“Don’t get political on me, April. Each commander does it a different way. They call the shots. So this is how Higgins does it. It’s not a political thing.”
April shook her head. But it was a political thing. Everything was a political thing, and Mike knew it.
“Hah. Easy for you to say,” she muttered, then checked his face quickly to make sure he wasn’t getting too mad at her. She didn’t want to cross the line with him.
Lots of lines she didn’t want to cross. Didn’t want to get too close, didn’t want to be too far away. It was so complicated, the whole thing was dizzy-making. Or maybe she was dizzy from lack of food. Anyway, Sanchez was watching the traffic light, waiting for it to turn green, and wasn’t looking at her.
She took the opportunity to examine him. She did this from time to time when he wasn’t watching. He wasn’t so sensitive. He stared at her quite openly whenever he felt like it. Now she looked at him like a cop, sizing him at five nine or ten, pretty tall for a Mexican. Medium to stocky build. She got the impression he worked out, had some discipline about what he ate and drank. His stomach hadn’t fallen out yet. Lot of detectives in the bureau got soft and let themselves go. Didn’t have the time or opportunity to eat right or exercise. Too much tension on the job, too much rushing around. Had to keep irregular hours. Mike liked gray and black, but today his jacket had a kind of greenish cast. Gray tie, drab green shirt.
Black hair cut pretty short. Distinguishing marks: angry red patches on one ear, hands, arms, neck. Eyebrows scarred and uneven. Maybe the burns had killed the hair follicles or something. She thought of them as just distinguishing marks though. Not really disfiguring. He was still good-looking to her, with his intense dark eyes and nice mouth that was always smiling. He wouldn’t talk about the burns, still smiled a lot.
Sometimes she thought about his mouth, with his bushy mustache hiding the top of it, and wondered what kissing him would feel like. He was different from the Chinese she was used to. Chinese didn’t smile so much. In China a smiling person probably just ate your dog. Or had a devious plan to separate you from your money. Mike looked like a bandido and smelled like a perfume counter. April’s mother and aunts thought people like that—so big and smiling, with lots of hair on their bodies and smelling like women—were barbarians.
The light changed. Mike turned to her, noted her scrutiny, and smiled. She shook her head, couldn’t believe she had been talking to him like that. What had happened to her? Only a few months before, a quiet little Asian from Manhattan South—way south, all the way in Chinatown—too nervous to say boo. And now she was furious because the new Captain of the Precinct was overlooking her in her own case. And thinking about kissing a superior in her squad, who happened to be Mexican. Was she crazy?
Without exactly planning to, they had crossed the street and wandered down the block to The Last Mango. They stopped in front of the window. The crime-scene tapes were gone, but the brightly colored shirts were still on the clothesline in the display window. The track lights in the ceiling were on.
Around the time Maggie died, it would still have been light outside. But not much of the inside of the store could be seen anyway. A backdrop behind the display in the window hid most of the store’s interior.
“So what did she tell him?” April asked.
“Who?” He was gazing into the store, speculating.
“Sergeant Joyce. What did she tell Higgins?”
“She told him we questioned the guy for almost four hours and he couldn’t come up with a single piece of solid evidence that would hold up in court.
“ ‘But he knew about the chandelier. He knew about the dress. He knew about the fucking size of the dress. Explain that for me,’ Higgins screamed at her.”
“That’s what I say,” April agreed. “So what did she say to that?”
“She said, ‘Maybe Block came in after she was dead, sir.’ So Higgins goes, ‘And maybe he came in before she was dead and did her just like he said.’ ”
“Anyway, if it was after, how did he get in? You think the killer left the door wide open?” April asked. Elsbeth Manganaro had given April a set of keys to the shop, but they already knew it had the kind of door that locked automatically when it closed.
“Maybe he had a key.”
“Where would he get one?”
They looked at each other. Maggie might have given him one.
“Maybe we better get him back and ask a few more questions. The time frames don’t work for me. When he came back after she didn’t go to lunch with him. When he had this so-called fight with her. How he killed her, and the time he left. If she was alive when he came in, then she might have let him in as he said. But if she was already dead, then how did he get in?” Mike asked.
“Maybe he was there with someone else, and someone else did it. None of it plays except the jealousy, does it?”
“Well, if he went in and out several times that day, somebody must have seen him. He’s known in the neighborhood. Got to start all over again, talk to the other store owners, look for a witness who saw him.”
“It sure puts a different cast on the thing.”
“You mean the little fact that Maggie was seven weeks pregnant? Yeah. It does. Either everything Block told us was a crock, or else he didn’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t date him because she was involved with someone else.”
“Yeah,” April agreed. “If he was just someone she knew, why would she tell him she was pregnant?”
“Maybe she finally told him about the other guy and he had a fucking fit.”
“Yeah, but maybe he’s the father, but someone else still did her. At least that’s a piece of physical evidence we can check. If he doesn’t want a blood test, we can get a court order.”
“Did the mother know who the boyfriend was?” Mike changed the subject.
“She said Maggie was kind of backward that way, wasn’t really interested in boyfriends yet. I gather she didn’t know her daughter that well.”
