by Leslie Glass
Judging Time
( April Woo Mysteries - 3 )
Leslie Glass
It's snowing in New York. On the soaring skyscrapers. On the cozy brownstones. And on the sidewalk in front of a trendy West Side restaurant where two bodies lie entangled on the ground. A man and a woman. One viciously stabbed to death, the other the victim of an apparent heart attack. Each married to someone else, both joined in a chilling tableau of death. For Detective Sergeant April Woo, newly promoted to Manhattan's Midtown North, it is a baffling double homicide that screams of race, class, sex, and headlines. Because the dead woman was the beautiful wife of African-American pro football player turned stockbroker Rick Liberty. And the dead man was Liberty's close friend and perhaps his wife's lover. With the heat coming down from City Hall - and Rick Liberty at the center of a raging media frenzy - the pressure is on for the NYPD to bring in a killer. But April isn't so sure Liberty is guilty. Neither is Mike Sanchez, April's former partner, who has just been brought in as a special investigator. As the manhunt turns savage, April and Sanchez must uncover the truth before time runs out on the wrong suspect.
Praise for the novels of Leslie Glass . . .
"This series [is] a winner." —Mystery News
"Detective Woo is the next generation descended from Ed McBain's 87th Precinct." —Hartford Courant
"I'll drop what I'm doing to read Leslie Glass anytime." —Nevada Barr
"Fast-paced, gritty ... [April Woo] joins Kinsey Millhone and Kay Scarpetta in the ranks of female crime fighters." —Library Journal More praise .
"An intense thriller ... Glass provides several surprises, characters motivated by a lively cast of inner demons and, above all, a world where much is not as it initially seems.' —Publishers Weekly
"Deft plotting and strong characterization will leave readers eager for further installments." —Library Journal
"Glass not only draws the reader into the crazed
and gruesome world of the killer, but also cleverly develops the character of Woo . . . and her growing attraction for partner Sanchez.' —Orlando Sentinel
"If you're a Thomas Harris fan anxiously awaiting the next installment of the 'Hannibal the Cannibal' series and looking for a new thriller to devour, you'll find it in Burning Time" —Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
"A suspenseful story in which those who appear to be sane may actually harbor the darkest secrets of all."—Mostly Murder
"Sharp as a scalpel. ... Scary as hell. Leslie Glass is Lady McBain."—New York Times bestselling author Michael Palmer
LESLIE CLASS
JUDGING TIME
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.
First Signet Printing, February 1999 10 9 8 7
Copyright©Leslie Glass, 1998
For my mother, Elinor Gordon, whose passion was justice
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First I want to thank all the good people at NYPD who risk their lives around the clock to make New York City a safe place to visit and to live. My goal with this, as with all my books, was to create characters in realistic situations, who are true to life but do not resemble any real people in the precincts and other agencies I describe. This is a work of fiction.
I want to thank former commanding officer of Mid-town North, Inspector Diane Prizutti, for letting me visit, and commanding officer of the 30th Precinct, Inspector Jane Perlov, for letting me sit at her desk, metaphorically speaking. Thanks to Pam Delaney and all my friends at the Police Foundation, who do so much to help in so many ways. Thanks to the good people at New York University School of Law—Jim Jacobs, Steve Zeidman, Debra LaMorte, and of course, Dean John Sexton, who educated me relentlessly. Thanks to the Glass Institute Fellows and Dr. Wilma Bucci for dedication above and beyond. Thanks to Dr. Richard C. Friedman for the vital help in psychology that makes such a difference, and to my favorite cousin, Dr. Deborah Loeft, who brought me the murder weapon from Chicago and taught me how to kill.
Thanks to my agent, Nancy Yost, for deliverance and to Dutton Signet for everything else, especially good judgment and other editorial excellences, by Audrey LaFehr, and leadership, by Elaine Koster.
Last, kudos in order of their appearance to Edmund, Alex, Lindsey, and Peanut, my very best friends this and every year.
