Christmas, and the New Year, and the two had made plans the day before to have an early lunch at the Waldorf’s Bull & Bear Steakhouse, do some window-shopping, and stop at Gristedes for groceries on their way home, which was a three-story brownstone on West 10th Street.
The street-toughened detective gazed at his wife, and memories of the past began to flicker like a sepia Hollywood flashback in Moran’s mind: He had bought the brownstone with the hope that he and his first wife, Sally, would raise a family. That dream vanished when she left him to redefine herself in California. During the next four years, Moran lived alone in the large dark house in monk-like loneliness surrounded only by bitter memories of his failed marriage.
Three years ago, it had all come to a climax when his right knee was shattered by an assailant’s bullet. At forty-six years of age, his career seemed over. However, fortune smiled on a depressed Moran when he was given a new knee along with a new job as head of the Cold Cases Task Force, now the Cold Case & Apprehension Squad.
One day when Moran went to the gym as part of his physical rehabilitation to build up his right leg with its new space-age titanium knee replacement, he met Sandra Mazzetti, seven years his junior and a professor of Criminal Psychology at CCNY, the College of the City of New York. With a five-year old sickly boy, she was a single parent whose estranged husband had been killed in a motorcycle accident years before—another one of the walking wounded.
The remembrances stopped with the same suddenness as they had appeared, and Moran swallowed hard. He looked at Sandra and his gaze met hers.
Sandra gave her husband a curious look. “Where were you just now, James?”
Moran smiled. “Nowhere… right here.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. He was back in the present and feeling a sense of relief.
When they reached the corner, Moran hailed a cab. They got in and after a few blocks, Sandra ordered the driver to stop. She wanted to walk she explained, to feel the sun on her skin, the breeze on her face--to feel alive. “I’m fed up with being poked and prodded at by doctors and nurses.”
Moran readily agreed, smiling as he recalled his father’s words: “Stay away from hospitals, son; too many sick people.”
Sandra slipped her hand into the crook of Moran’s arm, and when he glanced at her, he saw her tired eyes. She peeked at him over her raised coat collar. He was a full foot taller, and when she caught his gaze, she winked playfully and blew him a kiss.
When they crossed Lexington Avenue, Sandra held her five-foot-three-inch body erect and alert against the chilly autumn breeze that blew across the thoroughfare. Moran watched as she turned her head left and right, as if seeing the city for the first time—or was it for the last time? The cold, disquieting, unwanted thought seeped into Moran’s mind.
Sandra slid her hand into his while he led her across the street. The thick black hair she had lost during the heavy dosages of chemotherapy was starting to grow back, and she reminded Moran of Tinkerbell—his Tinkerbell. Although Sandra made an effort to look cheery, he knew she was spent. The cancer and the chemo had taken their toll.
Moran squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly at her when she looked up at him. Their eyes said it all—words were inadequate. A little over a year ago, along with a recipe for chicken with rice from her Sephardic Jewish roots, she had brought joy to the marriage. It saddened him to see her once twinkling, warm brown eyes dimmed by an inner sadness.
“I was thinking about returning to CCNY or maybe writing another book,” Sandra said quietly. “I spoke to the chairman of the department, and he said I could have my position back teaching night classes three times a week.”
Moran put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “I know you’re anxious to get back to what you do best, but I’m not comfortable with night school in that neighborhood. Writing a book sounds good.”
Sandra gazed up at her husband. “You wouldn’t be the hero,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
Moran laughed. “Who cares, I sleep with the writer.” He squeezed her shoulders.
When they reached the corner of Park Avenue, the traffic light changed to red. Moran wrinkled his face and stretched his right leg. The knee was letting him know it needed to rest.
“You’re hurting, let’s get a cab,” Sandra said.
Moran straightened and gave a dismissive wave. “Not on your life.”
While they waited to cross, Moran’s cell phone chimed. “Yeah, Frank, what is it?”
“Okay,” he said after a long moment. “I’ll be there just as soon as I drop Sandra off.” He hung up then turned to his wife. “We’ve got a floater in the East River. Commissioner Newbury’s there now.”
The sky, like Moran’s mood, had turned gray and opaque, with thin slanted rays of afternoon sunlight clawing and scratching their way through the blue-gray stratus clouds that had replaced the bright sunshine. It was typical November weather in the Big Apple: the day would start out bright and cheery and then turn overcast, windy and cold in the afternoon.
Moran’s taxi screeched to a stop at the crime scene tape stretched out across an old wooden pier. The detective climbed out and stiffened when he smelled the pungent tang of brine, oil, kelp, and rotted fish that wafted up from the East River.
With his face screwed on tight, Moran slipped under the tape, inched his way between two parked blue-and-white squad cars and stepped onto the pier. The dilapidated wooden planks of the pier creaked under Moran’s weight, making the detective feel uneasy. It was one of those abandoned piers the city never got around to demolishing.
Another thing that made Moran uneasy was the fact that Horace Newbury was at the end of the pier waiting for him.
Since Newbury had been named Police Commissioner a year earlier, he was known to be a hardnosed, by-the-book cop who had migrated from Nashville in his late teens and whose main objective was making brownie points with the City Council. Behind his folksy, seemingly easy-going nature lay a tough, uncompromising, career-driven individual.
Moran frowned and hunched his shoulders. He pulled the collar of his topcoat close around his neck to ward off the damp breeze blowing off the river. He hated this time of the year; it reminded him that winter was not far off.
A few feet ahead, the lieutenant spotted three uniforms loitering around a black vehicle with the word CORONER on the rear door. The Commissioner’s black limo was parked next to it.
“He’s over there,” said a bored-looking uniformed cop, and pointed to the middle of the pier. Moran recognized him as the limo’s driver. When Moran followed the thumb, he spotted Newbury’s tall, athletic figure talking to Detective Sergeant Frank Hernandez, Moran’s partner for the last four years. The Commissioner’s ‘they owe me and don’t pay me’ expression told Moran that bad news awaited.
“Surprised to see you here, sir,” Moran said, putting on a happy face when he reached the pair. “Don’t tell me you found Hoffa?” He gazed over Newbury’s shoulder and recognized Assistant Chief Medical Examiner Milos Chang’s trademark salt-and-pepper ponytail. The AME was chatting with two men who wore plastic protective gear as they stood over a body covered by a white sheet.
