by Leslie Glass
Cool as could be after laying his cards squarely on the table, Mike clipped on his ID and headed for the detective squad. It was in the usual spot on the second floor, had the usual components of holding cell, locker room with table for eating, a TV. Six desks that were home for twelve detectives, now scrambling because they hadn't had a homicide in quite a while. Suddenly smiling broadly as a man coming home, Mike raised his hand in salute to the worried-looking sergeant on command, and the guy dipped his head in acknowledgment.
"Hey, Sanchez, look at the big shot now. A lieutenant, hogging all the good cases. How ya doin'?" Sergeant Hollis held out his hand, oozing friendship.
"Hey, shut up. Let me think here," Hollis barked at the crowd in the room. No one shut up or moved out of the way, so he had to push through them.
Hollis was a man just over forty, five-ten, medium build, thinning ginger hair, light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, blue eyes, a mustache almost as lush as Mike's own. A man in a quiet house, used to an easy life. He was wearing jeans and a Mickey Mouse tie.
"Jimmy, good to see you." Mike clasped the hand and made quick introductions. "This is Sergeant April Woo. Jimmy was my boss when I came in. April worked with me in the Two-oh."
Hollis nodded. "I know. Another hotshot. I've seen your picture, both you guys. How's Dev, see much of him these days?"
"From time to time." Mike's smile turned a little chilly. His old partner was a big boozer, always got him in trouble.
"This is a bad one," Jimmy said, getting right down to the case. "We're lucky on the other injuries. You hear about the kid in the hospital?"
"Anything new?" Mike asked.
"Twelve-year-old lost his ear. Could have been worse. The other one, bullet went right through him. He was lucky."
Right through him?
April thought.
Another hollozv-point went through someone?
That was rare.
"Any ideas?" Mike asked.
"Not yet. Everybody in the victim's family was in front of her in plain view. So was her intended and all his family. That excludes family members. We've been in contact with the wedding planner. She has a guest list and vendor list."
April glanced at Mike. They had a wedding planner.
Hollis smiled. "This is Riverdale," he told her. "They have somebody to do everything. The wedding planner, a woman called Wendy Lotte, has all the details, knows everybody's name and everybody's story. She was there the whole time. She can fill you in on personalities. Doesn't have an alibi for the moment of the shooting. Claims she was in the ladies' room." He arched an eyebrow. "I'm still talking to her."
"Really? She a suspect?" April found the idea downright weird. It wasn't a woman's crime.
"I don't know. She gives me a creepy feeling, what can I say?" He lifted a shoulder. "Nobody else stands
out."
April frowned. "Motive, background check?" "Oh, yeah, working on both." "Okay, what about the community, any anti-Semitic stuff going on here?" Mike's question.
"Inspector Bellaqua's been all over me about this." Hollis flipped the Mickey Mouse tie up and down. "Nothing. Believe me, we'd be on it if there were anything in it."
Mike glanced around at the crowded space and the noisy detectives all pretending to ignore them. "Where do you want to set up the charts? Let's figure out how wide we have to go on this." "Yeah, no problem." They were down to business.
Eleven
A
nthony Pryce shot the cuffs in his summer uniform and adjusted his chauffeur's hat. He was a tall, slender Welshman, good-looking, with intelligent blue eyes and sandy hair that straggled over his collar in a London-late-Beatles-era shag. His gray uniform was just as smart as the wing collar, striped trousers, and tails that he wore when butlering in the house. He finished prepping himself for the ride to Manhattan and went down the back stairs to see to the cars. He couldn't stop thinking about that bride on the news, shot dead in the Bronx just before she took her vows. He moved through his chores, feeling an odd tingle of excitement about the possibilities such a murder presented: If someone wanted revenge on any bride in New York, now was the time to get it. It was all about knowing everything.
Anthony had worked on the Hay North Shore estate for eleven years, ever since his twenty-first birthday. And there was nothing he did not know. He was the butler, the driver, the cook when only Hays pater and mater were at home. He was the horticultural expert who directed the gardener in all his endeavors, the official head of the kitchen garden, and expert in all areas of social protocol. Along with Wendy Lotte, he was practically in charge of Prudence's wedding.
