Victims (8 page)

“Now,” she said, ready. “You are Detective Torres? How do you do?”

She stood up, leaned across the desk. Her handshake was strong and her eyes went directly to Miranda’s, studied, measured, examined. She was making evaluations, entirely aware that Miranda was doing the same thing.

“What is it I can tell you? What is it you want to know about Anna Grace?”

Miranda wanted, first, time of arrival and time of departure Wednesday night. Reason for not staying through her tour of duty. And some general information: what kind of woman was Anna Grace, had she been having difficulty with anyone, any enemies, any love affairs? Any reason, no matter how improbable, why anyone would want to hurt, attack, kill the young nurse.

On Wednesday, August 17, Anna Grace reported for duty at 10
P.M.
Her normal tour was midnight to 8
A.M.,
for this week Anna Grace was putting in two extra hours to accommodate a friend.

“One of the nurses’ husband is an entertainer. A singer; he got a gig at the Bottom Line,” Dr. Ruggiero said casually. “That’s big time; even
I
know that. Janice, Janice Young, wanted to be sure to be in the audience, so Anna covered for her last two hours. The nurses do that. They are a good group here. Very close. They are devastated by what’s happened. No, Anna Grace had no enemies. It seems a cliché, what everyone says about a person who’s died, but in Anna Grace’s case it is the truth. She was one of a kind. A warm, loving, concerned, caring...

Dr. Ruggiero dug her fingers into her eyes, shook her head, sniffed. She shrugged.

“There have been a lot of tears shed around here since we heard what happened. Okay, in answer to your question: no known enemies; no difficulties with anyone; and possibility of a lover, unknown to anyone, no way. Positively no. That girl was so in love with her fireman. They were very special, Detective Torres. A team. Very square kids for the eighties. Engagement; church wedding; didn’t live together until it was legal. A religious girl; dedicated nurse; a loving and loved young wife. A wonderful daughter.”

Dr. Ruggiero stood up suddenly. Her hands plucked restlessly at the snaps on her white jacket. She moved to the window, turned her back on Miranda, dropped her face to her hands. Just one sob escaped, then she turned around. All her movements were fast, efficient. She leaned her hands on her desk and waited for Miranda’s questions.

When Miranda asked why Anna Grace had left the hospital after less than an hour on duty Wednesday night, Dr. Ruggiero changed before her eyes. Her face stiffened, her mouth drew back, her eyes glared and her voice was filled with anger.

“If
I
had been on duty Wednesday night—which I wasn’t because my daughter was giving birth out on Long Island—Anna would have spent the night here, in the hospital.”

Miranda was surprised. Dr. Ruggiero continued quickly, brushing aside any questions with a wave of her hand.

“She would have spent the night in bed, under observation. Dr.
Ahmed,
who filled in for me, is, in my opinion,
careless.
He floats off on some mystical trips of his own. Forgive me. The relationship between us is very bitter. So accept that as a given. But his carelessness in allowing Anna to leave,
knowing
she was going to drive a car, in her condition—this is a professional observation—was inexcusable.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. My information is that Anna Grace developed a bad headache and asked to be excused. That she stopped off at her mother’s apartment in Forest Hills rather than continue to Little Neck.”

“Yes. All right. On the face of the available information, perhaps I’m too hard on Dr. Ahmed. I don’t know. What happened to Anna is so terrible, so ironic. Dr. Ahmed says ‘it was written.’ All right? Get the picture?”

“No. Not really. Why would you have been so concerned about a headache?”

Dr. Ruggiero shot back, “Because the headache was indicative of a possibly serious problem. Because Anna had been having certain symptoms: the headaches, which were increasing; a certain loss of feeling, momentarily, in her arms and legs; a stiffness in her neck; blackouts lasting no more than a few seconds, but which left her confused and out of sync. All right, I’ll be fair, Dr. Ahmed didn’t know about
all
of these symptoms, but I’m willing to bet that as Anna presented herself Wednesday night, had he been paying attention, had he
really
looked at her...No. It wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose...You see, our Dr. Ahmed doesn’t particularly care for American ‘girls.’ He probably thought she was just trying to get a night off. I’ll bet he never even
attempted
to examine her. And I’ll tell you, it would have to be a pretty intense headache for any of our nurses, and particularly Anna, to ask to be relieved after less than an hour on duty.
That
he
should
have known.”