“Right.”
“You still think Block didn’t do it?” April wasn’t sure about anything anymore.
Finally Mike turned away from the store window. “We’ll nail him if he did.”
“I just don’t want to nail him if he didn’t,” April murmured. That happened too. “Are you up for Chinese?”
Mike smiled. “Always.”
The nearest takeout place was uptown. They walked north slowly. April knew “always” didn’t have anything to do with Mike’s taste in food. In the food department the only way to get along with Sanchez was to make her choice Mexican.
The streets smelled fresher now. The air was finally cooling off after the long, hot day. April stretched her cramped muscles as she strolled along. Just being outside for a few minutes helped ease the tension. The M.E.’s report said Maggie had been strangled. It was up to the science people to tell them by what. A few fibers had been taken from the wounds in her neck. Maybe the fibers would tell them something. The report also said Maggie’s arms and hands were bruised and scratched. She probably tried to fight off her attacker. Her fingernails were very short though, and there were no scrapings under them. Oh, and that little thing about Maggie’s having been about six or seven weeks pregnant at time of death.
April forgot about food again. She was back to business, worrying about who killed Maggie, and if it was someone they didn’t even know about, like the person behind the voice on her answering machine. Poor Maggie didn’t have much luck. Olga said something was bugging her before she died. It must have been the pregnancy. April wondered how the pregnancy fit into their case.
28
Milicia immediately picked up Jason’s altered mood when she arrived five minutes early for her three-fifteen Friday appointment. Unlike the last time she had been there, the two doors separating his waiting room from his office were open. She could see him sitting in his desk chair, writing in a black and white speckled notebook. He was so engrossed in his work, he didn’t look up at the
sound of the door.
“Hi, is that me you’re writing about?” she asked coyly, sweeping into his office without waiting for an invitation. She was eager to try again with him, had dressed specially for the occasion, and didn’t want to sit in his waiting room like a patient. She was more than a patient, much more.
“Hello, Milicia.” He looked up. And, wonder of wonders, he smiled, put aside the notebook, and rose to greet her.
He hadn’t smiled at her before. Milicia beamed at her moment of triumph. See, he really did like her, after all. She raised an eyebrow, pleased at her success.
She had been desperately trying to figure him out, had decided to change her style of dress and see what happened. This time she was wearing a well-tailored red, white, and blue print silk jacket with gold braid, gold twisted rope, anchors, lifesavers, and other nautical symbols on it. She thought it signaled Doctor, save my life. Classy. The little blouse underneath was white, and her navy skirt was softly pleated.
After several unsuccessful shopping expeditions both on the East and West sides, she had finally found the suit on sale in a boutique on Lexington Avenue. She thought it might appeal to Jason, and she was right. It seemed that Jason liked the classy look.
“How are you?” she asked as he stood, waiting for her to sit down.
“I’m fine.” He smiled again. It made him altogether a different person. Nicer, more attractive. Finally, accessible.
She was encouraged. She’d been afraid she was losing her touch. Until this minute Jason seriously irritated her. She was beginning to think he was a waste of time. She’d met him three times now, and throughout their encounters his face had been as closed and guarded as any she’d ever seen. He was like a poker player, cards always close to his vest. Or one of those mass murderers you read about in the newspapers—real flat, an ocean so dense, not even the shallows close to the shore could be penetrated by the naked eye. What was it with him?
Milicia didn’t like getting things wrong. She needed to be liked, approved of, desired. So far her failure rate with men had been very low. What was it with Jason? She’d wondered, as she shopped for the perfect suit to wear on her second office visit, if his opacity was a side effect of his profession. She had no way of knowing. Charles was the only other psychiatrist she knew. Charles was an open book. She knew by the way Charles’s eyes traveled over her body exactly what he was thinking. For Charles, as with other men, beauty and sex were the way in. She was pretty sure she could get him with the crook of a finger.
With Jason, though, something was wrong. His eyes never flickered with the lustful interest that always put her in control. She couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t exactly that he wasn’t engaged by what she had to say. She could see that he was listening, asking questions, thinking. But he was impersonal about it. He seemed to be looking, not at her, but beyond her all the time. It made her uneasy. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be gay. If he was gay, he’d be useless. He might not care, wouldn’t do what was required.
And what was required now was to get the situation with Camille under control. This horrible boutique thing put the Camille problem in a different league. A crime had been committed. A person was dead. It had been in the paper and on the TV news. For the first time Milicia was scared, really scared. The police were involved. Even if the police didn’t figure what happened, it wouldn’t be all right. Camille was a time bomb that was going to go off in a bunch of different ways over and over. And with Bouck to cover for her, there was no telling how far she could go.
Milicia needed a person with authority to take over and do what had to be done. She’d been confident when she met Jason that he was that person. He was smart. He’d put the pieces she gave him together, because that was the only way. She couldn’t just come out and tell him her sister had crossed the line and murdered somebody just to hurt her. She couldn’t say that. She didn’t know him well enough, couldn’t be sure he was trustworthy. It all sounded too sick and crazy, even to her, who knew the truth about what happened long ago. Jason had to come to the right conclusions himself. And if he couldn’t do it, she’d just have to find someone else. On the way to his office she’d decided this was his very last chance to drop his reserve and help her.
