by Leslie Glass
Made them sick, too.
Bellaqua replied angrily, speaking for the first time. "This is how we run an investigation. We put the pieces together one by one. You have a better way, let us know."
"Well, it's a fucking insult. You know I didn't do it. Why would I kill that poor girl? I haven't shot a gun in years. I don't even
have
a gun anymore."
There.
Bellaqua and April connected again. Smart people like Wendy became more sophisticated as they developed, but they didn't necessarily change in the fundamentals. She had guns, they were sure of it. The search of her apartment had not come up with any, but April guessed she still had some somewhere. People who loved guns didn't give them up. She also guessed that Wendy had been lifting things from the gift tables of her clients, judging from the merchandise that had been in her cupboards two days ago, but was missing this afternoon when the police did their search.
Wendy grimaced suddenly, and April knew that she was still a shooter, still a thief, but they didn't have what they needed to arrest her. It made the two detectives sick as they headed home for the night. Nothing from Mike in many hours. April was anxious with him out there in the wind.
Twenty-eight
M
ike called on April's cell at midnight just as April was pulling onto her street in Astoria.
"Thank God! I was getdng worried. Are you okay?" she asked when she heard his dred voice.
"Yeah, dne, why?"
"You sound ftinny." And she hadn't heard from him. That made her uneasy, especially when she hadn't seen him all day.
"Nah, I'm fine. What's up?"
"You first," she said.
"Okay. Something's way off about that guy Louis, the florist. Everybody he has working for him has a shadow past." Mike's voice crackled on the cell phone, and she wondered where he was.
"What kind of shadow past?" The reference made her think of Citing's chef Gao Wan and his tall tale about the river god he claimed was his father. Immigrants frequently invented mythic histories for themselves. They all had shadow pasts.
"He hires young men who fought in wars."
April parked in front of her house, killed her engine, doused the lights, and sat in her car in the dark. Boys who fought in wars. Where was this going? "Any wars in particular?" she asked after a pause.
"Nope. He's an equal-opportunity employer. He's had them all—Tutsis, Hutus, Bosnians, Angolans, Cambodians, Iraqis, Afghans."
"Jesus, Mike, what does that mean?" She shivered in the quiet of her Astoria street.
"It means he puts his clients in contact with a bunch of unstable young men with a history of violence. I called a social worker friend of mine about it. She said we've still got boys coming in from all over the world who participated in mass killings back where they came from, civil wars on many continents. Also survivors. There are a lot of traumatized EDPs out there who get through INS."
Were they back to terrorists? "Aren't we doing anything about screening who comes in?" April asked, checking the row of silent houses where most of her neighbors had already gone to bed. EDPs were emotionally disturbed persons.
Mike didn't answer, but April knew perfectly well that nothing the FBI, CIA, and INS did could stop the flood of people who sailed, flew, walked, swam, and were smuggled into the USA every day. Some of them were persecuted back home, some persecutors. There had never been a treatment protocol for killers, walk-in clinics for the tortured and traumatized. One of April's motives for becoming a cop long ago had been to help Chinese immigrants negotiate the system, get the services and protection they needed.
Mike's voice became stronger. "The guy we picked up calls himself Brother. He came in from Africa about six months ago through a church group. I haven't been able to contact them yet. They're based in Liberia. He's young, possibly psychotic. Louis told me he tried high school in Brooklyn for a few weeks, couldn't hack it.
Has very little English. He lives in a basement in Brooklyn with a bunch of other guys like him. It's not a healthy place. The Health Department's going to be all over it if any of them have TB.
"Louis seems to have a network of illegals going. He calls our guy Jama. We don't know what his real name is yet. He has scratches all over his body, and we found bloody clothes. Somebody may be torturing him, but the injuries look like they could be self-inflicted."
"What makes you think so?"
"It's a long story. Have you spoken to your shrink friend yet? This guy's a head case."
"No, I called his office on Monday. His voice mail said he's away for two weeks. Emma and the baby must be with him. Got the machine on the home phone, too."
