Victims by Dorothy Uhnak Page B

very early in his life. It was thick, casually styled, falling over his wide forehead. Despite the heavy frown lines, there was something boyish about him, a sense of expectation, adventure, discovery. He was an attractive man and a smart man and she knew she must be very careful with him. Careful in many ways.
    She had read his novel about Korea and the book based on his Pulitzer Prize-winning articles about the murder in Vietnam. There was a hard blunt honesty in his work that was admirable if sometimes alarming. His twice-weekly columns about crime in the city were harsh and cold, generally lacking the passion of his earlier works. At times, however, he took a stand head on against popular opinion, sometimes surprising the Department by his vehement defense or living up to their worst expectations by his attack. When a matter aroused Stein’s interest, he went straight for the center of truth, and when he found it he wrote it. It was what Miranda Torres admired about his work.
    She was uncertain of Stein, the man across the table from her. All her protective signals were fine-tuned. He was a handsome and a charming man and she did not know what he wanted of her.
    Not yet.
    “You mad at me because you thought I was brass last night?”
    She didn’t answer. A slight shrug of her shoulders was all he was going to get. It was inconsequential: a matter of no importance.
    She was a real beauty. He had noticed that in all the commotion and horror of the night before. He’d made a quick mental note and now he spent a few moments confirming an impression. Her cinnamon skin was tight and flawless over high cheekbones and a strong, determined chin. She held her head tilted slightly in a provocative position. Or so he felt. There was just a touch of gloss on her lips; she had true black hair and brows; black eyes, really black, the color of midnight. Not a flicker as he examined her. Her eyes went blank: she was accustomed to being stared at. Some guys at the counter were taking quick glances: this kid a model, an actress, a whore? Long, tall, thin, fragile, but tough somehow. Something strong about her, streetwise—an attitude.
    The waitress smiled widely as she offered Stein a second cup of coffee, a freebie, then flickered a quick, unpleasant glance at Miranda Torres. Who noticed but ignored it.
    “Your captain—O’Connor—tell you I asked that you work with me for a while? On this case?”
    “What is it you’d like me to do?”
    I would like: oh, Miranda, I would like.
    “For you to come along with me on certain interviews. And keep me up-to-date on all other aspects of the investigation. A sharing of information. All cleared with your boss. You give me what your people have, I give your people what I have. But no outside press people. An exclusive for as long as possible.”
    “All right. As long as the captain cleared it.”
    “Just like that? All right? Not curious about my interest in this case?”
    “I presume you’re going to tell me. Do you really want to play question-answer? What’s the point?”
    The softness of her voice was not the respect her mother had advised. It was the street quality, the low deep voice of someone who knows the score.
    “Let me ask you something.” He placed his elbows on the table, leaned toward her, watched her closely. “What is your reaction to what happened last night? Not the murder of the girl. That was pretty routine. The people who watched and did absolutely nothing, how do you feel about them?”
    “Are you starting with my statement, Mr. Stein? What’s the phrase—‘is this off the record’? Is that what one says?”
    Is that what one says? For the first time, there was a slightly musical, slightly Spanish cadence to her speech. A different rhythm; a different knowledge.
    “Miranda, everything you say to me, or I to you, will be off the record. So, what do you, personally, think about all those witnesses? How they let the girl bleed to death and didn’t do a