Anthony's knowledge of the family's doings extended to the secret places where in jealous rages Alfred, the toy poodle, tinkled against the priceless antiques. He knew that Lucinda Hay hid packages of forbidden foods like Twinkies and Ding Dongs along with acceptable ones in her room and nibbled between her hearty breakfast, tea, luncheon, tea, cocktails, and dinner. Mrs. Hay had once been a great beauty as well as a socialite, Anthony was proud of telling his friends. Now, alas, she had run to fat.
Anthony also knew that Terence senior was very rich and loved the bottle at least as much as his wife, and Terence junior was following in his father's footsteps, with hardly a sober moment since his junior year in boarding school, despite a sterling record at Yale and Harvard Law School. The Irish legacy. He now worked at the venerable firm of Hathaway, Harold, and Dean on Wall Street. What Anthony knew about Prudence was everything. And more than anything in the world, he hated the idea of her marrying that creep Thomas, an unexciting boiled potato of a young man, who knew nothing about her at all. And cared less. Anthony hated the idea, but it was fixed. It was done. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't very well marry her himself, now, could he?
In the kitchen he slowed only for a second to check on Nora, the Peruvian housekeeper. She didn't speak a word of English, but she kept going all day long like one of those bunnies in TV commercials. She liked to clean and he didn't, so from morning 'til night he had her dusting and polishing silver and the brass lamps and stair rails in the circular staircase. He had her cleaning the crystal in the three great room chandeliers and all the bowls in the bathrooms. Right now she was doing the flatware, humming happily.
"Hasta la vista,
Nora," he said as he charged out the back door.
"Que la via bien,"
she replied. She knew he was on his way to the city and would be back by dinnertime.
On the mud porch, Anthony checked to see if the dry cleaner had been by yet to pick up Mr. Hay's suits and the quilt from the master bedroom that needed cleaning. Pampers had been by for the pickup. He checked his watch, ten-oh-two. Getting on the road between rush hours was both an art and a science. Anthony took personally long waits in halted traffic. Even now, when he hated what the family was doing to his girl—his Pru—he still couldn't help trying to make their lives perfect.
As he sailed out the back door, he noticed that the bird feeder was empty. It was hung on clothesline rope from a large oak limb over the brick-walled service area where the five cars were parked. The birds didn't really need seed in the spring and summer, but Mrs. Hay liked to see them constantly flying in for a feed, so he was careful to make sure it was well stocked in all seasons.
Anthony chose the Bentley for the drive into the city. At exactly ten-oh-five he drove out of the service entrance of Casa Capricorn and into the drive next to it. He circled the row of magnificent Kousa dogwoods, the late-blooming kind that stayed in flower all the way into July, and stopped by the brick mansion's front door.
Minutes later, he had Pru and Mrs. Hay settled in the car, and they were headed toward 25A and the Grand Central Parkway Mrs. Hay spoke up from the backseat.
"Anthony, the Denihan wedding." She picked up from where she'd left off yesterday, comparing all the weddings of their large acquaintance.
"Yes, Mrs. Hay." Anthony glanced in the rearview mirror. He
could see Pru blowing on her engagement ring, polishing it on her sleeve even though he'd just cleaned it for her again this morning. Three carats, classic Tiffany solitaire. He kept telling her not to take it off and leave it on every sink everywhere she washed her hands. He knew she couldn't live on her own without him to care for her. She didn't know how to do a thing.
"Louis did the Denihan wedding, of course. What did you think of it?"
He was expected to answer even though they'd been over the Denihan wedding numerous times before. "Very pretty, but half the guests were overcome," he reminded her.
In fact, St. Thomas had been so glutted with lilies that people had coughed and sneezed throughout. Not only that, Mary Denihan had not allowed a single arrangement to be moved from the church to the reception, so that Louis had to repeat the fragrance debacle at the Pierre, where people sneezed all through dinner as well. The famous florist-to-the-stars had ended up acquiring every single Casablanca lily in the city for the event. That was the kind of thing Louis's clients liked him to do. Anthony would not mention it, however, for it would only fuel the competitive fires in Lucinda Hay's ever-spreading bosom. Lucinda Hay wanted Pru married well, and she wanted an over-the-top wedding. She was getting both.
