She leaned over the arm of the chair, arching her back as she had earlier in the psychiatrist’s office. Her rich wheaty hair hung down, and her head was bent back in that way that never looked right in films because most people couldn’t do it in life. Her legs were very long. The man buried his face in her lap. She clasped him with one bare leg around his back, then the other.
Jason swallowed and looked furtively around. He could see that the men in the audience were aroused, as he was himself. Every man wanted to be that character, that aimless hoodlum making love in his black leather jacket. The shirt that had been under it was suddenly gone. Jason’s unease reached the stage of extreme discomfort. He crossed his legs the other way.
Then the scene changed. They were back in the psychiatrist’s office. The woman was talking with no sound. Jason’s heart beat faster still. He didn’t want to see her naked now with the shrink. Perspiration broke out on his forehead as the screen went white and a hum filled the soundtrack. It was unbearable. What was happening now?
Slowly the picture cleared. The woman and the hoodlum were in a room with little colorful picture transfers all over the wall. It was a tattoo parlor. Jason’s heart raced. What was this about? They were looking at each other intensely. The hoodlum had his shirt off. He was on a stool with his hairless chest filling the screen. The woman caressed his shoulder as another man appeared on the screen, fiddling with some sort of instrument.
A whine that sounded like a swarm of bees filled the theater. The man took the instrument and began to tattoo the shoulder of the hoodlum. The woman watched with intense excitement as the tattoo grew. The lovers looked at each other. Their feet touched. Their fingers entwined.
Finally, the mean Chinese-looking symbol in blue and black was finished, and the young man got up. Jason looked at his watch, thanking God it was over.
But it wasn’t over. Now the woman took his place on the stool. Slowly she unbuttoned her blouse and lowered it over her shoulders until her whole back was bared. The man began caressing her neck and arms, encouraging her as she had him. Her expression changed to one of sly satisfaction as the whine began again, and the tattoo needle moved toward her naked shoulder. Freeze frame.
Jesus Christ. Jason shook his head as the credits began to roll. Emma Chapman’s name came first. She was the actress Jason had come to see on the screen for the first time. He felt dizzy at the sight of his wife’s name, as if he had the kind of food poisoning that shot toxins straight to the brain. Somehow, in all the months of preparation for the film and the shooting of it, she had neglected to tell him what she did in this film and what it was about. He sat there in shock for a long time.
4
The expensively dressed woman in the short fur coat examined the seat of the metal chair dragged over for her from the desk next door. There were some crumbs on it. She brushed at them, but the surface was sticky, and they didn’t all come off. She sat down looking even more unhappy than before.
Another fish out of water, April thought.
The man took the chair that was already there and sat without looking at it.
“You’re Chinese,” the woman said. It came out halfway between a question and a statement.
“Yes, ma’am,” April agreed. She was Chinese yesterday, she was Chinese today, and would undoubtedly remain Chinese for the rest of her days.
Now that she worked here on the upper West Side, however, sometimes April looked in the mirror and was surprised to discover it all over again. She didn’t feel Chinese unless she was with one. And she didn’t think about it unless someone reminded her. It was the hard part of working Uptown. Whenever she wasn’t thinking about being Chinese, someone reminded her.
“Were you born in this country?” the woman asked. She stared at April belligerently.
“Jennifer!” The husband shook his head. Not relevant.
“Yes, ma’am, were you?” April replied, unabashed.
The woman flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen a Chinese cop before.” She looked at April’s well-cut navy blazer and slacks and the red, white, and blue silk blouse with a big soft bow tied at the neck, and blushed again.
April had a beautiful, round, delicate face, neither too fleshy nor too pointy in the jaw, and an extremely good haircut, short, expertly layered. She was wearing a little eye makeup and lipstick. She knew the woman was thinking maybe she wasn’t even a cop. Maybe she was another secretary like the surly black girl at the desk downstairs who took the complaint.
Then the woman’s eyes filled with tears. She blew her nose. “You are a police—woman.”
Bang on the button. April could read people’s minds. She nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am.” A police rule was always be courteous.
“Jesus.” Stephen Roane put his hand on his wife’s arm.
She pulled her arm away. “Don’t try to censor me,” she snapped. “I needed to know.”
“What would be the point?” he muttered.
April made a note of the man’s hostility. She decided to reassure Mrs. Roane that Detective April Woo could do the job. She leaned back slightly in her desk chair and unbuttoned her jacket so that the Smith and Wesson .38 strapped on her waist could be seen clearly.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said for the third time. “I am a cop and a detective.” She took the gold shield out of her pocket. The promotion to detective had come after only two years on the force. That was how good they thought she was. Down there, anyway, in the 5th.
“You don’t look like a cop,” Jennifer Roane said.
“For God’s sake, stop embarrassing the officer and let’s move on …”
“Detective,” April corrected. “It’s all right. People say it all the time.”
She never knew if she didn’t look like a cop because she was a woman, or because she didn’t wear a uniform except in parades, or because she was Asian.
