Victims (31 page)

“Yes. Yes, Senator. Thank you. In two hours.”

Could they do that? Could they just reach out and move people around and switch jobs and opportunities and make careers happen and law school available, at full pay, tuition paid, all expenses? Could they just do that—put a price tag on anybody, pay the price? In return for what? What did they require of her?

Silence. Absolutely nothing more than that. And nothing less. Her corruption by silence. Mike Stein could profit from their system; and Dr. Ruggiero could profit; and the Governor could profit politically with his bill. And she didn’t know who else or for what price.

What she did know was that Miranda Torres would not profit from their system. Something inside her—something, let someone else name it—would not let her do this thing.

The Senator picked up on the first ring; he had been waiting.

“Miranda?” His voice sounded tight and uncertain, and the easiness, the friendliness, was gone. She wondered how it was possible that he was afraid of her. She did not know, but she sensed his fear and it astonished her.

“Yes. It is Miranda. Senator, thank you for all the things that you have offered to me.”

The silence between them settled.

“But,
” he said. And then, kindly, patiently, hopefully, “Miranda, think very carefully. Take what is offered to you. Just take it and make the most of it and live the best life you can, the best way you can.”

“I think the best way I can live would not include taking a law degree as a payoff for my silence. I don’t know exactly—as of right now—what I will do. But I will
not
be a part of this thing that you have all agreed upon.
It is wrong.”

“Miranda. You make me feel so...so sad. I wanted to...”

“I think, Senator,” she said kindly, sorry he was so upset, “that now we are even. You tried. Thank you.”

The Senator’s voice was devoid of the edge of anger she had heard in it earlier. It was as though he pitied her, or himself, or both of them. He was resigned to fate.

“Miranda, there is nothing I can say to you, then. If you feel this is a matter you have to handle in your own way, well, then, so be it. I think you are very foolish. But again, we each of us has to live within ourselves. Good luck, Miranda. And goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Senator Collins.”

C
APTAIN O’CONNOR CALLED THEM
into his office in the late afternoon. Miranda left an unfinished report, about a housebreak in Forest Hills Gardens, in the machine. Telephone calls were abruptly ended. The captain looked very tense, and whatever squad members were present crowded into his office silently. It was hot and sticky and smelled of sour air-conditioned air and remnants of sandwiches and junk food and old damp coffee containers.

The captain stood behind his desk. From his manner, his posture, his obvious tension, they realized that whatever it was would be short if not sweet.

“I have just received notification from the Queens House of Detention.” His voice was flat and official as he read from his notes. “At approximately one-thirty
P.M.,
this date, Paul Mera was found dead in the isolation cell where he was being kept at his own request and for his own protection.” He glanced up, but no one had moved or had made a sound. The captain dropped his note pad on the cluttered surface of his desk. He wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. “What seems to have happened,” he said, “is that our Mr. Mera was having a late lunch. A not too bad late lunch provided for him by some league or other that has been interested in his case. Maybe they shouldn’t have been so good to him. Mr. Mera apparently choked to death on a large, unchewed bite of steak. Are there any questions?”

Silence.

“Now, that’s interesting,” the captain said. “I’ve got a room full of expert investigators and not one single one of you people has one single question.” His eyes circled the room, stopped at Miranda. “Detective Torres? Isn’t there anything you’d like to ask? Doesn’t anything strange or peculiar or questionable or anything occur to you?”

Miranda did not move; did not blink; she did not respond to him in any way. She absorbed his anger, understanding his need to vent it in any direction.

“Well, of course,” O’Connor continued, “a few things occur to
me.
But you will understand, it is in the nature of the policeman to question things. To be suspicious of the most innocent of events. After all, this was apparently the kind of thing that happens in restaurants all over the world, every day of the week. At banquets, at family parties, at supper in the kitchen—some poor bastard bites off more than he remembers to chew, and he chokes to death. Right before the very loving eyes of family and friends. Most of whom are not trained in the Heimlich technique or any other of the well-publicized lifesaving actions available to them. Of course, at the Queens House of Detention, one might assume that...”