"I'm glad we didn't do lilies, aren't you, Pru?" Mrs. Hay said loftily.
"I've always hated lilies, makes me think of funerals," Pru replied, just a touch sulky. She'd always had a crush on Teddy Denihan, a far more dashing boy than lackluster Thomas Fenton.
"But you
liked
the Angels' wedding, Anthony?"
"The violets were lovely." All two thousand bunches of them, all flown in from Africa. No more need be said.
"Yes, we thought so, too," Mrs. Hay said.
Anthony knew a great deal about weddings, funerals, engagement parties, et cetera, because his services were often requested for events requiring strict attention to detail in the moving around, announcing, and making comfortable of important guests. Claire Angel, now Collins, and all her twelve bridesmaids, who'd been dressed like something out of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
with crowns of fresh violets and gowns of tulle layered over lace over an array of sorbet-colored satins, had not stopped with the four-letter words and the inelegant cursing from the moment she'd gotten engaged. Her verbiage had been a scandal.
Anthony couldn't imagine how the young gentleman could put up with her prewedding, much less the rest of his blinking life. Bad behavior in a bride was unconscionable, Anthony thought. Still, the flowers had been delightful. Louis had found wild-flowers out of season, and the guests had raved.
He glanced at Pru in the mirror. She'd turned out a beauty, after all, but was now chewing savagely on the side of her thumb. Recently she'd started mangling her cuticles so badly that the skin was ripped to shreds and her fingers bled. He knew she was nervous as a cat about getting hitched forever to boring Thomas. He caught her eye and she looked quickly away.
"I don't know what's the matter with Wendy. I've called her a dozen times this morning and she just isn't picking up/' she said irritably.
"Don't worry. We'll see her at the fitting." Mrs. Hay had a certain tone for talking to her daughter. A combination of soothing and wheedling that always set Pru off.
"I have concerns. I want to talk to her now!"
Pru had to be managed. Lucinda managed her.
"Now, Pru, you know we'll get through this. Right here is fine, Anthony," she told him, as if he didn't know where to stop for Tang Ling's.
Anthony did not park in front of the Tang Ling store to wait for the Hay women to emerge. Instead, he drove the Bentley down Park Avenue and around to the St. Regis Hotel. As soon as he slowed to a stop, the doorman leaned in the car's open passenger window.
"Oh, Anthony, there you are. Ready for the big day?"
"Hello, George. We're working on it." Anthony knew some of the staff at the St. Regis because Mr. Hay and Terence drank at the bar there. Over the years he'd sat in this position chatting with this and other doormen for many happy hours. "You're not going to have any problem with the cars on Saturday now, are you?" he asked.
"None at all." George was an old-timer on the post. He gave the driver a knowing smile. "Are they taking rooms here or dressing at the apartment?"
"The apartment, but we'll leave the car here during the ceremony. They'll need me there, of course. As soon as they exchange vows, I'll run up to get it. Should be about noon, maybe twelve-thirty. You mind if I leave it here now for a few?"
"No problem." George was never unhappy with the maroon Bentley at his curb.
Anthony closed the window, dropped his gloves and chauffeur's hat on the front seat. Then he got out, sniffing disdainfully at the bloomed-out spring flowers in the window boxes. He'd have to have a word with Mrs. Hay about it.
"How long will you be, then?" George asked.
Anthony checked his watch. It was eleven-nineteen. "Ten, maybe twelve minutes."
"Good-oh."
Anthony patted the car as if parting from an old friend. He walked briskly to Fifth Avenue and down the few blocks to St. Patrick's Cathedral. There, he skipped up the steps to the side door on Fifty-first Street. The door was locked, and he wondered if security had been beefed up since the attack on the cardinal during a Mass a few months ago.
"The front entrance is open," a thin priest standing nearby chatting with an old lady called out, and waved him toward Fifth.
