Judging Time awm-3

by Leslie Glass

  The contact was limited to a small site, yet traveled through April everywhere in a way she hadn't experienced with a simple touch before. Oh, shit, she didn't need this. She made another face. This was the line she wasn't crossing. Okay, so they weren't working together in the same house. But they were still working together! And he still wasn't Chinese!! Mike's hand continued to stroke hers, squeezing lightly. She felt weak from the touch and confused because she was crossing the line and her heart didn't stop her. Her tongue started to protest another issue.

  "I've been up since five, and now I have to drive around all night, looking for someone who's about as likely to be hanging out on the streets waiting for us as I am to fly to the moon ...." April fell silent. Under Mike's, her hand turned over so their two palms met. Their fingers laced.

  April didn't mention the E-mail Liberty had sent to Jason asking Jason to remove Merrill's mink coat from his apartment, and how they might find him through cyberspace. She was feeling overheated and excited. She'd forgotten it.

  "Look on the bright side, at least we're together."

  "Uh-huh. "

  A waiter arrived with their food, and Mike removed his hand, the better to communicate his appreciation.

  "Well, this looks almost as good as Chinese," April murmured.

  Mike's father had been a chef in a Mexican restaurant. April's father still was a chef in a Chinese restaurant. Mike always said this commonality of the occupations of their fathers made a special bond between them. Now he smiled as he expertly rolled two slices of chicken fajita, refried beans, grated queso bianco, salsa, chopped tomato, guacamole, and sour cream into a small com tortilla, then took a bite. None of the contents squished out on his fingers at either end, nor did the tortilla break in the middle, spilling the food back onto his plate. She watched him take a second bite to see if the performance could be repeated. It was.

  April looked at her plate of four skewered and grilled shrimps the size of lobster tails, covered with a green sauce, decorated with chilies that couldn't be eaten, and arranged on a plate of squid-ink-flavored rice. She'd had it before and was so impressed by the idea of black rice she'd told her father Ja Fa Woo to try it in the well-known midtown Chinese restaurant where he worked. She thought it might be an exotic addition to his repertoire.

  "April—" Mike had finished his fajita and was staring at her with that expression men get when they're full of a positive emotion beyond the reach of their vocabulary.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid he could hear it. No, she wasn't going there. "Ah . . . you asked me why I'm bugging everybody. Well, I'm trying to get at the truth." She shrugged. "You know."

  The moment passed and Mike laughed. "You really got Iriarte with the bit about the hair on the sink. What did you do with it?"

  "I told you I gave it to Duke, what else? I also told him Jason's story about the coat hanger and the pericardial tamponade, whatever that is. Duke was most interested. He really thinks Rosa messed up and Petersen was murdered."

  "Too bad we can't take another look at the body."

  "The way I see it, with Petersen's death ruled a natural the field for suspects in the Merrill Liberty killing is really limited to her husband."

  Mike nodded.

  "But with Petersen's death ruled a homicide, we could open it all the way up. We'd have a ton of suspects."

  "Has it occurred to you that Rosa might have been influenced to make a quick and positive determination that the hole in Petersen's heart was caused by a heart attack?" Mike asked.

  "Yes, it has. There's a huge amount of money involved here. Rosa Washington was on the scene practically the moment the homicide call came in. Why would an ME come out of a party or an evening out, all dressed up, to show up at a crime scene when MEs aren't doing that anymore? Think about it."

  "I'm impressed, April, but Rosa's obviously very passionate about her work. ... I came out that night, and I didn't have to, either. I didn't even know you were there, and I came out."

  Mike called for the bill, provoking the usual altercation. The owner didn't want him to pay. Mike insisted on paying. They argued in Spanish. April picked up her purse and retreated to the front door, where she discreetly studied a poster of a matador waving a red blanket at a bull. This was one occasion where her interference would not be appreciated by either party. Finally Mike showed up and took her arm. "Thanks for dinner," he said.

  "No, thank you."

