needed was a panicked crowd pressing in around them. So she kept her voice authoritative and confident, taking over the situation with a practiced air. This was fortunate, since Father Stebbins was absorbed in comforting a sobbing Fran—whose aggressive self-confidence had conveniently fled when confronted with the chance to collapse in the handsome priest's arms.
"There's nothing that anyone can do," Auntie Lil announced, rising to her feet and holding up both hands for silence even though no one had said a word. "We've called an ambulance. They should be here any moment. And I suspect the police will arrive as well. Everyone else might as well finish eating."
Now that was like Auntie Lil—few things took precedence over eating in her book. When it came to a meal, death could just take a back seat.
Not many other people shared this priority. Some returned to uneasily eating, but others had different ideas. Before either T.S. or Father Stebbins could stop them, a number of diners quietly laid down their spoons and slipped out the door with the elusive grace of shadows. The police were not popular with the homeless. Some avoided the authorities for good reasons, others simply out of habit.
"Do you think the police will want to talk to them?" Auntie Lil asked anxiously as they watched a thin stream of people trickle out.
"Are you kidding?" a young volunteer answered. "An old lady, maybe homeless, dies in a soup kitchen? This one's going in the bottom drawer. Poor old gal."
"I don't think the police will care," T.S. told Auntie Lil, placing a reassuring arm on her elbow. Her mouth started to tremble. It had just sunk in that the dead woman was very close to her own age.
"After all," T.S. added more gently, patting her hand, "people have heart attacks every day. It isn't like she was murdered."
CHAPTER TWO
Two ambulance teams from different hospitals arrived at the same time, providing the assembled diners with diversionary entertainment. As a pair of burly paramedics argued at the entrance to the narrow basement door over who would get the job—bumping their big bellies to prevent the other from entering—a tiny female emergency technician wiggled between them and raced over to the dead woman. She knelt beside her and swiftly checked her vital signs, then shook her head and looked back over her shoulder. "Forget it, Bobby!" she hollered at one of the arguing paramedics. "This one's gone, anyway."
"No, I'm not going to forget it," Bobby yelled back. "I'm tired of this guy dogging my ass. It's starting to get personal, know what I mean?" He poked a hammy finger in the chest of the other ambulance attendant, who knocked it away contemptuously and made a sound deep in his throat that effectively combined the growl of a bear with the hiss of an angry snake. Just the kind of guys you'd want to entrust with the lives of your loved ones.
A low murmur rose in the room and Auntie Lil looked up nervously at T.S., but all he could do was shrug. What was he supposed to do about it? Neither paramedic seemed to feel it inappropriate that they were arguing over a dead body in front of four dozen witnesses and it seemed singularly foolish to get on their bad sides. Who would administer to him in case he got beat up breaking them up? It was not that T.S. was a coward. He was simply, physically, very... prudent.
"I am not forgetting this one," burly Bobby repeated slowly, emphasizing each distinctly uttered word with a poke in the other paramedic's chest.
"Yes, you are going to forget it. Now break it up and beat it." This command was issued by an unseen voice thick with streetwise New York authority. The two men arguing at the door instantly shut their mouths and stepped back silently to let a pair of uniformed NYPD officers enter. The first cop, a petite brunette in a tight uniform, sniffed the odor of Auntie Lil's chili with distaste. The second one zeroed in on the dead body immediately. He was older and his gray hair was cropped in a defiantly out-of-date crew cut. He looked and swaggered like a bad-tempered Marine on the lookout for a fight. His nametag read "King" and he looked like he took it literally.
"Who's in charge here?" he demanded of the room, thumping a large black stick against his palm in a manner that managed to be both bored and threatening at the same time.