by Colin Harvey
"That's great, Ray," Shah said, though the Fed was right – it wasn't much. But he might yet turn up more. "We really appreciate the call."
"Hey, it's nothing," Eller said. "If you turn up a memory of us at the MSG with a couple of cuties, I'll deny everything." He closed the call with a smile and a wink.
Outside, wet pavements indicated that rain had swept through recently, although the sun beat down from a clear sky. Shah and Stickel rode the subway to Kotian's car showroom where a young woman greeted them at the door to the back office. Perhaps her eyes widened when she saw Shah, but the movement was so slight it could have been his imagination.
"Kotian Senior around?" Stickel said.
"Who shall I say is calling?" The woman said after the tiniest pause.
Shah decided to gamble: "Unless you're really new here, you know exactly who I am."
The woman shrugged. "I'll see whether he's available." She exited through at the back, leaving them standing around. Stickel crossed to the door and nudged it fractionally open, and spent the next couple of minutes craning her neck around the doorframe, until she said, "They're having a hell of an argument in there."
"About what?"
"I can't make it all out, but your name's featured heavily – oopa! Here they come." She scuttled back to Shah.
"Officer Shah!" Kotian burst through the door without seeming to notice that it wasn't properly closed. "I heard what happened – my dear fellow, I'm so pleased to see you back at work!" Kotian's British accent sounded fruitier than any of the clips, as if he'd been practicing. "Are you fully recovered?"
Shah studied him. Kotian was tall, dark, saturnine, and distinguished-looking – very prince-like, Shah thought. He swept back thick hair seemed unnaturally black but for the gray bangs flopping over his forehead. "Probably about ninetyeight, ninety-nine percent of the way there," Shah said.
"What do you want?" Sunny called from the doorway. Shah caught his father's frown.
"Just a social visit," Shah said. "Let you know I'm back." Shah stared at Sunny. He had no memory of the son except what he'd read in the files, but already he felt antagonism; it was an atavistic reaction.
Kotian seemed genuinely concerned. "This must be awful for you, Officer. Our memories define who we are, how we view the world."
Either you're a helluvan actor, or you're innocent. Shah showed no emotion as he said, "I'm gradually getting them back." He watched their reactions. "It'll only be a matter of time before I'm back to full speed, and I'll nail the bastard who did it, however long it takes."
Again Shah couldn't be sure, but thought he saw Sunny flinch.
"You should put that little shit in a concrete casket," Sunny spat when Shah had gone.
Kotian smiled. "Always the fiery one, aren't you? He's no threat to us."
"He's a cop, for Chrissake! Of course he's a threat, Dad!"
Kotian blinked, and frowned. "There's no need for profanity, Sunil."
Sunny had that gut-clenching fear he always felt at his full name; it reminded him of a leather strap and his father's fakeregrets after the beating. "Sorry, Appa." The old man liked it when he talked that Kannada gobbledygook.
Kotian waved a dismissive acknowledgement. "We feed Shah some trivia, let him think he's onto something. Better to be dealing with a broken man than a fit one, no? They have a phrase for it around here; better the devil you know, than the one you don't."
Sure, Dad," Sunny said, and the old man beamed.
XXVIII
Wednesday
"Do I divert this case onto Narcotics, or the River Police?" Bailey said. "The body was found in the Hudson, but drugs showed up in the tox screen."
"What do you think?" Shah kept the irritation from his voice, but it needed an effort. This was the third time she'd asked and it was hard gaining momentum with constant interruptions.
Bailey shrugged. "I'd say Narcotics, but they've bounced it back already."
"Probably because they're stretched right now, and they're focusing on the kudos cases. I'll guess, he's either a user or a low-level dealer."
Bailey checked. "Priors for possession only."
"So there's no glory. Bounce it back at them with a note saying it's clearly a Narco case, and to spend less time playing ping-pong with it, and more time working on it." Shah caught her horrified look. "OK, omit that last part, but send it back."
Bailey tossed the flimsy into the recycler, and made the call. "This is Officer Bailey of the 28th Precinct. We're reallocating the case of the John Doe fished out of the Hudson with amphetamines in his bloodstream. We, um, we believe that it's more appropriate–"
Shah screened out the rest and concentrated on devolving the morning's seven new cases. Five of them he rerouted straight away. Of the others, one was an amnesiac who suffered personality disorders from a burn that had stripped his recent memories, the other a known associate of Sunny Kotian accused of beating a girl up. Shah put both into pending, and returned to Bailey as she ended her call. "You ask a lot of questions," Shah said. "Which could be good – except they're questions you could answer yourself."
A flush spread up Bailey's neck and across her pale, freckled features. "I – I suppose I'm slightly lacking in confidence. I don't mean to cause problems."
