by Leslie Glass
"Not going home. Have work to do." Skinny put her hands on her hips.
"Ma, you have to go." April copied her. "If Dad were up, I'd take you home myself."
"We're not going, ni. He retired so we could take care of you and the baby," she said. "We're staying."
"Oh, jeez," Mike muttered. His phone rang and he walked away to answer it.
April took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "Tell me Dad did not retire."
"It's true," Skinny insisted.
"Are you sure?" It didn't sound like him.
"Well, maybe retire in a week or so." Skinny
paused, and April could see her forming another sentence. Suddenly the food on the counter didn't look that terrible. So what if it was an unbalanced diet? She was ravenous from all that sex. She took a bite of the sweet potato. It didn't taste like bacon and two fried eggs on toast, but ... it wasn't too bad, either. She tried the bean curd while her mother watched her eat.
Mike returned to the kitchen. Now his heavy footsteps didn't sound so sex-happy. "Get - your purse, querida. Alison Perkins is dead."
April forgot her mother and started moving.
Twenty-nine
The fortress like white stucco facade of the modem house where Alison Perkins had lived looked out of place on a block where redbrick apartment buildings dominated, and so did all the police vehicles. April was still reeling from the shock of a second death as Lily Eng caught sight of the car and hurried over before Mike shut down the engine.
"What took you so long?" she complained.
"Hey, Lily." April shook her head. They'd gotten a late start this morning, and the traffic had been heavy coming in. There was no need to say any of that. Besides, slJ.e was already working the case and didn't feel like chitchat.
They'd both been on the phone all the way into the city. Mike had talked with Sergeant Minnow, who hoped that Alison's death had been natural— a fluke of some kind like a heart attack. She was in bed. No one had touched her. April had called Sergeant Gelo from her cell, and Eloise started her report as soon as she heard her boss's voice.
"We went to Spirit, Ice, and Ramp last night," she said.
"What did you find out?" April asked.
"No one in the clubs remembers who was with Peret two nights ago. The owners all say they check IDs, and Peret couldn't have gotten in. They say he must have bought whatever he took somewhere else. Yada yada. Three of the girls were off yesterday, though, and I have their names."
"Well, talk to all the girls. With the right incentive someone will spill."
"We can do better than that. We have the kid's cell phone. We know where he went because he called some friends to join him. So we have him inside a club. Looks like Spirit."
"That's great news. Was the phone on him?"
"No, and the responding officer thought that was suspicious. Every kid has a cell, right? So he searched the scene after Peret was taken to the hospital, found it, and brought it in."
"Good going. Remember his name."
"Charlie checked out the kid's last calls and his incoming calls. Two of the girls who work at Spirit are in his phone list. One of them actually called him and left a message yesterday. So we're talking to her later. Have you heard about Mrs. Perkins?" Eloise changed the subject.
"Yes. I'm on my way over there now. I want you to do a few things for me, okay?" April asked. Eloise had worked yesterday and last night, but she was on the job again today.
"No problem."
"Look, I know you're not familiar with the Wilson case, but I need you on this. I made a tape of my conversation with Alison Perkins yesterday. Get your hands on it, and make a copy. We'll have to give the original to the task force on the case right away. We've got two nanny suspects, now. Alison's nanny was the one who found her body. I want you and Hagedorn to check her out. Do a deep background on both of the girls, Remy Banks and Lynn Papel. Papel is spelled Peter, Apple, Peter, Egg, Lester. I have a freaky feeling about this. Really freaky. You can start with the employment agency. It's Anderson."
''Yes, boss." Eloise was silent for a moment. "What are you looking for?"
I'm not sure yet. We're still working on the Wayne Wilson angle. He could have persuaded Remy to kill Maddy. Alison's death could just be an attempt to confuse us on Maddy's, or to shut Alison's mouth. She talked a lot yesterday. One of the husbands could have done this. The two men are friends—maybe they had a plan. But we also need to check for other connecting points. Find out if the nannies knew each other before they went to work for Wilson and Perkins, what's in their job files. Were they ever in trouble? Hagedorn knows how to do it."
