by Leslie Glass
They turned a corner. The sign on the green door facing them read
DETECTIVE UNIT.
April's eyes flickered as she opened the door.
The setup here was not the same as the Two-O, -where Jason had been several times and almost felt at home. This space was more cut up and looked smaller, though April had told him it was a bigger unit.
"My office."
She held out her hand, palm up like a traffic cop to halt him where he was while she headed a few feet right to another office with a window in the door. She moved a few face muscles at the window. Some moments later, a man many inches shorter than Jason came out of the office shrugging on a glen plaid suit jacket over a deep blue dress shirt and a shoulder holster with a big gun in it. The man's hair was short and shiny. He had a pencil-thin mustache and was wearing a tie that looked a whole lot more expensive than Jason's.
"My CO, Lieutenant Iriarte, wanted to have a few words with you," April said.
Jason nodded at her grimly. Thanks for telling me.
"I've heard about you," Iriarte said. "Sergeant Woo here thinks a lot of you."
"I think a lot of her, too." Jason returned the compliment.
Iriarte did a quick check of the room. A man was working at a computer. Two others were at their desks; both were on the phone. The suspect Jason had seen only a few minutes ago was now lying on the bench in the holding cell behind him with the bloody jacket over his head.
"This is a very sensitive situation we've got here," Iriarte said. "Let's talk in here."
He headed to the back of the squad room and opened the door to the interview room. It was very small, about the size of a one-inmate prison cell. Inside was a small table and three chairs. Two Styrofoam cups half-filled with cigarette butts were on the table.
Iriarte made a face and pointed at the cups. April picked them up and took them out of the room.
"Please sit down," lriarte said to Jason, pointing to the chair facing the wall with the mirror in it.
Jason glanced at the mirror, then sat in the chair opposite the blank wall so whoever might be sitting behind the mirror couldn't see his face. Iriarte ran his tongue around the rnside of his mouth, considering whether to take the chair Jason had rejected or order Jason to sit in it.
April returned minus the garbage, her face dense as a brick wall. She closed the door and stood by it, eyes cast down in the traditional Oriental pose of demure deference, as she waited for further instructions. The lieutenant's face relaxed at this show of passivity. He jerked his chin at her, directing her to the chair Jason hadn't wanted, then took the chair between them.
"This is a sensitive situation," he said again.
"So I understand," Jason replied.
"Very sensitive."
Jason gazed at him, thinking he must be an obsessive-compulsive to keep his mustache so short and precisely matchstick thin.
"I understand you've worked with us on other cases out of the Two-O." The upper lip twitched as if it knew how Jason had diagnosed its owner.
"Very informally," Jason murmured.
"Your wife was involved in an incident . . ."
Everybody in the world knew that. "She was kidnapped," Jason said with no sign of emotion.
Iriarte dipped his head as if he'd just gained a point. "She has an unfortunate way of getting caught in the middle of things," he murmured, insinuating something Jason didn't want to explore.
"Her best friend has been murdered." Jason sat in a metal chair, his feet flat on the floor in front of him. He had unbuttoned his coat when he entered the precinct. Now he took it off and pointedly glanced at his watch. Six-twenty. He had to leave in fifty minutes or be late for his next patient.
"You know that Liberty has disappeared."
"I am aware that he was not at the funeral yesterday. I admit I was very surprised, since he told me he intended to be there and wanted us to have dinner with him and her parents afterward. Do you have any idea where he is?"
"You interviewed him."
"I was in close contact with him all Monday. Sergeant Woo asked me to do a psychological profile of him. I believe I did it on Tuesday or Wednesday—I'd have to check my notes." Jason glanced at April. Her eyes were still cast down. She was ashamed at the way her boss was questioning him.
"Why don't you tell me the results of that interview," Iriarte said coldly.
"What would you like to know?"
Iriarte ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth again. "The usual things, what his fantasies tell you." He smirked.