We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it—and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove lid. She will never sit down on a hot stove lid again—and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one any more.
—Mark Twain
Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar
1
At fifteen minutes after midnight on January sixth, when Merrill Liberty took a phone call at her table in Liberty's Restaurant, she had thirty minutes to live.
"It's the boss." Patrice, the cocoa-colored maitre d' from Haiti, smiled and handed her a mobile phone.
Merrill tensed and made a face before reaching for the phone. "Where are you?" she asked in a low voice.
"Just got in." Her husband's voice sounded as strained as hers.
She nodded at her companion—he's back—then leaned forward in her wicker chair with its high fan back. "What took so long, Rick?"
"Hey, don't start, baby. Haven't you noticed it stinks out there? My flight was canceled. I just squeaked in on another airline. I'm lucky to be here tonight at all."
"Same old story." Merrill's voice, so often sweet and silky in her TV roles, took on its less famous offstage sulk. "You didn't have to go," she muttered.
Frederick Douglass Liberty—known as Liberty in his football days—sighed his martyr sigh. "You know I had to go."
"No, I don't." Merrill glanced at Tor, who was shaking his head at her, smiling and pouring himself the last of the wine.
"Say I said hello," Tor murmured.
Merrill ignored him.
He shrugged.
"If the weather was so damned bad why risk your life?" Merrill demanded.
"For you, baby. I risked it for you."
"How's your head?"
"The head's all right, but I'm exhausted. How was your evening?"
Once again Merrill fixed her deep green eyes on Tor. He was sipping wine and smiling. "First rate."
"Time to come home, then."
Merrill drummed her fingers on the table. "You've been away all day. You in any particular hurry now?"
"Fine. Patrice said you just got your dessert, enjoy it."
His voice had taken on the bitter edge she hated, so she gave him a lighthearted laugh. "Nothing's secret here, I see."
"You better believe it."
Suddenly Merrill smiled at Tor. The lusty way he'd begun attacking almost at the same moment both her spiced apple cobbler and his fried bananas with crunchy toasted coconut was characteristic of his approach to life. It made her want to laugh again.
"Merril-?"
"Yes?"
"Just remember I love you." They were the last words Rick Liberty said to his wife.
"And I love you, too," were her last words to him.
Tor rolled his eyes as she punched the off button and handed the phone to Patrice, who had drifted over to the table to retrieve it. "You two."
"Thanks, Patrice," Merrill said. "Will you tell Jon everything was great?"
"I'll tell him, but he won't believe it from anyone but you. Anything else I can get you tonight?"
Tor raised his eyebrows, questioning. Did they want anything else? Merrill shook her head. No, they did not. Patrice smiled and drifted away.
"Rick's cool?" Tor asked.
Merrill fr
owned for a second because with Rick one could never be absolutely sure. "He's cool," she said.
Then her mood lightened. "Hey, Tor. Leave me a bite, will you."
"Go ahead, dig in."
After thirty-five years in America, Tor still had a bit of a Scandinavian accent, a feature Merrill found charming. She picked up her fork and tasted the spiced apple cobbler that was one of Rick's mother's recipes. "Amazing, as usual," Merrill pronounced it.
Tor gazed at her. "So are you."
"Well, thanks. But I know you say that to all the girls."
He laughed. "With you, though, it's the truth."
"Well, I think you're pretty terrific, too." Merrill's face shone with the wine, food, and other pleasures she'd enjoyed that evening. At that moment she did think Tor Petersen was terrific. For a second she wondered whether Tor had told his wife where he was going, and what the dizzy Daphne herself might be doing with the free time. But only for a second.
"I've always been crazy about you, you know that."
At six one, Tor was an inch shorter than Rick and had almost as sturdy a build. Fourteen years older, however, Tor now had to fight in earnest the spreading abdomen of middle age, affluence, and complacency. And where Rick had the mixed blood of African, American Indian, and Caucasian, Tor was pure Nordic, with an ample head of hair more flaxen than silver and eyes as blue as the Vikings of his ancestry. Tor's second wife had been the daughter of an Arabian princess, and when the two couples had gone out together, people were always confused because the two blonds were married to the two people of color and not each other.