"So do I," Gelo muttered.
"Yes. That was good work you did last night. Good thinking on the phone. Call me with whatever you get."
April ended the conversation and stared out the window at the traffic. Immediately she started brooding on the time of Maddy's, and now Alison's, death. Early morning was a highly unusual time for murder. Night was the dangerous time because that's when people came home from work, had cocktails, got ready for dinner, ate their dinner, and let loose their pent-up emotions and frustrations from the day. They quarreled about lovers, work, children—being too close, or too far away. Night was when people drank, tempers flared, and violence occurred most often.
Morning was usually the aftermath. It was the cooldown time when the law responded with arrests. When the sun came up, aggressors and, victims had heavy heads; they had jobs to go to. Often they were remorseful and vowed not to hurt each other again. Victims felt guilty for inciting rage cin their partners and, later, for drawing attention to their plight with their injuries. After a fight, if an arrest was forthcoming, officers tried to go in the morning. Normally, people did not kill or get killed over coffee and toast. But suddenly there were two cases in which, within twenty-four hours, two close friends, each with two little children, had died during this usually safe time. For these two women, morning was their window of vulnerability, and the killer knew that. To April, it had become a very personal case. But she made sure she showed none of this when she faced the news shark Lily Eng, who was waiting to be fed her pound of human flesh.
"Why didn't you call me back last night?" she demanded as April got out of the car.
"I worked late, and I can't talk now. Sorry, Lily," April told her. "Maybe later."
"Wait a minute—you weren't working late. I saw you on the news having dinner with Wayne Wilson. Come on, give me a little something. Has he been cleared as a suspect, or what?"
Mike came around- to the passenger side. "Hi,
Lily. You know we weren't having dinner with anyone," he said, gently scolding her.
She gave him an innocent smile. "Okay, so you weren't eating with him. But you were there. I could make something of it if I wanted to."
"What's the matter with you?" April said sharply. They didn't have time for this. She started across the street, but Lily followed her.
"I happen to know you spent the afternoon with Alison Perkins yesterday. And today she's dead. There. may be a connection. What do you have to say about that?"
April's breath caught on the lump in her throat. That was the other question she'd been asking herself all the way into the city. She knew she should never respond angrily to anything Lily said, but the persistent reporter's little jabs always seemed to hit home. Lily had a way of knowing where April had been and what she was doing. Too bad she wasn't a spy for the home team. She looked as if she badly needed to cut down on her caffeine intake, and she was right on target about Alison. Whenever detectives investigated an unnatural death, the first question they asked was, what was the precipitating event? For all April knew, her own close questioning of the young woman might well have triggered the murder. Mike put a calming hand on her arm.
"Oh, come on, I know where you are all the time, so give me a break. I could be helpful." Lily trotted alongside them.
April shook her head. She didn't need a helpful journalist.
Mike was the one to throw Lily a tidbit. "Why don't you hold your horses, Lily? This may not be what you think at all. We don't know what caused her death yet. It could be a natural." He shrugged.
"No way!"
April's breakfast wasn't sitting well with her. “We'll let you know when we do, okay?"
"I guess I can't ask for more than that." Lily backed off as they got to the police tape. Mike and April went under it and up the stairs into the house.
Thirty
Entering the Perkins house was an eerie repeat of the day before. A lot of people had piled into the starkly modern house to look around, but most of them were gone by now. In the foyer, April was immediately struck by the mournful sound of howling dogs and the lack of homey possessions— umbrellas, toys, mess of any kind. Abstract paintings in black and white hung on the walls of the hall and the living room beyond. Chief Avise must have heard the door slam, because he appeared at the top of the steep stairway that led to the third floor, then charged down holding on to the banister the second he saw her. April thought grimly that his fingerprints would be everywhere. He got to the last step and nodded curtly at Mike. April was clearly the person he wanted. He didn't say hello as he drew her aside.
