Loving Time

by Leslie Glass

  She put the squashed coffee cup into the brown bag that had contained their lunch—two plain bagels with cream cheese and two cups of coffee they’d stopped for at H&H Bagels on Broadway. April had taken some time to sip the coffee, chew and swallow the warm, fragrant bagel. Throughout the drive she had remained silent, her window open and the fresh wind blowing on her face, ruffling her hair.

  They passed the site of a terrible crack-up on the Henry Hudson Parkway two weeks before and crossed the bridge out of Manhattan. It wasn’t until they were in the Riverdale section of the Bronx that Mike made a stab at conversation.

  “I live around here,” he said abruptly.

  Just where they were on the Henry Hudson Parkway the apartment buildings looked like luxury towers and the private houses like mansions.

  “No kidding.” April knew next to nothing about the Bronx except that the Cross Bronx Expressway passed through a splashy, noisy, heavily populated street world of sights and sounds that were more like Puerto Rico than New York. She’d interviewed suspects in Coop City, Hunts Point, and knew the places where nobody would want to get a flat tire.

  “Yeah, over that way, though, in Knightsbridge.”

  “Looks nice. Close to work.”

  “About fifteen, twenty minutes,” Mike admitted.

  “Better stay there,” she said pointedly. “It takes me a lot longer.”

  “I have a reason for moving. I could show you on the way back.” Without looking at her, he smiled his sexy smile.

  “You mean you want me to go to your place?” April shook her head. No thanks. Last weekend she’d taken a big risk for him, spent half a day visiting three moldy, run-down, four-room ruins with exaggerated descriptions: “Delightful four-room townhouse”; “Charming, garden apartment”; “Sundrenched and quiet”; “Townhouse with garden.” All were way farther out in Queens than Astoria, where she lived, and none had even a low rent to recommend it. And she’d had hell to pay for it.

  The truth was, she was still a little conflicted about his showing up at her house over the weekend, trying to make friends with her parents, showing off, tempting her with spending more and more time with him so she’d miss him when they were apart. She didn’t enjoy having to take his side against Skinny Dragon Mother, worrying all the time about how long he was going to keep his hands off her and what she’d do when his hands started taking independent action.

  The very last thing she needed was to go to his place.

  “Not my place. My mother lives there.” Mike laughed easily. “You should meet Mami.”

  Yeah, right. April leaned out the window and made a noise.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. A cough.” April scrunched up his napkin and empty cup, stuffed them in the H&H bag.

  They’d passed through Riverdale and were heading toward Yonkers up the Saw Mill River Parkway.

  “You have a problem with meeting my mother?” Mike demanded.

  “Jesus,” April muttered softly. Where was he going with this?

  “Now you’re swearing. A nice girl like you.” He slapped his Camaro’s custom-leather steering wheel with one hand. “Very nice. Insulting my mother and my religion at the same time.”

  The man wasn’t a cop for nothing. He knew exactly which buttons to push. April made another noise. Then, “What’s your problem, Mike? What’s with you? I’m not insulting anybody.”

  “The hell you aren’t. I met your parents. I met your cousin Mei Mei—”

  “Judy. Her name is Judy.”

  “Her name is Mei Mei. Only Judy for show.” He mimicked Skinny Dragon Mother.

  Oh, now he was into the race thing. An angry retort rose to her lips and stuck in her mouth like a fat trickster dumpling from a low-class dumpling house—two inches of thick, crusty, tasty-looking dough that turns to glue in the mouth and has only the tiniest hint of filling. Mike wanted to fight April felt the possibility of saying some things no high-quality person would say. The appropriate thing would be to say nothing and show Mike that he was a fool. But the nasty four-letter words she was forbidden to say struggled around inside of her, eager to jump out and make her a true American.

  “Slut” was the best she could do.

  “Judy?” Mike said in surprise.

  “No. The one you devoured with your eyes. Gave you her home number.” April pursed her lips in disgust.