"If I'd married you, we'd still be together."
Merrill considered the declaration with a twinkle. Tor was marching out onto a limb that couldn't hold him. "Which time?"
"Any time. How about this time?' '
"Well, maybe later this week after you've dumped this one."
"Oh, you know." He looked surprised.
"Darling, you're an open book." Merrill laughed and took a bite of the "fried 'nanas" with the drop-dead crunchy coconut. "I don't know how you get away with it. Let's go home."
Tor finished his last bite and looked up. "Okay, okay. Time for bed?"
Merrill nodded and pushed back her wicker chair. At 12:38 A.M. on a cold January night, the stylish restaurant was not yet empty. There were still a few people drinking exotically flavored coffees at the bar and finishing their desserts at their tables. Suddenly she was sorry that Tor was always so solicitous of his driver, sending him home every time the man complained about the weather. Earlier, it had been no big deal to walk a block from the theater to the restaurant. Late at night though, when every street comer was a deceptive snow-covered slush pit that sucked the unwary into a frigid ankle-deep lake and it wasn't always so easy to get a cab, she didn't relish the possibility of having to walk home. Merrill grabbed her fur-lined black suede coat off the chair beside her, draping it over her arm as she headed for the dazzling stainless-steel kitchen to say good-night to Jon the chef. Then she shrugged on the coat, waved at Patrice, who was busy at a table, and went out the front door where Tor had preceded her some minutes before to get a cab.
Liberty's had a tiny garden in front with a step up to the street and a gate on the sidewalk level. The dwarf fir trees in planters surrounding the space were crusted with snow and still wore their Christmas lights. Merrill closed the two doors of the restaurant and stepped out into the garden. Tor and another person were standing close together, as if in deep conversation. Merrill hesitated. Something was odd about them. She heard the sound of car wheels slapping through the slush just slightly above them on the street, but not the sound of voices. The other person drew closer to Tor as if to embrace him. He had his broad back to Merrill, and she couldn't see what was happening. Suddenly, without a sound, Tor slumped to the wet pavement. Merrill lurched forward, crying his name "Tor—!"
Almost instantly she was at the place where he had fallen. "What happened? My God, what is that thing? What are you doing? Not you! No! Tor, Tor—?" Merrill's voice became frantic as the shiny thing she'd seen disappeared into a coat sleeve, and Tor tried to raise himself from where he'd fallen, facedown on the freezing cement.
Merrill lunged forward to help, but a black-gloved hand grabbed her arm and prevented her from sinking to her knees. She became hysterical at Tor's desperate struggle and the hideous noise that erupted from his mouth as he tried to speak, tried to breathe, and failed at both.
"What are you doing? Let go. Tor—Tor—?"
Suddenly Merrill felt a little dizzy from the wine. She was further confused by the powerful fingers digging into her arm that wouldn't let go. Tears stung her eyes as terror for him—not herself—overcame her. She formed the word help in her head, but all that came out of her mouth was a whimper. "You?"
She couldn't get to Tor, couldn't help him. "Don't— please!" Two powerful hands held her arms so tightly the throb in her biceps felt like screams.
"Tor!"
He'd stopped moving. "Oh, God, what did you do to him?" Panicked, Merrill finally wrenched her head around toward the restaurant door and started to scream.
Her body jerked against the vise that gripped her arm. "Let go, please." The coat she hadn't had time to button flew open.
"Stupid bitch! Can't you see it's too late now."
One hand released her arm. Merrill thought she was finally being freed. Then she saw the shiny thing again, felt a pressure on her neck, heard her assailant grunt the way tennis champions did when they leaned into a 110-mile-an-hour serve. "Uh."