"I hear you had this woman in your office all afternoon yesterday. What did you think you were doing?" he said softly into her ear so that Mike couldn't hear as he passed them on his way up.
"She didn't want to be mobbed by the press. I took her to a quiet place, my office," she replied calmly. She knew what was coming.
He made a face and waved his hand. "Go on."
"We talked there for several hours. I have a tape of our conversation for the task force."
"Why didn't you pass along that tape last night?"
April lifted her palms. She didn't know there would be a briefing. There were other answers . . . Down the road she could see IA taking her apart, but she had to admit to the tape. "I'm sorry, sir." Sorrier than he could ever guess.
"Why did you take her to the West Side?"
"I met her in Meke's gym. It's on Fifty-sixth Street, so Midtown North was closer and, as I said, quieter."
He sighed. "This is not a good thing, April. What did she tell you?"
"It was a rambling interview, sir. I have it on tape. She was convinced that Remy was the killer. She and Maddy both had a thing going with the trainer. He was probably supplying them with cocaine." She said the last thing slowly.
"Was she high?" he asked suddenly.
"Possibly—" she began.
He interrupted angrily. "You didn't check it out?"
If April had it to do over, she would have done pretty much everything differently. Starting with her downtown meeting in the morning with the chief and ending with the dinner at Soleil. But yesterday had been chaotic. She'd been under pressure from Mike, and she hadn't done anything by the book. She hadn't taken the time to get organized with the rest of the team, just gone out on her own, with her own agenda. She should have turned over the tape yesterday. She definitely shouldn't have
jumped around from one suspect to another, letting them wander off before clearing them. She'd hopped from Wayne to Remy, to Derek, to Alison, to Wayne again, because she'd wanted to form a picture quickly, and they'd all just resumed their lives. Not good.
"Maddy's death was a stabbing. I didn't want to put Alison on the defensive about drugs if it wasn't relevant to the case." It wasn't a good answer, but it was the truth.
Avise stepped back so she could see the furious expression on his face. "Well, it's relevant to this case," he spat at her.
That stunned her into silence.
"Go take a look at her," he snapped, and walked away.
April stood there paralyzed, watching him go. Why couldn't he just tell her what was going on? Why did she always have to guess? Yesterday it was the whole club thing. For a second she was sorry that she hadn't told him about the progress on the Peret case. Now it was too late. Why did he have to be so cryptic about Alison's cause of death? April was always anxious about making mistakes in investigations that could have a tragic consequence—like a killer's getting away, or someone else's dying. When she'd been working yesterday, she had a lot of thoughts about that, particularly in regard to Derek, but she never in a million years could have guessed that Alison would be dead today. The chief had spoken to her as if it were her fault, but murder never worked like this. It just didn't happen. .
She looked at the stairs, dreading what she had to do next. Here, the stairs didn't do anything fancy like form a bridge over the entry to the living room the way they did in the Wilson house. They just hugged the wall all the way up to the third floor, then turned the corner into a hall. She didn't want to go to Alison's room and see the sad evidence of an overdose—or something else—that could have been avoided. Finally she forced herself to move and started up.
At the top, she heard voices coming from the back and went that way. Mike was nowhere to be seen, but the doorway into the bedroom was blocked by tape. Inside, the Crime Scene Unit was already at work taking photos of Alison and the room where she had died. The body was covered, only Alison's head was visible, and one thing was clear: she hadn't died in her sleep. Her eyes were open, and her face was anything but peaceful. Mike came down the hall behind April, and touched her arm.
"What did the chief want?" he asked softly, as if he didn't already know.
"He wanted to know about my conversation with Alison yesterday," April said, feeling' guilty because she hadn't told Mike that Alison was afraid the killer would go after her next. She stared at the small form hidden under a heavy quilt.
