staring tiredly into her glass.
He walked across the room and studied her CD collection. Soon the pure sound of Callas singing an aria from
Norma
wafted through the lofty silent rooms like a refreshing breeze.
Fifteen minutes later she was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table with a fragrant bowl of pasta and fresh tomato sauce in front of her.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find any bread,” he said, pouring wine into their glasses. “Except for a wizened crust that must have been there for about a week. I guess you’renot much of a bread eater. Always thinking about your weight, huh?”
“I am not,” she retorted indignantly. “I love focaccia,
and
olive bread,
and
sourdough. And I’m not always thinking about my figure. Thank God I don’t have to. Yet.”
He grinned at her as she wound a forkful of pasta and tasted it. She realized too late that he was baiting her.
“It’s just that I don’t eat at home that often,” she said, needing to explain. “It’s usually late and I just grab a bite on my way home.”
“So why didn’t you do that tonight?”
“I was too tired even to care,” she said honestly.
“Or too lonely,” he said, sipping his wine and watching her eat.
She glanced at him for a moment but said nothing. She watched him walk across the room as he went to change the CD. She thought he walked on the balls of his feet like an athlete. Lithe, like a panther. Only this panther stalked the jungle of the city streets. Then she remembered what he had said about the killer, and she was suddenly afraid for Bea.
He came back and sat opposite her, his elbows on the table, sipping wine, watching her eat.
She finished the pasta and sighed with satisfaction. “That was wonderful. It’s also the first home-cooked food I’ve eaten in about a year.”
She sat back, and they looked at each other. “What do you want from life, Mahoney?” she asked, suddenly curious.
He laughed off her question. “Oh, to be police commissioner one day. Or maybe run for mayor. Just like any other red-blooded cop. And?”
“And what?”
“And what do you want from life, Doc?”
She flung her arms wide, indicating the beautiful apartment, the priceless rugs, the artworks. “Whatmore can any woman want?” she said defensively. “I’ve got it all.”
“It sure looks like it, Doc,” he said, standing up abruptly and putting on his jacket.
She glared at him. He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was thinking. Maybe she wanted a man who loved her; children; a happy, bustling home; maybe a dog or two….
Dammit, what was she doing, letting this macho, chauvinist, poetic, opera-loving, fitness-freak cop put her life on the line? She had it all organized, everything in its place. Didn’t she?
“You’re tired,” he said, offering his hand. “Thanks for the dinner. And the company. Let me know what happens with Bea.”
It seemed odd to hear the girl’s new name on Mahoney’s lips, as though his saying it brought her to life again.
A resurrection
, she thought as she closed the door behind him.
Dr. Niedman was waiting for her the next morning. “Our patient is doing well, Dr. Forster,” he said. “In fact, well enough to be dismissed.” He glanced up from his notes. “The question is, of course, dismissed to where? I understand from Detective Mahoney that his investigations have led nowhere, and as you, too, seem to have drawn a blank, I’m at a loss to know what to do about her. I can’t see putting her into a psychiatric ward since there is nothing mentally wrong with her other than the loss of memory. On the other hand, how can she cope if we simply turn her over to welfare?”
Phyl thought about Bea with her shorn head and her terrible scars, knowing nothing about herself, not even what had happened to her. She thought of her out on her own, out on the street, and she remembered what Mahoney had said the previous night: that if the killerknew she was alive, he might try again. Perhaps he
He walked across the room and studied her CD collection. Soon the pure sound of Callas singing an aria from
Norma
wafted through the lofty silent rooms like a refreshing breeze.
Fifteen minutes later she was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table with a fragrant bowl of pasta and fresh tomato sauce in front of her.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find any bread,” he said, pouring wine into their glasses. “Except for a wizened crust that must have been there for about a week. I guess you’renot much of a bread eater. Always thinking about your weight, huh?”
“I am not,” she retorted indignantly. “I love focaccia,
and
olive bread,
and
sourdough. And I’m not always thinking about my figure. Thank God I don’t have to. Yet.”
He grinned at her as she wound a forkful of pasta and tasted it. She realized too late that he was baiting her.
“It’s just that I don’t eat at home that often,” she said, needing to explain. “It’s usually late and I just grab a bite on my way home.”
“So why didn’t you do that tonight?”
“I was too tired even to care,” she said honestly.
“Or too lonely,” he said, sipping his wine and watching her eat.
She glanced at him for a moment but said nothing. She watched him walk across the room as he went to change the CD. She thought he walked on the balls of his feet like an athlete. Lithe, like a panther. Only this panther stalked the jungle of the city streets. Then she remembered what he had said about the killer, and she was suddenly afraid for Bea.
He came back and sat opposite her, his elbows on the table, sipping wine, watching her eat.
She finished the pasta and sighed with satisfaction. “That was wonderful. It’s also the first home-cooked food I’ve eaten in about a year.”
She sat back, and they looked at each other. “What do you want from life, Mahoney?” she asked, suddenly curious.
He laughed off her question. “Oh, to be police commissioner one day. Or maybe run for mayor. Just like any other red-blooded cop. And?”
“And what?”
“And what do you want from life, Doc?”
She flung her arms wide, indicating the beautiful apartment, the priceless rugs, the artworks. “Whatmore can any woman want?” she said defensively. “I’ve got it all.”
“It sure looks like it, Doc,” he said, standing up abruptly and putting on his jacket.
She glared at him. He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was thinking. Maybe she wanted a man who loved her; children; a happy, bustling home; maybe a dog or two….
Dammit, what was she doing, letting this macho, chauvinist, poetic, opera-loving, fitness-freak cop put her life on the line? She had it all organized, everything in its place. Didn’t she?
“You’re tired,” he said, offering his hand. “Thanks for the dinner. And the company. Let me know what happens with Bea.”
It seemed odd to hear the girl’s new name on Mahoney’s lips, as though his saying it brought her to life again.
A resurrection
, she thought as she closed the door behind him.
Dr. Niedman was waiting for her the next morning. “Our patient is doing well, Dr. Forster,” he said. “In fact, well enough to be dismissed.” He glanced up from his notes. “The question is, of course, dismissed to where? I understand from Detective Mahoney that his investigations have led nowhere, and as you, too, seem to have drawn a blank, I’m at a loss to know what to do about her. I can’t see putting her into a psychiatric ward since there is nothing mentally wrong with her other than the loss of memory. On the other hand, how can she cope if we simply turn her over to welfare?”
Phyl thought about Bea with her shorn head and her terrible scars, knowing nothing about herself, not even what had happened to her. She thought of her out on her own, out on the street, and she remembered what Mahoney had said the previous night: that if the killerknew she was alive, he might try again. Perhaps he
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