Reliquary

The doctor stared at him for a long time. At last, he managed a wan smile. “Very well, Lieutenant. On three conditions. I must be present. You must be gentle in your questioning. And you must end the interview as soon as I request it.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time. She’s suffering from shock and the early symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

“Good. From what we can tell, Mrs. Munoz is from a small town in central Mexico. She works as a child-care domestic for an Upper East Side family. We know she speaks English. Beyond that, not much.”

Mrs. Munoz lay in the hospital bed in exactly the same position she’d lain on the crime scene stretcher: arms folded, eyes staring vacantly into the far distance. The room smelled of glycerine soap and rubbing alcohol. Hayward took up a position outside in case Waxie showed up prematurely, while D’Agosta and the doctor took seats on either side of the bed. They sat for a moment, motionless. Then, wordlessly, Wasserman took her hand.

D’Agosta removed his wallet. Sliding out a picture, he held it in front of the woman’s face.

“This is my daughter, Isabella,” said D’Agosta. “Two years old. Isn’t she beautiful?”

He held the photo, patiently, until at last the woman’s eyes flickered toward it. The doctor frowned.

“Do you have any children?” D’Agosta asked, replacing the photo. Mrs. Munoz looked at him. There was a long silence.

“Mrs. Munoz,” D’Agosta said, “I know you’re in this country illegally.”

The woman quickly turned away. The doctor shot D’Agosta a warning look.

“I also know a lot of people have made you promises they haven’t kept. But I’m going to make you a promise that I swear on my daughter’s picture I will keep. If you help me, I’ll see to it that you get your green card.”

The woman did not respond. D’Agosta took out another picture and held it up. “Mrs. Munoz?”

For a long moment, the woman remained motionless. Then her eyes strayed toward the picture. Something relaxed inside D’Agosta.

“This is Pamela Wisher when she was two years old. The same age as my daughter.”

Mrs. Munoz took the picture. “An angel,” she whispered.

“She was killed by the same people who attacked your subway train.” He spoke gently but rapidly. “Mrs. Munoz, please help me to find these terrible people. I don’t want them to kill anyone else.”

A tear trickled down Mrs. Munoz’s face. Her lips twitched.

“Ojos…”

“I’m sorry?” D’Agosta said.

“Eyes…”

There was another pause while Mrs. Munoz’s lips worked silently. “They came, silently… lizard’s eyes, devil’s eyes.” A sob escaped her.

D’Agosta opened his mouth to speak, but a look from Wasserman restrained him.

“Eyes… cuchillos de pedernal… faces like the devil…”

“How so?”

“Old faces, viejos…”

She covered her face with her hands and let out a great groaning cry.

Wasserman stood up, gesturing at D’Agosta. “That’s enough,” he said. “Out.”

“But what did she—?”

“Out now,”the doctor said.

In the corridor, D’Agosta reached for his notebook, quickly spelling out the Spanish phrases as best he could.

“What’s that?” Hayward asked, peering curiously around his shoulder.

“Spanish,” said D’Agosta.

Hayward frowned. “That isn’t like any Spanish I ever saw.”

D’Agosta looked at her sharply. “Don’t tell me you habla Espanol on top of everything else.”

Hayward looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “You can’t always roust in English. And just what is that crack supposed to mean?”

D’Agosta shoved the notebook into her hand. “Just figure out what it says.”

Hayward began examining it intently, moving her lips. After a few moments, she moved to the nurse’s station and picked up a phone.

Wasserman came out, closing the door quietly behind him. “Lieutenant, that was… well, unorthodox, to say the least. But in the end I think it may prove beneficial. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” D’Agosta replied. “Just get her on her feet again. There are a lot more questions I’ll need to ask her down the road.”