  Winter coats came between them. Many layers of protection against all the various ravages of nature. The comer by the restaurant door was small. A draft leaked in around the edges. April's hands were anticipating the cold already. Yet her face was burning. How to warm her hands and cool her cheeks? Mike's coat and jacket hung open. The hand that was holding her arm slid down the sleeve of her coat until it came to her freezing fingers. He rubbed and squeezed her fingers for a moment, then lifted them to his lips to warm them with his breath. His mustache teased her knuckles. His soft lips opened on the tips of her fingers and drew them just inside his mouth.

  "Oh." The impact hit April hard enough to make her eyes smart. She could feel his teeth, even the hint of his tongue against her fingernails. The touch was alive and had her in its thrall. She moved a step closer, and knowing she'd hate herself in the morning, tucked her other hand inside Mike's coat, inside his jacket, around his waist until they were clasped in a full-body hug. He murmured something in Spanish and touched her lips with his own. His kiss was the touch of a butterfly's wing, the petal of a rose, with hardly any pressure at all. He held her close but kissed her lightly, brushing his parted lips against the side of her face, her nose, her mouth. Then suddenly it was over. The door opened on a customer coming in for dinner, and they staggered out into the cold to search for a killer.

  39

  The darkness was complete when Belle returned to the apartment just before nine on Saturday night. Rick was standing behind the curtain at the window waiting for her when he caught sight of the yellow stripes on her fireman's coat down the street. It wasn't raining, but the pavement was wet. He watched her approach the building, then saw her climb the front steps. Finally she opened the apartment door and looked around, as if for drugs or other enemies.

  "You know what's going on?" she demanded. She tossed her raincoat on the floor. Underneath, she was wearing some kind of dashiki with leaping gazelles on it not unlike the fabric on the window. Tied around her head was a turban of deep purple. On her feet were heavy lace-up boots with thick rubber soles. She was dressed in so many political statements, it was hard to tell what she really looked like. When she sat on the sofa and crossed her legs to get down to business, the bottoms of a pair of blue jeans peeked from beneath the African skirts to send out yet another message.

  Rick had been listening to the radio so he knew what was being reported. "I'm in Maine, Saint Thomas, Miami. The police know where I am and are about to make an arrest. Is that true?"

  Belle's full lips tightened. "You're not in Maine."

  "Do the police know where I am?"

  "Did you kill your wife?"

  Rick grimaced. "What do you think?"

  Belle shook herself. "Would Marvin ask me to shelter a killer?"

  "No telling what Marvin would do," he murmured.

  "Fine. I did some more checking about this guy Jefferson. "

  "And?"

  "He's not a very smart man. He's been getting his shit from Dominicans who used to have their factory in one of the buildings a block over. The building was cleaned up a few months back and they moved their setup out to Queens." Belle noticed that her blue jeans were showing and rearranged her skirt to cover the full length of her legs. "He's hanging out, waiting for those Dominicans to come back so he can hook up with them."

  "How do you know all this?"

  Belle ignored the question. "He needs money to get out of town."

  Rick heaved a sigh of relief. "So he didn't get it last night."

  Belle shook her head. "T
hey didn't connect. The club got raided."

  "How do we know they didn't hook up during the day?"

  "We don't. But these people usually go back to their old haunts at regular times. It's stupid, but they do."

  Rick reached for his parka. "I'm going out. Are you coming?"

  She nodded.

  Outside, the temperature had dropped to twenty-three degrees. The streets were icy, and it had begun to snow. Belle looked anxious for the first time. "What are you going to do with this guy when you find him?"

  "Oh, I know Jefferson from way back. He's a Tom, you know the kind of guy—always grinning, reading the sports pages, eager to please. I'm not afraid of him."

  "That's what they all say." Belle looked up at the lacy blanket of snow in the sky. Millions of fat flakes in tiny clots plummeted down on them, changing to rain almost before they hit the ground.

  Rick rubbed his hands together, then stuffed them in his parka pockets. Within seconds his feet were cold. Snow smacked his face like a cold rebuke. His eyes stung, but Belle plunged ahead, west to Broadway, leading the way to the club they had not been able to enter because of a police raid the night before. He hurried along, lost in his own gnawing rage. Get the bastard. Get him, was all he could think about. They came from the east, crossing town a block north of their destination. Like the night before, the streets were alive with men, hanging around in spite of the weather. Belle wanted to go the last block down Broadway and mingle with the crowd.

