Victims by Dorothy Uhnak Page A

understood she had a bachelor’s from John Jay. Was she interested in perhaps teaching in the field someday?
    Law school, she said softly. Surprised at herself. It had been in the back of her mind, never had she said it.
    “That’s a good thing, to get a law degree. What are you doing about it?”
    “Well, not yet. Not for a while. There is time.”
    “Yes. Right. Well, Miranda, when you decide to apply to law school, let me know.” He waved his hand casually. “You leave a message at my office for that, and I’ll get back to you.” He made the distinction between his office number and his private number sharply clear.
    “Senator,” she said carefully, “I will never use the number you have given me except for some very... very special reason.” She paused, shook her head. “I will never use it, but I will know that I have it and can use it. And that gives me a very special feeling.”
    He slipped out of his public character again as he took her hand and looked down directly into her eyes.
    “Miranda. Thank you. For my brother’s life. You use the phone number whenever you feel you must. Without reservations. I promise you, I will be there for you as you were there for my brother.”
    She had never spoken to him again. About anything.
    She was told in her squad office that Kevin Collins had gone on sick leave. After a few weeks, she heard he had put in his papers. Twenty-two years on the job were enough. She had been assigned to office duty, awaiting a new partner and a new assignment.
    Her promotion to detective second grade, while deserved, was not really expected. It was handled routinely, with other squad promotions. No one behaved in any particular, special manner toward her. There was the usual squad griping, complaining, gloating, puzzling, gossiping, muttering and congratulating.
    Immediately after the promotion ceremony, Miranda was reassigned: to Forest Hills. The land of the decent people, as safe and pleasant and clean and convenient an assignment as anyone could wish. She was near home. Her working hours fell into a regular pattern, so she could begin to think about taking some courses. Prelaw; possibly at St. John’s. A whole new opportunity had opened up and she wasn’t sure. She was certain, but not certain. She didn’t know whom to thank, or whether thanks were appropriate. She studied his card a few times, thought about it. She knew there was a certain protocol in these matters, but she had never been privy to anything like this before. She played it by instinct. She accepted her good fortune without comment. For the time being.
    The 112th Precinct in Forest Hills had no relation to previous assignments. It was a different world: what was taken for granted in East Harlem was a big deal in Forest Hills. She sensed the air of excitement, the energy, the newness among her colleagues. This was an unusual case: a murder. This was not just another dead body, routine assignment, routine questions and routine answers; routine games, blank stares, monotone denials, whispered requests for a deal. This was Forest Hills, and most of the people she was working with—at least the younger police officers—had little or no experience with this kind of violence. The Homicide Squad was another matter—death was their business. But the squad men, even those with a long time on the job, were not familiar on a daily basis with this kind of violence.
    Miranda sorted copies of all the reports to which she had access into a neat file. To give to Mr. Mike Stein.
    She wondered, absently, what that was all about.

5
    T HEY SAT IN A coffee shop and she wondered how Mike Stein could take such large swallows of the steaming coffee. She sipped her iced tea and watched him.
    He had a strong weathered face with heavy dark brows over pale-blue eyes, a strong nose, a wide mouth that seemed on the verge of grinning, if not with amusement, then with secret knowledge. He had the kind of white hair that must have happened