"You're not causing me problems. It's you I worry about. You need to gain that confidence quickly. People have been telling me it's amazing how quickly I pick things up. But that's bull. I've just learned very, very quickly to look and sound confident. New York's a shark pool where criminals and other departments smell weakness like blood in the water." He made himself smile and as she flashed him a feeble attempt at one in return he added, "That case will soon come pinging back with a snotty footnote." He put his credit card on the table. "I'll bet lunch tomorrow on it."
Bailey shook her head. "No, you're probably right. Are we going to spend the next three months playing table tennis with Narcotics?"
"If we have to," Shah said. "Because it'll set a precedent. Every case that comes their way that they can fling at us, they will. That's what we'll do, the first weak link we find there." He stood up. "What are you drinking? I'm getting coffee."
"I'm OK, thanks. I'll get something later on."
"For the love of – I'm not going to drug you, you know!" Shah saw several people grow momentarily still in the way eavesdroppers do, and lowered his voice, "Would you like a glass of water? There are no calories in water, so you're not fleecing a poor old man, if that's what you're worried about."
Bailey stared at her desk. Her voice when she spoke was thin and high, and so quiet Shah had to strain to hear her. "I just believe that it's best to keep work and home separate. I know that you're floundering, and you want to build a rapport with as many people as possible, but we're colleagues not friends. Just two people who work together."
"Suit yourself." Shah shrugged and ambled over to the machine. A young woman walking past caught his eye. Shah saw a glint of recognition and said, "Hi."
"How's John?" the young woman said. "Oh, you probably don't recognize me."
Shah checked his eyepiece. Kimi Hudson, Communications – he cut short the data. "Kimi? Yeah, I've almost no memories from before the attack. How do we know each other?"
"Through John Marietetski," Kimi said. "We – he and I – were friends, before. You know." Kimi blinked and Shah thought for the first time in too long of his partner, who had also had a life, and friends, and people affected by the attack. Shah made a vow that he would go and see him, if only to show solidarity with Marietetski's family. Should have done it weeks ago, you selfish toad. Kimi added, "We were nothing but friends, but…" her glassy eyes hinted at more.
"Yeah, I know," Shah said and reached out to her, then drew his hand back. Don't want any misunderstandings. "There's been no change to his condition since they stabilized him immediately after they took him in – still little better than a vegetable. They didn't just wipe his memories, but much of his ability to even learn – I've never h
eard of any attacker going so deep into the brain." Shah realized he was getting emotional himself and wiped his nose. That could've been me lying in that bed, tubed up.
Kimi ducked her head as she turned away, and dived into the ladies' rest room.
"Mister Tactful – as ever," Shah muttered.
The day inched by in endless downloads, images of men, women and children, a kaleidoscope of eating, sleeping, quarreling. Trying to broaden his knowledge beyond his own private universe of pendings, Shah happened across a file containing a picture of a blonde woman. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.
Aurora Debonis. That name sounds familiar. He called up her details. After he had listened to the sounds of breathing, the thud of fists on flesh, he read the notes and sat slack-jawed. I beat her up? What the hell was I doing?
Shah sat deep in thought for the hour until shift-end, when he pulled on his coat.
As Bailey did the same, Shah said, "You don't need to nursemaid me – I can walk home unaccompanied."
"I don't mind."
"So why walk with me? Any time we talk about anything but work or the weather, you clam up. There's a reason why people make small talk, Bailey. It's called switching off."
They walked down the stairs. "I have a partner," Bailey said out on the street, breaking the silence. A partner? Shah thought. Well, that's a surprise. Somehow he couldn't imagine the delicate Bailey engaged in anything as coarse as sex. Bailey continued. "There. You know something about me. If you want to walk alone I'll give you a head start."
"Naw," Shah growled. "Don't be stupid. I'm just a little antsy." Sometimes Shah felt as if he was being watched, but when he looked around, there was no one there.
"It's your mind trying to make sense of it all," Bailey said. "Paranoia, dementia-type symptoms, there are all kinds of possible side-effects to a major rip."
The walk home was in near-silence, and Shah still couldn't work out why Bailey was nursemaiding him – unless she was following van Doorn's orders.
That night Leslyn was sleeping with Doug, so left alone, Shah was free to ride the web, looking for his or Marietetski's memories. Again and again he came up blank.
The next thing he knew an angry hornet was somewhere in the room.
"Huh?" He said, blinking at the sunlight streaming in through the window, and wincing at the pain in his back where he'd fallen asleep in the chair.
The angry hornet was his eyepiece's alarm buzzing him with an override. "Shit."
"Where are you?" Bailey said. "I've been waiting at the corner for ten minutes."
"I'll be there."
"No need. I'm outside."
Shah cut the connection, cursing, as Leslyn let Bailey in.
As Shah shaved, Bailey fussed around his part of the apartment and Shah felt his temper rising. "You go on in," he called. "Van Doorn'll give me a verbal warning, but he won't do more than that. No point in us both getting warnings."
"No, it's OK," Bailey called back.
Shah heard the sound of wardrobe doors opening and closing. "What you doing?"