“Dr. Ruggiero, what was your concern, about Anna’s headaches?”

Dr. Ruggiero raised her hands, palms up. “What difference does it make now? Maybe he’s right, that bastard, maybe it is
written
somewhere, but what a rotten entry for Anna. All right, I knew about her symptoms and I was trying to talk her into taking these headaches and the other symptoms more seriously. I wanted to schedule her for a CAT scan. Something was going on.”

“What did you think you might find?”

Again, the shrug. What difference now? What difference? Who knows?

“Actually, what does it matter?”

“I’m curious,” Miranda admitted.

Dr. Ruggiero sat back, laced her hands over her flat stomach, regarded Miranda thoughtfully.

“Not idle curiosity. I can see that. Well, I was concerned about a brain tumor. I think Anna was concerned, too, but even the most intelligent, knowledgeable person in the world sometimes doesn’t really want to know. Maybe yes, maybe no. If yes, maybe operable, maybe not. A lot of maybes, and now it’s all just one big so what? Right?”

“Why do you suppose she stopped off in Forest Hills, instead of continuing home?”

“I imagine she realized she was in big trouble, or else she would have continued home to Little Neck. Instead of stopping off in Forest Hills. Where some lunatic rendered the whole thing academic.”

Miranda started to speak, then stopped.

Dr. Ruggiero said, “Go ahead. Ask.”

“As you say, it’s academic. But... do you think, if she
had
gotten to her mother’s apartment...what do you think
might
have happened?”

“If this monster hadn’t attacked her, if she had arrived safe and sound in her mother’s keeping—there very well might have been a medical emergency for Anna Grace Wednesday night. Maybe a...small explosion in the brain. An aneurysm. Something bad was under way.” She paused. “I guess it is indeed written. I just don’t happen to like the book.”

A
S THEY SAT IN
his car, parked on Metropolitan Avenue, Miranda waited while Mike Stein checked through his notebook, adjusted his tape recorder, then glanced around. This was new territory for him. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was. Finally he caught her expression.

“Something on your mind, Detective Torres?”

“Yes. I want to clarify something before we continue.”

She ignored his expression, the patronizing, indulgent smile.

“Mr. Stein, you do not have any interest at all in who killed this woman. Am I correct? This is not a matter of any particular interest to you.”

“Absolutely not. It doesn’t make any difference to me, in any way. The girl is dead. Someone killed her. That happens all the time; every how many minutes? How many every hour? Someone somewhere can quote the numbers. My interest is not in the crime or the victim. My interest is in the witnesses.”

“All right. Then let us understand something, between us.”

Again, his slight smile.

“My job,” she told him, “is to find answers. First, who did this thing. Second, why it was done. And, with the knowledge we gain—the police officers on this case—to help see the perpetrator is apprehended. And then turned over to the ‘system.’
That’s
where my responsibility lies.”

“I won’t interfere in any way in your investigation, if that’s what’s on your mind. We won’t be working at cross purposes. Is that what you wanted to clarify, or are you curious, Detective Miranda, about my interest in the witnesses exclusively?”

She opened the door on her side of the car, but before she got out into the bright sunshine she turned back to him.

“I have enough things to be curious about, Mr. Stein, without spending time trying to understand
your
motives. Whatever interests you about this death is your business. So long as your interest doesn’t get in the way of my doing my job.”

Without waiting for his reply, she stepped out of his car and slammed the door.

Mike Stein liked the old-fashioned quality of Metropolitan Avenue. All the buildings were two-story-high taxpayers: shops of all kinds at street level with small apartments upstairs. There were food shops, a grocery store with merchandise arranged somewhat haphazardly, a fish store with a variety of glassy-eyed fish lying on beds of ice in the window.

There was an Italian bakery next to the pharmacy. Its window was stacked high with an assortment of golden loaves, long and narrow, lying against baskets of rolls which were set next to a large aluminum tray overflowing with small seeded cookies and cakes.

