by Leslie Glass
"Really?" Mike hadn't mentioned that.
"Uh-huh, do you have a hypo yet?"
"No." April did not have a hypothetical on what had come down here. She turned away from the vultures huddled around the door of the deceased. They were part of the territory, but she never got used to them.
"Well, do you have any ideas?" Woody pressed.
"Uh-huh." But she wasn't going to share them.
"Where to?"
"Five six between five and six. A studio called Workout. Maddy Wilson's trainer owns it."
"Nice address."
"Very nice." The location of Derek Meke's studio happened to be in the very heart of midtown, on the west side of Fifth Avenue, so it was in their precinct. She gave him the number on Fifty-sixth Street, and within fifteen minutes they were driving along the block she called Restaurant Row. Fifty-sixth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues consisted mainly of not-very-high old buildings with restaurants and stores on the first floors and small businesses—hair salons, couture dressmakers, shirt-makers, used-book dealers, galleries, and the like— on the upper floors. Workout turned out to be on the second floor of a rundown four-story building in the middle of the block.
At six minutes after one p.m. Woody left the car in a no-parking zone. By then April had filled him in on a few key details of the case, and he was good to go.
"You think we need backup?" Woody asked as they entered the building and pushed the button of a very sorry-looking elevator.
April didn't reply. Two of their prime suspects were already being questioned. If it was a boyfriend/girlfriend thing, as Mike seemed to think, most likely the killer would be Wayne or Remy— or possibly a combination of the two. Maybe it was a love triangle. Babysitter/wife/husband, or even love square: Babysitter/husband, wife/trainer. But never in her memory had a square resulted in a murder, nor could she think of an instance in which a trainer had offed a customer. Why kill a golden goose?
"I think we're good," April assured him.
They had rules about risk-taking. Derek might have been the last person to see Maddy Wilson alive, but different kinds of suspects required diferent methods of approach. The armed and dangerous, crazy-rabbit killers without much organization or control had to be approached with extreme caution. The careful killers, who took their time at the scene of a crime, then walked away in broad daylight, were likely to return to their lives as if nothing had occurred. Those sociopaths killed without shame or remorse and lied, thinking they were telling the truth. Their mistake was in believing they could get away with it. If Derek was their suspect, he wasn't going to be waiting for them with a carving knife.
The elevator showed no signs of movement, so she tilted her head toward the stairs; they started up. At the top, the only door on the second floor was open to a gym that looked like dozens of others all over the city. April had even trained in a few. A couple of people who'd taken a few courses somewhere and called themselves trainers got together, rented out a place, and set up shop, charging a hundred an hour to people who didn't know any better.
Far from the big trendy exercise facilities with dozens of treadmills and TVs, along with saunas and juice bars, each of these little gyms had its own specialty and loyal following. Interactive stretching, massage, second-stage physical therapy, Pilates, hot yoga, aerobics. There was a long list. April had been a martial-arts practitioner herself in the past. Now that she had the rank to get her way, however, she no longer felt the pressing need to throw large people to the ground.
Workout was a loft space with two massage tables, pulleys attached to the wall, and three area for mat work. The equipment was limited to one Precor, one treadmill, a StairMaster, and some Pilates equipment similar to what April had seen in Maddy Wilson's gym. None of the machines were in use at the moment. The massage tables were occupied by a tall woman with huge breasts, and a tiny brunette with only slightly smaller breasts. Both were having their limbs yanked in all directions. From the description given of him by Remy, April guessed that the bulked-up blond male stretching the brunette's leg way past her ear was Derek.
He paused to look them over. "Can I help you?"
April hauled her gold shield out of her purse. "I'm Lieutenant April Woo Sanchez," she said, rattling out the whole mouthful this time. "And this is Detective Woody Baum."
Woody nodded his hello. "We're looking for Derek Meke," he said.
"That would be me," the trainer said easily. He didn't pause from his task of pulling the leg of the brunette on the table high enough to make her squeak. "What can I do you for?"
