Loving Time by Leslie Glass Page B

happening?
    Every day April tried to make sense out of events that made no sense whatsoever. And still, every once in a while, she had a golden moment of absolute happiness that challenged reason. Now, standing in the hallway of Raymond Cowles’s apartment building with an old woman’s bulging plastic bag in one hand, she wondered if perhaps the flooding toilet and the old woman’s garbage were spirits telling her she was wasted and unappreciated here in this uptown Caucasian world.
    It occurred to her that this part of her life was a test that was over, like the sergeant’s test she had taken. Except her sergeant’s test had been a retest. Months ago, she had missed her scheduled appointment for the exam because a suspect had been trying to kill her at the time. So they had given her another chance at it. Only this time no board of real people was there to ask her questions and evaluate her answers. Instead of a board of three, one sour-faced uniformed Sergeant had given her the written exam, then set up a video camera as if she were a suspect in a particularly nasty homicide.
    “Please direct your answers to the camera,” he’d told her.
    Who knew if anyone ever actually looked at the tape. Maybe they—whoever
they
were—just decided it was time for a change for April Woo, as they had when she was transferred out of the Fifth Precinct. Perhaps it was her destiny to return there now because she was an Asian and that’s where she belonged. Only this time maybe she would go in triumph, as a Sergeant, a Supervisor.
    Maybe wearing a uniform and eating delicious Chinese food every day was her future. The correct future. Recently she had met a doctor who had his office in Chinatown. George Dong seemed to be interested in her despite her age, which was nearly thirty, and her job, which was demanding at best. Maybe something would come of it. The thought shot a shiver down her spine, sending the golden moment on its way. She opened the exit door.
    The building was too small for a back elevator. Only a landing with a recycling bin, a shelf for newspapers, a garbage chute, and the back stairs were behind the door. The recycling bin and the shelf were empty. Whatever had been in Raymond’s garbage had already been removed. April remembered that his Monday paper was on the carpet in front of his door, but there was no sign of a Sunday paper. Most people kept at least a few sections for a day or two. Funny. She dumped the old woman’s garbage down the chute.
    The hall was empty when she came out. Sergeant Joyce must have taken Lorna Cowles to the precinct to answer some questions of her own. April headed back into the apartment.
    No one from the M.E.’s office had arrived to pronounce the corpse dead yet, so Raymond Cowles was still in his bedroom lying on his back on the bed with the plastic bag neatly taped around his neck. The photographing was finished, but someone April didn’t know was sketching the room, measuring everything and labeling distances and angles. He was shorter than she and weighed twice as much; he was working intently and ignored her.
    She moved closer to the bed to get a better look. The beige covers of the bed were pulled back in an untidy mound. The body lay on a rumpled sheet that had some stains on it. Whatever body hairs had been there earlier were gone now. If Raymond Cowles had struggled at the end, there was no sign of it. His arms were by his sides. Under the plastic, his unseeing eyes were just slightly open. April reached out to touch his hand. It was cool, rigid. She crouched down to look at the long, slender fingers with their short nails buffed to a low luster. His left ring finger had the indentation of a ring, but there was no ring on it now. The only visible bruise was on his neck—a hickey, round and red and put there before his death. There was no guessing what kind of marks might be hidden under the shirt and trousers.
    “April,” Mike called from the living room.
    April