"Getting your shirt out. I thought I'd help–"
"Look, you can help by waiting outside!"
"I just thought–"
"Well, don't!" Shah wiped gel from his face.
He heard voices murmuring; Leslyn and Bailey moving through the flat to the doorway. Leslyn said, "The old Pete always had a bit of a temper, but now he's far worse."
"It's frustration," Bailey said.
Shah shouted, "Don't you dare! You two got something to say, say it to my face!" Pulling on his shirt he stormed into the corridor. "What you doing here, anyway? This goes way beyond partnership!"
Bailey said, "I've had enough. Find your own way in."
The sign on the wall said 'Bassinet Street Mosque'. It was small, unobtrusive, like the mosque.
Shah had seen mosques on the interweb. They were goldplated palaces of ostentation with turrets spearing the sky and megaphones rending the air with nasal wails.
This one was different.
Shah's legs ached and his feet felt as if his shoes were two sizes too small, but he'd walked the frustration and rage out of his system. As so often happens, the lost rage only left a vacuum. Curiosity was better than anger Shah decided, and pushed open the door.
When Bailey called the third time, he'd not only cut her off but turned off his eyepiece as well. Let them wait, he thought. He'd tried playing by their rules.
Inside the building was cool, airy, the smell of coffee and almonds providing homeliness. One man read aloud while others asked questions or offered opinions.
Shah knew he had been a Muslim before. From what Doug and Leslyn said not a particularly devout one, but he had gone a few times a year, at important festivals. He'd remembered none of that, so had looked up the references.
It seemed to him that the best of churches and mosques and temples were schools that would provide guidance while allowing the individual to grow, but all too often they devolved into prisons for the mind, where people were told what to think, what to believe, how to live.
There was nothing for him here Shah decided, ignoring the Imam's call of, "Wait, friend!" He would be better working out his own problems, and deciding in his own time how he should live his life. Until then he would lose himself in the semi-familiarity of work. It wasn't the solution, but it was a solution, even if only a temporary one.
XXIX
Shah slid late into an office in uproar. "What's happened?" He asked a passing uniform.
"The Ripper. Bastard's left the latest one on the steps of One Police Plaza."
"Van Doorn says Interview Room Four," Stickel called over. "Soon as you arrive. No stopping for coffee."
Shah rolled his eyes but obeyed. In the interview room he saw van Doorn and Bailey arguing, but couldn't hear through the soundproofing. Hesitantly, he entered.
Bailey stopped in mid-sentence.
Van Doorn grabbed his jacket. "You two are going to clear the air. Don't come out until you have a working relationship." The door slammed behind him.
"I – I offered to resign," Bailey said. "T-told him I couldn't work with a man who was so contemptuous of me."
"I'm not!"
"A – aren't you?"
Shah took a lungful of air, breathed out, took another breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "Can we start over?"
Shah felt a fool standing with a flowering plant in his hand that evening at the hospital, but Leslyn had been adamant. "John can hardly eat chocolates or grapes, even if we could afford either. A bouquet will perish, so take him something that'll last. Watering it will give you an excuse to revisit."
Shah knew that he should have come before. There in the case notes, all the memories that his colleagues had burned onto an antique get-well CD: Shah and Marietetski at work, clowning in the office, at the annual Bowling Meet. He really had intended to call.
But throwing himself back into work was his way of fleeing the attack. Visiting Marietetski before would have been the opposite of what Shah needed. So in some ways visiting is a sign of progress, Shah told himself.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the room where Marietetski lay, tubes in his veins, another in his mouth. Beside the bed sat a small black woman, the wrinkles on her face etched deep enough to have been cut by a knife, her white curls partially hidden beneath a hat that would have been old-fashioned in Shah's childhood. Unusually, she wore no eyepiece. Her hands held a handbag with knuckles that were pale, and continually twisted the clasp; open, then closed, then open, then closed again, with the rhythmic persistence and precision of a ticking clock.
But her voice as she spoke to Marietetski was steady, and warmed by a Jamaican lilt. "Joseph should graduate next summer. You wouldn't recognize him, he's grown so much. He wants to go into the police, but I'm sure you understand your Aunt Evelyn isn't keen at the moment. Perhaps she'll change her mind when you recover." Her hands finally released the clasp of her handbag and one of them took Mariet
etski's left hand, stroking the knuckles. "If you can hear me John – no you can hear me, I know you can– just give me a sign."
Shah felt as if he was spying on something too intimate for his presence, and drew back, but only succeeded in attracting the woman's attention. "Who's there?"
Shah stepped out of the shadows. "John's partner, Mrs… Marietetski. Pete Shah."
"It's Mrs Trebonnet, Pete Shah."
Shah looked around for somewhere to put the plant. There was only a small table almost covered in cards, and he slid it to the back of them, knocking several of the cards off. They must've cost a fortune, he thought. Some of them sound like they're made from real cardboard, rather than plastique. He realized that the woman was talking. "Pardon me?"