"Is there a private place where we can talk?" April asked.
"I'm in the middle of a session here. I have a break at three. How about then?" he said with a smooth smile.
"It won't wait. This is about the murder of Madeleine Wilson," Woody blurted.
"What!" The brunette wrenched herself out of Derek's grasp, and sat up.
Derek looked skeptical. "I saw Maddy a little while ago. She was fine."
The brunette lost it. "Oh, my God. She never returned my calls this morning. Oh, God. She wasn't putting me off. " She coughed and started choking. "Oh, my God. I feel sick." She jumped off the table and ran to the bathroom.
"She's like that," Derek explained. "You're putting us on, right? You two don't look like cops."
April didn't ask what cops were supposed to look like.
He made a face. "Come on. You really upset Alison. She's Maddy's best friend. What's going on?"
"Mrs. Wilson was murdered in her gym sometime between seven forty-five and nine fifteen," April told him.
"What?" His mouth dropped open.
"Did you kill Maddy Wilson?" she asked.
"What?"
He didn't seem to have much of a vocabulary. He moved toward the window, where the sun slanted in from the west, and collapsed in one of the three hammock chairs circling a glass table littered with fitness magazines.
"Jesus. I can't believe it." He shook his head. "She was fine when I left."
Woody hunkered down in a second chair. April took the third. "Where do you live, Derek?"
"In Queens." He licked his plump lips. "Is this the third degree?" He looked from one to the other as if he couldn't decide which one to address.
"I don't know what the third degree is," April replied.
"You were the last person to see Mrs. Wilson alive. That makes you very important," Woody interjected. He knew what the third degree was.
"Oh, Jesus." Derek paused to consider that, then said, "How do you know I was the last one? Maybe someone came in after me. They might have a security camera. They talked about getting one," he said hopefully.
That was a pretty good return from a guy who looked like a meathead. Unfortunately, Wayne had already told them he hadn't gotten around to getting a security camera. "How long have you known Maddy?" April asked.
He was still shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know, a long time. Three or four years. Sometime after her second baby she had a bad ski accident and needed rehab. She's a champion skier, you know."
April whipped out her notebook and wrote down Champion skier, bad fall. "Did she come here for her rehab?"
"No, I didn't have this place then." Emotion finally flooded Derek's handsome face. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his shoulders shook with sobs.
April didn't give him long to grieve. "Where did you meet?"
"Crunch. I was there at that time. Everybody went there. Alison, Maddy, all the girls." He pulled himself together.
"Is that where Alison and Maddy met?" April asked.
"I don't know. I think they've known each other longer."
"What was your arrangement with Mrs. Wilson?" Woody broke in.
Derek found a handkerchief in his pocket and blew his nose. "My arrangement?"
"What did you do with her?" Woody asked.
"I helped her set up her gym, did her nutrition, advised her on spiritual matters."
"Really." Woody snickered
.
Derek glared at him. "The body animates the spirit. A healthy person needs both body and spirit to function well. 1 went to her house three times a week for an hour in the momng."
"Was Mrs. Wilson a healthy person?"
"Yes."
"Did you have an intimate relationship with her?" Still Woody.
Derek was unfazed by the question. "Of course."
"Did anything out of the ordinary happen this morning?" April asked.
He turned to her, blowing air out of his mouth noisily. "Maddy was in a bad mood."
"Was that unusual for her?"
"She has a temper. Today the babysitter pushed her over the edge, so she fired her. It happened just before 1 got there at eight."
"You were on time?' '
"To the second."
"Okay, now, what's this about Remy?"
"Maddy told her to be out by noon. It was about the fourth babysitter in a year, so she was really ticked. 1 got her feeling better by the end of the session, though."
"Then what happened?" April asked.
"I left," he said simply. "Maddy wanted to oversee Remy's packing to make sure she didn't take anything when she left. Some of them do, you know." Tears pooled up in his eyes again. "How did she die?" he almost whimpered.
