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  A picture of Emma Graham, as she’d looked during their brief meeting, flashed in his mind. He wondered if his ex-wife would have shown Emma’s strength in a similar situation.

  Hyte decided to attend the funeral. It was the least he could do for the brave woman who had died. A little while later, he’d received a call from the police surgeon, demanding his return to the hospital. Hyte promised he would, the following night.

  “It’s your shoulder,” the doctor told him before hanging up.

  <><><>

  The waiting room of the Victorian funeral home was empty. He took a black satin yarmulke from the box by the door, put it on, and went into the temple. A young rabbi, standing at the raised pulpit, was conducting the service.

  A simple pine casket, closed, rested on a blue-draped table. The rabbi’s voice had a husky, plaintive quality. It was a fitting voice, Hyte decided, as he chose a seat that afforded him a view of everyone. His eyes roamed over the rows of heads.

  There were hundred plus people in attendance.

  Seated in the first row were Emma Graham and her father. On Emma Graham’s left was Jerome Rosenthal, the mayoral aide.

  Hyte sat back, his mind spinning with self-criticism. If he had moved faster, thought quicker, he might not be attending this funeral.

  He had stopped the flow of thoughts, knowing that to dwell on failure would only lead to more failures, and looked at Emma Graham’s profile. She’d sat proudly, her shoulders drawn back, her hair brushed neatly away from her face.

  The prayer had ended. Emma rose and went to the pulpit. She looked outward for several seconds; Hyte thought she was trying to compose herself. Although he was fifty feet away, he was able to see her clearly. Her facial muscles were tense. Her cheeks were drawn. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  She cleared her throat. “You all knew my mother.” Her voice caught on the last word. “There is nothing I can say about her that you don’t already know. She was a kind and gentle and loving woman, and a very special person.”

  Tears fell from Emma’s eyes, but her voice grew stronger. “My mother lived a full life. She cared about people. All people. More than just my father and myself will miss my mother. Her friends will miss her joyfulness and wit. She leaves behind her something unforgettable. A legacy of love and devotion.

  “I...” Faltering, she turned to the casket. “Good-bye, Mother. I love you.”

  Hyte swallowed the lump in his throat. Emma Graham’s simple and dignified eulogy had touched him. He felt her loss.

  When Emma stepped down, everyone stood. They went to her and her father, surrounding them, extending love and condolences.

  Hyte remained where he was, offering his own silent prayer.

  When the crowd started out, Hyte was the first to reach the sidewalk. He slipped into his car, waiting while the hearse and the limousine carrying the Grahams left for the cemetery, and then joined the procession in the middle.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he was standing at the gravesite beneath the strong June sun. Once again, he lingered at the periphery of the crowd, unwilling to impinge on anyone’s private grief.

  He listened as the rabbi led them in the mourner’s prayer in both Hebrew and English. When it ended, and Anita Graham’s body was lowered into the ground, Emma stepped forward.

  She took a shovel and dropped red earth onto her mother’s coffin. She handed the shovel to her father.

  A black yarmulke sat atop Jonah Graham’s gray hair. To Hyte, he appeared smaller and frailer than when he was on Flight 88.

  He dug into the mound and raised the shovel, looking down at the pine box holding his wife. Suddenly, the shovel fell from Graham’s hands. His face turned red. A gasp escaped his lips an instant before he collapsed. He landed half in the exposed grave.

  Emma cried and started toward her father. By the time she reached his side and started to pull him back from the grave, Hyte was through the stunned crowd of mourners and helped her pull Jonah back.

  “Get an ambulance!” he ordered a local cop.

  The left side of Jonah’s face was slack. It was as if the muscles had turned to rubber. Hyte had seen it before. He felt for a pulse and found it.

  Hyte began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, using two fingers of his right hand to keep Graham’s tongue from rolling backward. He heard Emma ask what was wrong. He didn’t answer. A few moments later, Jonah responded.

  When he raised his mouth from Jonah’s, he saw Rosenthal had moved Emma away. She was staring at her father. Her face was ashen.

