Murder in Hell's Kitchen by Lee Harris

luxuries and pleasures that she denied herself now.
    When she went down into the subway for the ride uptown, she pulled out her shield as automatically as she always did and rode for free.
    There were no messages waiting tonight, not from Hack and not from anybody else. Not that she expected him to call back. It had been a moment of opportunity, a moment, perhaps, of weakness, being alone in his office, something reminding him of her, and before he knew it he had the phone in his hand and he was keying the number. She knew this about him, that he hadn’t forgotten. She knew it because she felt the same. She was glad that she shared an office now, that there would be no momentary lapses, no chance to pick up the phone and have an intimate conversation with anyone. Look at poor Defino, his day ruined after talking to his wife.
    After dinner, she began throwing things away: papers, letters, magazines, half-used packages of food she hadn’t even known she owned. She felt a little like Old Mother Hubbard when she was finished; the cupboard was bare. She would eat one more dinner here, two more breakfasts. There was enough left to do that. When she was finished with dinner, she wrote checks for the few bills that lay on the kitchen counter, remembering that she would have to find a closer branch of the bank next week, that she would need new checks printed. There was no end to details.
    And then there was nothing left in the kitchen except the little envelope of crinkly paper. She thought about whether this was the time to open it, whether she should take care of old business in the old apartment and start everything fresh in the new one. But this was not something she could take care of as easily as she could write a check and get rid of a debt. She put the envelope in her handbag and turned on the TV to catch the news, see the guys in the squad get their minute of fame.
    Otis Wright lived in a private house in Richmond Hill, a brisk ten-minute walk from the J train station on Jamaica Avenue and One Hundred Twenty-first Street. Years ago the population had been white, Irish, Jewish, Italian, and German. Today it was mostly black, both American and Caribbean, as well as Indian. It was one of those old neighborhoods of low buildings with store-fronts at street level, a nail store, a drugstore, little restaurants, a grocery. She remembered an old partner once calling such buildings “taxpayers.” In the old days, the family business was downstairs and the family’s life went on upstairs.
    She spotted Defino half a block ahead of her as she walked south on Lefferts Boulevard but wasn’t able to catch up to him till he stopped and looked around on the next corner.
    â€œMorning,” he said as they met.
    â€œYou know where we’re going?”
    â€œYeah. Left at the next corner onto Ninety-fifth Avenue and A Hundred Twenty-first Street. Want to stop for coffee?”
    â€œNot now. They’ll probably give us some.”
    They started walking. “You have kids?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDon’t.”
    Jane laughed. “They giving you trouble?”
    â€œShe’s giving me trouble,” he said, emphasizing the
she
.
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œSixteen.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I was ever sixteen the way she is.”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œAnd you turned out OK.”
    â€œI gave my folks a hard time. They didn’t deserve it.”
    â€œNice of you to own up. I don’t think my kid ever will.”
    â€œShe will, Gordon. She just won’t tell you.”
    He smiled a little at that. They came to the corner and turned left. Here it was completely residential, one small house after another, small, well-cared-for lawns that were autumn drab, here and there a leafless tree in front of a living room window. They walked another block and found the house. They were just on time.
    Mrs. Wright was an attractive black woman wearing a black