Stealing Time awm-5

by Leslie Glass

  chica

  later, if the timing worked out. But here he was, waiting for half an hour in his apartment before the doorbell finally rang. When he opened the door, April was bedraggled and dripping in the hall.

  "I couldn't find a place to park. All the spots were taken—Oh."

  His embrace finished her sentence. He hadn't noticed it had started to rain, but rain always turned him on, reminded him of all those times he and April had been stuck in a car during radio runs and she wouldn't let him touch her. At the moment she was cold and wet. He figured he had to warm her up, so the kiss took a while. She resisted for about a second, then dropped her bag and her jacket on the floor and let herself be swept away by it.

  Her reactions always surprised him. They'd been in some difficult situations, had their clothes burned off, witnessed autopsies of men and women in various states of decay. They'd seen violence, deviance, and death and had brought in nutcases exposing themselves, masturbating on the street. April herself had restrained a drunken security guard who'd shoved the barrel of his loaded pistol up his girlfriend's vagina. He was threatening to pull the trigger when April came in to deal with the situation. She'd also been the one to locate the severed head of a twelve-year-old who'd been decapitated in a five-car crash on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The girl might have lived if she'd been wearing her seat belt. Instead, her head landed in the woods, sixty feet away, and April had found it. Yet, after all that, she balked at leaving the lights on when they made love; she didn't want her mother or any Chinese ghosts to know what she was up to.

  "Chinese are kind of puritanical about sex," she'd explained their first time together. "No one in my family ever mentions it. It's something you do only to get a doctor to marry you." She didn't elaborate.

  It had been a big step to get her into the shower with him. But then, everything was a big step with her. She might have seen just about every horror imaginable on the job, but she'd been bullied and sheltered by her parents and hadn't experienced much pleasure. He liked opening her eyes to it, seeing her amazement.

  Right now, she wasn't in the mood for fun, though. She stepped out of his embrace and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm having a bad day. I just needed a break."

  He went to get her a towel. "I didn't mean to rush you," he said a little sheepishly when he came back.

  "No problem." She toweled her head, then raked her fingers through her damp hair. "Actually, I came because I wanted to talk to you."

  "That's nice. Have a seat. What's on your mind?" He cleared his case file from the sofa, sat, and patted the cushion beside him.

  "I don't know. Maybe I got used to you as a partner. And I don't like this new thing." She didn't want to sit down.

  "Come on, sit down. I won't bite. What new thing?"

  She lifted her shoulders. "You know."

  "You mean

  amor, queridal

  You're having a little trouble with

  amor?"

  "I'm not in love." She flushed as she said it, though.

  "Okay, you're not in love. What's the problem, then?"

  April sat down as far from Mike as she could get. "This case is really bugging me. Mixed marriage;

  she's

  battered and loony. The baby's missing.

  He's

  lying about everything. The family is weird and has this sweatshop in Chinatown that's mixed up in it somehow. His cousin is a maniac and, you know, the bottom line is I think the baby is dead. I really think so." Her eyes teared up.

  "Oh,

  querida."

  He moved over and put his arms around her.

  "It shakes me up. I never even wanted a baby myself, did I ever tell you that?" She said this into his shoulder.

  "No, you never mentioned babies one way or the other."

  She pulled away to look at him. "And now I'm seeing them everywhere. It just feels so bad. They're great, you know, really cute, like puppies." She shook her head again.

  "You're so maternal." Mike laughed. "Nah, babies are better than puppies."

  "Why would anyone kill a puppy?" "It's not a puppy,

  querida.

  And it hasn't even been forty-eight hours. You may find him yet."

  "I don't want to just find him. I want to find him alive." April rooted around in her bag for the photo of Paul. She found it and held it out to him.

  Mike took the snapshot and studied the baby for a while. It was a pretty generic-looking baby, wrapped in a blue blanket. "He has blue eyes," he said finally.

  "Anything else?"

  "It's a cute little guy, what else is there?"

  "Anything about the eyes?"

  "You said it wasn't her baby."

