Grief Street

second?”
    “Oh, yes. I’ve arranged for the two of you to inspect the property tomorrow morning. Will that be soon enough?”
    “How do we get into the place?”
    “We have a custodian who takes care of that. Just look for Mr. Mallow in front of the house, at ten o’clock.”
    “By any chance, would that be Edward Mallow?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    I rang off with Eileen from the lawyer’s office. Vennum ? “All right,” I said, turning to Haefs, “exactly what happened to my wife?”
    “She told the paramedics she fell on the stairs. She s skinned up, but otherwise—”
    “Paramedics?”
    “One of your neighbors came home, saw her sprawled on the stairs, and called nine-one-one for an ambulance. That s about the whole story, Detective.”
    “What brings you here?”
    “Over at the station house, we heard about an officer's wife having an accident. The desk called your number—but no answer.”
    “Sergeant Becker phoned?”
    “Right. Naturally he sent out a unit.”
    “Naturally.”
    “You know, to see if we could help out a tin wife in distress.”
    “Very thoughtful.”
    “Go ahead, Detective—go see your wife. I can lock up here.”
    Eddie the Ear was not outside my building when I got back down to the street. Nor was he sitting in his chair against the wall of Dinny’s. Nor was he inside drinking beer.
    I legged it up to Roosevelt Hospital, where only yesterday I had held Sister Roberta’s hand.

Thirty-five

    ” S o, how was your trip in the country?”
    This from Ruby as I barreled into her room. She had bruises on her cheeks the size of tomatoes, a mouse on her left eye, one arm held suspended in the air by a cord hanging from the ceiling, a bandage coiled on her head like a sikh’s turban, and a half-dozen electronic monitors hooked up to jelly patches on her side, stomach, chest, throat, and the elbow pulse of her good arm.
    She motioned to the doorway, outside of which was standing a courtesy officer, a fresh-faced kid in his twenties rocking on his heels in the hospital corridor. One of Becker’s boys, I thought darkly. Obviously, Ruby was thinking her own dark thoughts.
    “The kid?” I asked, turning to look at him. He gave me a little salute and turned, allowing us privacy.
    “Come here,” Ruby said. When I was next to her bed, she whispered, “Pretend you’re kissing me.”
    I leaned down close. Ruby said, “It might have been cops.”
    The first thing I wanted to do was grab this young kid outside the door—whoever he was, innocent or otherwise—-and ram his head against the cinder block wall until it smashed open like a crenshaw melon. Then I wanted to drag the kid down to Midtown South and nail him to somebody’s locker—maybe Sergeant Becker’s locker, where he keeps his size XXL shirts and his stupid flag pins. After that, I wanted to open a big gash in the heads of the biggest wrong cops I could find and strap their carcasses across the hood of a squad car like they were buck deer I might have bagged up in the mountains. Then I would drive that car about a hundred miles an hour, siren wailing and lights flashing, straight through the door down at Manhattan Sex Crimes, where I would run it over King Kong Kowalski and make him as flat as a sideways Slattery.

    My face made no secret of any of this. Which is why Ruby had to be cool for us both.
    “Don’t let the testosterone get the better of you, Irish. You’re too hot, don’t say a word. Just listen very carefully.” Ruby whispered all this, somehow making it sound like a slap in the face. “We don’t know who we can trust, okay? I know I look bad, but I’m going to be all right. Now—can you get rid of the kid posted in the hallway?”
    “Sure.”
    “Take a beat first.”
    I kissed my wife. Then I walked to the doorway. I thanked the rookie for the professional courtesy of seeing after Ruby
    and asked him to be sure to extend my thanks to Sergeant Becker. I thought. And Ruby thinks she’s the actor in the family.
    I watched the rookie walk down the hall. He seemed like a good kid. Which did not matter. I still wanted to smash open his head.
    “Okay, give,” I said, crossing back to Ruby. She told me what happened and what she saw: five of them, black ski masks, surgical gloves, white gym socks stretched over their shoes. “Two kinds of bad guys know how to make life difficult for the forensics crew: cat burglars and wrong cops.”
    “It’s not about stealing. It’s about taking step