Loving Time awm-3

by Leslie Glass

  Gunn snuffled into a sodden wad of paper towels. “Bobbie is a great guy,” she sobbed.

  April watched her blow her nose and waited.

  “He was a Lieutenant in Vietnam.”

  “Really,” April murmured. “That must have been some time ago.”

  “Yes, he was, little Bobbie Boudreau, a Cajun from Louisiana. You know what a Cajun is?”

  April inclined her chin.

  “French-Indian. There are a lot of them in Louisiana. Some kind of mixture. They speak a funny French the real French can’t understand at all. Have you heard of voodoo?”

  “Voodoo?” April blinked. She’d heard of voodoo practiced in the big cemeteries in Queens. Kids dug up the graves because there was a market for the skulls.

  “Yeah, black magic.” Gunn’s bleary eyes drifted across the room to a white mask on the wall. Ribbons dangled from it.

  “Uh, does voodoo have something to do with this case, Gunn?” The mask didn’t look as if it had come from Haiti to April. It looked more like the ones she’d seen in Italian restaurants.

  “Bobbie thinks maybe he was tainted by voodoo back when his Daddy got the cancer.” The old woman shook her head solemnly. “That visiting nurse he liked so much died, too.”

  April inhaled. What did this have to do with anything? “So what happened to him—Bobbie, I mean?”

  “He went into combat nursing, of course. He said it was a sacred mission. He wanted to help America. He wanted to be white, you know.”

  April nodded solemnly. Who didn’t?

  “So I guess he was used to the blood or something because he was real good at it.”

  “Used to the blood?”

  Gunn shook her head again. “I told you. He was very close to that visiting nurse. He went around with her sometimes, helped her. He saw a lot of sickness and blood.”

  A lot of sickness and blood.

  “I guess it made him want to help people.” Gunn was defensive now. “No good deed goes unpunished,” she insisted.

  April’s watch told her she’d been there for seven minutes. A car horn sounded out on the street.

  “Where is Bobbie?” she asked.

  Gunn blew her nose again. “How should I know?”

  “You know a lot about him. You must spend a fair amount of time together. He sounds like a close friend of yours.”

  “I know him. He’s a good man.” Gunn sucked in her lips, sullen.

  April changed the subject. “What happened to Bobbie in Vietnam?”

  “Oh, he was in an advanced MASH unit. He had a lot of bad experiences.”

  “People dying all around him? Missiles exploding? Drugs? What—?”

  “Doctors practicing their specialties on soldiers who didn’t need it, that’s what.” Gunn glanced at the mask again. “That comes from New Orleans. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “How does all this fit in, Gunn?”

  “You wanted to know about Bobbie. I’m telling you about Bobbie. The Captain of his unit was ordered to take a hill. They took the hill. The Captain lost an arm. His face was burned to a crisp. They lost thirty men. The next day they were ordered to give the hill back for reasons that were never explained.”

  “What about Bobbie?” Time was ticking away. April could feel him lurking out there somewhere. The story about the MASH unit didn’t ring true, but April didn’t want to challenge it.

  “The new Captain had been in charge of body count—that’s the number of enemy killed.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When he took charge of the unit, he started making up numbers.” She snorted. “Some place for a moral kid. Everybody high on marijuana and opium, and drunk all the time. Bobbie was having nightmares, waking up screaming. They were making up numbers of enemy dead. And this Captain was a cardiovascular surgeon. He wanted to try new techniques out on his patients whether they needed the surgery or not.

  “Marine came in, just a kid from Iowa. The Captain wanted to do some real dangerous surgery Bobbie knew the kid didn’t need. He told the kid to refuse. The kid was scared but insisted the doc would never lie to him.”

  Gunn stared into the deep abyss that was Bobbie Boudreau’s life in Vietnam. “It must have been terrible. The Marine died in surgery, and later that night there was a fight. One of the male nurses fragged the Captain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know, a dirty trick, I think. Threw a live hand grenade into his tent and blew him away.”

