Cemetery Dance

She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner's suite and a

"Hello, Laura," he said. "Have a seat."

Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.

Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put her on her guard.

"There's no easy way to say this," he began. "So I'll just tell you straight. I'm not appointing you to the task force."

For a moment, Hayward couldn't believe she had heard right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep breath.

"I—" she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stu

"I'm very sorry," Rocker said. "I know how much you were looking forward to the opportunity."

Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her limbs. Only now — when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp — did she realize how important it had been to her.

"Who are you appointing in my place?" she asked.

Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically abashed. "Sanchez."

"Sanchez is a good man." It was as if she were in a dream, and somebody other than her was speaking the lines.

Rocker nodded.

Hayward became aware that her hands were hurting. Looking down, she saw she was gripping the arms of the chair with all her strength. She willed herself to relax, to maintain her composure — with little success. "Is it something I've done wrong?" she blurted.

"No, no, of course not. It's nothing like that."

"Have I let you down somehow? Come up short?" "You've been an exemplary officer, and I'm proud to have you on the force."

"Then why? Inexperience?"

"I consider your master's in sociology ideal for the task force. It's just that — well — an appointment like this is all about politics. And it turns out Sanchez has seniority."

Hayward didn't answer right away. She hadn't realized seniority was a factor. In fact, this was the one appointment she'd believed free of such bullshit.

Rocker shifted in his chair. "I don't want you to feel this is any reflection on your performance."

"Surely you were aware of our respective seniority rankings before you gave me reason to hope," Hayward said quietly.

Rocker spread his hands. "Fact is, seniority formulas can be rather arcane. I made an honest mistake. I'm sorry."

Hayward said nothing.

"There will be other opportunities — especially for a captain of your caliber. Rest assured I'll see to it that your hard work and commitment are rewarded."

"Virtue is its own reward, sir. Isn't that what they say?" Hayward stood and — seeing from Rocker's face there was nothing more — walked on slightly unsteady legs to the door.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, she had regained her composure. The echoing space was full of noise and lunch — hour bustle. Hayward passed the security checkpoint, then pushed her way out the revolving doors onto the broad steps. She had no real destination in mind: she just needed to walk. Walk and not think.

Her reverie was interrupted when someone collided heavily with her. She glanced over quickly. It was a man: thin and youthful looking, with acne — pitted cheeks.

"Pardon me," he said. Then he stopped and drew himself up. "Captain Hayward?"

She frowned. "Yes."

"What a coincidence!"

She looked at him more closely. He had dark, cold eyes that belied the smile on his face. She did a quick mental cross — check — acquaintances, colleagues, perps — and satisfied herself he was a stranger.

"Who are you?" she asked. "The name's Kline. Lucas Kline."

"What coincidence are you talking about?"

"Why, the fact I'm going to the very place you've just been."

"Oh? And where would that be?"

"The commissioner's office. You see, he wants to thank me. In person." And before Hayward could say anything more, Kline reached into his pocket, took out an envelope, removed the letter within, and held it open before her.

She reached for it but Kline held it back, out of reach. "Uh — uh. No touching."

Hayward glanced at him again, eyes narrowing. Then she turned her attention to the letter. It was indeed from Commissioner Rocker, on official letterhead, dated the day before, and thanking Kline — as head of Digital Veracity, Inc. — for his just — a

She looked at Kline once again. Streams of people were leaving the building, stepping around them. The smile was still on his face. "I'm very happy for you," she said. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you."

She shook her head. "You've lost me."

"You're a smart cop. You'll figure it out." He turned toward the revolving doors, then stopped and glanced back. "I can tell you a good place to start, though."

Hayward waited. "Ask your boyfriend Vi

Chapter 48

Nora Kelly's eyesflew open. For a moment she struggled to understand where she was. Then it all came back: the smell of rubbing alcohol and bad food; the beeping and murmuring; the distant sirens. The hospital.Still.

She lay there, head throbbing. The IV, hanging on its rack next to the bed, was swaying in the bright moonlight, creaking back and forth like a rusty sign in the wind. Had she caused it to move like that? Perhaps a nurse had bumped it while checking on her just now, administering more of the tranquilizers she kept insisting she didn't need. Or maybe the cop that D'Agosta stationed outside had looked in. She glanced over; the door was shut.

The IV bottle swayed and creaked unceasingly. A strange feeling of dissociation began creeping over her. She was more tired than she'd realized. Or else perhaps it was a side effect of the second concussion.

The concussion.

She didn't want to think about that. Because that would take her back to what caused it: to her darkened apartment, the open window, and…

She shook her head — gently; squeezed her eyes tightly closed; then began taking deep, cleansing breaths. When she was calm again, she opened her eyes and looked around. She was in the same double room she'd been in the last three days, her bed nearest to the window. The blinds of the windows were closed, and the privacy curtain had been drawn around the bed nearest the door.

She turned, looking more closely at the drawn curtain. She could see the outline of the sleeping person within, backlit by the glow filtering out of the bathroom. But was that really the outline of a person? Hadn't the bed been empty when she'd fallen asleep? This was her third night here now — the doctors kept promising it was just for observation, that she'd be released tomorrow — and that bed had always been empty.