Page 39 of Into the Fire

For now his work was done. Which gave him the rest of the morning to relax.

He logged off and exited the Vault, stepping through the shower stall and heading into his bedroom.

A safe distance from his floating bed, he removed his treasonous boots. Then he sat in the middle of the mattress in a slant of morning light, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing.

The coolness of the air at his nostrils, in his windpipe, filling the crevices of his lungs. The weight of his bones tugging him down. A heightened awareness where the air met his skin, where his skin met the bed.

He’d not yet fully descended into his meditation when an image intruded.

A grown man punching Ida Rosenbaum in the face.

Tearing free a necklace from around her neck.

Her fragile bones striking the sidewalk.

He opened his eyes. Looked at the door.

“Goddamn it,” he said.

18

The Terrible Intimacy of the Mundane

With a single knuckle, Evan tapped gently on the door to 6G. In the event Ida Rosenbaum was sleeping, he didn’t want to wake her.

He gave it a well-I-tried moment and then backed away.

Before he could get two steps, the door opened.

Mia leaned through the gap, the door and frame pinching her shoulders on either side. She wore a white blouse that looked a size too big and a brown pantsuit befitting a Baby Boomer congresswoman.

Her head cocked with puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard what happened and wanted to check in on her.”

Mia let the door hinge open. “She’s pretty shaken up. I called a detective to handle it, a West Bureau guy I like. He just left. She wanted me with her while she gave her statement. It’s important that everything gets handled properly.”

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed Mia’s gaze was a bit loaded. She stayed in the doorway, not giving him enough room to enter.

“I’m handling this,” she said. “Don’t go near it.”

“Why would I?”

She studied him a moment longer and then stepped back.

As he crossed the threshold, he realized he’d never been inside Ida Rosenbaum’s condo. Or anyone else’s at Castle Heights, save Mia’s.

The place was dimly lit, heavy velveteen drapes drawn against the morning sun. Furniture crowded the living room, as if the Rosenbaums had kept too many pieces when they’d downsized from a house. Porcelain bric-a-brac covered most surfaces, impeccably arranged and free of dust. An array of Lladró figurines held unlikely poses of daintiness.

Spotlit on the mantel, a ballerina swooned over crossed arms, her swanlike neck bowed. Evan came up short before the figurine, wondering at the circumstances that compelled someone to put an item like that on beatific display. He supposed that if you had a mantel, you had to put something on it.

The complexities of everyday life never ceased to fascinate him.

Ida’s voice powered up the hall, holding no small measure of irritation. “Well? Who’s that, then?”

Evan caught Mia’s eye. “I see the assault hasn’t left her overcome with newfound humility in the face of life’s vicissitudes?”

Mia’s mouth curled up on one side. “I think that’s safe to say.”