The bed had a white upholstered headboard and a white quilted bedspread. Placed at an angle under it was a black-and-white area rug. A white slipper chair was set on each side of the window. On the wall opposite the bed the doors of a black lacquered entertainment center were shut. Nothing was out of place. In fact, nothing much was there at all. It looked as though someone had made the bed over the dead woman, leaving only her head exposed, then had tidied up the rest of the room just the way someone had cleaned up the Wilson gym yesterday. The two death scenes were very different, but gave the same message. Two lives had been cleaned up in death. It was neat, neat, neat.
April was reminded of one awful suicide in which the deceased had taken a great many sedatives, drunk vodka, lain down on his bed, arranged himself just so, and then put a plastic bag over his head. His death had been ugly. The pills had scattered, the vodka bottle had fallen over, and some of it had spilled. People couldn't clean up as they were dying, and the evidence was always in plain sight. The leftover powder and straws from a cocaine binge—something. Furthermore, drunk or drugged or sober, no one started a day with a completely tidy bedroom. April frowned. "Chico, what does this look like to you?"
She and Mike stood at the door side by side studying the scene as if it were a wax exhibit in Madame Tussaud's.
"She made breakfast for her girls, got them off for the day, and lay down for a nap," Mike said. "That's what the nanny said."
No, April thought. There was a lot more to it. "Was she alone at the time?"
"The nanny took the girls to their play school. They're there now. She said that Alison was like that when she came back."
"She has a name. It's Lynn." April was aware of her breakfast again—that gluey cereal was a rock in her stomach. The end of Alison's dark ponytail poked out from underneath the sheet Seeing it, she felt ill. "Did anybody touch anything?'' she asked.
"Lynn says she didn't."
"What about the chief?"
Mike shook his head.
"Where is Lynn now?" April leaned against the wall. She was going to throw up.
"Downstairs. Alison's husband is downstairs, too."
April closed her eyes against the nausea. She wished she could take herself off this case.
"Querida, are yo
u all right?" Mike took her elbow.
"I messed up. I really messed up this time, Mike. I didn't think she was in danger." Her words came quickly. She felt like a suspect breaking down, crumbling under the pressure.
"Hey." Mike's voice, usually soft and supportive, sharpened. "Calm down." He led her down the hall away from the ears of the Crime Scene detectives. "You need a bathroom?"
"No." She voiced the negative, but knew she was going to throw up anyway.
"There's a powder room in here." He led the way down the hall to the front of the house.
April glanced at the room quickly. Where Wayne had his octagonal library, the Perkins couple had-a cute little living room. Mike punched a wall with faux bookshelves and books painted on it A narrow door popped open to reveal a tiny corner powder room.
April was surprised. "How did you know that was there?"
"I took a look around while you were talking to the chief."
I can't use this—it's too close to the scene, April thought. Then a powerful wave of nausea changed her mind. She ducked inside the small space, closed the door, and stood in the dark struggling for control. She didn't believe in hormone myths. Where she came from, no one talked about things like PMS. Moody was moody, weepy was weepy, and none of it was tolerated. You did what you had to do and never mind the plumbing. "Don't tell anyone when you don't feel good" was the credo. And sometimes people took their modesty too far. Recently, Skinny's close friend Ma Ma Choi died of uterine cancer because she didn't want to lose face by telling anyone the embarrassing truth about the tumor she knew was growing inside.
April had a weak stomach. Nausea and other unpleasant symptoms caught her all the time. She heard that a lot of people had the syndrome now, and there was even a name for it: irritable bowel. Stress made it worse, and so did her mother. She swallowed and switched on the light. Then she sat on the toilet, ducked her head between her knees, and did some yoga breathing. The powder room was wallpapered in a tight black-and-white geometrical pattern. The tiny sink was black porcelain. The floor was translucent white marble. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to ease the frozen muscles in her neck.