Now she felt vindicated. She stood there for a moment, basking in the feeling of happiness that he projected at seeing her. Then she sat in the chair and adjusted her skirt primly to cover her knees.
His expression changed slightly. He liked prim, reserved. She got it now, had his number.
“I was so happy to see you on the street the other day,” she said softly, thinking that next time she would wear paler lipstick and tie her hair back. She looked down, suddenly shy. “Some people have that effect. They just make other people feel good.”
Jason returned to his chair, the smile fading just a little as if the shift in her manner set him thinking.
Quickly she adjusted. “You seemed very busy, but just seeing you for a minute eased my distress.…”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I really have the feeling that you’re very strong. You understand the system. You can help me.”
Now his smile was gone and the penetrating examination was back. Milicia looked away from the gaze that had made her uncomfortable before. She needed help. Why was he holding out?
A tear gathered in the corner of her eye. She had thought so much about this in the two miserable years since her father did the ultimate irresponsible thing—crashed the car, killed both himself and his wife in a fiery wreck—left her with a maniac she couldn’t control who was determined to ruin her life. Now there was someone who could help her, and he seemed to be holding out on her. Why? She shook her head.
Jason saw the tear. “So what’s going on?” he asked gently.
She waited for a minute, still filled with the hot rage she had felt each time her parents rushed to Camille’s aid at every breakdown. Camille crashed herself over and over, with all engines burning. And each time her parents had dealt with it through a boozy haze, pretending each incident was only a phase Camille had to pass through on the way to settling down and finally being good.
But she isn’t good. She’s a bad seed, like a mean dog that couldn’t be tamed no matter what. Still, all Camille’s life they had patted her on the back and hid her away at home in Connecticut for months at a time until she calmed down. While she, Milicia, was ignored.
Oh, yes, the pretense that Camille was not crazy had always maddened Milicia. Just as it hurt and enraged her when they pushed her, the good daughter, away just because she was strong. Milicia was the one who had to go out and conquer the world on her own. Milicia was the one they kept at bay, fading out like used up lightbulbs whenever she craved love and tenderness.
Milicia’s tears brimmed over, and she caught them in a tissue, gathering them tightly in her fist. It still burned her up that they never cared about the things Camille did. How Camille took over the dog given to both the girls for Christmas and made such a fuss about not sharing it that her parents took the puppy back to the store and punished them both. How Camille stepped on a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest, and threw the rabbit against the wall. Camille was insane, and they hadn’t cared. They just hadn’t cared.
And then lawyers told Milicia it was her responsibility to protect Camille and defend her, to manage the money so Camille would be secure in a dangerous world. That was how her parents had set it up. Even from the grave they were against her. Milicia had to bear the humiliation of Camille’s eccentricities, her promiscuity with off-the-wall lunatics like Nathan Bouck, men who had enough money to dazzle her and to prevent Camille from getting the help she needed in a therapeutic hospital environment. Now maybe even get away with murder. It wasn’t fair.
And Jason Frank didn’t care either. How could so many people not care about dealing with the insane? Milicia turned her head, would not look at him again.
Jason knew all about clothes, the things they projected and s
aid about a person. He noted the jaunty pleated skirt, less aggressively sexual, demurely covering Milicia’s knees. He could see that she was correcting all the time. Now she was correcting her mistake in asking him to have dinner with her two days before. She wanted him to feel special even though he had rejected her. Underneath her supreme confidence he felt her urgency and desperation. With Milicia, Jason always had the feeling they were on a boat ride and she was at the helm. But where was she leading? And now the tears. He waited for her to speak.
Before she had come into his office, Jason had been euphoric, jotting down the flight times of his trip to California, making notes of the things he had to do. He had lost his feeling of exhaustion even though he had been in Baltimore for a morning seminar the day before, and had three patients late into the evening. His talk had gone very well in spite of the fact that his preparation had not been quite as thorough as usual. His mind was on Emma. Emma needed him. He couldn’t stop hope from lifting the corners of his mouth. Emma needed him.
On Wednesday she had called for his advice about the laser treatment she was thinking about trying to get rid of the tattoo on her stomach. She said it was his thoughts as a doctor she wanted, but he sensed a lot more in the call. He offered to check it out, then after a pause offered to come out to be with her. For the first time since she had left him in May, she said she wanted to see him.
Jason watched Milicia squeeze in her fist the tissue containing her tears. “I feel so confused about all this. You give me the feeling that there’s nothing we can do if a person is crazy, self-destructive, dangerous.” She sniffed. “Is it true family members can’t do anything about it, can’t intervene and put them away where they can’t hurt anybody. Is that why this society is such a mess?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “I thought you were a doctor. You could help in situations like this. I’m all alone. I have no one to help me.”
Jason shook his head. “You’re not alone. I’m here with you. Tell me more about Camille.”
Hanging Time Page 14