"You know where he is?"
"Uh-uh." Psychiatrists didn't exactly leave their itineraries for their patients. "But he says self-mutilators hurt themselves, not others. Is Jama organized enough to be Tovah's killer?" April didn't want to get too excited.
"Probably not by himself. But somebody could have directed him to do it, supplied the gun, then took it away afterward. He appears to be in shock."
"Oh, God, I hope he's it. Anything new on the gun?"
"No, no. Nothing found yet. Nothing from FAS, either."
April didn't want to get out of the car, go into her house, sleep alone. She missed him. "FAS, what the hell is that?" she demanded.
"Firearms Analysis Section, don't you keep up?"
"No." She hated the Department's constant name changing. "It'll always be Ballistics to me. What about Tito?" she asked, still sitting in the dark.
"Tito's brothers were among the disappeared in Argentina."
"God, what's the connection with these people? Wendy has a shadow past of her own."
"Oh, yeah, anything new?"
"Her apartment came up clean for drugs and guns. Cupboards were pretty much emptied, though. Looks like she moved a lot of stuff out. We couldn't get anything out of her. I get the feeling she's holding back a lot, but she's toughing it out, hasn't gotten herself a lawyer."
April paused. She knew the type, the kind who thought they could handle anything. She went on, "Wendy's profile doesn't make her a perfect fit for this kind of hit. And there's no motive. But she has some empty cupboards.... Where are you now?"
"I'm finishing up at ER."
What!
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"Oh, yeah, it's nothing."
"Mike, you want me to meet you? I could come over," April offered quickly.
"I need to crash for a few hours. Where are you?"
"I just got home. I'm still in my car. I could come over," she repeated. She wanted to clap eyes upon him, make sure he was all right. But he wasn't going to let her.
"Get some sleep. I'll pick you up at seven." His voice cracked and died.
"Damn."
The phone rang again and she answered, hoping it was Mike calling back to enlighten her.
"Sergeant Woo."
"April, thank God I got you. I've called and called. Are you all right?"
"Ching, of course I'm fine." April inhaled deeply.
"I hate not being able to reach you," Ching complained.
April crawled out of the car. "I'm on a homicide, you know how it is. But I'm here now, just got home. I'm walking up the walk. Talk to me."
"Have you arrested the killer?" Ching asked, breathless with hope. "There wasn't anything on the news."
"We're real close," April lied. She put her key in the lock, opened the door. Inside it was still quiet. Her parents had not returned from their little trip to New Jersey.
"It's been almost a week." Her voice sounded accusing. "How can you not know?"
"It's been only three days," April corrected her. It was a complicated case, a bizarre case. There was a lot to sort through. She didn't want to be defensive. "It's coming together," she said. "We'll nail it soon."
"Did you talk to Tang yet?"
"Not yet." April took the stairs to her apartment two at a time. "When is your next fi
tting? I want to go with you."
Ching hesitated. "Well, sure you can. But April, your dress isn't from Tang's," she confessed.
"My dress?" April kicked her door closed, hit the light switch, and collapsed on her pink sofa. She hadn't had time to think about dresses.
"I want you to be my maid of honor. I want you to stand at my side and say something at the reception," Ching blurted.
Maid of honor? Say something? April was stunned. She'd had no idea this was in the wind. "Did Mike have something to do with this?"
"Please, April. Just a short speech. It's time the girls stand up, not just the guys. The fathers, know what I mean?" Ching was pleading. "You're my sister. I want to honor you. You can't say no," Ching said.
April shuddered at the thought of being on display, making a speech. "I don't know." It was a bad time.
"I got you a drop-dead dress. It will be ready on Saturday. Will you pick it up?" Ching wheedled.
"Ching, I'm very touched, but you didn't have to do that."
I don't want a drop-dead dress.
She didn't say it.
I don't want to think about your wedding right now with Mike's ultimatum hanging over me.