  There was a powerful old furnace in the brownstone. April felt the heat penetrating all around her. She removed her silk scarf. There was a dirty trick in Vietnam and the Captain died. A dirty trick on a ward a year ago and a patient died. A dirty trick last week and Harold Dickey died. What about Clara Treadwell?

  “Gunn, did you know Ray Cowles?”

  Gunn shook her head. She seemed bewildered by the question.

  “Gunn, you’re going to have to tell me where Bobbie is,” April said softly.

  “But Bobbie didn’t do it. He wasn’t the one. He got a bum rap. The MPs that investigated didn’t like him. He was a Catholic, a Cajun. He talked funny. They were prejudiced against him, you understand?”

  April didn’t respond.

  “They went to the real killer, who was crazy. They asked him what happened and he said he saw somebody French cursing the Captain after the Marine died.” Gunn’s eyes were wild now. “He killed himself, shot himself in the head.”

  “Who did?”

  “The real killer. There was no murder trial because there were no witnesses, but Bobbie was finished for no reason. Just got transferred from unit to unit to unit and passed over for promotion. God, the system destroyed him. He ended up carrying bedpans and left the Army with a low-efficiency rating.”

  “Well, that was some time ago,” April said. “And he’s been in some trouble since.”

  “No, he had a perfect record until—”

  “Until a patient died from an overdose of Elavil a year ago, just like Harold Dickey last week.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Gunn insisted. “He was a scapegoat. The pharmacist gave the wrong prescription. It’s happened before. I should know. But did he lose his job? No. Bobbie lost his job. He lost his health insurance. His mother was sick. She couldn’t get help. She died.”

  “Is that when you became friends?”

  “What would you do with him if you found him?”

  “Talk. Same as I’m doing with you. Is he likely to call or come see you?”

  Gunn shook her head vigorously. “No.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “Sure I am. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  “Gunn, did you help Bobbie get another job somewhere else in the hospital?”

  Gunn sucked in her breath. “How did you know?”

  Well, he had access to all the floors. “Did you know Bobbie was threatening Dr. Treadwell?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Gunn, does Bobbie blame Dr. Treadwell for his troubles?”

  “He says she’s a hypocrite. None of the doctors ever get fired for their mistakes. And they make plenty, believe me.”

  “Does he hate her enough to hurt her?”

  “He wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Gunn said flatly.

  “Gunn, people around Bobbie get hurt. We don’t want anybody else hurt. Now he’s been seen in the hospital, so we know he has access. How did he get the keys?”

  Gunn was silent for a minute, holding her breath. “He’s in maintenance in the main hospital building,” she said softly.

  “Where’s the office?”

  “Below ER.”

  “Day or night?”

  Gunn looked guilty now. “Day shift.”

  “Gunn, we’re going to have to go into the station now. Get your coat.”

  “Why? I told you everything I know.”

  “Police work,” April told her. “We need everybody’s fingerprints.”

  The old woman started to c
ry. “Oh, my God, this is police brutality,” she sobbed, “just like the movies.”

  fifty-nine

  There was a message from Clara on Jason’s machine on Monday morning when he came into the office at eight A.M. She said she needed to talk to him right away. He didn’t return the call. At one P.M. he had a cancellation and let Emma persuade him to take a break and go out for lunch with her. As they left, he heard the phone stop ringing and Clara’s voice talking to his answering machine. He didn’t stop to find out what she wanted.

  He was moody and distracted as he and Emma left the building. They turned east, away from the sharp wind off Riverside Drive, their breath making steam in the cold, wintry air. Emma bounced along, puffing the clouds happily, her hands plunged deep in her pockets, excited by her future.

