raised in a question, and Tom nodded in the affirmative. Was relieved when he couldn't see her face any longer, only the telling shape beneath the sheet.
Henry Beal was a slight man with thick glasses, thinning brown hair. He was also a black belt in Karate, and had the deep voice of a radio announcer, which, each time he spoke, never failed to surprise Tom.
They'd searched the alley for clues, came up empty. A few cigarette butts were bagged, but the alley was off a public street and they could belong to anyone. Her purse lay beside her, black, oversized, no money, but credit cards still in the wallet, along with her ID and a small black notebook.
On the first page of the notebook, at the top of the page, she'd neatly written her name, Lorraine Winters, and her address and phone number, which she'd presumably crossed out later and put her new address and phone number underneath. The pages following had the names and phones numbers of acting agents, friends. His partner, Detective Glen Aiken was back at the station, already going through that list with a fine-tooth comb, making phone calls, setting up interviews
They'd check out both addresses. One was on Peel, a quiet street. He thought he knew it, a rooming house, a few scraggly elms in front. The new address was a little more uptown, maybe something a little nicer, more fitting for a budding actress.
The M.E. had returned the body to its stainless steel locker, was peeling off his latex gloves. Tom thanked him for his help and left, eager to breathe in some fresh air.
Nine
Caroline knew she had insulted someone Mrs. Bannister loved dearly, but she didn't know what to say to make everything okay again. Could think of no words to dissolve the anger on the woman's face.
They continued walking in silence. Caroline felt like a child unfairly chastised for some wrongdoing. For she knew she had done nothing wrong. Knew she was within her rights as a tenant. Nurse Addison had spent a lot of time talking to her those last few days, forewarning her, telling her what to expect.
"He's a good boy, Caroline."
"I know, Mrs. Bannister. I'm sorry." She really didn't know. She didn't know him at all.
"You're not still worried because Lorraine Winters once lived across the hall from you, are you?"
"No." It gave her a strange feeling thinking of the woman who lived there, and she was sad about what happened to her. But it didn't frighten her.
It was not the first time violent death had touched Caroline. She remembered a roommate at the hospital, a young girl who slashed her wrists with a shard of broken glass. Caroline had just come back from lunch and found her on the floor, tears still drying on her ashen cheeks. There'd been blood on the sheets, the walls and the floor. Even after they cleaned it up, some of the stains were still visible.
Caroline knew it could just as easily have been her lying there. For as much as she didn't want to die, she hadn't known how to live. She had tried hard to crawl out of that deep hole, again and again, but the sides were slick and treacherous and she would slide back down into its depths, and darkness would once more claim her. She would not have made it out without Dr. Rosen's help. Or without Nurse Addison's friendship.
I don't want to go back to that awful place in my mind, ever. I want to stay strong.
Anyway, this was not about self-inflicted death. It was about murder.
"Don't look so worried, dear," her landlady said beside her. "I think you're being a little paranoid, but never mind. We'll wait till you're back home and then Harold can bring the TV up then, if that'll make you feel better."
"Thank you. I like Harold," she said quickly, grasping onto this olive leaf offered her. "He's very nice. And he's kind." But she didn't change her mind about him going into her room when she wasn't there.
"People can turn on a dime," Martha used to say.
Henry Beal was a slight man with thick glasses, thinning brown hair. He was also a black belt in Karate, and had the deep voice of a radio announcer, which, each time he spoke, never failed to surprise Tom.
They'd searched the alley for clues, came up empty. A few cigarette butts were bagged, but the alley was off a public street and they could belong to anyone. Her purse lay beside her, black, oversized, no money, but credit cards still in the wallet, along with her ID and a small black notebook.
On the first page of the notebook, at the top of the page, she'd neatly written her name, Lorraine Winters, and her address and phone number, which she'd presumably crossed out later and put her new address and phone number underneath. The pages following had the names and phones numbers of acting agents, friends. His partner, Detective Glen Aiken was back at the station, already going through that list with a fine-tooth comb, making phone calls, setting up interviews
They'd check out both addresses. One was on Peel, a quiet street. He thought he knew it, a rooming house, a few scraggly elms in front. The new address was a little more uptown, maybe something a little nicer, more fitting for a budding actress.
The M.E. had returned the body to its stainless steel locker, was peeling off his latex gloves. Tom thanked him for his help and left, eager to breathe in some fresh air.
Nine
Caroline knew she had insulted someone Mrs. Bannister loved dearly, but she didn't know what to say to make everything okay again. Could think of no words to dissolve the anger on the woman's face.
They continued walking in silence. Caroline felt like a child unfairly chastised for some wrongdoing. For she knew she had done nothing wrong. Knew she was within her rights as a tenant. Nurse Addison had spent a lot of time talking to her those last few days, forewarning her, telling her what to expect.
"He's a good boy, Caroline."
"I know, Mrs. Bannister. I'm sorry." She really didn't know. She didn't know him at all.
"You're not still worried because Lorraine Winters once lived across the hall from you, are you?"
"No." It gave her a strange feeling thinking of the woman who lived there, and she was sad about what happened to her. But it didn't frighten her.
It was not the first time violent death had touched Caroline. She remembered a roommate at the hospital, a young girl who slashed her wrists with a shard of broken glass. Caroline had just come back from lunch and found her on the floor, tears still drying on her ashen cheeks. There'd been blood on the sheets, the walls and the floor. Even after they cleaned it up, some of the stains were still visible.
Caroline knew it could just as easily have been her lying there. For as much as she didn't want to die, she hadn't known how to live. She had tried hard to crawl out of that deep hole, again and again, but the sides were slick and treacherous and she would slide back down into its depths, and darkness would once more claim her. She would not have made it out without Dr. Rosen's help. Or without Nurse Addison's friendship.
I don't want to go back to that awful place in my mind, ever. I want to stay strong.
Anyway, this was not about self-inflicted death. It was about murder.
"Don't look so worried, dear," her landlady said beside her. "I think you're being a little paranoid, but never mind. We'll wait till you're back home and then Harold can bring the TV up then, if that'll make you feel better."
"Thank you. I like Harold," she said quickly, grasping onto this olive leaf offered her. "He's very nice. And he's kind." But she didn't change her mind about him going into her room when she wasn't there.
"People can turn on a dime," Martha used to say.
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