"Of course, I had to do it. My fitting at Tang's is Monday. Will the case be solved by then?"
That was four days away. "Absolutely," April promised.
"You'll pick up your dress on Saturday?"
"Okay, sure. I'll pick it up." She loved Ching. She didn't want to be selfish, thinking only of herself. Of course she would do whatever Ching asked.
"I'll come with you, okay? I want to see your face when you try it on."
"I love you, Ching," April said suddenly. "Don't be nervous. It's going to be a great wedding."
"Love you, too, April. I know it will." Ching hung up, and April was alone in the empty house. Skinny Dragon wasn't home, so there was no late-night conversation, no force-feeding. She didn't like the feeling.
Mike didn't answer either of his phones. He told her he'd picked up a suspect, Louis's African, Jama/Brother. Mike was in the ER, but who had the nothing? Just like him not to make a big deal of it! She brooded as she brushed her teeth and drank down three glasses of water, too dred to forage for food. She hoped Mike was all right, figured he was all right and just didn't want to be with her. That upset her, too. She knew she wasn't going to sleep at all. She got in bed and brooded. Jama had to be their man, had to be. Mike had broken the case. Maybe it was over. But where did that leave Wendy. • • • She fell asleep right away.
Twenty-nine
A
t seven A.M. sharp on Thursday morning Mike parked his Camaro in front of April's Le Baron and pulled himself out of the car with far less energy than usual. April had been waiting for him by the window and saw right away that his right cheekbone was bruised and a white bandage decorated his forehead. He hated showing wear and tear, so he held his hand over it as if shading the morning light. She had her answer. Brother must have resisted being taken in.
"Looks worse than it is," Mike said sheepishly as she ran out to give him a long hug.
"How's the other guy?" she asked lightly. Mike was on his feet, nothing in a sling. She knew better than to make a big deal about it if he didn't.
"Heavily sedated on the psych ward. Hungry?"
"Yes."
April didn't want to admit that she'd missed dinner and missed him, but at least last night there had been a reason. She gave him another hug and climbed into the car, making it a point not to press him for details as they headed up to the Bronx. They stopped for a big breakfast in a diner. Mike ordered bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, lots of ketchup.
While they were waiting to be served she skirted the subject, keeping neutral. Was Brother their man? Come on, give.
"Stitches?" she asked about his forehead.
"Only six. Right along the hairline." He sugared his coffee heavily, then sipped. "Not as good as yours," he commented, giving her a crooked smile. "Are you missing me yet?"
She nodded. "What do you think? Is Brother our killer?"
Mike stirred in more sugar. Four packets made it a record. "I want to think we have him. He seemed pretty out of it last night, but drugs could do that. When he comes around, we'll see how connected he is to reality." He touched his forehead. "I'll tell you, he has a lethal kick. I wasn't expecting it," he admitted. "Careless."
April's heart thudded. Between the two of them, Mike was the dirtier
mano-a-mano
fighter, but she had it all over him in kickboxing and karate. She felt she should have been there. She didn't say a word. The food came. They started eating. Two fried eggs suddenly didn't seem like enough. Mike ordered pancakes, too.
"I hope he's our guy," she said.
Let Brother be our guy,
she prayed, pouring on the syrup with a heavy hand.
"Let's hope. I think Louis is involved somehow, but I don't see him as a killer. The question is, did the African leave in Louis's truck at two-thirty, as Tito and Louis said he did, or did he stay behind? If he stayed behind, how did he get back to the city? Subway? Bus? Did he ditch the gun in a garbage can? Did they wait for him?"
All the garbage cans in the area had been thoroughly searched on Sunday and Monday, but the killer could have dumped it in the Hudson River. There were many places to get rid of a gun.
They ate slowly, puzzling over different aspects of the case. The tangle of leads kept going back to the wedding people, none of whom were entirely what they seemed, but none of whom had a motive, either. April flashed to Ching's call last night and her request for April to be her maid of honor. She didn't want to discuss it with Mike right now. They had more important things to worry about.
