by Leslie Glass
But April kept being teased by the karate thread. Every cop in the world could kill with a choke hold, but there was more to this than the choke hold. There was the need to kill in public, almost ninja style, the need to show off. You couldn't separate that aspect out. A little niggle about the competence of the two karate fans from Bernardino's own unit made her uneasy. If they were tracking a karate expert close to Harry, they had to be good. She knew them, but were they good enough? Were they going to the right places, talking to the right people, asking the right questions? The karate thread suggested she should take over the search herself, bring her own people in, figure it out her own way. Going it alone in investigations was a little problem for April. She didn't like being a team player. She didn't trust anybody else to get it right. She wanted to solve the cases fast. She didn't want to wait while the primaries dicked around with endless speculations.
As soon as she got home, she ran the water in the bathtub and started stripping off her clothes. She'd been the only woman at the table that night, and her gift for being there was a dry throat and smoky hair. She wanted to wash the male experience off as fast as possible. As a sergeant she was permitted to sit down with the big boys only because of her relationship to Mike. It always made her want to sink through the floor. That night she'd spent the time turning the pieces of the Bill and Harry puzzle around and around in her head to make them fit. They wouldn't fit unless Bill and his father's old partner were working together, or Harry had another friend.
"You don't need to look further. You've got your man right there," Bill had screamed at April in the late afternoon. "And tell Mike I want my fucking computer back." It didn't seem likely that Bill would be pushing for a partner's arrest.
April let her hair down and slid gratefully into the hot tea rose-scented water. She knew the answers would come to her if she let the questions go, if she loosened up her mind and relaxed a little. She breathed to slow her racing heart and was just beginning to calm down when the phone in the living room rang. She could hear Mike pick up.
"Sanchez." Then, "Shit." Then, "Give me thirty minutes."
She was out of the tub at "Shit." Shit always meant more than shit. She grabbed the towel and the pair of slacks that she'd hung on the back of the bathroom door, then dashed into the bedroom for some clean underwear and a blouse. She had a towel wrapped around her head and was zipping up trouser boots when Mike's face appeared in the doorway.
"There's been another homicide in Washington Square," he said.
The familiar sick feeling sucked air out of April's lungs. "Who?"
"A woman called Birdie Bassett. Rich widow. She'd been at a dinner at York U. She was a donor."
York U! She was stunned. "Did he get away?"
"Yeah. You coming?"
This was the moment April always needed reassurance and never wanted to let on. The moment when they found out a case they'd been working wasn't going to be an isolated case, when someone died because they'd been moving too slowly. That was when she felt the worst.
Mike read it in her face and moved toward her to give her a quick hug. It wasn't her fault. That was what the hug said. "Look, you don't have to go."
"Yes, I do. I want to see her." April put her face in his shoulder and inhaled his scent, sweet and complex even after a long, hot day. His body held hundreds of memories of passion and good times. It was tough to shrug off her own wish for love and sleep. But, shit, she did want to see this Birdie before they took her away.
She unwrapped the bath towel and let her wet hair hang down on her shoulders. "Let's go."
Thirty-four
This time they took the Camaro, and no one grumbled about the muffler. The gas was low in the Chrysler, and noise didn't matter to them now. April combed her wet hair with her fingers, feeling guilty for her quick soak in the tub.
"You're quiet; are you okay?" she asked.
"It could be a copycat," Mike muttered. He didn't like the possibility of losing Harry, his second-best suspect.
April flashed to Jack, the alumnus of York U. Neither of them were happy.
Mike accelerated, and the Camaro thundered through the Midtown Tunnel. When they came out on the Manhattan side, the city was still very much awake and alive. Warm weather always drew people to the streets and kept them out until late. Rain scattered them to dry spots under store awnings for a few minutes, but they often emerged again before the sky stopped spitting. Tonight the sidewalks were wet, but the rain had stopped.
As always on her way to a homicide, April was beset by Chinese demons. This time it was worse than usual. The repeater they had on their hands could have murdered her. Almost dying had humbled her. After nearly a year of being engaged, she and Mike would have missed their chance to marry, to buy their house and have a baby. She hadn't even changed her address. At her not-quite-real home, they were still sitting on Mike's hand-me-down sofa, living in a partially furnished apartment and driving worn-out cars. What were up-and-coming careers in the face of the gaping failure to take some time for living? Suddenly it seemed as if they were living an unfinished life on borrowed time. Lorna was gone, Bernardino was gone, and now someone else was gone. Shit. She touched Mike's upper arm and reflexively he made a muscle for her to grip.
At the crime scene the Camaro joined more than a dozen vehicles with flashing lights that roadblocked the streets around the east and south sides of Washington Square. Mike parked behind one of them and killed the engine. From a distance April could see that someone had hung lights in the tree above the body, and yellow crime-scene tape roped off the area. Her heart beat in her throat as she clipped on her ID, swung her heavy purse over her shoulder, then got out of the car.
