Loving Time

by Leslie Glass

  “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 need. 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.

  “Yeah, it’s a riot, all right.”

  Mike sobered. “But, hey, we’ll check it out. Maybe we’ll find out Johnnie Walker’s his brand. Maybe we won’t.”

  “I don’t see gratitude here. What did you kids get on your own, huh?”

  Mike glanced at April. On their own they’d gotten Boudreau’s personnel file. He’d been a blood donor, so they knew his blood type, O negative. It matched the blood type of the semen in the condom. Bobbie had been arrested a number of times for drunk-and-disorderly, for assault—bar fights. No one had ever pressed charges. His prints were on file. They hadn’t had time to find out if Boudreau’s prints matched any of the prints that had been lifted from the file, but somehow they doubted he’d been the one to put it back in the drawer in Personnel. They knew about Boudreau’s history in the Army and his dishonorable discharge. They knew where he lived and was currently working. Now they knew where he was hiding out.

  “Thanks,” Mike said. “You’ve been a big help. We’ll go for it tomorrow.”

  “Good man.” An apparent stickler for details, Daveys nevertheless forgot to pick up his tab when he left.

  sixty-one

  At a few minutes before seven P.M. on Monday night April adjusted her blue silk Chanel scarf nervously in the cage elevator that hauled her slowly up to the fifth floor of Jason’s building. It occurred to her that Jason’s wife had many real designer scarves and could spot a fake a mile away. She scraped through the lint at the bottom of her jacket pocket for a shred of tissue to blot her lipstick.

  April had been upset that afternoon at the coffee shop when she saw Emma’s face freeze at the sight of her and her lips move, I … can’t go in there, as she turned away. But she wasn’t really surprised. The two women hadn’t met again after the perpetrator in Emma’s case died. Not meeting again was usual. Unusual was April’s working with a victim’s husband on another case since. And yet another one after that.

  If she was there to answer the door, the movie-star wife would look her over and April knew she looked a wreck. Her hair was absolutely flat on her head. Her clothes were wrinkled, smelled of mental hospital and the Victorian potpourri from Gunn’s apartment. Her stomach was making terrible noises. She didn’t feel up to Jason’s wife tonight. She was in a state of panic, terrified about messing up the case.

  Right now she knew that the Chinese god of messing up (whoever he was) was hanging o
ver her as her Yin and Yang wrestled hopelessly out of harmony. She could feel him hanging around out there, just beyond her vision, waiting for the perfect moment to disgrace her and destroy her life. Maybe he’d come in the form of Special Agent Daveys. Maybe the NYPD was being set up somehow and she’d be the one to take the fall for this. She had a bad feeling about the situation with Boudreau. It didn’t all fit together the way it should, and she had no idea how it would be resolved tomorrow.

  Jason’s elevator made a few little lurching hops before the two levels settled into one and the folding metal door clicked to let April know she could get out. Usually she and Jason talked in his office where the clocks didn’t chime. Tonight he’d asked her to come next door to his apartment where the clocks did chime. April hadn’t been there since the night Emma disappeared. Jason’s wanting her to come there must have something to do with his wife.

  April hastily retied the scarf one last time. Emma opened the door before April touched the doorbell. She was caught fiddling with the silk folds, felt she lost face. She was also stunned by Emma’s loveliness. Emma had the kind of classic American features that were admired and coveted by the entire planet Earth. She was the standard of beauty by which all else was judged and found wanting. Emma’s creamy pure skin, wide hazel eyes, slender (slender!), graceful, slightly upturned nose. Her hair, more golden than ash now, had just enough curl at the ends to give it body and bounce. Her mouth was larger than April’s, which was on the rosebud scale, and she was taller. April felt small and ugly and utterly humbled.

  “Ms. Chapman,” she said. “I’m really sorry to bother you at home.”

  “Oh, please, call me Emma. Everyone else does.”

  Emma was wearing toast-colored suede trousers and a celadon silk blouse. Tied around her neck by the arms was a soft-looking sweater of the same color. That pale, almost translucent green was greatly prized in the Chinese pottery of the Sung dynasty for what was believed to be its magical power to detect poison in any food served in it.

  “I’m glad to see you, Detective. You saved my life, after all. And who knows, maybe Jason’s, too. Come in, he’s waiting for you.” Emma’s slightly uncertain smile made April feel shabby, in addition to everything else.

  “Ah, please call me April.” April shrugged a little, returning the courtesy. The truth was, Emma shot the guy, too. And Emma shot him first. Who knew, maybe it was that first shot that saved both their lives.

  The French doors were open. Jason was sitting in the living room that April thought was so eccentric. It was filled with books, ticking, bonging clocks, and aging upholstered furniture that was kind of threadbare and needed a face-lift. The curtains on the windows fronting the river also looked as if they had seen better days.

  Jason put down the nearly full glass of clear liquid he’d been holding and got out of his chair to greet her. “April, thanks for coming. How are you?”

  “Fine. Please, don’t get up.” No one else she knew got up for women. The gesture always startled her.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Emma asked.

  April eyed Jason’s glass. “Club soda?”

  “Nope, gin. Want some?”

  April shook her head, glanced at Emma for guidance.

  “I’m drinking white wine,” Emma said quickly. “But we have everything. Pepsi, juice, beer …”

  April realized that the movie star’s offer of refreshment meant this must be some kind of ceremonial occasion. She struggled with the idea of white wine for a few seconds. George Dong was the only person she knew who drank white wine. She thought of it as a wimpy Yuppie drink. It didn’t taste good or do much for her.

  “Thanks, white wine would be fine,” she said.