  “Devoured with what—Who …? I never even noticed her.”

  “Impossible not to notice.”

  “Ha!” Mike exclaimed, taking the exit. “You don’t want to meet my Mami because you don’t like Latinas.”

  “Come on, Mike. You know that’s not true.”

  “You think you’re high-class and we’re low-class people.”

  “I don’t want to hear this. Turn right here.” They were almost there. April rolled up her window.

  “You said Maria Elena was a slut.”

  “You saw her.”

  “Sounds politically incorrect to me.”

  “You saw her. How would you describe her dress and actions, Sergeant? Would you say the lady was altogether professional, or was she offering something more than hospital services?”

  Mike sucked on his mustache. “I’d say most women go both ways on that. Liking guys is not a cultural thing.”

  It was a cultural thing, though. Where April came from, women were not supposed to go both ways on that. She was absolutely certain that if a person went the wrong way, only bad things—no good things—could happen. She could cite a hundred—no, a thousand—cases of disaster brought on by going the wrong way on this monkey-business issue.

  “You know what I’d say?” Mike said.

  No point in saying she didn’t want to hear it. April was silent as they drove through a neighborhood of big houses with big front lawns that were free of dead leaves and still deep green in color. She hoped he wouldn’t tell her and thought she might be spared when he pulled up fast and close to the curb in front of a white stucco place with a red-tiled roof, then cut the Camaro’s engine.

  He turned to her, his features serious as if he’d moved into another compartment in his mind, was about to be arrogant and advise her on how to do the interview with Dickey’s wife. Unfortunately, there was no other compartment in his mind at the moment.

  “I’d say you’re prejudiced about Latinos because we’re so sexy and you’re pissed off about missing out.… Maybe you’re afraid you can’t compete.”

  Asshole. April smiled benignly, wishing him dead, and grabbed her bag. “That must be it.”

  She saw his chest puff out under the leather jacket with the certainty that he’d nailed her, so now she’d have to relent and meet his mother. This victory freed him up to move into a different compartment in his mind. He noticed his surroundings were not like Queens or the Bronx and got out of the car, shaking out his pant legs and breathing in the air of wealth.

  “Nice,” he murmured. “Be nice to live in a place like this. What do you say, querida?”

  April shrugged and headed up the walk.

  forty-two

  Sally Ann Dickey looked like an aged Doris Day. Her eyes were cornflower blue, her cheeks pink, her hair a shade that used to be called strawberry. It was exactly the color of Doris Day’s hair in the fifties. She wore a pearl-gray wool dress and served tea to the two detectives as if it were a social occasion. If they didn’t exactly fit in in her fussy Westchester living room, Mrs. Dickey was the last person to let them know. She patted the pillow on the settee with its back to the window and cocked her head at them politely.

  She had placed April and Mike in the delicate chairs that faced her and the very few cars that passed on the street. April cleared her throat. “Thank you for taking the time to see us,” she murmured. “We know this must be difficult for you.”

  “Not at all.” Sally Ann Dickey poured tea and turned to Mike. “Sugar?”

  “Ah, yes, please.”

  “Milk?”

 
; He glanced at April. She was too busy watching Mrs. Dickey’s pouring technique to help him. He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Mrs. Dickey put the silver strainer in its silver holder, set down the teapot, picked up a silver creamer, clouded the tea, and handed Mike his porcelain cup.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Then Mrs. Dickey picked up the teapot again.

  “It’s a delicate situation …” April began.

  “So I understand. Sugar?”

  “No. Thank you. Plain is fine.” April took the cup and set it on the table in front of her without tasting it.

  The new widow had fine white skin meshed with a thousand tiny wrinkles. Her hard blue eyes held April in an unblinking stare until April understood she was expected to sample the tea. She took a sip. As she did so, she was distracted by the sight of a dark blue Ford that looked a lot like some agency’s unit passing slowly in front of the house. Nah. Lots of people drove Fords.

  “I’m sorry we’re going to have to ask you some difficult questions,” April said softly.

