Manhattan Serenade: A Novel - Joseph Sinopoli Steven

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authorization goes in or out.” He turned to Hernandez. “Have Forensics go over it. Maybe our motorcyclist friend left some prints.”

      The slender woman with flashing dark eyes wore black Capri pants and a sleeveless silver top. It played well against her olive skin. She squirmed forward on the sofa, aimed the remote at the television set, and turned it off. Frank Hernandez seated next to her glowered. “Hey, what’re you doing, the ‘Double Jeopardy’ part of the show was about to start.”

      Pilar Hernandez pulled back the silky black hair that flowed over her shoulders. “Don’t be mad,” she said. “I’m sorry I sprung the news on you during dinner, but I only found out this afternoon.”

      Hernandez kept stoically silent, his gaze glued to the blank screen.

      “I understand the idea of having another kid is scary,” Pilar went on. “Frankie, Jr. is just a year old, and I know we’re trying to save money for a house, but you gotta understand—” She stopped, folded her arms under her breasts and looked away.

      Hernandez put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around. “Honey, all I’m asking is for time to adjust to the idea,” he said. He caressed her face and kissed her forehead. “You know how much I love you… but… well, I thought we decided to wait until I got my degree, passed the bar, and started making enough money to support another kid,” Hernandez said.

      “Do you know the number of years you’re talking about? I’m almost thirty and I don’t want to be an old lady with teenage kids.”

      Hernandez bolted to his feet. “If you wanna know the truth, I’m worried about repeating my father’s mistakes. He and my mother had me when they were more or less our ages, and when the pressure of working two jobs to make ends meet was too much for the bastard, he abandoned us and went back to Puerto Rico. I don’t want that kind of pressure on us. I still have a year to go in law school, and I’m worried about the expenses that another kid is going to bring.”

      Pilar rose and faced Hernandez. “Why won’t you let me keep my job at the Criminal Courts Building? I’m making good money and the doctor said I was only two-and-a-half months pregnant. When the baby comes I’ll take maternity leave and then return to work.”

      Hernandez shook his head vigorously. “No way am I risking something happening to you while you’re pregnant.”

      “For crying out loud, Frank. That’s so old-fashioned. I feel fine. I’m only a court interpreter. It isn’t as if I lift heavy objects.”

      The sergeant rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and gazed at Pilar. “Okay, fine. But when the baby comes, you stay home. If you go back to work after, it’ll mean your mother will move in with us to take care of Frankie and the baby. We’ll lose our privacy. Don’t you see that?”

      Pilar stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed resentment. “You’re tellin’ me you don’t like my mother?” she said. “Oye amigo, mi madre es buena gente!” She took two steps toward Hernandez. The sergeant stepped back and extended his hands out in front of him. It was a bad omen whenever Pilar started to argue in Spanish.

      “English, please,” he said. “I know your mother is a good person, I have nothing against Antonia. She’s great with Frankie, but remember the old proverb: Juntos pero no revueltos—close but not together. Too much intimacy always brings problems,” he said. He then put his arms around his wife. “Besides, you always complain that she puts too much garlic in her roast pork.”

      Pilar giggled and stepped back. “You’re right about that,” she said.

      Hernandez’s face relaxed—the storm had passed.

      Pilar looked at her husband with a solemn expression. “One thing. Forget what your father did, he’s been dead for a long time. I know you. No way are you going to fall down on the job. Besides, I could work part-time, eh?” she cooed.

      Hernandez smiled faintly. “We’ll see.” He checked his watch. “Oh-oh, have to run or I’ll be late for class.”

      “Don’t worry about Jeopardy, Tivo’s taping it,” Pilar said.

      Striking a mock dictatorial pose, Hernandez grinned and raised his forefinger. “Good, no beatings tonight.” He placed the open palm of his right hand against her stomach. “Take care of Frankie’s brother.”

      “Could be a girl, you know.”

      “Wouldn’t dare,” Hernandez said, but when he saw Pilar’s frown he added briskly, “Just kidding.”

      Moments later Frank Hernandez walked out of the building. He came into the focus of a 250mm telephoto lens that was aimed at him from the half-opened tinted window of a late model black Mustang. It was parked in the shadows across the street.

      Click, click, click, click… The shutter snapped several times as Hernandez walked to the corner and turned toward the rear parking area. When he disappeared, the lens was replaced by a hand that flicked a lit cigarette butt out the window. The Mustang’s engine then roared and sped into the night.

      The light green dank cement passageway that wound through the basement of the city’s morgue led to Milos Chang’s autopsy room. It always made Moran’s skin crawl. By the smell of formaldehyde permeating the air the cop knew he was nearing the ‘meat shop,’ as it was known colloquially.

      “Hi, Milos,” Moran said when he walked through the glazed door and closed it behind him.

      Chang turned from the sink where he was washing his hands. “Be right with you. In the meantime, he’s over there,” the AME said. He jerked his thumb at the naked body of Paul Myer. It laid on top a stainless steel table with holes in its surface to drain the blood and body fluids of its occupants.

      Moran gazed at Chang’s stained surgical gown. “Maybe you’d like to change,” he said pointing to the spots.

      Chang looked down and then shifted his eyes to Moran. “Nobody here seems to mind.”

      Moran looked past Chang to the row of refrigerated compartments. They were aligned in alphabetical order and took up the length of the wall. He shook his head— Morgue humor—he thought and walked away.

      When he reached Myer’s body, he gazed down and immediately brought his hand to his mouth and nose. “You forgot to finish sewing him up.”

      “Look at the greenish discoloration of his abdomen, neck, and shoulders,” the AME called out from across the room. “Confirms what I thought. Myer was in the water for about three days.”

      Moran peered at the partially decomposed body, winced and nodded. Then Chang appeared with a large x-ray in his latex-gloved hands. “Wanted you to see this,” he said, and moved to a nearby glass-viewing panel. He slipped the x-ray into the clips and turned on the panel’s backlight.

      When Moran inched forward, he squinted at several small images of a brain. “That’s Myer?”

      Chang nodded and pointed to a dark spot the size of a quarter in the left frontal part of one of the images. “That’s blood,” Chang said and moved to the image next to it. “And it was caused by something blunt. See the fracture near the frontal lobe?”

      Moran leaned forward and nodded.

      “That’s what killed Paul Myer,” Chang said matter-of-factly. He turned off the backlight.

      “What?”

      “Step over here,” Chang continued and drew the lieutenant to Myer’s body.

      When they got to the table, Moran wrinkled his nose, pursed his lips and willed himself

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