"Well, there is a lot of violence in his background. His grandmother was raped by a white man. His father was killed in the Korean War. He was the victim of violence himself many times in his adolescence and young adulthood. But no member of his family has a history of antisocial or criminal behavior, and he himself does not have a violent nature. In his childhood there were no indicators of antisocial behavior."
"What does that mean?"
"He didn't torture animals, bully other children, play with matches, and burn things. Hurting was something he didn't understand. He was and still is puzzled by it. He doesn't understand how people can hurt each other."
"How do you know?"
It was Jason's turn to smile. "I can tell from his fantasies and his heroes. He revered Jackie Robinson, his namesake Frederick Douglass, Richard Wright. He reads poetry. He has no weapons in his home. He thinks about other people's feelings. He's empathic. Killers don't care about the feelings of their victims."
Iriarte passed over that. "What about alcohol and substance abuse?"
"Liberty has migraine headaches. He can't drink and he has strong negative feelings about drugs. He came from a community where drugs destroyed many of his childhood friends."
"That's interesting. His friend Tor was a user."
"That astonishes me," Jason said.
"You think that would be a problem for Liberty?"
"I don't think he would approve."
"What about the migraines? Is that what triggers his violence?"
"People who get migraines are often perfectionists. When little things go wrong, they become frustrated and the pressure builds up without a safety valve. This kind of personality can't go to the gym or play ball to let off steam. And rather than strike out at others, they internalize their rage. The appearance can sometimes be that of a person in torment. Or a person enraged. But the rage is directed at themselves, not others."
Iriarte made a skeptical face to indicate what he thought of the psychobabble. "Someone was killed in his car."
Jason was stunned. "Who?"
"We don't know. The body is missing. We're wondering what Liberty's connection to it is," Iriarte said coldly.
Jason turned to April. What was the meaning of this? She shook her head. "But Liberty couldn't have had anything to do with that. The car was stolen. He hadn't seen it for weeks."
"Well, if he knew the car was the site of a murder and he happened to be a suspect in another murder, he would say that, wouldn't he?"
Jason glared at Iriarte. "He doesn't have the profile of a killer."
"Then get him to come in here and prove it like a man." lriarte stabbed the air with a finger.
"I'm a physician. I'm no expert in police work, but I don't get the feeling you're regarding Liberty from the position of innocent until proven guilty, which is the position taken by the law of this land. So I could say the same of you—if he's guilty, you prove it."
"Don't get defensive now. I'm just asking for your assistance here, Dr. Frank. You're an expert in state of mind. You and your wife know Liberty as well as anybody, and we believe you know where he is."
Jason shook his head. "We don't know where he is."
Iriarte went on as if he hadn't spoken. "If you are his friend, you will convince him that his best interests will be served by coming in to see us as soon as possible."
"By turning himself in to people who believe he killed his wife?"
"By
coming to talk with us. That's all we want to do."
"Is Liberty aware of your wish to speak with him?"
Iriarte flicked a hostile glance at April. She remained impassive. He took a deep breath. "We're in the middle of an investigation," he said. "We told him not to leave."
"I understand that." Jason directed his next question at April. "I gather you spoke with him at some length yesterday."
"Yes."
"What was the nature of your conversation?"
April raised a shoulder.
"Does that mean you led him to believe you think he murdered his wife?"
"He had opportunity. We believe he may have murdered his wife. We don't know if there's a connection with the murder in his car. But we will," Iriarte again.
More acid roiled around in Jason's stomach. He felt ill. Could Rick have killed Merrill, after all? Could his judgment of Rick be so wrong? What could be the motivation for it? Why would he kill her? He thought of the morning after the murder when Rick hadn't wanted medication. He'd wanted to be there, fully alert, because he thought the police had made a mistake and that Merrill was coming back. Rick was no actor, he'd been in genuine shock. But then again, he was a black man in a white firm, in a white world with a white wife. He had to be something of an actor to look so comfortable pulling that off. Jason realized he was holding his breath. He let it out before speaking.