  Mrs. Dickey bent her torso graciously toward Mike. “More tea, Sergeant?”

  “Not yet, thank you.”

  April could feel some tension developing in Mike. She followed his gaze to the street, where the dark blue Ford cruised by in the opposite direction. Now his antennae were up.

  “What would you like to know?” Mrs. Dickey inquired.

  “Was your husband taking any kind of medication?”

  “Oh, my, what kind of question is that?”

  “It’s a background question only someone who knew your husband very well could answer. We need to establish what kinds of medication he normally took.”

  The blue eyes regarded her. “Harold was a healthy man. I’m not aware of any.”

  Not aware of any. Interesting way to put it. April inhaled. “If it would make you more comfortable, why don’t you tell us in your own words a little about your husband and his habits the last few weeks?”

  “Harold was a great doctor, a great teacher, a wonderful man.” Mrs. Dickey poured herself some more tea.

  “What about his personality? His moods?”

  “Oh. Well. Of course he was preoccupied. He was always preoccupied.”

  “Would you say he was depressed?” Mike threw in.

  “Depressed? My husband? Never. He had too much to do. More tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Mike smiled at April. Be direct and let’s get the hell out of here.

  All right, all right. April nodded. “Mrs. Dickey, did your husband take antidepressants?”

  “Of course not. Harold didn’t take anything, wouldn’t even touch an aspirin.”

  “What about alcohol?” Mike murmured.

  The widow sniffed. “Occasionally he had a drop. To relax.”

  “How would you describe his mood lately?” April asked.

  Mrs. Dickey looked from one to the other as if she’d suddenly thought of something. “Which one of you is the good one and which one the bad?”

  “Excuse me?” April said.

  “One of you is the good cop and one is the bad. He must be the bad one. Are you Mexican?” The cornflower-blue eyes were on Mike.

  Mike was startled. “How can you tell?”

  “I come from Texas, honey. Lubbock. My husband, too. We’ve been here a long time. So have you.”

  “Since I was four,” Mike said.

  “Still, some things don’t change.” Mrs. Dickey sighed. “We married when we were twenty-one. Harold was going to be a great doctor and help his fellowman. And he did.” A ghost of a young smile passed over the frozen features. “What is it you really want to know?”

  “Your husband was in his office most of Sunday.”

  “He left around nine in the morning and I knew he was going to the office.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Then how did you know where he was going?”

  “He wasn’t dressed for tennis and he took his briefcase and laptop computer with him. He’d gone to the office on Saturday, too. I assumed he was working on something.”

  “Do you know what?”

  “I heard him talking on the phone. There had been a death, a patient, I believe.”

  “Raymond Cowles.”

  “Who?”

  “Raymond Cowles was the patient who died.”

  Mrs. Dickey shook her strawberry-colored head. “No, I don’t believe that’s the one he was concerned about.”

  “Another patient died?”

  “Well, I just guess so. Overdosed on Elavil.” Mrs. Dickey touched her hair. It was as rigid as cotton candy, molded into a single piece.

  “Do you know the patient’s name?” April asked.

  “It was very unpleasant, I seem to recall.”

  “The death was unpleasant?”

  “Yes. It was very unsettling at the time.”

  “So it was not a recent death.”

  “Oh, no. It happened last year, I think.”

  So there had been another death a year ago. “What was unsettling about it?” April pressed on.

  Mrs. Dickey looked confused. “I really couldn’t say. Harold was a very private man. More tea?”

  “Ah, no, thank you. Your husband had a phone call about a dead patient. When was that?”

  “No, he had a phone call about something else. It reminded him of the dead patient.”

  “I see,” April murmured.

  “You’re the good cop, I can tell. You have a sweet face. Do you have children?”

  April moved her chin to the no position. She saw Mike tense as the blue Ford passed the house a third time. Inside, a man in a slate-gray suit was talking on a cellular. His face was hidden by the appliance. He didn’t look their way as he slowed, then sped up at the next house. He wasn’t a cop. Cops didn’t have cellular phones.

