A Killing Gift

by Leslie Glass

  April was up again at five-thirty, drinking hot water and scanning the yellow pages for martial arts. She was not surprised to find some of the names that had come to her on the spur of the moment. Silent Warrior would be a natural. It was there. So was Praying Mantis. She was also attracted to the strongly American typeface of Professional Prepare at Twenty-second Street and Broadway.

  Mike was up at eight, on the phone again trying to reach the ME. More than forty-eight hours after Birdie Bassett's murder, the preliminary death report on the cause of her death still had not left his desk. Her funeral was set for Sunday afternoon out in New Jersey, and he was determined to have some resolution before then. Dr. Gloss didn't pick up the second urgent page and return the call until nine-thirty Saturday morning. By then, Mike and April had already visited Ducci in the lab for the second Saturday in a row and were on their way into the city.

  "Yeah, Mike, what's up?" Dr. Gloss said.

  "How about Birdie Bassett? We're at a critical juncture here."

  Gloss sighed. "Yeah, I know. You'll have the prelim as soon as I do. I'm still working on it."

  "By now you should already know pretty much everything you're going to know."

  "What's your hurry?"

  "The funeral's tomorrow, and we need some specifics to move forward."

  "Well, nobody told me there was any particular rush," Gloss said.

  "I'm telling you. Aren't I good enough?"

  "Don't get huffy. I can give you generalities. What do you need?"

  "How about the murder weapon?"

  "Look, that's what I'm working on. I want to be sure. She has some deep premortem bruises on her neck. It looks like he roughed her up a little before he killed her. The bruising on the neck is consistent with manual strangulation, the kind from his squeezing and her struggling that would take place in that circumstance. There's a bruise at the base of the neck possibly caused by pressure from the killer's hand."

  "But…?"

  "But there are no petechiae in the mucosa of the lips and lids of the eyes. And, of course, you saw her face. It wasn't the dark red that would be consistent with the slow bleeding that occurs with strangulation. And her neck is broken."

  "So the blow killed her. Tell me about the blow."

  "Okay, the blow. More force was used than would have been necessary to kill her. The neck is broken, as I said. The spinal cord is crushed. All this indicates that she did not ultimately choke to death slowly."

  "Okay, we know that. So he started to strangle her and changed his mind."

  "It looks that way. He changed his mind and hit her. Maybe somebody interrupted him. Maybe she did something to infuriate him."

  "Okay, could be either. But what did he use?"

  "That's what I'm working on. We know it's some kind of blunt instrument. He could have come at her with his hand, but I want to be sure it wasn't a pipe or a baseball bat. We're measuring, okay; we're trying to make a match with different things. It's too easy to go for the karate stuff. It's possible he hit her with something else."

  "Lao really hit a nerve, huh," Mike said.

  Gloss grunted angrily. "Look, it's not that easy to kill someone with a hand. Arm yoking, absolutely. Break their neck, easy as pie. You have to be strong, but a lot of people are strong. Crushing a spinal cord with a hand"-he clicked his tongue-"that's another story… but on the other hand, if he had used a pipe why not just bash her on the head? You see, it's not such an easy call."

  "His psychology is the key to this."

  "Whatever makes the case."

  "If he's a kung fu nut, he'd want to use the hand in the traditional way. Are you telling me it wasn't a hand?"

  "All I'm saying is, it could be. We're still trying to get an impression, work backward."

  "What about a protective mitt?"

  "No, a mitt would have spread out the bruising."

  "All right, can you tell me which hand the killer used?"

  "Oh, that I can tell you. The killer was facing her. The blow was on the left side of her neck. That makes him left-handed."

  "And Bernardino?" Mike said excitedly.

  "Bernie was yoked from behind. Pulled from right to left. The guy's still left-handed."

  Mike whistled. "Thanks."

  "Well?" April asked when he hung up.

  "A lefty, just like Ducci predicted, and he wasn't wearing a mitt."

  "A purist. That son of a bitch Ducci. Amazing how somebody who never even saw the body could be so sure."

  "He saw the photos. Home sweet home, carita."