"Do you have any evidence to suggest Liberty killed his wife?" Jason asked carefully.
"I'm not at liberty to tell you, no pun intended." Iriarte smirked at the pun nonetheless. "Have you been in touch with him?"
Jason thought of the funeral that had been so incomplete without Rick there. He thought of Rick's disappearing before the news of his absence at the funeral appeared on every TV and in every newspaper in the country, possibly to avoid arrest, and he thought of the E-mail message Rick had sent him, rambling and incoherent. Did E-mail count as being in touch? He decided it didn't.
"No," Jason said, they hadn't been in touch.
"Are you aware that if you help a criminal avoid arrest, you are a criminal yourself and can be prosecuted as such?"
"Do you have a warrant for Liberty's arrest?"
Iriarte sucked on his cheeks. "Not at this time."
Jason checked his watch. He had to go. "Well, I told you what I know about Liberty. I don't have anything else to add that will help you."
"Thanks for coming in." Iriarte jerked his chin at April. Take him away.
30
Hey, pretty one. What are you doing here again?"
Ducci hastily filed some slides in a box and stowed it away in his desk. Then he swiveled his chair around to Nanci, making nice all around. "Hey, Nance, you know April Woo."
Nanci looked April over, raking a hand through her good dye job. "How you doin', Woo. I hear you made sergeant."
"I'm in Midtown North now," April said wearily. She shook some raindrops off her coat and glanced at the two guest chairs in the room. They were occupied by files, a skull, and some labeled objects the two dust and fiber experts must be studying.
"Yeah, I heard, detective squad. That idiot Hagedorn still there?" Nanci pushed back her chair, stretching out a pair of faultless legs in black tights.
April nodded. "Still there. How're you doing, Nanci?"
"Oh, overworked and underpaid. And I have to sit next to an egomaniac. I guess it's raining out." Nanci reached into a desk drawer for her purse and a grungy-looking red sweater.
"Better than snow," April remarked.
"I guess."
"Oh, come on. You love every second you spend with me. I taught you everything you know," Ducci said, peeved.
"Oh, sure I do. I have boxes of stuff on this Central Park case, people breathing down my neck on it, and suddenly he's got this bee in his bonnet about Petersen's autopsy and T-shirt lint." Nanci rolled her eyes.
"Well, he doesn't get to see many autopsies these days," April said.
"And, he shouldn't." Nanci sniffed. "Wet stuff's not his area."
Ducci still had Tor Petersen's cashmere sweater on his desk with the severed fibers in the chest carefully cut out for his slides. A sleeve hung over the edge. Ducci played with the cuff like a cat with a tassel.
"I was doing blood before you were born. I know fuckups when I see them." Ducci turned to April. "Where's your boyfriend?"
What boyfriend? "If you're referring to Sanchez, who isn't my boyfriend, I haven't seen him since this morning. The car Liberty claimed was stolen turned up in Staten Island with a bloody interior."
"No kidding."
"Might be a drug buy gone wrong. I think Sanchez planned to look at it, then go out to New Jersey to talk to Petersen's driver."
"In this weather?"
"Yes. Mind if I put my coat here?"
"No, no, go ahead, sit down. You want some coffee or something?" Ducci grinned, playing the host.
"Uh-uh, yours is worse than ours." April slung her coat over the back of Ducci's guest chair and moved the skull over to the filing cabinet.
"Couldn't you get the guy to come into the station?"
"We talked to him once. He held back on us." She sat down and let out a sigh. "Now he's gone elusive on us and we've got two suspects we can't keep track of. Makes us look pretty careless, doesn't it?"
"We all have bad days."
"This is more than a bad day."
Ducci pointed to the plastic bag April had dropped at her feet. "You got something new for me?"
She glanced down, startled. "Oh, God, I'm so tired I don't know what I'm doing." She tossed the bag to Ducci. He caught it and looked inside.
"Nice sweater, a belated Christmas gift for me, pretty one?"
"Nah, it's another of Petersen's sweaters."
