was out of his jurisdiction. But there was no need to let Mrs. Hill know that there was no love lost between the TA and the NYPD and that he was actually trespassing.
"You have the address, I presume; everybody seems to," she said listlessly. "It's apartment 4-F."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Corelli brushed his teeth, packed Dolchik's reports into his briefcase, called Quinn and had him cover, then headed toward the subway entrance on West Twelfth Street.
With any luck, talking to Louise Hill would be a beginning. Exactly what kind, Corelli wasn't sure, but a beginning nevertheless.
The apartment house on West Seventy-ninth Street was a large, nondescript gray building whose unimaginative architecture typified the block. Squatting back from the sidewalk, it presented a cheerless facade of dirty stone and smudged windows to the street. Corelli wandered into the sterile and uninviting lobby thinking the co-op more suited for business than for raising a family. The doorman interrupted an animated conversation with an overfed chihuahua to ask Corelli's business. Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he escorted him into the elevator, punched the button for Mrs. Hill's floor, then settled back onto a tall wooden stool and yawned with barely exaggerated ennui.
Corelli hadn't given Louise Hill much thought since talking to her. He expected she'd be emotionally overwrought, and his keen understanding of human nature had prepared him for almost any reception. She'd sounded withdrawn and uncooperative on the phone, but he knew from working in the subway that people under extreme pressure react in myriad ways. What one moment was a respectable, calm specimen of good citizenry turned, the next, into a howling aggressor. However Mrs. Hill had been affected by her situation, Corelli was ready for anything.
He was ready for anything--except what he found when Louise Hill opened the door. When she smiled and said his name, he unconsciously straightened up and ran his hand quickly through his hair. Mrs. Hill was beautiful. Not pretty, not good-looking, but beautiful. She was tall, but comfortably shorter than Corelli, slender but firmly built, as if she were athletic--she probably played tennis. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the color of burnt sugar. Her nose was small and slightly turned up and her glossy black hair was nearly shoulder-length.
"I hope this won't be too much trouble, Mrs. Hill," Frank said as he was shown into a large, sunny living room. It was a long time since any woman had made him wonder how presentable he looked; Louise Hill made him want to go out and start all over again--this time in a new suit, fresh haircut and manicure.
"Trouble? Until you get Lisa back, that's all I've got." She sucked in a deep breath that lifted her breasts upward, then exhaled with a sigh. "I guess you're used to this."
"As a matter of fact, no." Corelli caught himself looking at her breasts, and, confused by his own crassness, turned and surveyed the living room. He may have been right about the building's impersonality, but he was wrong in thinking it couldn't be made homey. The living room reflected care, taste, and that most ineffable quality in decorating--love. "Nice place," he said, barely aware he'd begun to prolong the interview for a reason that was definitely not business.
"What can I do for you?" Louise fielded the compliment. "I thought I'd answered all the police's questions."
"I'm not with the New York Police Department," he quickly corrected her. "I'm with the Metropolitan Transit Authority--the MTA, usually known simply as the TA." He shrugged now, almost apologetically. "I work in the subway."
"I didn't know there were two different police forces." For the first time since Corelli had walked in, the veil of Louise's own preoccupation lifted and she studied him openly. Satisfied that he was what he said, she indicated a couch by the window. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Corelli. Won't
"You have the address, I presume; everybody seems to," she said listlessly. "It's apartment 4-F."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Corelli brushed his teeth, packed Dolchik's reports into his briefcase, called Quinn and had him cover, then headed toward the subway entrance on West Twelfth Street.
With any luck, talking to Louise Hill would be a beginning. Exactly what kind, Corelli wasn't sure, but a beginning nevertheless.
The apartment house on West Seventy-ninth Street was a large, nondescript gray building whose unimaginative architecture typified the block. Squatting back from the sidewalk, it presented a cheerless facade of dirty stone and smudged windows to the street. Corelli wandered into the sterile and uninviting lobby thinking the co-op more suited for business than for raising a family. The doorman interrupted an animated conversation with an overfed chihuahua to ask Corelli's business. Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he escorted him into the elevator, punched the button for Mrs. Hill's floor, then settled back onto a tall wooden stool and yawned with barely exaggerated ennui.
Corelli hadn't given Louise Hill much thought since talking to her. He expected she'd be emotionally overwrought, and his keen understanding of human nature had prepared him for almost any reception. She'd sounded withdrawn and uncooperative on the phone, but he knew from working in the subway that people under extreme pressure react in myriad ways. What one moment was a respectable, calm specimen of good citizenry turned, the next, into a howling aggressor. However Mrs. Hill had been affected by her situation, Corelli was ready for anything.
He was ready for anything--except what he found when Louise Hill opened the door. When she smiled and said his name, he unconsciously straightened up and ran his hand quickly through his hair. Mrs. Hill was beautiful. Not pretty, not good-looking, but beautiful. She was tall, but comfortably shorter than Corelli, slender but firmly built, as if she were athletic--she probably played tennis. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the color of burnt sugar. Her nose was small and slightly turned up and her glossy black hair was nearly shoulder-length.
"I hope this won't be too much trouble, Mrs. Hill," Frank said as he was shown into a large, sunny living room. It was a long time since any woman had made him wonder how presentable he looked; Louise Hill made him want to go out and start all over again--this time in a new suit, fresh haircut and manicure.
"Trouble? Until you get Lisa back, that's all I've got." She sucked in a deep breath that lifted her breasts upward, then exhaled with a sigh. "I guess you're used to this."
"As a matter of fact, no." Corelli caught himself looking at her breasts, and, confused by his own crassness, turned and surveyed the living room. He may have been right about the building's impersonality, but he was wrong in thinking it couldn't be made homey. The living room reflected care, taste, and that most ineffable quality in decorating--love. "Nice place," he said, barely aware he'd begun to prolong the interview for a reason that was definitely not business.
"What can I do for you?" Louise fielded the compliment. "I thought I'd answered all the police's questions."
"I'm not with the New York Police Department," he quickly corrected her. "I'm with the Metropolitan Transit Authority--the MTA, usually known simply as the TA." He shrugged now, almost apologetically. "I work in the subway."
"I didn't know there were two different police forces." For the first time since Corelli had walked in, the veil of Louise's own preoccupation lifted and she studied him openly. Satisfied that he was what he said, she indicated a couch by the window. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Corelli. Won't