Riverside, couple of blocks from that big church. They still had the area all taped off when I left a couple of hours ago.”
Quinn nodded absently, took another swallow of his beer and a quick look at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Hey, gotta roll. My moms is working late and I promised I’d make sure the kids were in.”
Quinn grinned. “Then you better get steppin’.” They both stood. “Hold on a minute, I’ll walk out with you.” He went into his bedroom and changed clothes. He didn’t have to be at B.J.’s until eleven-thirty. He had time.
The three block stretch of Riverside was completely blocked off from traffic. Police cars and ambulances crowded the street. Swirling blue and red lights dotted the night sky. He spotted the meat wagon and immediately knew what that meant. From the look of all the uniforms that blanketed the street, the unfortunate victim was a cop. Guiltily, he released a sigh of relief.
Quinn was directed by a beat cop to move on. He made a wide U-turn and headed back down the way he’d come, passing a Channel 7 Eyewitness News van headed for the scene.
Quinn stepped on the accelerator. He’d catch it on the news.
Quinn arrived at B.J.’s a little early and was surprised not to see Turk behind the bar. He kept walking and stopped in front of the gray door, to be met by Smalls.
All eyes turned to him when he entered, but this time instead of refocusing on the poker game the stares remained fixed on his face.
He strolled past the gambling table, ignoring the odd looks. Halfway across the room, he spotted Sylvie heading in his direction. Her usual sunny smile was missing, her butterscotch face a portrait of sadness. When their gazes connected her eyes widened in surprise. An unnamed fear coupled with a rush of adrenaline snaked its way through his veins.
“Oh, Quinn. I’m so sorry.” Sylvie pressed her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around his stiff body.
He wouldn’t panic. Something had obviously happened to Remy. He would handle it. Gently he clasped her shoulders, peeling her away from him. He looked down into red-rimmed eyes. “What are you talkin’ about? Sorry for what?”
Sylvie blinked several times before realization struck. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”
Just then Remy stepped from the back room and Quinn’s pulse escalated its beat. “Hey, man, you know you don’t have to be here. I wouldn’t expect you to—” He caught Sylvie’s warning look.
Quinn looked from one to the other. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but somebody better damn well tell me somethin’—and quick.”
Remy put his hand on Sylvie’s bare arm. “Lemme have a minute with Quinn,” he said softly. Sylvie nodded and stepped aside as Remy put his arm protectively around Quinn’s wide shoulders. “Come on in da back, son, where we can talk private like.”
Quinn threw off Remy’s hold. “Talk about what?” he demanded. His heart started beating like crazy.
“Just come on, man. Come on.” Remy ushered him into the back room.
All eyes trailed the pair as they walked into Remy’s office and shut the door. Moments later, the door flew open with such force that everyone in the room flinched and held their breath. Quinn stormed out, his eyes glazed, with Remy hot on his heels.
“Quinn, wait. I’ll go wit you,” he called.
Quinn threw up his hand to halt Remy’s pursuit. “No!” There was no room for argument. Suddenly the decor, the drab, stark nakedness, the shadows, the familiar scent of the back room, overwhelmed him.
Quinn raced from the building. His mind whirled in horrified disbelief. Of course it was some macabre mistake. They were wrong. Everyone was wrong. It happened all the time.
The Beamer assumed a life of its own as it hurtled down the darkened streets of Harlem, darting in front of cars and terrifying unsuspecting pedestrians. His entire life rolled before his eyes as if projected on some sort of larger-than-life screen.
He pulled to a screeching stop in front of the precinct house. For several moments he just sat there, staring at his hands that gripped the wheel to keep from trembling. Calling on something deep inside, he forced himself to get out of the car and put one foot in front of the other.
The rest of the night was a series of nightmarish snapshots taken from a house of horrors photo album—from the drive to the medical examiner’s office to his return home, where he found himself staring at the snow dancing across his television screen.
He had watched himself mindlessly follow the short, pudgy doctor with tufts of hair protruding from his ears down the long, dull gray corridors, the effort of walking zapping his strength like the grip of quicksand. The only sound was his own heavy heartbeat, thudding like tribal drums in his ears. A thick metal door ahead swung inward to reveal a frigid, stark and sterile room with bright white walls bouncing off highly polished stainless-steel instruments and blinding him to where he really was, projecting the illusion of virgin purity. He cringed as teeth-gritting sounds of metal hitting metal played a chilly tune to the backdrop of the whir and hum of unseen machines and the snap and pop of rubber gloves, while technicians went about their business of uncovering the mysteries of death.
The motion of the doctor removing the stiff white sheet from her face flashed repeatedly like that of a high-speed camera shutter every time he blinked. Wrapped in a sheet like dirty laundry, with a tag for pick-up dangling over her exposed, pink-polished toenail. Something deep inside of him gave way, and he seemed to choke on his own air. Icy fingers of disbelief ran down his spine and he shuddered. Instinctively he reached for her, seeking the warmth and assurance he’d always known, come to expect. Her hand, it was so cold. All the life and the warmth that was Lacy was gone. Her face was just as peaceful and pretty as it had always been, except for that deep, dark, black hole in the middle of her forehead that could have easily resembled the blessing marks from Ash Wednesday.
But he kept staring at her, rubbing her hand, begging her in the silence of his heart to just get up so they could get out of there. Out of this place that was too quiet, too cold, too lifeless, with its stainless-steel tables and rubber blankets, the stench of embalming fluid more pungent to him than the odor of the back alleys. Lacy didn’t belong in a place like this. She was too full of life, too full of energy. So why was she so still? Why wouldn’t she just get up, so they could leave? Dread swept through him. He wanted to run, to scream at her to get up. But the words wouldn’t come.
So he tried to blink the vision away. But it remained, unchanged. She could have been asleep, just as he remembered from tiptoeing into her room as a kid to tug her ponytails. She’d looked as though she’d open her mouth at any moment and make one of her smart-ass remarks, like when they were growing up and everyone always said how much alike they looked. “I’m just prettier,” Quinn would say, and Lacy would remark, “But my boobs are bigger.” And they would look at each other and crack up laughing. That’s all he wanted to hear. Just hear her laugh, tell him to eat and not stay out too late. He wanted to watch her face glow with pride when she read his work or listened to him play.
He wanted to tell her how important she was to him. How she’d made life bearable after their mother deserted them. How much it meant to him to hear her words of praise, and how much he loved her.
All he wanted was for her to be asleep
