Loving Time awm-3

by Leslie Glass

  “Ah. April Woo.”

  Jason nodded. “April Woo. But now they seem sure it’s a suicide.”

  “So what now?”

  The first of many clocks started chiming eleven.

  “I missed the clocks,” Emma murmured. “I didn’t think I would. But it was so quiet at night. Sometimes I thought of getting a grandfather clock.” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “But you know how they all have to be wound every five minutes …”

  “I’m glad you came, Em. I missed you, too.”

  The phone joined in with the ding-dongs. Emma frowned. “Your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He reached for the phone. “Dr. Frank.”

  “Oh, Jason, I’m so glad you’re there. I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Clara Treadwell.”

  “Oh, hello, Clara.”

  “Oh, my,” Emma murmured.

  “I’m sorry to call so late. But I have some bad news,” Clara said.

  “Oh?” Jason glanced at his wife. Emma raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Harold Dickey died this afternoon.”

  “What?” Jason was stunned. He’d seen Dickey only two days ago at the meeting in Clara’s conference room. He’d looked more than healthy then.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Jason said. “He looked so well. It’s a shock.”

  “Yes, well, a man over sixty … I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you for calling. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “It was very sudden, very sad.” Another long pause. “It happened in his office at the Centre. Massive MI. Now we’ll have to look for someone to take over his position.”

  There it was, the offer of a staff position, coming less than a week after Clara had raised the subject as a vague possibility.

  “Thank you for calling me,” Jason said again. He wondered what Harold had been doing in his office on a Sunday afternoon. Harold had never worked on Sunday, even in Jason’s day. He played tennis on the weekends, was known for it. Everybody knew he liked his booze and his tennis on the weekends. Jason thought about that.

  “Of course, you had to know.… Jason—?”

  “Yes?”

  “Um, did you hear from the police about Ray Cowles?”

  Jason was surprised. “Yes, late Friday. Didn’t they call you?”

  “I’ve been out of town. Well—?”

  “They’ve closed the case as a suicide.”

  There was a pause. “That’s a real disappointment. Well, good night, Jason. We’ll be in touch.”

  Clara hung up before he could say anything else. He put the receiver down thoughtfully.

  “What’s going on?” Emma asked.

  “Harold Dickey died of a heart attack this afternoon.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” Emma got up, heading for the bathroom, then stopped.

  “Ah, are we heading toward a hospital appointment, or have you two”—she wrinkled her perfect nose—“just suddenly gotten very chummy for some reason?”

  “God, you women are competitive. Clara’s sixteen years older than you.”

  “And you rejected her once, Jason. Women don’t forget things like that. Maybe she hasn’t heard your wife is back.” Emma disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Distracted by the memory of something April had once said, Jason scratched his beard. April once told him that in police work it helped always to think dirty because very little in life is really clean. Suddenly, the back of his neck prickled at the recollection of an old rumor about Dickey and Treadwell. Not to mention the possible job materializing almost instantly. He heard the shower come on and Emma begin to vocalize in the steam. Without meaning to, he was beginning to think dirty.

  thirty-six

  “What kind of car is it, Mr …” April’s eyes dropped to the complaint on her desk, but her mind was on the two young women grabbed off the street and raped in empty classrooms at the university on Monday at six P.M. and that morning at ten-thirty.

  It was two P.M. on Wednesday, November 10. At three, she had an appointment with Jason Frank, but for the third time this week she didn’t think she’d make it. Today she’d just spent two and a half hours in the emergency room with the second rape victim, an exquisite, espresso-colored, nineteen-year-old student from France. Nicole Amendonde had been raped, sodomized, beaten on the head, and bitten on the breasts and inner thighs.

  A professor found the young woman naked and bleeding profusely and called for help. In the hospital, however, the girl refused to talk about what happened. She didn’t want the police involved, didn’t want her parents to know. She was terrified she’d be blamed for the attack and her parents would be angry at her. The hospital called the precinct for a female detective to come to the emergency room to talk to her.