They walked without being challenged to where detectives from two precincts and brass from downtown stood away from the body, talking, smoking, holding on to their cigarette butts. The local news vans with their satellite dishes were also showing up. April didn't join the crowd. With her makeup in the drawer, and her hair hanging down like a wet mop, she was in no mood to socialize. She wanted to see the woman who hadn't gotten away.
"Sergeant Woo."
April turned around and saw Chief Avise beckoning her with his index finger. She put her hand to her wet hair and walked over.
"You interviewed a Dr. Crease yesterday?"
"Yes, sir," April said. He knew that already. She had the dean's list. And so did everyone else.
Chief Avise jerked his head at a park bench close to the south side of the square. "She wants to talk to you."
"Really? What's she doing here?"
"The vic had been at a York University party. One of the guests saw her come in here. He thought she was going to get caught in the rain and drove around to pick her up. When she didn't show, he came to look for her."
April frowned. "Is that guest still here, too?"
Avise nodded. "He left his driver with the body and went back for help. Dr. Crease was inside the building waiting for the rain to stop."
"How long did it rain?"
"Five minutes, more or less. She's over there." The chief didn't say anything else, just walked away toward the permanent cement chess tables, where Mike was now talking to the crime-scene team.
April took a wide path into the grass around the yellow tape and came out behind the bench where the dean was waiting for her. Dr. Diane Crease was sitting primly with her knees together, still wearing the same pink-and-black tweed suit. She stood up when she saw April.
"I'm glad you're here," she said quickly, then swiped at her eyes. "This is terrible. The president lives night and day for this school. It's been his whole life for twenty years."
April tilted her head, thinking of the victim. It was worse for her. "Who is Birdie Bassett? Does she have another name?" Birdie was a name for a sparrow.
"I don't know. I didn't know her. I just met her tonight. She was new."
"New?"
"New to the circle. I don't know anything about her. I'm new to the circle, t
oo. I don't know the ropes yet. I've been here only six months-since Dr. Warmsley took over. He recruited me."
"You wanted to talk to me," April said.
"Yes. You were asking about the tenth. Several things were going on that day. But one in particular in the afternoon. If you can pinpoint the time of the call, it might help. I didn't think it was particularly relevant until this happened."
"How does it relate?"
"Well, some of the names I gave you were for a development meeting. This was a development dinner." She looked so uncomfortable. "Dr. Warmsley is going to be so upset."
"Development of what?" April asked.
Dr. Crease gave her a look. April read it as the dumb-cop look. She didn't know what development was.
"Fund-raising," Dr. Crease explained. "Dr. Warmsley has a goal for each department. The pressure is on us all to bring in resources to raise each department to the highest level, both academically and in services to the community. That's my mandate."
"Oh." April got it. With five first-rate schools in the immediate area competing for students and funds, Dr. Warmsley was putting on the pressure for York.
Dr. Crease was badly shaken. "I just wanted you to know."
"You told me Dr. Warmsley was here for twenty years," April said.
"Yes, but he just became president. He's going to be very upset."
Well, who wasn't? One retired cop and one university donor were killed within a block of each other. And April had the strong feeling that Jack Devereaux was somehow targeted, too. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Thanks. You can go home now. You know where to reach me if you have anything else."
April finished her good-byes and found Mike interviewing a tall man in an expensive-looking suit.
"The only person I saw was a man with a big dog," he was saying as April joined them. Mike made the introductions.
"Sergeant Woo. Mr. Hammermill."
He nodded. "Pleased to meet you."
As April nodded, her attention strayed to the CSU unit, now dressed in their white Tyvek overalls and white booties. They were talking with the ME, who had come to the scene himself. Unusual for him, but she seemed to remember that Dr. Gloss lived somewhere in the neighborhood. She watched them as they moved toward the taped-off area. Hammermill kept his eyes averted.
"Can you describe the man with the dog?" Mike asked. He was doodling down the side of his notebook.
"He wore a Yankees hat," Hammermill said. He looked at April again; then his eyes glazed over. Maybe he'd had too much to drink. He was a very elegant man, out of his element.
"Anything else?" Mike asked.
"He had a Chase Bank umbrella. I didn't see his face."
"What kind of dog?" April asked.
"I don't know. It was big and hairy."
Uh-huh. "Would you recognize the breed if you saw it again?"
"I don't know. I don't notice dogs much."
But he had noticed the dog. People always noticed dogs. April checked her watch and followed the ME to where the victim was still lying where she had fallen over an hour ago. The CSU team lifted the tarp that had been covering a beautiful young woman wearing a snug black cocktail dress. The dress was hiked up high enough to reveal long legs and smooth thighs. Suddenly open to view, she looked like a mannequin from an expensive department store, posed in a party dress on the ground with her head twisted and her face frozen in a fake expression of emptiness. She was lying on her side. One leg was straight and the other bent. April was shocked. Somehow she'd expected a Birdie to be old.
She caught her breath and coughed, then moved closer to get a better view of the expensive sling-back heels with the open toes that revealed the nail polish on the woman's toenails. Her fingernails were a matching pink, and her hands, curled in death, looked soft and appeared to be without any defense wounds. But first impressions could be deceiving.