"Oh, God, no!" In that grunt, Merrill heard something give in her neck. The grip on her arm loosened and was gone. Blood bubbled out of her throat like a fountain. She put her hand up to stop it. "Oh God." Her mouth filled with blood. She staggered, unable to breathe.
The gate to the street opened and closed. Her vision blurring, Merrill Liberty saw Tor's killer melt out into the street. She turned to the restaurant door, but couldn't stand up. She collapsed on the body of her friend. Her head lolled on Tor's shoulder, her blood soaked his back. Her eyes were wide open in horror. By the time the restaurant door opened and Patrice came running out, Merrill could no longer tell anyone anything.
2
The autumn that NYPD Detective April Woo made sergeant a winter sky socked in over Manhattan on the first day of November and stayed there, relentlessly frigid and unforgiving to the Light-sensitive—all through the holiday season. It had rained the four days preceding Thanksgiving, then hailed on the parade. It snowed three times before Christmas, thawed, then froze again half a dozen times in the days before New Year's. As the old year wound down in bone-chilling cold, so did crime in New York.
New Year's Day came on Wednesday. By the first weekend in January the celebrating came to a dreary halt as Manhattan's tourist season ended and thousands of visitors returned to their homes around the world, leaving the city looking tired and empty. Residents of New York were staying off the streets, holed up inside and waiting for a break in the winter misery.
On Thanksgiving, April Woo had not been on duty in the 20th Precinct on Eighty-second Street and Columbus Avenue for the Thanksgiving Day parade. She'd made sergeant ten days before and was reassigned twenty-seven blocks south to a supervisory position in the detective squad of Midtown North. When April reported for duty at 8 a.m. on her first day, there had been a lot of activity going on, but not one of the six detectives working the phones at that time had looked up and said, "Hi, how are ya," given her a high five, or done any of the friendly guy things they usually did when a new fellow came in. The thing they did when she arrived new to the job was pointedly ignore her.
Five five, 116 pounds slender. Perfect oval face and almond eyes, rosebud lips, swan neck. As usual, April had been wearing her own personal cop uniform of navy slacks and navy blazer, and that first day, a thick red turtleneck for warmth and good luck. Only the 9mm strapped to her waist gave her away as a cop. That and the fact that there were no earr
ings in her ears, no jade ring on her finger, no gold necklace around her neck, and she was wearing no makeup except for the barest frosting of Gingembre dore on her lips. The lack of these items cost her quite a bit because she valued her femininity as much as her job. She enjoyed her jewelry, craved her makeup, and felt both ugly and stupid without them.
Midtown North was a bigger and more important house than the Two-O, but the detective squad rooms were all broken up and gave the effect of looking smaller. As April had stood there on her first day taking in the empty holding cell and the backs of her colleagues in her new home, the guy with the big office and an actual name plaque on his door, LT. HERNANDO IRIARTE, frowned and wiggled a finger at her.
Come in here.
Ah, a frowner. April opened the lieutenant's door with the glass window and went inside. "Sergeant April Woo, reporting for duty, sir," she said.
Lieutenant Iriarte was a good-looking man with a carefully clipped mustache that was much shorter and thinner than that of her would-be lover, Detective Sergeant Mike Sanchez, whom she hadn't seen in almost two weeks because of their ill-timed days off. Iriarte also had a more serious short haircut than Mike's and very classy clothes, like those of a businessman who considered himself a success. A pair of half glasses were tucked in his jacket breast pocket, along with a snowy handkerchief. The lieutenant took the glasses out, hung them low on his nose, and peered at April over them as if he were going to interview her about her qualifications.
She waited, eyes slightly lowered in the Chinese pose of modesty and self-denial that she had learned at birth and had to unlearn over and over to be a good cop.
Iriarte finished looking her over. "I won't say women can't be good cops," he said at last. "We happen to have a woman commander in this house. You might take your cues from her."
"Sir?" April hadn't met the commander and was unsure what this meant.
