The diary was on her lap, a clothbound book with the word 'Journal' in black letters on the cover. Men called it a journal. Women called it a diary.
The word 'Journal' was the only thing written in English. The rest of the journal was in Polish in Alvin's no- nonsense, highly legible but incomprehensible block letters.
'You know I can't read this,' she said.
She was tired. She longed for the rain to return and set up a protective dark waterfall around the house. If someone had covered her eyes and said, 'Quick, which dress are you wearing?' she wouldn't have been able to answer with more than a vague guess.
'He says her,' Waclaw said.
'He says her?'
'Uh-huh.'
He held up both hands, fingers splayed. Then he made a fist and opened his fingers again. Then he pointed at the journal.
'Page twenty?' she asked.
He didn't know the word twenty so he reached over and flipped pages. Alvin Havel had numbered the pages in the upper right-hand corner. Waclaw tapped the open page with a lean finger.
'Hers,' he said.
Waclaw knew he looked like a fool. In Poland, he was considered to be a fine speaker, a union spokesman, a man his son, when he was alive, had been proud of. Waclaw knew he should have made a greater effort to learn English, but Alvin spoke perfect Polish. Waclaw's grandchildren spoke no Polish.
'Dzieweczyna,' he said pointing to the page.
'Dizwezna?' Anne repeated.
Close enough, thought Waclaw. Dzieweczyna. He didn't know the English word 'girlfriend,' but her name was in Alvin's journal. Well, not her name exactly, but the name he had given her in Polish. He pointed to the name.
Nogi.
'Her name is Nogi?' asked Anne.
'Niech pomysle.'
Waclaw pointed to his legs, then ran a hand down each of them.
'Legs?' Anne asked. 'Nogi? Legs?'
Waclaw shook his head 'yes' and sat back exhausted by his effort. 'Legs.'
Annette Heights was the first student through the door of the conference room. A tall man with hair as dark as hers stood behind her. She was still cute. He wasn't. He wore a blue suit, carried a briefcase and had a face that did not promise a smile.
It wasn't Robert Heights, the concert pianist, who Danny would have been happy to meet. This man was all lawyer and no more than thirty years old.
'John Rothwell,' he said, pulling out a chair for the girl who smiled up at him.
Danny wondered if she thought Rothwell was cute too.
No one shook hands. Rothwell and Annette Heights sat at the table. She looked at the metal box with the black cable and the orange goggles. Rothwell didn't look. He had a very good idea of what they were.
'What are you looking for?' Rothwell asked.
'Glass,' said Danny.
'Glass?'
'Glass,' Danny repeated.
'Why?'
The girl seemed to be amused. Her lawyer wasn't.
'Evidence that would go a long way toward removing your client from any possible suspicion,' said Danny.
'Clients. I represent all of the students on behalf of Wallen School. And if we say 'no'?'
'We ask a judge to step in,' said Danny. 'Won't look good. Could get out to the press.'
'Cut it out, John,' Annette said with a sigh. 'Let them do it and let's get out of here. Where are you looking for the glass? You want me to undress?'
'Not necessary,' said Lindsay. 'Just your hands.'
'All right,' said Rothwell. 'But they'll answer no questions.'
And they didn't, nor did Lindsay and Danny ask them any.
It went faster with the other students in Alvin Havel's chemistry class, James Tuvekian, Karen Reynolds, Cynthia Parrish. No trace of glass on any of their palms.
'Let's check the boyfriends,' said Lindsay after the students and their lawyer had left. 'Someone was in that closet. Someone watched for security to come back when the tapes were being altered. Someone's got glass in their palm.'
Jim Park sat propped up in bed. A pretty woman with an Irish face and red hair, his wife, stood on one side of the bed. Stella and Mac stood on the other side. Park's wife touched her husband's shoulder. He winced.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I forgot.'
'I wasn't going to hurt anyone,' Park said. 'I didn't even know the knife was in my pocket.'
'We believe you,' said Mac.
'They believe you,' Park's wife said reassuringly.
'Good, then they can be witnesses,' Park said. 'I'm suing the man who shot me. Sioban, get me a lawyer.'
'What kind of lawyer?' she asked.
'A mean one,' he said.
'Mr. Park,' Mac said. 'We've got a few more questions.'
'I did not have a good morning,' Park explained.
'We know,' said Mac.
'Ask your questions.'
'Any idea when the knife was put in your pocket?' asked Mac.
'Yes, between nine-thirty and ten-seventeen. I was late for work. I reached into my pocket to check my cell phone messages at nine-thirty. I was on the train platform. The next time I checked was ten-seventeen in the elevator. That's when I found the knife in my pocket.'
'See anyone suspicious near you?' asked Mac. 'Anyone bump into you?'
'Everyone was suspicious-looking, even me, and everyone bumped into me. No one says 'I'm sorry' or 'Pardon me.' Wait, one man on the platform who bumped into me did say 'Sorry.''
'What did he look like?' asked Mac.
'What did he look like?' Park's wife prompted.
Park looked at her with mild exasperation.
'I don't know,' he said. 'Just bumped into me, said 'sorry' and limped into the crowd.'
'Which train stop was it?' Mac asked, looking at Stella who rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
'Gun Hill Road, the Bronx,' Park said.
'Gun Hill Road, Bronx,' his wife repeated.
'Where's your jacket?' asked Mac.
'Over there,' said Park, gesturing at the closet a few feet away.
'I'll need it,' said Mac.
'Keep it,' said Park. 'It's got a hole in it where that guy shot me.'