  They pulled up in front of the Sixth, where Woody was waiting outside in the sunshine, turning the pages of a book.

  "Look at these cuties," he said when they parked the Camaro and got out. "I used to have one like this." He pointed at a little white hair ball with two black ribbons on its crown. A real man's dog, with a fringe so long its paws were covered.

  April glanced at the photo. "Jesus, Woody. A Maltese?"

  "Did you locate Hammermill?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah, he's out in the Hamptons. Want me to drive out with the pictures?" he asked hopefully. It was a nice day for a drive.

  April took the book out of his hand. It still had its Barnes and Noble price sticker on it. Woody had done things the easy way, as usual. He'd paid thirty-five dollars for Choosing a Dog for Life, and would put in for the refund. Still, it had good pictures of 166 breeds. Should do it. They went inside where the task force was assembled for the morning meeting.

  Fifty-one

  Breakfast was Krispy Kremes. A couple dozen detectives gobbled them up as if there were no tomorrow on fat, talking the case and drinking extra-large cups of coffee. The ones who never learned were smoking, too. April studied the dog book, something she should have done in a much more focused manner a week ago.

  "You want me to run out to the Hamptons and interview that guy Hammermill?" Woody whispered in her ear. As usual, he'd do anything to get out of that room and out on the road.

  "Not right now, Woody." She turned some pages, hoping some canine posture would loosen up her blocked memory.

  "That's a cute one." He pointed to a bloodhound. "He's got a nose like Harry's. Ha, ha. Get it, a nose for money?"

  "Is that a Jewish joke, Woody?"

  "Of course not." Woody was Jewish, so he looked offended.

  She noted that bloodhounds were twenty-six inches tall, a pretty standard size for lots and lots of brown, and tan-and-russet, and black-and-tan dogs. How could she remember which one she'd seen among all these haulers, herders, hunters, chasers, retrievers, sniffers, swimmers, guiders, and savers? There seemed to be a dog bred to do just about anything. She wanted to stand up and measure how high twenty-six inches was but didn't have a tape measure with her. She was pretty sure it was a mastiff, but there was more than one kind. She smiled. Shown at different stages of maturity, these dogs were pretty much all cute. It was hard to look at them and pay any attention to the task force meeting.

  The big boss had been right when he'd said back at the get-go that this case was too personal for her. Right now she was ahead of everybody else in her thinking, so she couldn't even pretend to be interested in the catch-up going on. Charts up on boards showing the last twenty-four hours in the lives of the victims and the suspects. Albert Frayme, Harry Weinstein, Bill Bernardino, the Bassett siblings. What they'd been doing then. What they were doing now. None of that was important now.

  When it came time for the playback segments of Frayme's taped interviews, she gave up and went to the ladies' room. She'd heard almost all of it before and didn't want to revisit Frayme's Asian phobia. He didn't like slants. He'd said it when she was sitting right next to him, as if she didn't exist. How to win friends and influence people.

  In the ladies' room, she gazed at herself in the mirror, then washed her hands and her face and reapplied her makeup. She had to prepare for war. When she was ready she went downstairs, took out her cell, and listened to her messages. She wasn't going bac
k into that room. Mike could yell at her later. She didn't care. She was going to find the place where Frayme trained. In the end, she always had to do everything herself.

  She listened to her four messages. Skinny Dragon, Devereaux, Marcus Beame, and Charlie Hagedorn. Skinny Dragon wanted to be taken out for a ride. Saturday was her shopping day, and Astoria where she lived didn't have the best stuff. The dragon wanted worm daughter to pay attention to her, take her to Flushing. April called Skinny back and told her she couldn't play chauffeur; she had to work.

  "Half day enough. Your father don't feel good." Skinny stuck in the knife. "Better come at three."

  The parry struck home. Did her dad have a big hangover or did they need a lightbulb changed? "We'll see how it goes, Ma." April had learned a long time ago never to give her mother an absolute no. Then she called Devereaux.

  "Are you coming over or not? We're getting ready to leave," he said the minute she identified herself.