"She was attacked in her shower," April said.
"Oh, shit." Reflexively his hands shot up to protect himself from Maddy's attacker. "Wayne finally got her," he sobbed. "He must have come back after 1 was gone, the jealous bastard!"
April glanced at Woody. You. He nodded and
started firing off questions while she kept her eye on the bathroom door. She figured that between the trainer and the best friend, they might actually get the whole story.
Thirteen
It took Alison Perkins forty-five minutes to pull herself together. After nearly choking on the table, then vomiting her entire lunch in the grungy toilet, she washed up as well as she could in Workout's horrible shower. This was the first time she'd ever gone into the moldy old cubicle. Having to get naked and go into that disgusting place almost made her sick again, so she took a tiny bump for the courage to do it.
After she got out, she was so excited and eager for more cocaine that she had to counsel herself to slow down and check herself because she was in the spotlight now. Like a girl already planning her wedding after a first date, she couldn't stop her thoughts from racing ahead to her celebrity. She was thinking a full hour on Larry King Live. She was thinking Diane Sawyer, Barbara Walters—all the media shows that would ask her to share with the world her extensive knowledge of Maddy and Wayne Wilson. She and Maddy were best friends. Their husbands were close. The children were close; the nannies were close. She had visions of the instant fame that came to the best friends of murdered people. Maddy and Wayne were top-of-society people.
La creme de la creme. She knew it was going to be big, and she'd finally get some of Andrew's attention. She had no sense of time passing as she dressed by rote, hardly aware of pulling on her tights and wiggling into her leather pants. She didn't remember zipping them up, or grabbing the pink cashmere sweater set, putting it on, and adjusting the plackets of the cardigan just so. She took another bump, just a teeny one, and didn't examine herself in the mirror too closely. It upset her when the capillaries around her eyes burst in fireworks of tiny red spots as happened so many times in the old days when she was bulimic.
She kept telling herself she was cured of all that. She couldn't stand to vomit or hurt herself in any way. She'd had self-esteem coaching and knew she was a stunning woman, small but perfectly formed. She'd gotten over the fact that pretty much everybody preferred blondes. She'd learned that people were stupid, and she could deal with that now. Public opinion held that blondes were more beautiful than dark-haired girls. It didn't matter whether or not they were true blondes or really pretty. It was just a miserable fact, like cancer or war. There wasn't a thing Alison could do about it. Hair as dark as hers couldn't be lightened enough to make her blond. It was just lucky for her some men weren't attracted to the chilly Nordic types like Maddy Wilson. Lucky for her Andrew was one of those. She had big boobs, nice legs. She was cured.
When she was all dressed, however; she felt sick again. She chided herself for throwing up and taking cocaine with a cop in the other room. What was she thinking? Her stomach still heaved and her head hurt like hell. It felt as if pieces of her skull were about to crack off like the iceberg they'd seen breaking up on that cruise they'd taken to Alaska three summers ago. She hadn't enjoyed the trip very much, but she remembered that ice floe. Maddy was dead, and she couldn't come down just yet; it hurt too much. She took another bump. Just a teeny-tiny nothing of a bump, almost nothing at all, and she felt a little better again. She knew she had to be careful. She didn't want to freak out and trigger old behaviors—too much vomiting, too much coke—just because she was upset.
As she walked back into the gym, the first thing she saw was Derek sitting in one of the hammock chairs by the Fifty-sixth Street window. His habitual jauntiness was gone. She was shocked by his posture of complete dejection. The wide shoulders she'd always so admired were slumping forward, and his big handsome face' was cradled in those gifted hands. As she headed for the elevator to escape, she actually caught the gleam of tears on his fingers and was horrified. The thirty-four-year-old looked crushed, absolutely devastated. His expression of what appeared to be very real grief set off a searing flash of jealous rage in Alison.