"Thank you, Father." Anthony about-faced and marched down the block, frowning at the hordes of office workers gathered on the front steps. The sun always brought people out of the buildings all around. They came to the cathedral for special occasions and also just to have their lunch on the warm steps in an open space. Tourists were also out in droves. Anthony clicked his tongue at the sound of so many foreign languages. The crowd boded ill for Saturday. This was what happened when a choice was made for the wrong reasons.
He ducked inside the huge doors and let himself enjoy for a few seconds the lovely coolness of stone and the comfort of flickering candles. Then he was overcome again with irritation at the tourists. On Saturday there would be no abatement of them. What if they wandered in and out during the Mass, during the exchange of vows? And here the wedding party of two hundred would look small and insignificant.
If it had been Anthony's wedding, he would have chosen a smaller church where the guests could feel comfortable, not ogled at, and where it was totally private and safe. But the Hays wanted to make a splash, have the best of everything. The best groom. Idiots. He shook his head at the great size of the place, at the women answering questions at the information tables up front, at the TV monitors mounted on the pillars for congregants in the back pews. Anything could happen in a place like this. He shivered and lit a candle, saying a quick prayer for his own salvation.
Twelve
C
hing Ma Dong took the subway to Manhattan without her mother, or her sister-cousin April, or anyone else knowing she was going there. She was full of happy secrets, excited about the chance to spend a few private moments with her old friend Tang Ling, who was giving her a wedding gown at an absolutely unheard-of price: free, for nothing. And they hadn't even been close friends for more than a decade. Why had the famous Tang Ling made such a gesture? Ching guessed it was just for old times' sake, to show off how great she'd become. As if Ching didn't know.
Tang and Ching had met when Tang was just a young woman studying economics to please her parents, but secretly cutting out patterns for fantasy dresses on her bedroom floor. Tang had wanted to be a designer. Ching was the one with the head for business. The two had drifted apart long ago—Tang into glamour, Ching into the world of the Internet. Ching had been awed by Tang's flare for self-promotion ever since.
Tang Ling had been the first Asian designer to become a household name in the special-occasion dress business. She was the first to set up shop on Madison
Avenue, the first to have a w
orldwide clientele. Her broad peasant face was the first female Asian seen in AmEx commercials. She was a phenom. Everybody wanted a Tang Ling dress. The gowns were slinky, spare, understated, often cut on the bias. And the rage all over the world. Born and raised in Hong Kong, educated at Stanford and FIT, Tang Ling had been in the business for fifteen years, subsidized in her ambition by a wealthy grandfather and even wealthier father. She had a reputation as the close friend of celebrities, personally creating gowns for their Oscar night, Emmy night, and Golden Globe appearances. Her photo was in
People
magazine almost as often as theirs.
When Ching got engaged, she called Tang on a lark. She was well aware that Tang traveled in limos, knew all the movie people and politicos, was out every night. But even celebrities and people in the field paid through the nose to wear her clothes. She knew that, too. Tang had always been tightfisted and socially ambitious. She was Chinese, after all.
So Ching certainly had no expectations that a long-ago friendship would yield any special attention from Tang. She wasn't even sure that Tang would remember her at all. She called to say she was getting married. She was that happy and proud of herself and just wanted to share her news. Tang's instant positive response had taken her completely by surprise. It was as if no time had passed at all.
"Tell me all about the wedding," Tang had gushed as if they were still in a college dorm and no business meetings and important people were waiting while she chattered on the phone in her office.
"It's just a simple banquet at the Crystal Palace," Ching told her shyly. "Nothing special."
"Oh, that's perfect. I love Chinatown weddings. They're my favorite. You'll have to wear one of my gowns." Tang enthused over the idea as if Ching had thousands of dollars to spend, like all the stars with whom she mingled.
"I'd love to," Ching said slowly, but she couldn't possibly afford such a luxury. Not a chance. She didn't want to get embroiled in something that would cause her embarrassment.
"Yes, yes. Come into the shop. I insist. I'm sure we can find just the right gown for you. And don't worry about a thing; we're doing inventory now."
