and the tip of her chin to an underlayer, before squeezing the original photo. The victim’s face was bloated and I wanted to narrow it without also narrowing bony prominences less subject to bloating. Returning these features to the original was a fairly simple matter.
‘You’re bringing her back to life, Corbin,’ Adele declared when I’d completed this phase of the job.
I might have mentioned Lazarus at that point, but as Adele was a Sephardic Jew, I didn’t waste my breath. And there was no bringing her back to life, either. Like any murder victim, Jane Doe #4805 was beyond even simple revenge. Nevertheless, if I couldn’t restore her to life, I could make her lifelike. And that’s what I did. I made her cheeks rosy, her lips red, her eyes blue, her teeth white. I sharpened her chin, darkened her brows and restored the shadows bleached out by the Polaroid’s flash. The young woman who emerged would not have turned heads on the street. Dominated by a pronounced overbite, her chin was slightly receding, her nose long, her face small and square. A thick head of blond wavy hair had undoubtedly been her best asset, but as I styled her hair with all the attention of a Madison Avenue hairdresser, I could only guess that she’d worn it loose.
Finally, I printed several black-and-white photos, each time sharpening the contrast. I might have printed in color, but there was no way I could be certain that the hues I’d assigned to the victim’s cheeks, lips and eyes reflected her normal coloring. Nor could I know if the evident bloating had erased any fine lines around her eyes or at the corners of her mouth. What I did know, however, by the time I finished, was that I had a likeness that would be recognized by anyone who knew her, a likeness at least as good as a police artist’s sketch. And I didn’t have to beg to get it.
I shut down the computer, satisfied with the result. Long ago, while still in uniform, I’d set my sights on a detective’s gold shield. I was at a distinct disadvantage, which I knew at the time. Promotion to the Detective Bureau was strictly at the discretion of the bosses and your pedigree was at least as important as the job you did on the street. That was a given. But if there was nothing to be done about a system that consistently rewarded second- and third-generation cops, at least one variable was still in play. If I couldn’t out-influence my competitors, I could definitely outwork them. And that’s what I did, collaring so many bad guys in the next ten months that the Precinct union delegate finally told me to lay off.
‘You’re makin’ the rest of us look bad,’ he’d explained.
Adele’s hand tightened on my shoulder at that point and I swiveled my chair in a half-circle to face her. Although we’d been working for two hours and were both drenched with sweat, I wasn’t thinking of a shower at that moment. My mood having instantly turned, I was thinking about the slippery texture of Adele’s inner thigh, how her skin would feel beneath my fingers should I slide them from her left knee into the shadow beneath the leg of her gym shorts. I knew that if I lifted her t-shirt just a few inches, I’d discover a tiny drop of salty water trapped in her navel. I wanted to taste that drop on my tongue, to let it roll down into my throat. I wanted to absorb Adele the way the skin of a submerged amphibian absorbs oxygen.
Aroused by death? By violent death, by death undeserved? Looking back, I don’t think so. I think I somehow separated the chase from the event that set the chase in motion. But murder was, undeniably, a necessary precondition to the erotic recklessness I felt at that moment. And I knew it, even at the time. I reached out to place my hands on Adele’s hips, to draw her close, but she was one step ahead of me, as usual. She slid away, then yanked off her T-shirt, smiling that naughty, little-girl smile reserved for me alone. Adele’s breasts are small and hard, her nipples like thimbles. That my eyes were drawn to them came as no surprise to either of us.
‘Corbin,’ she asked, ‘what do you think would happen if I stood in front of the air conditioner for a moment or two?’
I don’t remember what I answered, or what I imagined, the end result being at least as grand as any fantasy I could muster. Her nipples became as hard as bullets, her breasts pimpled with little goose bumps that smoothed beneath my tongue. Prior to Adele, my adult relationships had been limited to a series of impulsive affairs that cooled as fast as they began. The pattern was so consistent that I’d pretty much resigned myself to a hit-and-run sex life. Meanwhile, after nine months with Adele, I was as infatuated as ever.
We made love in a frenzy, in a blur of manipulations. Adele is a very fit woman, but I’m also very fit and much larger. Toward the end, when I pinned her wrists to the bed, her legs circled my hips and tightened, commanding me forward, locking me into an arc of no more than a few inches. She was looking directly into my eyes then, her breath coming in short heaves, her mouth curled into a defiant grimace. When I bent forward to cover that mouth with my own, a shudder ran through her body, from the base of her spine up into her skull, and her eyes fluttered momentarily before closing. A moment later, I exploded inside her.
Pillow talk. After the showers and the changing of the sheets, as we lay side by side watching NY1, the cable news station, Adele laid her hand on my thigh and cleared her throat. They were doing the subway derailment on the little screen: the eight people dead, the ninety-seven injured, the EDP, the plain-clothes cop whose every move was now being judged by a media as anxious as its audience to cast blame. Predictably, the job was acting with caution. No details would be forthcoming until after a preliminary investigation was completed sometime within the next few days.
‘Corbin,’ Adele said, ‘the perp in the case I’ve been working decided to plead out today. It came as a big surprise.’
Something in her voice, a slight quaver, a hesitation, raised the hair on the back of my neck. ‘And?’
‘Well, I have nearly a week coming.’
‘Compensation for overtime?’
‘Exactly. And what I thought I’d do was visit Jovianna. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.’
I recoiled, literally, my head jerking back. Jovianna Littman was Adele’s sister, an unbearably competitive woman who used her several advanced degrees to lord it over her cop sibling. Ordinarily, Adele avoided Jovianna, who lived with her family in a gated community outside Baltimore, showing up only on the Jewish holy days of Passover and Yom Kippur. And then only for the sake of her parents, who lived nearby and whom she also disliked.
‘How will you get there?’ I knew the question was inane before the words were out of my mouth.
‘I decided to go by Amtrak, so I won’t have to put up with the security delays at the airport. The ride’s only six hours.’ She put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Jovianna called me this evening and we just got to talking. My mother hasn’t been feeling well, which I think I told you, and I haven’t seen them since April. Plus, I know how you get when you catch a case like this. A couple of days from now, you’ll barely remember my name.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Maybe in a few days. If I can stand Jovianna even for that long. By the end of the week for sure.’
There was nothing else to say, not unless I challenged Adele’s honesty. I wasn’t prepared to do that, although much of what she said rang false to my interrogator’s ear. So I told her to have a good time and got a hug before she turned out the light.
For the next fifteen minutes, until she fell asleep, I laid quietly beside her. Then I rolled out of bed and went into the living room. Of necessity, Adele and I lived separate lives. She worked normal business hours, while I toiled from four until midnight. I wouldn’t have been ready for sleep, even on a normal day, but now my brain was spinning.
I parked myself before the TV and tried to watch a movie, Ocean’s Eleven, but I couldn’t follow the convoluted plot. Somehow, I found my thoughts turning, not to Adele, but to the crime scene, to the flies and the body, the heat and the rain, to Clyde Kelly’s sad eyes and troubled conscience. Adele was running off to Maryland and there was nothing I could do about it. My Jane Doe was another matter. She was my responsibility. Only I could speak for her.
Eventually, I took those thoughts back to my computer and reworked her likeness. I rotated her head back and forth, tilted her chin up, played with her expression. I imagined her happy and sad, fearful and angry. What would she do with her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her brow, her chin? Finally, after printing what amounted to a model’s portfolio, I settled on a three-quarters shot of her right profile, adjusting her eyes until she was looking at me with a sideways glance at once timid and sly. I had no reason to believe that the finished product would be any more effective than the first photo I printed. I really didn’t care.
FIVE