There were also craft shops. An upholstery store with a few bolts of faded material in the window. A stained-glass store with a legend in the window:
REPAIRS AND ORIGINAL DESIGNS.
A carpentry store with the sounds of machinery and activity.

Elderly women with string shopping bags walked along the hot sun-soaked street with younger women who pushed contented children in carriages or strollers. Every child seemed to be chewing or sucking on something. There was an air of timelessness, contentment. An air of innocence.

“Is this really part of Forest Hills?” Stein asked Miranda. “This street is in a time warp of some kind.”

“This is a borderline section,” Miranda said. She pointed down the street. “Richmond Hill is that way.” She turned. “Glendale is that way. But this is still a part of Forest Hills.”

“It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”

If he noticed that Miranda was not impressed, he didn’t comment.

“I wonder how long ago the shop owners around here installed all these security gates.”

At the end of the day the street would look like a deserted prison with steel gates covering storefronts and entrances. As they approached the pharmacy, they were not certain if it was open. The security gate was down and the window and the door were nearly obscured. Mike peered inside, then pushed the button and waited for the release click.

A man in a white jacket came to the door, his head thrust forward, his eyes searching. He looked from Mike to Miranda and hesitated, even though they had telephoned before arriving.

Miranda Torres displayed the detective shield she held in her right hand. The pharmacist nodded, pressed a release and allowed them to enter.

“Can’t be too damn careful,” he explained. “Come in. I just gotta finish typing up this label. One minute, okay?”

Mike checked out the high tin ceiling, the old-fashioned globe lights, the built-in wooden shelves behind the counter. Even the small-tiled floor seemed in good condition. The place had to be sixty, seventy years old. There was an elusive, evocative odor he remembered from when he delivered packages for his neighborhood drugstore. The only thing missing was a soda fountain: that would have made it perfect.

“Okay. There. It’s ready whenever they pick up.” The pharmacist, Edward Farmer, leaned his forearms on the glass-topped counter. He was a large, heavy-boned man, a little sweaty in his stiffly starched jacket. He glanced at the tape recorder which Mike Stein set next to his arms, then at Mike, and shrugged. Sure. It was okay with him.

“Mr. Farmer,” Miranda began. “You live at 68-43 Barclay Street in a front apartment? You witnessed what happened last night?”

Mike admired her—no kidding around. She got right to the main event.

Before he could respond, there was a buzzing at the door. Farmer stood up straight, came around the counter, went right up to the door and peered at the woman outside. Then he nodded, held up a finger: just a minute. He got the prescription, released the door, exchanged the prescription for the money, then reactivated the lock.

“Nice, isn’t it?” he turned from the door. “Isn’t this terrific, all these gates and doors and buzzers? Twenty years ago, when I bought this place, it was so nice. A real neighborhood pharmacy, like a small town. You get to know everyone, everyone knows you. They came here for advice, for reassurance, sometimes when they really couldn’t afford a doctor, they just wanted a little reassurance. That was all part of the business. You know, on days like this, in the afternoon when things were slow, shopkeepers used to pull up old kitchen chairs in front of the stores and sit and sun themselves and gossip. This place, this section of Metropolitan Avenue, you know why I bought this place? It was a trip back to my childhood.” He caught the expression of Mike’s face.

“Right, Mr. Stein? Like the thirties.”

“It still has that feeling, Mr. Farmer.”

Mr. Farmer had a round shiny face; a dampish fringe of dark hair surrounded his bald skull. There was a peculiar indentation from the front of his head to the back. He returned to the present and stationed himself behind his counter.

“Mr. Farmer,” Miranda said, “could we get to last night, on Barclay Street? I’d like you to describe what you saw and heard.”

“No,” he said. “No.
First
I want to tell you something.” He pointed to the dent in his head, ran his forefinger into it. “I wasn’t born with this, right?
A bullet did this to me.
In the last few years, this place was held up I don’t know how many times. So okay, they took some money, they were disappointed they didn’t get much. They took some drugs, no big deal. So last year, a year ago February, I was held up by two
schwarzer
punks with guns.”