'More like belated action. Once the lid of oppression was lifted off the force by Commissioner Rocker, naturally some of us rose to the surface. They looked around in a panic and realized there weren't any high-level women on the force-because they'd been discriminating against us forever-and began promoting. I was in the right place at the right time, with the right test scores and credentials.'
'Ambition and talent had nothing to do with it?'
'I wouldn't say that.' She smiled.
'Neither would I.' Vincent sipped his wine. 'Where'd you grow up?'
'Macon, Georgia. My dad was a welder, my mom a homemaker. I had an older brother, killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire. I was eight.'
'I'm sorry.'
Hayward shook her head. 'My parents never recovered. Dad died a year later, Mom the year after that. Cancer, both of them, but I think it was more from grief. He was their pride and joy.'
'That's really hard.'
'That was a long time ago, and I had a wonderful grandmother in Islip who raised me. It helped me realize I was pretty much alone in this world and that nobody would kick ass for me. I'd have to do the kicking myself.'
'You've done a good job of it.'
'It's a game.'
He paused. 'You really shooting for commissioner?'
She smiled, saying nothing, then raised her glass. 'Nice to have you back in the Big Apple where you belong, Vinnie.'
'I'll drink to that. You don't know how I've missed this town.'
'Best place in the world to be a cop.'
'When I was a lieutenant, back during the museum murders, I never really appreciated it. I thought it would be great to get out of the city, live in the country, breathe fresh air for a change, listen to the birds chirping, watch the leaves turn color. I wanted to go fishing every Sunday. But you know what? Fishing is boring, the birds wake you up in the morning, and instead of Le Cirque, up in Radium Hot Springs you've got Betty Daye's Family-Style Restaurant.'
'Where you can feed a family of four for what it costs here to buy a donut.'
'Yeah, but who wants chicken-fried steak at four ninety-nine when you can have duck magret dusted with Espelette pimento for only forty-one bucks?'
Hayward laughed. 'That's what I love about New York-nothing's normal. Everything's totally over the top. Here we are having dinner in the same room with Madonna and Michael Douglas.'
'New York'll drive you crazy, but it's never boring.'
She took a sip of wine and the waiter rushed over to refill her glass. 'Is there really a town called Radium Hot Springs up there? It sounds like a joke.'
'I've been there. I'm pretty sure it's real.'
'What was it like?'
'I kid about it, but it wasn't a bad place. Small town, good values. Canadians are a friendly bunch. But it wasn't home. I always felt like an exile, you know what I mean? And it was too damn quiet. I thought I'd go crazy, I couldn't concentrate with all those chirping birds. Give me the roar of rock-solid Friday afternoon Midtown gridlock, stretching from river to river. Man, that's the voice of life itself.'
Hayward laughed as their main courses arrived with a flurry of white-gloved waiters.
'I could definitely get used to this,' said D'Agosta, leaning back and tucking into his duck magret, following it with a swig of Chardonnay.
Hayward placed a sea scallopetuvee in her mouth and savored it. She didn't believe she had ever tasted anything quite so good in her life. 'You did well, Vinnie,' she said with a smile. 'You really did well.'
{ 44 }
D'Agosta had never been in the place before, but everything about it was dismally familiar. At least the sharp tang of alcohol and formaldehyde and God only knew what other chemicals helped chase away a lingering hangover. He and Laura Hayward hadn't left the restaurant until 11:30 the night before. At the sommelier's suggestion, he'd splurged on a demi bottle of dessert wine-Chateau d'Yquem 1990, it had cost him a week's pay at least-and it had proved to be the most wonderful wine he'd ever tasted. The whole evening had proved wonderful, in fact.
What a tragedy that it had to be followed up by this.
The mingled smell of formalin, bodily fluids, and decomposition; the overly clean stainless-steel surfaces; the bank of refrigerating units; the sinister-looking diener lurking in the background; the attending pathologist-and of course the cadaver, star of the show, lying in the middle of the room on an old marble autopsy table, illuminated by its very own spotlight. It had been autopsied-disassembled was more like it-and a bunch of withered, sliced-and- diced organs lay arrayed around the corpse, each in its own plastic container: brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and a bunch of other dark lumps D'Agosta did not care to guess at.
Still, this wasn't as bad as some. Maybe it was because the parade of insects had come and gone and the corpse had decayed to the point where it was as much skeleton as flesh. Or perhaps it was because the smell of