  "Yeah, I'll be there before noon, promise. Where are you going?" she asked.

  "Lisa's parents have a house on Martha's Vineyard."

  "Nice place, I was there once." She was relieved he was still determined to get out of town. She was just finishing up with Devereaux when Woody appeared with the dog book.

  "Where to, boss, the Hamptons?" he said, looking relieved to have found her.

  "No, not the Hamptons. What took you so long?" she demanded.

  "What am I, a mind reader?" He gave her a look, then opened the precinct door for her.

  At least he'd learned some manners. Outside he opened the passenger door of the unmarked vehicle from Midtown North that he'd brought for her. She was gratified that old dogs could learn new tricks. As soon as he'd closed the door for her, she ignored him the way her bosses always ignored her.

  She strapped herself in and dialed Hagedorn. "Sergeant Woo," she said when he came on.

  "Finally. Okay, I got the skinny on Albert Delano Frayme. Frayme took his mother's name after the divorce, so I went back and found the court records. His father's name is Alberts. His birth name was Albert Delano Alberts, Junior."

  "A. A.," April said.

  "Is there some significance to that?"

  "Only that the two victims were B. B.s."

  "Okaaay. So I checked further. Frayme has a double identity with credit cards and a social security number in the name of Albert Alberts. You want me to subpoena the credit card records?"

  "Very good, Charlie!"

  "Is that a thank-you?"

  "That's a dinner at your favorite eatery."

  "Check. What about the subpoena?"

  "Go for it. Everything you can get on him."

  "Anything else?"

  "That's peachy for the moment," she said.

  "Where to, boss?" Woody was playing with the car keys like a six-year-old.

  "Devereaux's home," she told him.

  Then she dialed Beame. "Sergeant Woo."

  "Hey, April. Mike isn't picking up. You wanted likely dojos, right? I got Praying Mantis. It's 16 East Thirty-second Street. Professional Prepare is on Twenty-second Street at Third Ave. I have three more. You want addresses? You were right on the Silent Warrior call, but it's too far uptown."

  "How far up?"

  "Two Hundred Thirty-second Street in the Bronx."

  "Too far."

  "We were checking for more Caucasian gym owners. But that requirement cut the list way down. There are a few more on Bowery. All the suppliers are down there. We could check with them. They'd know who's who. A lot of others are on the West Side and Mid-town too. How wide do you want to go?"

  "I have an a.k.a. now. Alberts is his father's name. Al Alberts."

  "Okay. This is good. Then your first choice is Professional. They didn't have a Frayme on their members list. But Albert struck a chord when we spoke with them. They have an Al. We were going back there with the photo today. You want me to do that now?"

  "Uh-uh, Woody and I are in the neighborhood. We'll go."

  "You like to do everything yourself, don't you, Sergeant?" Beame said. "I'll bet you knew the locations already."

  "Nope, I didn't," she lied. "Thanks, Marcus. I'm going to remember you on your birthday."

  "It's July nineteenth," he said.

  "Woody, turn right here; we're going to Third Avenue."

  "Yeah, boss." He hit the siren, and the tires screeched as he cut across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

  Fifty-two

  Ten minutes later April and Woody located Professional Prepare's building on Third Avenue and left the car in front of a fire hydrant. The gym was on the fifth floor of a five-story commercial building, and the stairs getting up there were steep. April could hear Woody panting a little as she stepped back to let him go through the door first. Clearly he'd never practiced his chi kung, the breathing so vital to physical power and control in all martial arts. She snorted and stared at the door in front of her when he leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

  As Jason had predicted, no Chinese or Japanese or Korean calligraphy was exhibited next to the name. No yin/yang or mystic symbols were displayed either, no front-kicking silhouettes. The gym's door was painted black and had a simple sign with Professional Prepare in block letters. It looked like a no-nonsense kind of place with a greater emphasis on the fight than the philosophy.

  Finally Woody stopped wheezing, grasped the door knob, and opened up. Bright light from a skylight shone down on an entry formed by movable screens that blocked any view of the activities beyond. In the small space was a metal desk; on top of it were an open appointment book, a leafy bamboo cutting in a vase full of water, and a telephone. At eleven-thirty on Saturday the place sounded busy.