  Blood seeped from Hyte’s bandaged shoulder and he knew he’d torn the wound open. “I think it’s a stroke,” he said as the wail of an ambulance siren reached them. Over Emma’s shoulder, he watched a camera crew move in. The local cop cut them off and motioned them back.

  The volunteer ambulance arrived, driving as close to the gravesite as possible. Two paramedics raced to the fallen man. It took them only a few seconds to put an aspirator over Graham’s mouth and nose.

  They maneuvered Graham onto a gurney, strapped him down securely, and started back to the ambulance. Emma broke away from Rosenthal to follow the paramedics. Hyte walked behind her and waited until she climbed into the ambulance after her father. “Miss Graham,” he began, wanting badly to offer her words of support. “I’m very sor—”

  Emma cut him off, her voice bitter. “What have you to be sorry about? You haven’t lost anything except for a little blood. I lost my mother, and now I’m losing my father! It will never be over, will it? Will it?”

  The force of her emotions caused him more pain than he wanted to bear. His heart went out to her, he wanted to comfort her, and make her understand how he felt. He had no answers. His guilt at what she had already gone through, and would go through because of him, kept him silent.

  Then the ambulance door closed.

  Rosenthal turned to Hyte. “Ray, can you drive me to the hospital?”

  Hyte looked down at his shoulder. The blood had soaked through his suit jacket. “I think you’d better drive,” he’d said.

  <><><>

  Rosenthal called him on Monday night to tell him the doctors were optimistic about Jonah’s recovery from the stroke. The news didn’t help to ease Hyte’s troubled thoughts. He could still hear Emma Graham’s angry words and accusations. During the remainder of his stay in the hospital, Emma was never far from his thoughts. Jonah Graham’s stroke compounded his sense of responsibility for Anita Graham’s death.

  At the same time, he wanted to see Emma and explain what had happened during the hijacking. He’d never felt this need before. Always, in the past, he had been able to separate himself from the victims of crimes. He didn’t try to analyze his reaction to the hijacking; he accepted it, just as he accepted the fact that he couldn’t shake Emma Graham from his mind.

  He had never met a woman who appeared to be so in control of herself as Emma Graham, and she fascinated him, Hyte finally admitted to himself. Not even her angry challenge at the cemetery diminished his view of her.

  When the hospital released him, the Friday following Anita Graham’s funeral, he went straight to the Westchester hospital and Jonah Graham’s room.

  Emma was sitting next to him. Wires led from Graham’s chest and head to the monitors on the walls. Oxygen tubes ran from his nose. Hyte stood in the doorway for several minutes, watching her.

  “Miss Graham.”

  Emma turned. Her eyes widened. She stood. “Lieutenant.” She looked at the sling supporting his left arm. “I want to thank you for helping my father at the funeral, and apologize for my behavior.”

  When Hyte waved her words away, her eyes became warmer. He relaxed. “Can we talk?”

  She looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. He took her to the cafeteria, where they got coffee and went to a corner table.

  “Jerome called me at the beginning of the week. He told me the doctors said your father will recover.”

  “If recover means he’ll live, yes—except t
he stroke was worse than the doctors originally thought. The damage to his brain is massive.” She paused, her eyes fixed intently on his. “He’ll never walk, or talk, or smile. The doctors believe that he’ll be aware of everything. They say his mind will be completely functional, but he won’t be able to communicate. Goddamn those hijackers!”

  Hyte started to reach across the table to take her hand.

  He stopped himself when he realized what he was doing. “I’m sorry, Miss Graham. I came here because I wanted to explain what happened during the hijacking.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m sure you did your best. But it’s hard to accept losing my mother, and now my father as well. And all because of a madman.”

  “I understand how you feel.”

  Emma’s eyes flared with passion. “I lost the two people I loved most. You didn’t lose anyone. So please don’t tell me you understand.”