  April had encountered this kind of resistance before in Chinatown. She knew how to get Nicole to tell her what happened, and she knew how to persuade the girl to agree to let the ER doctor use the rape kit. Then, as soon as she’d gotten back to the precinct, before she’d even had time to grab a cup of coffee, Sergeant Joyce had sent her this clown.

  “Dr. Lobrinsky.” The plump, deeply tanned little man sitting by April’s desk in a single-breasted camel hair coat buttoned all the way up was convulsed with rage. His yellow toupee, no longer straight on his head, had realigned his part so that now it seemed to originate from the top of one ear. Two tightly compressed fat lips busily worked their tension from one cheek to the other.

  Absolutely furious at the perfunctory way he was being treated, the fat man thundered out his name in the crowded squad room as if it had the power to bring his case the deep respect he felt it deserved. No one, however, had ever heard the name, and no one turned a head in his direction.

  The week had started badly and was getting worse. Sergeant Joyce had heard the rumor that she was about to be promoted to lieutenant after having made the short list nearly a year ago. That was the (maybe) good news. The bad news was the rumormonger either didn’t know or wasn’t telling where the assignment would take her. So the good Sergeant was in a state of partially preoccupied hysteria over her future. One just never knew until it happened what a promotion meant. It could just as easily signal the end of a career as the advancement of one. So far the Sergeant had nibbled away all the skin around both thumbnails and begun chewing on the nails themselves.

  It didn’t help that the neighborhood seemed to be having a rash of car thefts and two young women had been viciously raped with the same MO in a three-day period. Sergeant Joyce had once been in Sex Crimes and demanded a game plan on this even before the second case. The second case occurring that morning in a different building put the perp’s cycle of recidivism at three days. Three days for gearing up to this kind of assault was a bad sign. It meant the guy was way out of control and would keep at it until he was stopped. Never mind that the sites he chose were well-peopled or that subconsciously he might want to be caught, the odds of his eluding them were still in his favor. And, of course, at any moment he could always get on a bus or a train and leave town.

  In addition, the two victims were black college students and the rapist was white. This added a politically sensitive and potentially explosive element to the case. The Department didn’t want another girl hurt. Already powers in the Department had sent word down from above that there would be no time or expense spared on this one.

  No time spared on anything else with the exception of the time April had to waste on this Dr. Marcus Lobrinsky, who happened to be some kind of bigwig doctor from the hospital. It was unfortunate for him that his 1992 Mercedes 500SEL, double-parked in front of Zabar’s at Eightieth and Broadway, was stolen when he went into the gourmet-food store for his weekly supply of smoked fish and caviar. And it had to happen just when the whole precinct was galvanized on a more pressing matter.

  So when he bellowed his name, only April was available to nod respectfully. “Dr. Lobrinsky.” As he jabbed a surp
risingly slender finger at her, she wondered what kind of doctor he was.

  “I want my car back immediately. The car cost me over eighty-five thousand dollars. And that was in ’92,” he said contentiously.

  April pretended to study the complaint. The problem she had here was that Dr. whatever-he-did Lobrinsky had absolutely no chance of getting his car back. Not immediately or ever. It just didn’t happen. No one got his car back anymore. Stolen cars weren’t lost sheep that wandered home wagging their tails behind them. Neither were they taken for joy rides and abandoned on some quiet side street in Queens or New Jersey, where they sat waiting for recovery by alert police officers a couple of days later. They weren’t snatched for resale in their present form, either.

  Car theft had become very big business, was an organized-crime thing. Cars were taken for the sum of their parts. Twelve hundred dollars each for the airbags, thousands of dollars more for the radio, the tires, the seats, the bumpers, the wheels, the steel frames, the halogen lights, the muffler, the gas tank—every single part had a value and an outlet. And everybody profited—except maybe the people who lost their rides and the insurance companies who had to shell out for new ones. Dr. Lobrinsky’s Mercedes had been gone for only an hour or so, but April had little doubt that it was already stripped to the ground and no longer a car. She sighed.