“Our daughter disappeared,” the man said. “What do we do?” He wasn’t going to yell because this young Chinese person had kept him waiting for an hour when she clearly didn’t have anything to do. He just wanted to get it over with.
“When did you see her last?” April asked gently.
“Four or five days ago. Saturday, I think,” the man said.
The woman nodded. “Yeah, Saturday.”
April made a note. She always more or less ignored the forms and started over. The forms didn’t tell much of a story. And often what people said downstairs were not the same things that they said upstairs.
“You haven’t seen your daughter in more than a week?”
“Well, she doesn’t live with us,” the father said defensively. He looked at the woman. “Either of us.”
“Oh.” So none of them lived together. April made a note and starred it.
“So, um, Ellen disappeared from where she lives on the twenty-first. Where is that?”
“Well, she didn’t disappear the twenty-first. She disappeared the twenty-fifth,” the woman said, tearing up again.
“And today is the twenty-seventh,” April murmured.
“We thought you had to wait forty-eight hours,” she said quickly. She dabbed at her eyes.
“We thought we’d hear from her,” the husband corrected.
“Well, there is no rule about that. How old is she and where does she live?” April asked.
Maybe this Ellen Roane didn’t fit into any of the categories they could investigate. People didn’t understand not everyone who disappeared was missing. Over eighteen, people could go where they wanted, without fear of being looked for, harassed, picked up somewhere by the FBI. Married people who had just had enough took off all the time. They couldn’t go looking for every missing spouse.
There had to be some mitigating evidence: The person was over sixty-five or had a handicap of some sort, or had a history of mental illness; or else some indication the person was endangered.
The mother chewed on her upper lip to control herself. April felt her panic and sympathized. Th
is didn’t look like too happy a scene. The daughter might just have run away. It was bad luck for the parents, but it happened.
“Seventeen,” the mother said after a second of hesitation.
April nodded. Okay, anybody missing under eighteen had to be investigated, punched into the system. “Okay, where does she live?”
“She goes to Columbia. She lives in a dorm there.”
“That’s not in this precinct. She has to be a resident of this precinct,” April said slowly.
“We’re residents of this precinct,” the man said angrily. “We can’t start this all over again. We’ve already been here two hours.”
April thought it over. Could she send them Uptown and wiggle out of this? Probably not. Sergeant Joyce had told her to handle it, and not just because she was the only one available.
“You’re sensitive,” Joyce had said with a smile that made it sound like sensitive was not such a good thing to be.
“Your daughter is under eighteen. That means we can put her in the system. I can do that for you. But do you have any reason to believe Ellen’s in danger?” April asked.
“Oh, God. What does that mean?” the woman cried.
The man turned to her angrily. “It means the FBI and every police headquarters in the country will be looking out for her. Is that what you want?”
“She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me,” the woman insisted. “We’re very close. Very, very close. Yes, I know she’s in danger.”
“What makes you think so?” April asked gently. “Does she have a boyfriend who threatened her? Was anyone bothering her? Girls sometimes go off with a friend for a few days. Most people turn up.”
It was Saturday. College girls went away for the weekend. Tough life.
“She might have gone away for the weekend,” April said.
Jennifer Roane shook her head. “I feel it. I just know. I know her. She wouldn’t do this to me.”
“Is she having any problems at school, any reason to want to get away?”
Both parents shook their heads.
“She is an excellent student. A sweet, beautiful girl, never been in any trouble,” the father said firmly. “She’s never caused us a moment’s worry.”
He shrugged as if to say they were probably making too much of it.
April darted a look at him. “What about family problems?” she asked.
“We’re separated, if that’s what you mean.” He looked at one of his highly polished loafers. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Ellen’s taking it very well.”
The woman started to cry again. “I don’t believe for a minute Ellen is taking it well. I hardly got a word out of her the last time we spoke. How can she take it well when everything she was told her whole childhood turned out to be a lie?”
“Shut up,” the man said coldly.
“I’ll need a picture of her,” April said, “and the phone numbers of her friends.” She looked at her watch. She wasn’t impressed by the case, didn’t for a minute think this girl was in trouble. But she couldn’t take a chance. They couldn’t ever, ever take a chance and let it go. She told the Roanes she’d start working on it right away.
She had three days to file a report, and seven days to keep the case. If they hadn’t located the girl by then, Joyce could get rid of the case, send it Downtown where it would be filed against the day something came up that fit the description.
All this went through April’s head automatically as the Roanes left the squad room. At the start of every case she always made lists of what she had to do. Sometimes at night she went over and over them, terrified that she might have left something out that would cost somebody their life.
First stop Columbia, a hell of a way to get to college.
Before April took off, she called the nephew of the DOA she and Sanchez found that morning. The Medical Examiner’s office were always impatient to get rid of them. If she didn’t find someone to claim the old guy soon, they’d bury him in Potter’s Field. No answer at the nephew’s. She packed up for the night, certain she’d have a lead on the girl to tell the parents by morning.