  "That doesn't mean it isn't a Chinese baby. The factory is in Chinatown. It's not nice, Mike. The baby could be one of those Little Italy-Chinatown mixes. Maybe somebody sold him to them. Could be something worse."

  "Oh." Mike was silent for a while, thinking about what could be worse.

  "You know what I have to do now?" she said.

  "You have to hit every hospital in the metropolitan area looking for white-Chinese combination babies."

  "Tristate area. The whole world, if I have to. Mike, I don't think I believe in mixed." That's what she'd come to tell him. She flushed some more.

  "Mixed marriages, mixed love affairs, mixed drinks, what?" Suddenly he was angry.

  "You know what I mean," she said softly.

  "I know that's the prejudice that keeps all the wars going," he said evenly. "But sometimes you don't choose who you're going to fall for." He gave her a look to calm her down, but she wasn't buying.

  "Don't give me that. It's not prejudice. I lost a friend. I lost my parents, everything," she cried.

  "What are you talking about, you lost your parents? Are you nuts?"

  "My mother's giving me the silent treatment. I went

  home, no one's there. I call, no one answers the phone. Ever had your mother boycott you?" she asked.

  "No, mine wouldn't know how. What's her beef?"

  "You are." April put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. "I can't take it."

  Mike sat up. He'd never seen that expression on her face before. "You going to cave for your freaking parents? That's

  locoV'

  "I'm not making this up, Mike. She's wiping me out."

  "Nah, she wouldn't do that."

  "Yes, she would. She'd cut off her only daughter for face."

  Face! You couldn't fight Chinese and their crazy concept of face. Mike chewed nervously on his mustache. "

  Querida,

  give me a hug. I'll help you with this. You want something to drink? Huh, how about a beer? You want to eat something? How about dinner?"

  She shook her head again. "Sorry to throw off your sex schedule."

  "Oh, don't do that." What was this? What was in her head here? Suddenly he needed a beer. He got up a little self-consciously and padded into the kitchen. In the refrigerator, he found a six-pack of Dos Equis. He came back with the tops popped on two and handed her one. She put hers on the floor without taking even a sip.

  Mike swallowed some beer. "You want me to talk to your parents?"

  "What can you tell them, that your intentions of ruining their precious Han daughter are honorable?"

  "I could tell them we love each other and want to get married sometime within the millennium." Mike handed her back the baby picture.

  "That's dishonorable. It would bring on World War Three."

  "You told me World War Three has already started."

  "It has."

  "If they're boycotting you, how do you know something else isn't going on?"

  "Like what?"

  Mike shrugged. The Woos had a complicated variety of relationships with people they called sister-cousins, old uncles, young uncles, aunts, grandfathers, and grandmothers they weren't even related to but who nonetheless had the power of family members to one-up and torture them. Could be some crisis had come
up with one of these nonrelative relatives.

  "I have a feeling they'll get over it,

  querida.

  Why don't you ask me to dinner?"

  "I can't do that, Mike. They're not at home. They're not speaking to me."

  Most people were glad to get a little relief from their parents. But the silence seemed to unsettle April more than was absolutely necessary. He felt bad for her. "So leave them a note. Let me spend a little time with them. Trust me on this. They'll get used to me."

  "Oh, they'll never get used to you. They're going to make me pay. You're costing me." A ghost of a smile played on her lips.

  The sun was going to come out. "And the lost friend? Who might that be?" he teased.

  "You. Chicks and guys can work together—I guess—but once you turn the corner into the other thing, God, it's babies and marriage and—nothing but trouble." She shook her head. "I hate this."

  She loved it, but he wasn't going to argue. "You want to hear about my case?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  "Guess who was the last person to see Schlomo alive?"

  "A queer. A transvestite."

  He jumped away from her in shock. "Oh come on, who told you?"

  She laughed suddenly. "No one told me. I was kidding. A transvestite, really?"