Sometimes when the medical examiner removed victims' clothes, puncture wounds were discovered, knife wounds, gunshot wounds. Even hair sometimes hid deep depressions in the skull from blows to the head. Tissue from the killer could be found under the victim's nails. A broken nail from the killer could be caught in the victim's clothes. Many things not visible to a viewer at a scene could be hiding somewhere on the victim's body. It was clear that this kill was cold and calculated, like an expert hunter killing a deer. And the most macabre thing about the scene was that rain had fallen for at least a few minutes after the victim died. Droplets of water still hung from the soaked blond hair. Rivulets had run down her arms and her legs and puddled in spots in the pavement around her. April stepped back and watched the ME go to work.
Thirty-five
Early in the a.m., after a late night and very little sleep, Mike and April traveled back into Manhattan to the edgy Sixth Precinct. The rain had started again before dawn and held through the night. It was a wet morning. Fog from their warm breath steamed up the car windows, and traffic was already beginning to bunch up around the bridges by seven-fifteen. April hadn't slept enough and hadn't had enough tea to get her voice going. She wanted to talk, but they didn't have a chance in the car.
Mike was on his cell phone, taking a call from the branch supervisor of the FBI. The FBI had an instant response to serial killings. Two killings of a like kind pushed the button, and special agents were coming in to help the NYPD, like it or not. For April and Mike it meant there would be more toes to avoid, more people to keep in the loop.
As Mike talked, his voice was low and calm. He was supposed to be on his way out of Homicide, no longer engaged at this level on the front lines of murder investigations, but he did not show any sign of irritation. He was at home under the gun, still good at keeping the sharp edges off his Bronx machismo. Mike was a born negotiator, never at a loss. April could almost be lulled by his confidence, his assurance to the Feeb that everything was under control, even though it wasn't at all.
Before they hit the Midtown Tunnel, she called her boss, Lieutenant Iriarte. Like everybody else in the department who'd had enough sense to get out of the boroughs, where the population was too dense and the apartment prices were too high, he lived up in Westchester. She knew he was on the road by six-thirty.
Iriarte picked up his cell on the third ring.
"It's April," she croaked, letting her voice do its cracky thing because she hadn't been in to work in a week and didn't know how well he was taking her absence.
"Oh, nice of you to call in, Woo. Feeling better?" Iriarte asked sarcastically.
"Yes, sir. How's it going?"
"With us? I'd like to say it's been a madhouse, and we're swamped without you. But the truth is it's been quiet," he admitted. "I hear you caught another one downtown last night."
"Yes, sir."
"I hear it's bad."
"Yes, sir," April repeated, because that pretty much covered it. Two killings in the same place a week apart had about the same odds of occurring as lightning striking the same building twice. It wasn't exactly an advertisement for an area with the highest concentration of students in the city-including CUNY, the New School, the School of Design, NYU, Pace, and York University. One murder in a location considered a quality-of-life safe zone might be considered an unfortunate anomaly. Two murders there could only be deemed careless. Not enough uniforms on the streets, yada, yada, ya. The unlucky commanding officer of the Sixth Precinct, Captain Jenny Spring, was on the carpet big-time. Nobody envied her unfortunate situation.
"What do you have on this karate nut?" Iriarte asked, sounding satisfied that his own detective unit wasn't going to be a mob scene for the duration.
"You seem pretty well informed already, Lieutenant," April croaked out.
"No, all I heard is he's right up your alley. That why you're on it?"
With this remark, he reminded her that the killer was better and smarter than she, and also that Iriarte knew things he wasn't supposed to know.
"No, sir. Doesn't seem to be my alley at all." April hesitated.
"How can I help?" he asked. She could feel him settling back in his Lumina, letting his hostility melt. She could tell he was beginning to like her. Maybe she should stay out of his sight more often.
"I need somebody," she said slowly.
"Don't we all? Who do you need, Woo?"
"Woody, sir."
Lieutenant Iriarte broke out in laughter because he considered Woody Baum the worst detective in his unit, which was one of the reasons April could rely on him. Loyalty always came easily to the underdog. "Oh, sure, take him and never send him back." The lieutenant laughed some more.
"I'd also like Hagedorn to check a few things." Hagedorn was the computer whiz in the Midtown North unit. He was a real yin character, with a pudgy body and a soft moon face, but the fastest detective at pulling a back story out of the Net.
Iriarte snorted, pleased to be useful. "Fine. Whatever you need."
April thanked him, and they both hung up. Mike hung up, too, and they headed into the tunnel for the second time in less than twelve hours.
Thirty-six
Dr. Jason Frank was a morning person, always up at first light in a race with his two-year-old toddler, April, who was a morning person, too. They both wanted to be the first to greet the other. Jason's wife, Emma, slept in an hour longer. What drew her out of bed and into the kitchen every morning was the aroma of coffee, toasted waffles, bagels, or corn muffins- whatever Jason offered up in the way of breakfast. His culinary competence was limited to freshly squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit, and toasted whatever, and Emma was always appropriately grateful for whatever he served.