Maddy was the chilly blonde, the one who always seemed in control of her emotions. Alison was known as the hot-blooded one. Sometimes she flew off. Right then she was in danger of completely losing it. Maddy was dead, and Derek cared more about himself (and Maddy) than he did about her.
This total selfishness of his tore her apart because she, not Maddy, had bought his equipment, had cosigned his lease, and taken the time to listen to his woes. She was the one who comforted him when things got bad. She could go on and on, but she needed to run. Even though it was June, definitely in the summer zone, she hadn't given up her snakeskin boots with the three-inch heels. She always dressed for attention, and she got it as she dashed to the elevator. The detectives who'd been listening to Derek so attentively suddenly turned to her. Don't say a word, she told herself as the female detective got to her before the elevator left the first floor.
"Feel better?" she asked.
"I'm all right. I just swallowed wrong. I have a strong gag reflex," Alison said.
"That's too bad. How about a cup of coffee?"
"No, thanks. Look, I can't talk about Maddy right now." Alison reminded herself that she'd made a vow of silence.
"Don't worry, it won't take long."
Alison felt the acid rise again in her throat. What should she do? She started calculating. If she talked to the cop, could she still be on Larry King Live? She had no idea about these things. Did CNN pay? CBS? NBC certainly did. Her mind raced. She could be on The View. How much could she get for her story? She could donate it to charity; that would enhance her image. She liked to think she was smart.
"We could go to the station, if you prefer."
"Oh, gee." Alison forgot about the little bag of powder,in her gym bag. She also forgot how much worse she was going to feel in a little while if she didn't get more. She was thinking that she'd never been in a police station, that for once she had the power to help her friends. She had no idea who murdered Maddy, but she was certain that if she put the right spin on their story, Andrew would respect her. Wayne would respect her. Derek would thank her. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
"Okay," she said calmly.
Fourteen
Sometimes it was hard for a detective to know what to do with somebody. Alison Perkins presented such a problem. If her name had popped up in Derek's conversation as the victim's best friend, April would have put her on the to-see list and tracked her down some time down the road. She would have visited the woman in her home. If Alison had b
een a suspect she wanted to shake up, she'd have taken her to the task force headquarters, where Minnow would be setting up his detective team.
Instead she'd found Alison with the last person to see Maddy Wilson alive. That knocked her up to the top of the must-see list. But where should they go? April's personal relationship with the precinct commander complicated the use of the Seventeenth Precinct's interview room, and the press would be watching there. April wanted to keep Alison away from the Minnow crowd and the media spotlight. That left Alison's home or Midtown North.' She thought it wouldn't be a good idea to let Alison return to her home, where the telephone would distract her and she could show April the door at any time. In the end April opted for her own shop at Midtown North.
Two separate cars brought her and Alison, Derek and Woody, into the precinct, where no one knew they were coming. April and Alison got there first. During the ride in the unmarked car Alison's mood changed. She clutched her gym bag nervously and fussed with her long, unbrushed hair. Her eyes were red and her pupils seemed larger than before. She talked nonstop.
"Wow, is this where you work?" she asked as they went through the precinct door. "This place needs work."
"Home, sweet home," April said cheerfully, nodding at Lieutenant Lester at the desk. He shot her a look that said cranked-up hooker.
She shook her head. Not even close. "This way," she said, leading the way to the stairs. It was faster than waiting for the elevator.
"Okay, no problem." Alison clattered up the stairs loudly in her high-heeled boots.
At two thirty the squad room was empty except for a grizzled man, dressed in many layers of stained clothing and snoring loudly in the holding cell; Dominica, the secretary; and the new guy, Barry Queue. Barry was a cool-looking African-American with a bit of an attitude, six one, shaved head with a few days' growth coming in. He'd been in Intelligence for a while and was unusually secretive about everything. He was on the phone, talking softly.. When the two women came in, he swung around to stare, then slowly raised his hand in salute.