  “I’m going to have to hook you up with Auto Theft,” she told the doctor. “I’ll give you the name of someone to contact down there.”

  “Shit,” Lobrinsky exploded. “Down where?”

  “I think the office is located at One Police Plaza.”

  “Downtown? Why the hell can’t you take care of it up here?”

  “Your car is not likely to be in the neighborhood any longer.”

  “You mean you can’t take care of it.” The look beamed at April was hateful and contemptuous in the extreme. It said that while the police in general might be stupid and inept, she, April Woo, personally had to be the most stupid and inept member of the whole Department. She’d seen it before.

  Usually the next question was “Are you a real cop or what?” In this case, April was sitting at her desk in the detective squad room and there could be no doubt as to her status.

  Whatever accusation the angry doctor was going to make next, however, was drowned out by an eruption of noise as two large police officers brought someone in. He was wearing a red baseball hat backward, dirty jeans, and a stained One World sweatshirt with holes in it. The guy was white, medium build, maybe an inch shy of six feet. His greasy brown hair hung below the baseball hat to his shoulders. He was held in an upright position by the two cops, seemed to have some fresh scratches on his pasty face, and his eyes gave the impression that his address was some other planet. Then it got quiet.

  April strained to pick up the vibes that would tell her what was going on, but Dr. Lobrinsky, sitting in her metal visitor’s chair with his expensive coat still buttoned over his chest and his hair on all wrong, was fully focused on his own problem. Completely unaware of the drop in air pressure, the doctor came to a decision. His fist hit the desk and he began to scream.

  “I don’t have time for this shit! It’s not a hard one. Go out and find the fucking car. That’s what you’re here for. If you can’t even locate a 1992 canary-yellow Mercedes—what the fuck are you good for?” His words hit the crowded room like the roar of an Uzi machine gun.

  Sergeant Joyce popped out of her office with the speed of a Jack sprung from its box. Her yellow hair, only an inch longer than the doctor’s, also seemed attached in the wrong place. The crowd of uniforms and detectives moved aside as she advanced toward April’s desk. At the moment there were fewer than the usual number of coffee stains on her blouse, but she was frazzled and harried nonetheless. Her look said, Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here? Can’t you see we’re busy and don’t have time to take this kind of shit from anybody?

  Her face also told April that she was deeply rattled by what had happened to those two girls and had changed her mind about wasting time on nasty, arrogant, disgruntled victims of auto theft. She cocked her head at April. Get into my office.

  April excused herself and headed for Joyce’s office. Thirty seconds later Sergeant Joyce stormed in and slammed the door. “I got a call from a path in the M.E.’s office,” she announced, collapsing in her desk chair.

  April leaned against the windowsill. What passed for heat in the precinct hadn’t been turned on yet even though it had been a cold month. The air leaching in around the window frame was truly frigid. Already she could feel her fingers beginning to stiffen. Sergeant Joyce shuffled some papers around on her desk importantly.

  “I’m not exactly clear on how this one came about,” she muttered, looking for the note she had written to herself. She lifted one shoulder and let it drop as she shifted bits of paper from one untidy pile to another. She couldn’t find the scrap she was looking for. “Tox screening of apparent heart attack DOA comes up with drug overdose. Check it out.”

  April frowned. What? With all that was going on right now? She jerked her thumb back toward the squad room. “What about Lobrinsky?” What about the rapist?

  “I told him his yellow bird was a pile of scrap by now and it wasn’t productive to talk to people like that.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He went ballistic and his hair fell off.” Sergeant Joyce’s teeth clicked as she tore a chunk of nail from the top of her thumb. “Then he left.”

  Well, that wasn’t surprising. Sergeant Joyce often had that effect April changed the subject. “Who’s the DOA?”