5
“Jesus!” A wave of dizziness surged over Jason. He reached for the wall to stop himself from staggering at the second shock from his wife in less than two hours.
Emma was in the laundry room of their apartment when he got home. She was wearing a black tank top and bicycle shorts, and she was running on an expensive treadmill that hadn’t been there when he left.
Drops of sweat glistened on her neck and chest. The skin of her midriff was winter pale. He turned toward the kitchen, then looked at her again, stunned. If anything, she was more beautiful in real life, and seemed farther away from him than if she were a stranger he had never seen before.
“Hi.” She turned to him, surprised to see him, smiled her dazzling, thousand-watt smile, and slowed the machine to a walk before getting off.
“I didn’t expect you for hours in all this fog. How did it go?” She reached out to him.
He shook his head, speechless. The only thing he could remember about Toronto was the anxiety, the premonition he had that something was not right with her. Too bad it had taken him so long to have it. He felt like an idiot, seemed to have missed an awful lot.
In patients and friends with marital problems he always looked for what was missing in the relationship, not for what was there. If passion was missing, if humor was missing, if warmth and life were missing, then he worried. Bickering and nagging were often signs of life, useful outlets for the unwelcome, and sometimes frightening, ambivalence that was part of every love relationship. Jason had always felt it was fine that he and Emma didn’t bicker. She didn’t like confrontation. It was a cultural thing.
“Sorry. I’m sweaty.” Emma backed off at his apparent rebuff.
Emma didn’t nag, either. She didn’t tear out her hair in violent rages, or throw the plates around. When she was troubled or in pain, a Protestant coolness settled over her and she went to another place in herself to think it out. He had always thought hers was not a bad way to deal with the vicissitudes of life. Cooling out was certainly easier than temper tantrums to live with. Pretty stupid of him to take it easy because it was easier.
Jason had no illusions about the common failing of his sex to mistake outward calm in a woman (or anyone else for that matter) for inner peace. But in his case there was more to it than insensitivity. Managing intimacy was a tricky job, and he deeply believed both partners needed space and privacy. He would never have intruded on Emma, probing for trouble when none was expressed, but clearly he should have.
He colored slightly. “No, no. It’s not the sweat. It’s the—” He shook his head, still unable to believe what he had seen her do on the screen.
“Oh, the treadmill,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart. I paid for it myself.” She dabbed at her face and chest. Tendrils of damp blond hair curled around her face. There was the trace of a smile on her lips.
“Jesus,” he muttered. She had broken his heart, and her eyes were clear. She felt no guilt.
“Why?” He coughed, trying to choke back the wrong start.
“Hey, if I’m scared of being attacked on the street, you shouldn’t have to pay for my terrors, Jason.” She slung the towel around her neck and changed the subject. “How did the trip go?”
He was incredulous. He couldn’t believe this, and couldn’t seem to get to the real subject. The antique mantel clock on the hall table chimed the hour. It was seven o’clock.
“Oh, God, Emmie. I know how you love to run. I would have paid for the treadmill. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted one?” His voice was agonized.
He wasn’t talking about the treadmill, and she clearly knew it. He looked at her, waiting for an answer to questions he hadn’t asked. And when none came, he turned and left the laundry room. He passed through the kitchen.
Most of the books and clocks he collected were in the living room ahead o
f him, on the other side of the entry gallery. He paused in the gallery. Everything felt different, altered in some fundamental way. The lights were off in the living room, but the sound of several clocks ticking in different rhythms animated the darkness. He turned left and headed down the hall to their bedroom.
For more than a dozen years he’d had extensive training in handling all situations. He could deal with paranoia, schizophrenia, psychosis, violence, hysteria, furies of every description. Once he disarmed an enraged adolescent wielding a knife. Another time he persuaded a drunk GI not to shoot the rifle he had pointed at Jason’s head. But seeing his lovely, reserved, ladylike wife nude, and having sex on the screen, was something Jason had no preparation for. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do.
A set of richly colored prints of the bridges and aquaducts of Rome lined the hall to their bedroom. The walls were painted a pale green above the chair rail, and white below. The bedroom was cream. Emma’s clothes were strewn around, and the bed looked like it hadn’t been made since he left three days ago. Of the three old clocks in the room, only the eight-day regulator was still ticking. Emma didn’t like to wind the clocks. She let them run down and stop when he was away, then said they only worked for him.
Jason went into the closet, still feeling dizzy. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of leather and running shoes, swallowing the saliva in his mouth.
Emma followed him into the room.
“I’m sorry I missed your screening,” he said. “How did it go?”
“Fine.” She started undressing.
Inadvertently, he thought of Daisy, one of his favorite patients. At every session she shed several layers before speaking, her coat, her jacket, a sweater, a scarf, her backpack. A whole bunch of stuff. Only when all her things were arranged around her, on the floor, on a chair, would she sit down and stare at him contentiously.
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