  Rick pounded along the wet sidewalk through a tangle of ill-assorted people from the past he'd never wanted to recover. He was looking for Wally Jefferson, a man he had known not well enough for a lot of years. Bland, affable, comfortable in his black suit and chauffeur's cap, Jefferson had always been there at curbside waiting for his charges even when the police were chasing all the other limos away. He had a way about him that made people trust and want to do things for him. He smiled all the time, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He always had a Post or a Daily News with him so he could follow the sports. He talked about his kids and his ulcer.

  A familiar tightening in Liberty's temples warned him that a migraine was coming on. His hood was covered with snow. His feet plunged through puddles in the sidewalk. He didn't see the Chevy Lumina pull up at the comer, across from a phone store where a dozen or more dealers hung out, waiting for calls from customers. No siren sounded on the unmarked police van that pulled up in front of the Lumina. The two vehicles had come down the one-way street the wrong way, blocking traffic. Four uniformed officers jumped out of the van, scattering the men around the phone store like squirrels chasing birds from a birdfeeder.

  Belle saw it, stopped short, and grabbed Rick's arm. "Oh, shit, they're going for the same place. They're hitting it again."

  Instantly, the fog in Rick's brain cleared and he focused. "Let's go." His voice was a command.

  Quickly they changed directions, turned west, and ran across the north and south lanes of Broadway just as the traffic light turned red. Rick dodged a car, pushing Belle ahead of him out of the way. "Get the hell out of here. Now!"

  He went ahead, down Broadway. "I mean it, Belle, goddamnit! Beat it."

  She shook her head and followed him. But Rick didn't see her refusal. He had moved down the street, fully alert, closer to the action, wondering whether Jefferson was there and if he could reach him before the police did. Rick stopped in a comer doorway.

  "Police! Open the door!" The shout from across the street was loud enough to be heard in New Jersey.

  Shit. He waited in the doorway, buffeted by the wind and snow gusting from the northwest. The line of cars blocked by the police van got tired of waiting to cross Broadway. A raucous chorus. of horns rose in protest. Five cops drew their weapons and surrounded the door.

  "Open up, police." The shout came again. If there was an answer, it didn't travel very far.

  A moment later a cop broke away and went to the van. He returned with a heavy object. The uniforms made way for him. Rick's heart thudded. He pressed back against the wall, out of the wind. They were going to break that door down. Suddenly a cop spun around into the street behind him, his body crouched as his weapon pointed first at one moving black form and then another.

  "Stop now!"

  Rick saw a man with a dark handkerchief on his head and a gun in his hand run out of the variety store next to the phone store. The cop, distracted, did not at first seem to see the man duck down between two parked cars.

  Then the uniform saw him. "Hey, you. Drop that gun!"

  Suddenly all the cops whipped around, their guns aimed at the man behind the car. The lights turned green on Broadway and a line of cars sped through, blocking Rick's vision.

  "What's going on?" Belle cried.

  He glared at her, surprised that she was still there. "Didn't I tell you to get out of here? I have to do this myself." He felt like pushing her out into the snow. Restrained himself. "Can't you see you're in the way. For God's sake get out of here."

  He turned his back on her, stared out into the traffic to see what was going on. In the snowy confusion, he saw the man with the gun. The head scarf popped up. The man raised his gun and fired a single shot.

  A woman screamed. "Where's my baby?"

  "Man with a gun!" The wall of police moved, pushing people out of the way.

  "My baby!"

  "Get out of the way."

  "Someone's been hit. Someone's been hit." The cry came like a roar.