O’Connor turned his back on his staff. He pulled himself up straight. He seemed to be aligning his spine, centering himself. He faced them again.

“I am sure, gentlemen, and lady, that whatever questions immediately occur to me have immediately occurred to you. All possibilities will be duly gone into at the Office of the Medical Examiner, of course. The initial cause of death so far is ‘accidental choking.’ So be it. Now, whatever questions, comments, remarks, observations, insinuations, suspicions, wisecracks or any other damn thing you have on your minds—let’s have it. Now. Here.”

No one spoke. No one met his eyes straight on. It was for O’Connor to break the silence.

“Okay. Then, that is it. Once you’re outside that door”—he pointed past them, to the outside world—“this is a closed and finished issue. Ya got nothing to say in here—ya got nothing to say. Period. Understood?” He refused to accept their silence. “I asked you people,
understood?”

There was a scattering of voices, low, embarrassed, uncomfortable: “Yessir,” “Understood, Captain,” “Yo,” “Right.”

Miranda kept her head down, and he did not prod her again.

“All right, then. Get the hell outa here and finish whatever you’re working on before the end of your tour. Anyone want to talk to me privately? About anything?”

Silence.

“Go on, then. Get the hell outa here.”

Every member of the squad left the captain’s office. There was absolutely nothing anyone wanted to discuss with him.

S
HE WAS REALLY NOT
surprised by the telephone call from Maria Vidales. She knew that if Maria was alive she would call. Miranda knew it was not over. She knew she could not just pick up her next assignment, conduct her next investigation, type her next report and file it away, make her next arrest, testify in her next case. It was not over.

The girl’s voice was soft and tense; her breathing was rapid and shallow and noisy. Her words were interrupted by an eerie, sighing sound.

“You said to call you when I was ready. And now I am ready.”

“Where are you? Where have you been? Who have you been with?”

“I’ve been... upstate. With my boyfriend. At a place, with him. From right after the funeral. I told the stewardesses, at Parker Towers, I’d be all right. They didn’t know where I was. No one did.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m at Kennedy Airport. I have a ticket. My passport. All arrangements. I am—I will be safe soon.”

“And why are you calling me, Maria?”

Silence. Then, a deep moaning gasping sound as she struggled to breathe. It was strange, unsettling. It was frightening.

“Because I have something for you. Look, do not ask too much, all right? Because of my sister, Arabella, I cannot just walk away. And let him get away...”

“Who? Who are you talking about? Say his name.”

A sigh; a gasp for breath.

“Carlos Galvez.”

“Who is he? Tell me this, now.”

“Not some small connection, someone just up a bit from that bastard Mera. Our cousin, yes. But... he is not what you thought—the next step. He is one of the big people. He was in Forest Hills to set up something very big, with some important people in the United States. Ara made a big mistake. She called him about Mera killing that girl. You don’t call someone like Carlos—about anything. You don’t
do
that.”

“He had Ara and Christine Valapo killed?”

“To him, that was nothing. Look, meet me. I have certain things to give you.”

“What things? Tell me.”

“I have certain papers. Certain documents. I have tape recordings. Miranda, I have enough so that I must ask you to hold back until I am out of the country.”

“And where did you get all these things, Maria?”

There was silence, then a long, soft release of breath. Maria’s voice shook. “From my sister. Arabella was, she was, involved more than I have said. She and Carlos were—all men have their weakness, no? She needed insurance. From time to time, she saw things, she had a chance to get copies of things that—No. I will not tell you more than this now. Not now. When we meet. Look, Miranda, when you see what I am giving you, you will be... It is heavy. Very heavy.”

“Are you alone at the airport?”

“No. My boyfriend is with me. He will stay with me until I am on the airplane. You must come alone, Miranda. If I see you bring anyone else, if you’re trying to take me back into it, I will destroy what I have. I will just sit in the parked car and watch you drive around until you give up. You cannot find me. This is my show, Miranda. Take it or leave it.”

Miranda hesitated. Maria had described a far corner of the airport for long-term parking. She was to drive around according to instructions, until Maria’s car, a dark-blue Volvo station wagon, pulled out. Then she was to follow the Volvo, pull up in back of it and get out.