  Hyte met her enraged stare. “I’m telling you just that. You see, the hijacking cost me my daughter. And while it may not be permanent, it’s still a hard loss.” Without giving her a chance to say anything, he explained about his wife taking Carrie away, and why.

  Emma picked up her coffee and sipped it. She gazed at him for several seconds. “I didn’t ... I was wrong,” she said.

  “What about your father,” he asked. “What are your plans?”

  Her expression turned defensive. “You sound like those doctors. Do you mean am I going to put him out to pasture…send him to a facility? No! When it’s time, I’m taking him home. I’ll care for him.”

  Her answer didn’t surprise him; it was a part of her character. He stood slowly, not wanting to leave her but knowing he couldn’t stay. “If you need anything, please call me.”

  Emma smiled tentatively. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile. Hyte liked the effect it had on her face.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  On the drive back to Manhattan, Hyte came to the only decision he could. He had to put Emma Graham out of his mind. His attraction to her was wrong. It had been born out of guilt, grief, and loss.

  For weeks, Hyte had tried not to think of Emma too often. When he did, he would call the hospital and check on Jonah Graham’s condition, which remained the same. Twice, he had the switchboard ring through to Jonah’s room. Each time, Emma had answered the phone.

  Then, on the Monday before he returned to work, she had called him and asked him to join her for dinner. He’d agreed immediately. He spent the rest of the day calling himself a fool.

  After dinner, Hyte had dropped her off at her co-op on York Avenue. They stood outside. It was a warm night, cloudy. He gazed at Emma, wondering if his emotions were leading him astray. Strangely, he didn’t care.

  “I enjoyed this evening,” Emma said.

  “So did I. Are you free Saturday night?”

  She glanced away. Then, hesitantly, she had said, “Yes, I am.”

  <><><>

  Hyte shook away his memories of the early months following the hijacking when he heard Emma’s voice on the phone. Hyte smiled. He’d had no inkling when he’d asked her out for that second date, that he would still be dating her seven months later.

  “There’s a problem with tonight,” he said and explained about the television interview.

  “I don’t mind waiting until you’re finished. Or, if you’d like company, I’ll go to the studio with you.”

  Hyte smiled. “I’ll meet you there at six.”

  “Wonderful,” she said and hung up.

  Hyte looked out his window. The past was still on his mind. So much bad had happened during the hijacking he found it hard to accept the good that had come of it: his ongoing and deepening relationship with Emma Graham.

  Then he looked at the report of Flaxman’s death, and remembered Emma’s question at the funeral. It will never be over, will it?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Patrol car fifteen, attached to the Nineteenth Precinct, was parked on the corner of Eighty-Sixth Street and York Avenue when a call from central came through. Patrolman Sean Reagan, a veteran of twenty-one years, responded.

  Patrolman Raul Santiago, six months out of the Academy and riding shotgun, asked, “See the super about a bad smell? What the hell does that mean?”

  Reagan gave him a sideways glance, shrugged, and opened the car door. “Be right back.” When he returned, he was carrying three fat cigars.

  The rookie was puzzled; Reagan didn’t smoke.

  When they arrived at the building, they found the super, a short and thin Hispanic, standing on the sidewalk with several tenants. “Which floor?” Reagan asked.

  “Five D,” the super said. “Name’s Elaine Samson. Here’s the key.”

  Reagan went back to the car. He took off his heavy blue coat and put it in the front seat. “Lock the car,” he told Santiago. “Leave your coat behind. Stink clings.”

  Santiago followed the veteran’s orders. Both cops went into the elevator. As it rose, Reagan lit a cigar. He offered Santiago one.

  “They make me sick.”

  Reagan smiled.

  They got out on the fifth floor. Santiago sniffed the air.

  “Nothing.”

  As they approached apartment 5-D, a faint stench of decay began. Reagan puffed harder on the cigar. At the door, the veteran cop looked down. The edge of a doormat was wedged between the bottom of the door and the floor, sealing the space under the door. He took out a white linen handkerchief, inserted the key in the lock, and looked at Santiago. “Ready?”

  “For what?”

