough. She had been assigned to office duty, awaiting a new partner and a new assignment.

Her promotion to detective second grade, while deserved, was not really expected. It was handled routinely, with other squad promotions. No one behaved in any particular, special manner toward her. There was the usual squad griping, complaining, gloating, puzzling, gossiping, muttering and congratulating.

Immediately after the promotion ceremony, Miranda was reassigned: to Forest Hills. The land of the decent people, as safe and pleasant and clean and convenient an assignment as anyone could wish. She was near home. Her working hours fell into a regular pattern, so she could begin to think about taking some courses. Prelaw; possibly at St. John’s. A whole new opportunity had opened up and she wasn’t sure. She was certain, but not certain. She didn’t know whom to thank, or whether thanks were appropriate. She studied his card a few times, thought about it. She knew there was a certain protocol in these matters, but she had never been privy to anything like this before. She played it by instinct. She accepted her good fortune without comment. For the time being.

The 112th Precinct in Forest Hills had no relation to previous assignments. It was a different world: what was taken for granted in East Harlem was a big deal in Forest Hills. She sensed the air of excitement, the energy, the newness among her colleagues. This was an unusual case: a murder. This was not just another dead body, routine assignment, routine questions and routine answers; routine games, blank stares, monotone denials, whispered requests for a deal. This was Forest Hills, and most of the people she was working with—at least the younger police officers—had little or no experience with this kind of violence. The Homicide Squad was another matter—death was their business. But the squad men, even those with a long time on the job, were not familiar on a daily basis with this kind of violence.

Miranda sorted copies of all the reports to which she had access into a neat file. To give to Mr. Mike Stein.

She wondered, absently, what that was all about.

T
HEY SAT IN A
coffee shop and she wondered how Mike Stein could take such large swallows of the steaming coffee. She sipped her iced tea and watched him.

He had a strong weathered face with heavy dark brows over pale-blue eyes, a strong nose, a wide mouth that seemed on the verge of grinning, if not with amusement, then with secret knowledge. He had the kind of white hair that must have happened very early in his life. It was thick, casually styled, falling over his wide forehead. Despite the heavy frown lines, there was something boyish about him, a sense of expectation, adventure, discovery. He was an attractive man and a smart man and she knew she must be very careful with him. Careful in many ways.