In the last note he sent—”
“Slow down just a little, Miss Heller. I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.”
. . .
There was somehow no question, Lateef would say later, of leaving her at the Department. She took it as a given that he’d bring her. It’s certainly not unheard-of, he reminded himself, following her almost bashfully into the hall. She might easily prove useful, if only to make a positive ID. But what struck him most, both then and afterward, was that the agreement was entirely unspoken: it was as natural a thing as turning off the light. He’d no more have thought of stopping her than of leaving his wallet or his .38 behind.
She led the way downstairs and out of the building, not once looking back to see if he was following, and crossed Centre Street without a moment’s hesitation, stopping only at the entrance to the lot. He didn’t ask how she’d known where his car would be: he no longer expected her to act like a complainant. He was gratified, how-ever—even slightly relieved—when she swept confidently past his car.
“Just missed me, Miss Heller. Behind you on the left.”
She’d chosen a patrol car at random and was standing at the driver-side door, her arms crossed at her waist as though she expected to be cuffed. “That one?” she said, with obvious disappointment. “The little green hatchback?”
“The little green sport utility sedan.”
“Does it even have a siren?”
“Excellent mileage.” He unlocked the passenger-side door for her. “A pleasure to park.”
She kept quiet until they were on the West Side Highway. “You’re not a family man, apparently.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Heller?”
“This car of yours. It’s spotless.”
He said nothing to that, only smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and she seemed appreciative of the silence. She tilted her seat back and closed her eyes. He felt the urge to watch her but resisted it. At the stoplight at Thirty-fourth Street she sat up with a start, as though her name had been called, and fixed her gray eyes wonderingly on his.
“That sticker on your bumper. Is it true?”
He squinted at the stoplight. “What sticker would that be, Miss Heller?”
“Does this thing really run on soybean oil?”
He caressed the dashboard lovingly.
“Will would admire you for that.”
“Would he? Why?”
“Global warming is his allconsuming passion. That’s how the world is going to end, you know.”
“No argument there,” Lateef said, switching lanes.
She opened the glove compartment and saw the gun inside and pushed the compartment shut. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, come to think of it. You must not have read Will’s case file very closely.”
She was looking away from him as she spoke, watching the numbered cross streets arcing past. She was milder now, less strident, more composed. The arrogance had been leached out of her voice. Because she’s been asleep, he decided. She’ll be arrogant again soon enough. But he found himself telling her the truth regardless.
“I have no access to your son’s case history, Miss Heller. The files on all minors are sealed at sentencing. I’d have to call in all my favors just to see it.” He sighed. “To be honest, I doubt whether I have that much pull.”
For the better part of a minute she said nothing. Lateef kept his eyes on the road, feigning indifference, but even so he could tell that he’d astonished her. Finally she took hold of the rearview mirror and tipped it until their eyes met. “What the fuck did you have in that folder?”
“A clipping from the New York Daily News .”
“But how?” She shook her head in disbelief. “If you weren’t allowed—”
“I happened to remember your son’s case. It’s part of my job to read the paper, ridiculous as that may sound.”
Fifteen minutes earlier she’d have risen to the occasion, made some joke about not seeing him do much else, but this time she saidnothing. They were coming
“Slow down just a little, Miss Heller. I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.”
. . .
There was somehow no question, Lateef would say later, of leaving her at the Department. She took it as a given that he’d bring her. It’s certainly not unheard-of, he reminded himself, following her almost bashfully into the hall. She might easily prove useful, if only to make a positive ID. But what struck him most, both then and afterward, was that the agreement was entirely unspoken: it was as natural a thing as turning off the light. He’d no more have thought of stopping her than of leaving his wallet or his .38 behind.
She led the way downstairs and out of the building, not once looking back to see if he was following, and crossed Centre Street without a moment’s hesitation, stopping only at the entrance to the lot. He didn’t ask how she’d known where his car would be: he no longer expected her to act like a complainant. He was gratified, how-ever—even slightly relieved—when she swept confidently past his car.
“Just missed me, Miss Heller. Behind you on the left.”
She’d chosen a patrol car at random and was standing at the driver-side door, her arms crossed at her waist as though she expected to be cuffed. “That one?” she said, with obvious disappointment. “The little green hatchback?”
“The little green sport utility sedan.”
“Does it even have a siren?”
“Excellent mileage.” He unlocked the passenger-side door for her. “A pleasure to park.”
She kept quiet until they were on the West Side Highway. “You’re not a family man, apparently.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Heller?”
“This car of yours. It’s spotless.”
He said nothing to that, only smiled and shrugged his shoulders, and she seemed appreciative of the silence. She tilted her seat back and closed her eyes. He felt the urge to watch her but resisted it. At the stoplight at Thirty-fourth Street she sat up with a start, as though her name had been called, and fixed her gray eyes wonderingly on his.
“That sticker on your bumper. Is it true?”
He squinted at the stoplight. “What sticker would that be, Miss Heller?”
“Does this thing really run on soybean oil?”
He caressed the dashboard lovingly.
“Will would admire you for that.”
“Would he? Why?”
“Global warming is his allconsuming passion. That’s how the world is going to end, you know.”
“No argument there,” Lateef said, switching lanes.
She opened the glove compartment and saw the gun inside and pushed the compartment shut. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, come to think of it. You must not have read Will’s case file very closely.”
She was looking away from him as she spoke, watching the numbered cross streets arcing past. She was milder now, less strident, more composed. The arrogance had been leached out of her voice. Because she’s been asleep, he decided. She’ll be arrogant again soon enough. But he found himself telling her the truth regardless.
“I have no access to your son’s case history, Miss Heller. The files on all minors are sealed at sentencing. I’d have to call in all my favors just to see it.” He sighed. “To be honest, I doubt whether I have that much pull.”
For the better part of a minute she said nothing. Lateef kept his eyes on the road, feigning indifference, but even so he could tell that he’d astonished her. Finally she took hold of the rearview mirror and tipped it until their eyes met. “What the fuck did you have in that folder?”
“A clipping from the New York Daily News .”
“But how?” She shook her head in disbelief. “If you weren’t allowed—”
“I happened to remember your son’s case. It’s part of my job to read the paper, ridiculous as that may sound.”
Fifteen minutes earlier she’d have risen to the occasion, made some joke about not seeing him do much else, but this time she saidnothing. They were coming
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