  Jason brooded quietly about his. He was losing time on all sides. He’d had to juggle patient appointments to carry out Dickey’s teaching duties. He had spent many hours on the Cowles file. He now knew that Clara had given him the file because she wanted him to back up her story that she hadn’t been responsible for the direction of Ray’s treatment; her supervisor had betrayed both her trust and that of her patient. It was a nasty story that she was counting on him, the hospital, and its various committees not to reveal, for it would discredit them all. Unfortunately, the supervisor in question happened to die under suspicious circumstances in his office while Clara was with him.

  Jason was shocked by Clara’s arrogance. She seemed to believe that nothing could touch her. Never mind the suicide of her patient Ray Cowles and her six minutes of conversation with him before his death. Never mind her presence in Dickey’s office when he died. Clara was going to rely on her position to stonewall her way through it all. She intended to come out of it unscathed, and Jason knew that she would sacrifice anyone and anything to accomplish her goal. There were some very good reasons not to get into a confrontation with her. Jason didn’t want to discredit the Centre. On the other hand, he didn’t want Clara to get away with murder by blackmailing the institution, either. He was torn, overworked, and overtired. And now he was taking the time to be with Emma and have lunch.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this,” Emma said happily.

  “What—winter, homicide, Clara Treadwell, or you?” Jason grumped.

  “Thanks, that’s lovely. I could have left you there and gone out to a fancy lunch, or gone shopping. Could have gone to the gym. Lot of things I could have done, you know.”

  “Sorry. Except for Clara, I’m having a ball, really.”

  “What’s going on, Jason?” Emma asked, suddenly serious.

  “I don’t know, Em. I really don’t.”

  “Oh, come on, you’re a shrink. What’s your theory?”

  Jason inhaled on the question. His breath caught on the cold air, and he coughed.

  “It’s hard to imagine Clara a murderer,” Emma mused when he didn’t answer.

  “There are other possibilities.” Jason sighed, scratching his beard. “I really hate getting sucked into this.”

  “What are you going to do, baby?” Emma tucked a hand in his pocket, found some fingers. “You’re rich. You don’t have to put up with it.”

  They speeded up to cross West End Avenue before the yellow traffic light turned to red.

  “Darling, you’re rich. I’m not. I still have to put up with it.”

  “What does that mean? If you made lots of money, wouldn’t you share it with me?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He fell silent, not wanting to seem churlish by pointing out that he couldn’t exactly count on her good fortune since she’d only just returned from leaving him for six months. She might take off again at any time. And having a big earner for a wife would not be a complete joy to him in any case.

  “Sexist,” she muttered.

  They got to their favorite place, the Lantern Coffee Shop, where they used to go years ago when they first met. At the door, Emma tugged at his arm.

  “Look, there are those cops and that FBI guy.” She turned away. “I can’t go in there.”

  Jason peered through the dirty glass door. April Woo, Mike Sanchez, and Special Agent Daveys were sitting at a table in the back. As if she sensed Jason’s presence, April suddenly glanced up. She saw Jason and smiled.

  “What’s going on?” Emma asked, her eyes troubled at seeing the two detectives who’d saved her life.

  “We could go in and find out,” Jason proposed.

  Emma withdrew her hand from his pocket. “You’re really into this crime thing, aren’t you?”

  “I thought you were interested.”

  She turned south on Broadway, forcing him to follow. “I was interested in the FBI. They need spook shrinks. You’d be perfect. Shave off your beard and let’s go to Washington. But what’s this thing with New York street cops? Why can’t you stay away from them?”

  “Emma, cops come in handy sometimes.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” She kept walking fast. Jason had to trot to catch up with her. He was dying to know what was going on. He wished he and Emma could sit down and join the law-enforcement party. But he knew from long experience that Emma did what she wanted and wouldn’t be budged. She had to deal with things her own way. If she didn’t want to be reminded of what it felt like to be a victim, fair enough.