  More shots were fired. Rick couldn't tell who was shooting. Sirens sounded from blocks away as units in the surrounding areas picked up the call and support moved in. Without his being aware of it, Rick's feet began to move. He grabbed Belle's hand and started running west, toward the river away from the pandemonium on Broadway. A block away, beyond the attention of the police, he heard the pounding footsteps of someone running behind them. He picked up his speed, but he was no star quarterback now, no faster than Belle. Someone bumped him from behind, catching him off balance and knocking Belle away from him. As Rick stumbled, a man grabbed him, pushing him down two steps under the stoop of a brownstone, shoved him up against a wall, and jammed a warm gun muzzle into his neck.

  "Let him go," Belle cried.

  Another man about the size of a refrigerator emerged from the snowy dark and grabbed Belle and hustled her down the steps into the circle.

  "Hey, hey. What's going on?" Rick stared at the gun, more puzzled and angry than frightened. The man who held it wore a head scarf front teeth gleamed gold in the dim light.

  "Whutchulookinat?" Head scarf jabbed Rick hard in the Adam's apple with the warm steel. Then his mouth opened and he grinned wider, showing off a ridge of gold. "Don't I know you?"

  "No!" Belle cried.

  The man laughed, jabbed Rick with the gun. He was small, inches shorter than Rick, and had a weak grip on Rick's arm. Rick figured he could take him, but the gun muzzle jabbed his windpipe, knocking his breath away. His knees buckled. He choked, then tried to straighten up.

  Belle struggled to get near him. "Baby, you all right?"

  "Let her go. I don't know her," Rick rasped.

  The big man gave her a little shake, lifting her off her feet.

  "I'm not leaving ma man behind. You hear me?" Belle's voice rose.

  "Shut up, bitch. You wanna die wit him?"

  "Now why talk like that? We didn't do nothin' to you," Belle whined.

  "Fucker, you hear that. She says you didn't do nothin'." He laughed.

  "Lady," Rick's voice was hard. "This ain't your show. Get out of here."

  "No."

  The fist came suddenly as the big man swung and connected with the side of Belle's head, knocking her down. In that split second Rick shook the smaller man's gun arm loose, pushing the gun sideways hard, out of his reach. He brought his knee up between the man's legs. The gun clattered to the pavement as the man pitched to his knees, groaning.

  "Fucker!" The big man kicked Belle again as he turned his atte
ntion to Liberty. He pulled a long, thin knife out of his coat and held it underhanded as he advanced on Rick. Belle struggled to her feet.

  "Gut him, gut him," screamed the man on the sidewalk.

  "Oh, man. No." Belle staggered between Rick and the knife. "Oh, man. You can't do that. No."

  Still writhing, the man on the ground reached for the gun he'd dropped. Rick ducked the knife and grabbed the gun. The knifer's arm caught Belle with a force that slammed her down onto the sidewalk again. Rick threw the gun out of reach and hurled himself at the man with the knife, taking him on with his bare hands.

  Belle screamed as the knife sliced at Rick's parka, shredding the front of it. The knifer struck at him again. Then Belle's shrieks and more police sirens sent the two men stumbling off into the storm. The gun lay on the sidewalk forgotten.

  40

  April and Mike drove uptown to check in with the detective squads in the 33rd and the 30th precincts. It had started to snow, and both of them were deep in their own thoughts. Mike had moved into action mode. April was still distracted by his kiss.

  The 33rd Precinct was pretty quiet for a Friday night. But the 30th had a number of special operations . going on and was a zoo. In spite of the weather, the number of arrests made that night was already so high there was no more room in the holding cells for prisoners. Opposite the front desk in the lobby area where roll was called, the folding screen had been pulled for privacy. Barely out of sight, seven bedraggled, angry-looking men were cuffed to chairs, to the wall, even the radiator pipe. Several were carrying on arguments with officers who were no longer in the room with them.

  Upstairs in the squad room, only one detective was in. A tired-looking female African-American called Yolanda Brick was typing up a report. She told Mike and April she'd just gotten a call that a man fitting Liberty's general description had been spotted on 108th Street, accompanied by a firefighter.

  "Anybody follow it up?" Mike asked.

  The detective gave him a cold stare. "We had a couple dozen calls on this today. After the first twenty amounted to nothing, it got kind of busy around here."