  Reagan turned the key. Placing the handkerchief over the doorknob, he pushed the door open.

  The first rush of putrescent air hit them in a sickening wave. Santiago bit his lip.

  Reagan chomped down on the cigar. A cloud of smoke clung to his face. “Inside,” he said.

  Santiago followed Reagan in. The rookie made it five feet before turning and racing back to the hallway, where he vomited. Reagan kept puffing on the cigar.

  Reagan spotted the legs at the far end of the room. The feet were at a sixty-degree angle, the toes of the shoes touching. Half the torso was in the living room. Behind him, Santiago came inside once again. “Wait here,” Reagan ordered.

  Reagan approached the body slowly, making sure he didn’t step too close. His eyes searched the floor for signs of violence or weapons. The smell got past his cigar. His stomach convulsed. The body was bloated. Dark fluid seeped out from beneath it.

  She had been pretty, once. Now her face, twice its normal size, was grotesque. Her lips were distended and her eyes were open, the eyeballs swollen almost completely out of their sockets.

  Reagan’s gaze stopped at her left shoulder, and at the projectile lodged there. As soon as he saw it, he knew the first part of his job was over. This one would go to the dicks. He wasn’t happy about it.

  Very carefully, he backtracked to Santiago, motioning him out of the apartment.

  Outside, Reagan closed the door, again using the handkerchief. “You okay, kid?”

  Santiago nodded. “I never smelled anything like that.”

  “I’ve got to call the squad,” Reagan said. “You wait up here for the dicks. Want a cigar?”

  Santiago took the cigar, and let Reagan light it for him.

  Downstairs, Reagan dialed the precinct’s detective unit. Sergeant Simon Cohen answered the call. Cohen was the One-Nine’s second whip. He was the boss of the PDU’s four to midnight shift.

  “Sarge,” Reagan said, “I think you got a mystery....”

  <><><>

  By the time Hyte got out of the cab on the corner of Broadway and Sixty-First Street, the overcast day had given way to a surprisingly clear evening. Emma was waiting in front of the television studio. She wore a pale blue suit. Her short hair, brushed away from her face, accented her strong cheekbones.

  Her presence helped ease some of the tension brought on by the discovery of Richard Flaxman’s death. Hyte knew he would say nothing abo
ut the copilot.

  She saw him and waved. She cocked her head to one side, regarding him seriously. He thought of how nice it was, seeing her waiting for him.

  When he reached her, she kissed him softly. He saw anxiety in her eyes. “Bad day?” she asked.

  “There’ve been worse.” He gave her a reassuring smile as they went into the main entrance.

  On the fifth floor, a young blonde sat behind a low desk. Hyte went over to her and gave his name.

  “Haveaseat,” she said.

  “Pleasant lady,” Hyte murmured.

  “Child,” Emma corrected.

  Hyte raised a single eyebrow and held it until they both laughed. Less than a minute passed before the door behind the desk opened and a thin man came toward them. “Lieutenant Hyte?”

  Hyte stood.

  “I’m Bill Winston, Ms. Leighton’s producer.”

  Hyte shook the man’s hand and introduced Emma.

  “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get you prepared.” Winston turned to Emma with a plastic smile. “You can wait for him in the green room while he’s on.”

  They trailed the producer down a long hallway to an open door. Inside were five barber-style chairs. A white Formica counter ran the length of two walls. The space between the ceiling and the counter was solid mirrors. Two women and one man lolled in a corner. All three turned when Hyte entered, appraising him silently. The man started forward.

  “Just his hair,” the producer said.

  One of the women detached herself from the group and came over to him. “Have a seat,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back,” the producer said, and disappeared through another doorway.

  Hyte let the hairdresser brush his hair. One of the men attached a small microphone to Hyte’s tie and ran the wire inside his jacket. “They’ll hook you up on the set,” he said.

  Emma readjusted the microphone so it sat smoother on his tie. She raised her hand to his face. Her fingernails traced the groove etched at the corner of his mouth. “Try to relax.”