  Jason decided he’d put in a call to April and ask her if she’d drop by to update him on the case later. His breath frosted the air as he jogged to catch up with his wife.

  sixty

  Daveys chewed on an ice cube, staring at April’s plate. “Something wrong with that?” He pointed at the uneaten last quarter of her tuna club.

  “No.” She watched his face twitch over the fries still piled up on her plate. He’d made a point of saying he never ate fried food. He’d said a lot of things. They knew the whole of his pedigree.

  “You going to finish it?” Daveys asked.

  “No.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You guys don’t talk much, do you?” he said, pulling the plate toward him.

  Smiling, Sanchez nodded at the waiter for some more coffee.

  “Shouldn’t drink all that caffeine, you know,” Daveys told him.

  Sanchez dumped two sugars in his fresh coffee. He didn’t reply.

  “Water’s best, trust me on that one.” Daveys took a bite of April’s sandwich. “Not bad, want a bite?” He offered it to Mike.

  April glanced up and saw Jason with Emma through the glass door of the restaurant. So the beautiful wife was back. April smiled at them. Emma caught sight of her and looked startled. She grabbed Jason’s arm. Her lips moved. In a second they’d turned away. April’s smile faded.

  “So you’re not going to trust me on this? What’s with you kids? I’m offering you a present. You go over to Boudreau’s place and you pick him up, take all the credit. Case closed. What’s your problem?”

  “Maybe you’re our problem,” Mike offered.

  Daveys looked wounded. “I’m your solution. How could I be your problem?”

  “Hey, Spiro,” Mike called out to the owner, a fat man sitting at the counter under a No Smoking sign smoking a cigarette. “Ever heard of the saying ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’?”

  “Want a baklava?” Spiro asked. “It’s just out of the oven. I made it myself.”

  “I’m sure it’s great, but then I’d end up looking like you.”

  “Ha, ha.” The fat man laughed.

  “So what’s your point?” Daveys whined.

  “Why offer us the gift? Why not make the bust yourself, split it with your team?” Mike said, winking at April.

  This wasn’t federal jurisdiction. That’s why he couldn’t do it himself. Daveys had another interest in this case they didn’t know about yet. He was working with Treadwell, who was the girlfriend of a U.S. Senator.

  “Oh, come on, guys,” Daveys wheedled. “I gave you all you n
eed. This guy was a misfit from the word go. The dirtbag fragged an officer in ’Nam. He’s a pile of shit. We start digging into this, I bet we find out he’s a mass murderer, like Dahmer or something. I’m doing you a big favor. Get him now before he does someone else. Trust me on this.”

  “So where’s the rest of the team?” April asked abruptly.

  “The team?”

  “I’ve never seen a federal agent work a case alone. There must be more of you in the woodwork. Why don’t you guys pull Boudreau in and get the credit?”

  “Have I got a challenge here from a girl cop?” Daveys rolled his eyes. “You know why I can’t do that. I’m handing it to you. What’s your resistance here—are you kids nuts?”

  Mike slammed his cup down. Coffee slopped over the edge. “Hey, Daveys, call us kids one more time—”

  Daveys made a similar gesture with his glass. An ice cube jumped out and skidded across the table. “Look, I’m just being affectionate. My dad was a cop. My brother’s a cop—”

  “I thought your brother was a Green Beret,” April interrupted.

  “My other brother.” Daveys caught the cube before it slid off the table, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

  Mike raised his hand for the bill. “Thanks for the family history.”

  “Look, if you pass up this opportunity, I can guarantee it’ll be your ass. You can kiss your future good-bye.”

  Mike sighed. “Look, Daveys. We’ve got our own procedures here. We work with the D.A.’s office. We’ve got to get these things nailed down just right before we run in and arrest somebody, you know what I’m saying here? We don’t like to fuck up, makes the Department look bad. But thanks for the tip about the scotch bottle in Boudreau’s kitchen—funny how you know about it when you haven’t even talked to the weasel yet. What does he do, leave his door unlocked?” Mike threw back his head and laughed.