  April tried one more time. “Other than the phone call on Sunday morning, Mrs. Dickey, can you tell me if there was anything different in your husband’s life in the last few months, anything at all? Did he seem worried, anxious? Was he more withdrawn than usual?”

  Mrs. Dickey thought for a moment. “Harold was very worried about the snake. Is that what you mean?”

  “The snake?”

  “I call her the snake. She’s like a rattlesnake except you can’t hear her coming. She came back, you know, just to tease him after all those years. That’s the kind of woman she is. Well, no more about that. I’m not a gossip.”

  “You can say whatever you like to us,” Mike said softly.

  “You’re the bad cop. I’ll tell her.”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she killed him. That’s what you’re here about, isn’t it? You think Clara Treadwell killed Harold.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Dickey, at this time, we’re just trying to establish how your husband might have ingested enough Elavil and scotch to kill him. Whether it was an accident … or he was depressed and did it—”

  “She put it in the scotch.”

  “Dr. Treadwell?” April asked.

  “Yes. She hated Harold. She was trying to get rid of him, and he didn’t want to go.” Mrs. Dickey crossed her arms over her chest. “And that’s what happened. She took my husband. And then she killed him when she didn’t want him anymore.”

  And then Clara came and took away the scotch bottle when she returned to lock Dickey’s office after he was dead. April glanced at Mike. She could see he had a few problems with Sally Ann Dickey’s theory. If the head of the Centre had poisoned her former lover’s scotch, why risk being on the scene when he died? April shrugged. Well, maybe Clara hadn’t known Harold would die. But there was another Elavil-related death. Maybe an investigation of that death would lead them in another direction.

  April stood. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Dickey. It’s been very useful.” She put her empty cup on the tray. “Oh, by the way, did your hu
sband have an office in the house?”

  “Of course. Would you like to see it?”

  Now it was three offices. The man had three offices and a wife who may have watched too much television over the years.

  “Yes, thank you, we would. But I’d like to use the bathroom first.”

  “That door on the right.” Mrs. Dickey pointed to a door under the stairs. She put the rest of the tea things on the silver tray.

  “I’d be happy to carry that tray for you.” Sanchez winked at April and picked up the tray.

  “Oh, my, are you sure?”

  “Of course. I do this at home all the time.”

  “I don’t believe that, Sergeant. But thank you anyway. That old thing is getting heavier every day.”

  “It happens.” Mike was suddenly being very nice.

  April figured he didn’t like being identified as Mexican and the bad cop within minutes of an introduction. As soon as they passed into the kitchen, she ignored the door on the right and headed up the stairs.

  forty-three

  After April Woo’s visit to her office on Wednesday, Clara Treadwell had swung her chair around and stared out at the Palisades across the river in New Jersey. She needed to calm down and get things straight in her mind. In less than an hour she’d be meeting with Daveys, the FBI agent Arch Candel had assigned to her case on Monday but who hadn’t been able to schedule an appointment until today. Monday the situation had been complicated enough. Now with Hal’s death under investigation, it was a lot worse. Clara was disturbed, annoyed at the wasted time and further possibility of scandal. Still, she didn’t believe there was anything she couldn’t handle.

  She shook her head wearily at the rippling expanse of Hudson River. For four days she’d been on the phone talking endlessly about Hal’s tragic, sudden, fatal heart attack. She’d spoken to the Dean of the medical school, the Vice President of Medical Affairs of the university, the Chancellor of the university, the trustees of the Psychiatric Centre, the chief psychiatrist of the state of New York, so vital to the Centre’s funding, who reported to the Commissioner of Mental Health. The Vice President of Medical Affairs called the Dean of the medical school, who called the Commissioner of Mental Health, who called her while she was on the phone with the Chancellor. They all knew one another well, worked together on the committees that funded and regulated the academic and medical services the university and Centre provided, both to their students and the patients they served.