  Emma went to get her a glass while sixty-three dings, dongs, and bongs proclaimed the hour. April pulled off her jacket and took a chair, tried to arrange herself to fill it. She didn’t succeed.

  “So,” Jason said. “Where are we?”

  April smiled. “Still bearded, I see.” And back with the splendid wife.

  Jason raised his hand to stroke the stubble. “Yeah, I’m still polling opinions on it.”

  “What does Emma say?”

  “I say it scratches.” Emma gave April the glass of wine, chose the sofa, and sat gracefully.

  Ah. Six months ago this was the wife who hadn’t come to the station to discuss her own case. At two this afternoon she hadn’t wanted to come into the restaurant where cops were eating. Now Emma was part of the team, willing to sit down in the same room with her. Clever girl. April smiled.

  “So, fill us in,” Jason said with a smile that confirmed her insight.

  “The blood type of the semen in the condom matches Boudreau’s, as I told you on the phone.” April sipped at her wine, then put the glass down. “It looks like he’s the one who’s been harassing Dr. Treadwell. He’s been in trouble before—”

  Jason nodded. “The inpatient suicide a year ago.”

  “Even before that. Boudreau was a former Vietnam MASH unit surgical nurse. He may have killed his Captain after a young Marine the Captain was operating on died in surgery. Someone threw a live grenade into the doc’s tent that night. Boudreau was not charged with the crime but did not do well in the Army after that.” That was the part that had gotten Daveys all excited. Daveys’s brother had been a Marine and had died in ’Nam, apparently from the negligence—or cowardice—of one of his men.

  Emma shivered.

  “Boudreau was fired after the patient’s death. He may have blamed the Quality Assurance Committee for fingering him and the head of the Centre for firing him.”

  “How did he maintain his access?”

  “He has a friend in the personnel office. She helped him get a job as a janitor in the Stone Pavilion.”

  “So he has all the keys,” Jason murmured.

  “It appears that he does,” April agreed.

  “Is he in custody?” Emma asked suddenly. “Did he kill other people?”

  April’s wine tasted light and fresh, hardly like alcohol at all. “Not yet is the answer to your first question, and it’s possible is the answer to your second.”

  Emma poured herself some more wine. “What now?” she asked.

  “We’re bringing him in for questioning tomorrow.”

  “You mean you know where he is?”

  April nodded.

  Emma fell silent. April didn’t want to imagine what she might be remembering.

  “What about Dr. Treadwell?” Jason asked.

  “Daveys has that end covered.”

  Jason glanced at the phone. “Maybe I should give her a call.”

  “Why is the FBI involved in this?” Emma asked. The FBI hadn’t come for her when she was abducted. April saw the other question in her eyes. Why not me?

  “Dr. Treadwell’s boyfriend is a Senator. Treadwell was being harassed before Dr. Dickey died and she didn’t do anything about it. When someone got killed, the Senator may have stepped in on her behalf and asked someone for a favor. It’s just my hunch. That kind of thing happens.”

  Well, that was enough for one day. Reluctantly, April dragged herself out of the chair. “Well, thanks for everything. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “You’re not staying for dinner?” Somehow Emma managed to sound disappointed.

  “We’re having dinner?” her husband asked.

  sixty-two

  Maria Sanchez desperately needed to talk with her son. On Tuesday morning she could no longer restrain herself from speaking. “M’ijo—” She knocked gingerly on Mike’s door. “Will you have some coffee?”

  A grunt came from inside the room.

  “Are you awake?”

  Another grunt.

  “It’s six-thirty. Won’t you be late?”

  No answer from inside.

  “I made some coffee.”

  A few thuds and rustles, then Mike appeared at the door rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on, Mami?”r />
  Maria looked modestly away, as her hijo had nothing on but the gold medal of St. Sebastian nestled in the soft thicket of curling black hairs on his chest and one of the smaller towels stretched across his groin. She directed her eyes to the door frame, not wanting to see any telltale bulge of le verga en ristre in the baby she loved so much and could no longer hold and caress. No longer even talk to.

  “It’s six-thirty, m’ijo,” she said softly. “Won’t you be late?”

  It was Tuesday and she was back in her usual black. He squinted at her dress, plainer than a nun’s habit and a very far cry from the shiny, stiff purple number of Sunday. “I never get up before six-thirty,” he pointed out. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you leaving me, m’ijo?” Maria whispered. “I don’t want to bother you, but—”

  Mike closed his eyes. “Give me a minute, Mami.”

  She nodded as he closed the door, her son the Sergeant with the loaded gun on the chair beside his pillow and a Chinese girlfriend with very small chichis and no sign of being a Catholic. Sighing, Maria padded through the living room to the table by the window, sat on the wooden chair next to the one Diego had taken when he came to lunch. She was thinking, as she had for two nights, about the things Diego had said after Mike and his pretty novia china had left. She smoothed her hand over the rich surface of the wood, darkened and glistening after many years of polishing and repolishing.

  “Marry a man who will respect you, Maria,” her father lectured to her long, long ago when she was just a little girl playing before dinner under the dusty canopy of the old tree split down the middle by a bolt of lightning. He talked, she played with a rag doll. Mami had fed and sweated over the old woodstove making her father’s, and only her father’s, favorite things to eat.

  “Marry a man who can cook,” Mami had liked to tell her. And following that, “Mexican men are defective. Hiposexuado. They cheat on you and they’re lazy, también. Marry an Anglo or an Italian, Maria.”

  “Where will I find an Italian, Mami?” Maria had wondered, in that old town on the border of Mexico and Texas.