  The Sergeant excavated a piece of lined paper covered with her scrawl. “Ah, here it is. Guess who? Dr. Harold Dickey. Age sixty-eight, apparent good health. No sign of heart disease, no embolism or anything like that Unusually high blood levels of—Ami—” She squinted at her writing. “I don’t know what this is, tripty something. The file isn’t complete yet.”

  “Harold Dickey?” April frowned. “The shrink in the Cowles case?”

  “The very one. Suddenly turns up dead.”

  “Dickey told me he didn’t know Cowles, had never spoken to him,” April said. But people lied. Maybe Dickey committed suicide because he had been involved. Would anybody do that in this day and age? She shook her head. Maybe it was a homicide.

  “Check it out.”

  “Okay. Do you have the name of an officer at the scene I can talk to?” April asked.

  “Apparently there wasn’t one.”

  “What? Then how did the M.E.’s office get the case?”

  “Don’t fucking hock me, Woo. It’s a little hazy, a little unclear, understand? Maybe somebody saw something and said something to somebody. Maybe the attending was nervous about signing the death certificate. How can I fucking know how the M.E. got involved? All I know is they took the case. And now they want to know how the Ami—whatever it is got into the guy.”

  April risked one more question. “Did you get the feeling there’s any suspicion of—”

  In her frustration, Joyce reached for a clump of hair to pull. “Christ on the Cross, April. It’s just a routine fucking investigation. Could be the guy took the wrong medicine, could be he got too much of the right medicine. Could be an accidental overdose. Could be a suicide. It’s just not a natural.”

  April didn’t like having to go to the Psychiatric Centre again so soon. There was something not quite right about those people. The doctors were as creepy as the patients, and now another person was dead. “What about the rapist?” she asked finally.

  “We’re getting a profiler from downtown. Mike is talking to the university about warning the girls.” Abruptly, Sergeant Joyce got tired of talking and closed her mouth around the next victim, her left pinky.

  April pushed off from the windowsill. So the guy they just put in the pen was not a suspect in the raper case. She opened the office door. Out in the squad room there was a lot of noise and a number of plainclothes she’d n
ever seen before. She stopped at her desk to grab her bag from the bottom drawer. It looked as if a lot of extra people were about to fan out on the streets looking for a squirrel, and she wasn’t going to be one of them.

  thirty-seven

  At precisely three P.M. April hesitated by the two open doors to Jason Frank’s inner office. She could see Jason sitting at his desk with his back to her. In spite of the number of clocks she knew were in there, none of them happened to be chiming the hour. She wondered if she was early.

  He punched a button on his laptop and swiveled around. “Hey, April, you made it.”

  “Oh, my.” She tried to keep a straight face. His new beard wasn’t exactly the same length all over his face and wasn’t the same color as his head hair. The beard and mustache were grizzled, made him look older than his thirty-nine years and blunted the good looks April had always admired.

  “Smartest detective in New York. How are you?” Piercing through the ragged edges, though, Jason’s dark eyes were as sharp and knowing as ever. He looked the detective over with obvious pleasure.

  April was wearing black wool pants, ankle-high black boots, a red turtleneck sweater, and a black pea jacket Her short layered haircut was a little longer and fuller now. She carried the same heavy shoulder bag with an extra gun, the handcuffs, and the Mace in it. She was the only woman Jason knew who carried around such things and never forgot what they were there for … the way he never forgot he was a doctor. The last time he saw April her lipstick was pink. Now it was fire-engine red, apparently to match the sweater. She looked good.

  She looked even better when she smiled. “I’m tired, Doc. How about you?”

  He nodded, raising his shoulders equivocally, shook the hand that could shoot a gun, let it go reluctantly. “It’s a chronic condition.”

  “So?” she murmured. “What’s with the beard? Are you Dr. Freud now?”

  “Don’t you like it? I’m taking a survey.”