Ducci pulled the maroon cashmere out of the bag and grimaced at the heady aroma emanating from it. "Vanilla," he said decisively.
April looked surprised. "How can you guys identify smells like that? I could never have put a flavor to that stink."
Ducci laughed, creasing his round choirboy's cheeks. "I know most things," he murmured. "I know your perfume, know your boyfriend's."
"No kidding. What is it?" she asked about Mike's perfume.
Ducci didn't answer. He seemed stunned by the white T-shirt folded into the sweater. "What are you telling me with this?"
April smiled at Nanci. "You know most things, Duke. You figure it out for me."
"Okay, a T-shirt," Nanci said flatly. "So now we know Petersen wore T-shirts—sometimes. I'm going home."
"His widow told me he never went without one, and she was very upset that I asked," April said. "Apparently Petersen thought it was unhealthy to have cashmere next to his skin."
Preoccupied, Ducci pulled a Snickers bar out of his desk drawer. For once he was too absorbed to tear it open. He scratched the corner of his small mouth as he studied the sweater. "Too bad it's too big for me," he murmured.
"Keep eating those candy bars and it won't be for long." Nanci laughed.
"This is for you, Ducci, nobody else. And you, Nanci, if you care to listen. Daphne Petersen called to speak to Rosa Washington the day after the murder. I was there when she called. Rosa wasn't there so she left a message. Today, Daphne was the first person to get her husband's tox report. And then there's the fact that Petersen's body was cremated in record time. She almost lost her cookies when I told her her husband's undershirt was not on him at the time of his autopsy."
"Who arc you suspecting, the Petersen woman or our good doctor of maybe more than just sloppy work?"
April shook her head. "I did a little checking on Daphne Petersen. She came to this country twelve years ago, when she was eighteen, worked as a manicurist in several upscale beauty salons, sang in a cocktail bar at night. No priors, no driver's license. She met Petersen when she did his nails. He married her. She was number three and a step down from his usual style of wife. She might have killed him if she lhought the fairy tale was over."
Ducci
scratched the side of his face. "We still don't have a homicide on her husband, and if we don't have a homicide, we don't have a case against the Petersen woman, you following me?"
"Of course, I know that," April groaned.
"So if you want to pursue this line—and I'm not saying you should or you shouldn't—you have to prove there was a homicide on a body whose death report says otherwise and that is no longer with us for further examination."
"Well, Ducci, you brought it up. I'm having trouble letting it go now."
"I didn't say you should or shouldn't. Just be careful. It's the kind of thing that can backfire." He pointed to the sweater. "Was this just for background or do you want me to do something with it?"
The black hair that Daphne Petersen had insisted belonged to Petersen's girlfriend, but actually looked to April just like Daphne's, was stuck to the ribbing of the sweater. April picked it off and handed it to Ducci, shaking her head. "Probably unconnected."
"What's your hypothesis?" Ducci rummaged around his desk for a plastic envelope.
"The widow claims it's the hair of Petersen's girlfriend. Didn't you find a similar one on his body?" April asked. .
"Oh, yeah, it's around here somewhere. Yeah, interesting hair. It was relaxed and straightened." Ducci squinted at the hair April had given him. "Yeah, remarkably like this. You have any more? I'll need to make some slides of it."
"No more at the moment. Why so interesting?"
"Remember that case with the Jane Doe prostitutes?" Ducci found an envelope for the hair, labeled it, and sat back in his chair.
Nanci nodded vigorously. "We did a big study on hair products. Those girls were well kept. Best makeup, hair products. You name it. Turned out they were Russian. We were able to identify them through their hair."
"Their hair was colored," Ducci went on, "then moisturized with Goldwell products. They're German, and so expensive only a few salons in the city use them. The madam of our three dead tarts had made sure her girls had the very best of everything—that is, until they ran into a little trouble with one of their diplomat customers."
"I remember." April took the next step. "So the hair on Petersen's body was colored with a Goldwell product?"