"What's the matter, run out of steam?" he said.
"Yeah." The pancakes sat there in a lake of syrup.
Mike paid up and they were on time for their meeting with the Bronx DA, an older guy neither of them knew. Shad Apply was tall and skinny. His face was the color of window caulk, prematurely rutted with deep wrinkles. Two younger, gray-suited ADAs were in the office with him. All three showed signs of life when Mike told them about the suspect in custody.
"Where is he? We want to talk to him," Apply said, nodding with satisfaction at his henchmen, a chubby male who looked about thirty, and a long-haired female of indeterminate age. Both were intently taking notes on legal pads. Apparently between last night and now, no one had been in touch.
"Talking's a problem right now. He's in Bellevue," Mike told them.
"Is he injured?" Shad Apply frowned at Mike's bruise and the bandage on his head. "Did you hurt him?"
Mike shook his head. "Not as bad as he hurt me.
The guy's a head case. He went berserk in the middle of the interview. We're having him evaluated, but it may take some time. He'll have to wake up first."
The prosecutor's face organized itself into a smile. The good news outweighed the bad. The good news: A confused psychotic would be a big plus for everybody. They could nail him quickly and have done with an ugly case. The DA's office wouldn't have to dig too deeply for a motive. Crazies lived in worlds of their own; their circuit boards were down. The pathways to reason didn't connect.
There were other pluses. Incidents involving seriously mentally impaired people, though catastrophic for the victims and their families, were not that common. If the perpetrators happened to be wholly unconnected to reality, they couldn't plan, couldn't repeat a crime, couldn't get away. Such a resolution of the Tovah case would be ideal. The bad news: It would probably take quite a while. Psychotics didn't get stabilized overnight.
"Good job," Apply said, appraising Mike in a rosier light. "You're the one who brought him in?"
Mike nodded.
"Did he give you anything at all?"
"Not enough. He was scared to death, less than lucid. Also, his boss, the florist, made an initial statement saying he was with him at the time of the shooting. We have a little problem with that."
The DA pulled on his nose. "We can bring him in as a material witness, hold him for a while. That might jog his memory. I'd like to clean this up before the weekend. Okay, thanks. That should do it for now. I'll start talking to the attending shrink. You follow through on the background check." Apply unfolded from his chair.
"Excuse me, sir." April took a few minutes to fill them in on her and Bellaqua's work on Wendy.
He wasn't that interested. Her past misdemeanors were way too old to be admissible in any case against her. He looked fifteen years younger when they left.
By two in the afternoon Mike and April were on the phones at the Five-oh. Mike was trying to locate the church group that had brought the Liberian into the country. April was following through with her study of the seven-page printout that described each event Wendy had done since January, five months of completed events and a summer of parties to come. April also had an older file of events Wendy had managed, going back some five years, that had been printed out from her computer. She spent all day on it. Late in the afternoon she found something that pushed her alarm button.
Another of Wendy's brides-to-be hadn't made it to the altar. Andrea Straka. April recognized the name right away. Another sad case. The day before her wedding, Andrea Straka had jumped or fallen—or been pushed—off a subway platform in front of an oncoming train. She'd been killed instantly. The tragedy made all the newspapers. A horrible thing, a famous unsolved case. Had it been suicide, accident, homicide? No one knew for sure.
April's heart raced as she considered the possibilities this new death presented. One bride had died the day
before
her wedding, another bride on the day of her wedding. Eight months apart. April tended to think in threes. Another bride on the day
after
her wedding, sometime down the road? Or what about eight months
before
Andrea's death? Had there been another case—a young woman just engaged?
Maybe Tovah's murder meant that a killer was getting bolder, was coming out in the open. April shivered and shook herself. Her cynicism was getting ahead of the evidence. She had no reason yet to panic. Still, she had to take Andrea's death very seriously. Someone had to take another look at Andrea's file, reinterview the witnesses, the whole nine yards.