  On the other side of the screens, kumite sparring commands and training grunts came from both directions. No one was seated at the desk, so April paused to examine three walls of photos covering every inch of the rice-paper panels. The photos showed buff white males in various tournament settings, dressed in traditional gi and caught by the camera in appropriately impressive maneuvers with their black belts flying. Vertically along one screen was a row of members who were of the eighth- to tenth-degree black-belt rank that designated them honored masters. Five big guys with blank expressions and black tengui wrapped around their heads indicated this was a serious place. They looked between thirty and fifty years old. Albert Frayme was not among them. In a line next to them were fifth-degree-black-belt-ranked members, then fourth, and the ranking went down to the beginner level. Albert Frayme was not pictured at any degree.

  Disappointed, April stepped around a jog in screens into a place that was both intensely familiar and completely unfamiliar. Unfamiliar was the sight of two Caucasian white-haired instructors sitting up front on the traditional Japanese kamiza, divine seat of honor, and a group of slightly younger but like-looking males sitting cross-legged below them on the floor, while on the main mat two practitioners demonstrated Gake, a hooking action used for ankle and sacrifice throws. Nearby was a kumite Scoreboard with the Japanese word card commands that were used in matches. It was a karate center.

  Those things were familiar, and the odor of sweat was familiar, too. But the lack of any Asian practicing what April considered the one uniquely Asian sport gave her an uncomfortable feeling. The martial arts had been developed over millennia by Japanese, Koreans, Chinese, Malaysians, Indians, and Filipinos. Each believed their system was the oldest and best. April didn't know why she reacted so strongly to the exclusion of females and Asians here, for certainly Chinese and Korean and Japanese all had their exclusive training gyms, and some still passionately excluded women and girls.

  Also unfamiliar at Professional Prepare was the training area that contained a wall hung with protectors and training devices that were far more expensive and modern than any she had ever used. Here, the face shields and fist, body, and leg protectors all were made of expensive white molded plastic and leather. The variety of striking pads, sand bags, iron clogs, kick mitts
, focus targets, and coaching mitts was a far cry from the "hand sticking" and "penetration hand" Chinese exercises of her youth. Back then hand sticking meant she had to plunge her soft fingers into bags of powder, then rice, then beans, and finally pebbles to condition her hands for striking. The Chinese exercise tools she'd used consisted mostly of chashi, blocks of cement with handles for one- and two-hand exercises to strengthen the wrists and arms, and black canvas shoes with iron weights in the soles for feet. Tradition. The training area also had five posts designed to toughen up various parts of the body. Each had a striking pad shaped to receive the strike of a specific part of the anatomy; hand, foot, shin, shoulder, head.

  A gi-suited practitioner with a black belt tied around his waist and a black tengui wrapped around his forehead quickly separated himself from the others and stepped forward to talk to them. April had both her badge and plastic ID in her hand by the time he reached them.

  "Hi, I'm Mel. How can I help you?" Mel was a dark-haired giant with friendly blue eyes, who didn't seem fazed by a visit from the police.

  April's head came almost to his shoulder, but maybe closer to his armpit. She had a sixth-degree-black-belt ranking and was used to sparring with normal-sized people-Chinese males with compact musculature and far less bulk. She didn't think she could take him.

  The sparring partners bowed, and a new pair moved to the mat. "Randoru Hajime," said the white-haired master. "Begin free sparring."

  April stepped back behind the screen. Woody stayed to watch.

  "I'm Sergeant Woo, NYPD," she said politely.

  He glanced at her picture, then at her. "A pleasure. How can I help?"

  "Are all your members posted up here on the rogues' gallery?"

  Mel's blue eyes followed her hand indicating the photos. "No, the masters have to be there. Some of the others practice for tournaments, so they're always looking for sparring partners and don't mind being called at home or work. But a number of our members don't participate in the classes. Some train on their own and just come in when they have time, take their chances getting someone they like to spar with." He adjusted his headband.