“Maria, I don’t like the location. I want to be around lights and people. We can arrange a meet in one of the waiting rooms. You pick it now. Or, when I meet your car in the lot, you lead the way to a terminal. We’ll both get out and sit down inside, where there are—”

Maria’s voice took on strength and anger.
“Then don’t come.
That’s all. Forget it. It is nothing more to me now. I tried. That’s it!”

“No, wait. Don’t hang up.” Silence. Miranda spoke quickly, softly. “Maria, you can understand my feeling that—”

“I do not care for your feeling. I do not care that you are afraid. Do you understand that? I am giving you a chance. I am doing what you asked. It is nothing to me anymore. Not one way or the other. I have nothing to gain, nothing to lose. I am out of it. Do you want Carlos Galvez or not? On my terms? Right now, you tell me.”

“Yes. I want him.”

“Good. Then meet me as I tell you or forget the whole thing.”

“Yes. I will meet you. On your terms.”

Miranda sat and stared at the telephone. She had little more than an hour. She tried not to let panic control her thoughts. She wanted to call someone, to have someone know about this. To have someone know what she was walking into.

Mike Stein? He wouldn’t be interested. He had what he wanted. They hadn’t spoken since the afternoon at the beach house. He no longer existed for her.

Dunphy? Her partner had no part of this. He had a family; he was set in his job. He had put in his time. This had nothing to do with him.

The captain? O’Connor knew what the score was. He had let the squad know. Any questions, comments, remarks, what? No? Good. Case closed. He wouldn’t even want to
hear
about this.

The Senator.

Miranda turned his card over and over on the flat of the telephone table.

Yes, he had “looked into” things. Given her his version of where everything stood. Based on information given to him. He could have been misled, misinformed. He had tried to answer all her questions.

And he had been right about Maria Vidales. Miranda felt a surge of excitement. She had thought Maria was dead, if not in terrible danger. The Senator had said she was upstate with a friend, and he had been right.

Miranda was reaching. Maybe she had been wrong about him; too tensed up, too quick to judge. Maybe she had read him wrong.

She hadn’t actually asked him for a real favor yet. Not the life-or-death, one-time-only favor that is meant by the word “contract.” She had asked him to look into something; that hadn’t been all that heavy. Not in the way they seemed to define a favor.

Now she would ask him for the favor he said he owed her: the “taking care of one’s own” favor. She would tell him about Maria’s call. She would ask him to stand by her when she returned with this unspeakable evidence of corruption, hard evidence. If she returned with what Maria said she was prepared to deliver. If she returned.

Miranda glanced at her watch. Time was short.

She dialed the number on the back of the Senator’s card, the exclusive, unlisted telephone number to which, since his brother’s death, Miranda was the only one in the world with access.

She listened to the dropping sounds, the clicking, grinding shifting of gears, the split second of silence before a lifeless, automatic, metallic voice delivered the message.

“The number you have reached has been disconnected. It is no longer a working number.”

T
WO THOUGHTS FLASHED THROUGH
Miranda’s consciousness with the rapidity and crackle of electricity:

This is not happening to me.

This is happening to me.

At the dead center of her awareness, deep below the surface terror, removed from her physical reactions, beneath the shortness of breath, the pounding of her heart, the pumping of the adrenal system, the fight or flight reaction and the automatic mindless need to hold them off, Miranda checked off what was happening to her from a calm, rational, almost curious and impersonal distance. And she admired, with controlled insanity, their quick, certain professionalism.

She had done whatever she could to insure her safety, given the circumstances. She had surveyed the area, checked out the cars in the immediate vicinity. Maria was in the back seat of the Volvo station wagon; a driver, her “boyfriend,” was at the wheel. Miranda parked her car in a freestanding position, at least two car widths from the Volvo. She held her revolver in her hand. She glanced around at the yellowish damp pools of light which hit the hoods and roofs and trunks of the long-term parked vehicles. She got out of her car on the passenger side, walked directly to Maria’s driver. Maria called to her: “Yes. Here. Please. I am here. Come into the car with me.”