  "He/she. Could be he castrated him for a souvenir, but it's hard to buy." Mike finished the beer and rolled the empty can around in his hands thoughtfully. "I'm looking for missing sex organs and you're looking for a missing baby. Your parents aren't speaking to you, and you're scared to death about race, sex, and friendship, in that order. Phew, this is a heavy week."

  "Jesus. Somebody took his

  cojones

  ? You didn't tell me that."

  "Yes, I did. You weren't listening."

  "You didn't tell me," she insisted.

  He tickled her. "You weren't listening."

  "Well, maybe they'll turn up. Look. I've got to go." She gathered herself together.

  "Bueno

  ." Mike lobbed his empty beer can into a wastebasket across the room.

  "What about you?" She finished the beer and put the can down on the floor.

  "I've got to go, too." He stretched. "Anything else on your mind? I mean, other than breaking up."

  She hesitated, then gave him a sly smile. "You want a last fling?"

  He threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, no. You'll have to beg me now."

  "I don't beg."

  "Okay, then strip for me." He sat back with a grin.

  She rolled her eyes.

  "Go ahead. Otherwise, we'll just end it now. Clean break. That's it."

  "All right.

  Bueno.

  Turn off the lights. I'll strip." "I'm not turning off the lights."

  "Fine, I'll do it." April got up and unzipped her skirt. It fell to the uncarpeted floor. She unbuttoned her blouse, took it off slowly, and tossed it away from her. Then she gave him a shy smile and stopped.

  Good enough for a beginner. He held out his arms. "

  Venga."

  CHAPTER 22

  J

  ason finished his patient day, had dinner with his wife, Emma, then returned to Roosevelt Hospital late in the evening. April had left instructions with the nurses and the officer on duty to let him into Heather's room, so he had no difficulty gaining access. After talking to her nurse, he went in to see her, pulled up a chair, and sat close to the bed. She was in the same position on the bed and looked much as she had earlier in the day. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  "Hi, Heather. It's Dr. Frank. The nurses tell me you're beginning to come around."

  Her hand remained impassive, and she didn't say anything. There was an ice pack on her black eye, but the good one seemed to move a little in his direction. On the bed tray was a cup of water with a straw in it. "They tell me you asked for water." Jason offered the cup to her, but she didn't take any now. He went on.

  "Somebody beat you up pretty bad. Do you remember what happened?" He massaged the hand gently.

  Such a long silence followed that he'd almost given up hoping for an answer when the word "Clinton" came out of her swollen lips.

  "What? Clinton?" Jason caught his breath. "Did

  you say Clinton?" He waited for her to clarify. She didn't.

  "Someone hit you on the head. The police say you were hit with a broom. Do you remember that?"

  Then she said it again. "Clinton."

  "Clinton hit you?" Jason's brow furrowed. This particular accusation was a first for the president. Heather must be pretty confused.

  "Bill Clinton is president." She looked at him as she said it, not confused at all. Then her eye closed.

  Jason's heart pounded. He realized she wasn't aware that any time had passed since his last visit. She was responding to the first question he'd asked her.

  "That's right. Bill Clinton is president." Jason praised her. "Who are you?"

  "I'm a piece of shit." She said this so softly that Jason had to lean close to hear her.

  "That may be how you feel. It's not your name. What's your name?"

  "Heather Rose."

  "That's right. What day is it?"

  "Tuesday."

  "No, it's Wednesday night."

  The eye popped open. "Wednesday? I must have—"

  "You've been asleep for almost thirty hours. Heather, everybody is looking for the baby. Where is he?"

  Her eye wandered around the room as if looking for him.

  "He's not here. Where is he?"

  "Paul?"

  "Yes, Paul."

  A tear formed and spilled over. "I told him I wanted to be good. I only wanted what was right for him." These words came out with great difficulty. Heather's voice was cultured but hoarse. She hadn't

  spoken for a while. It wasn't easy for her to speak now.

  "What does that mean, Heather? Where is he? You can tell me."

  Her hand came alive and gripped his. He could feel her trembling.

  "Who beat you up, your husband?"

  She shook her head.

  "Someone else?"

  She shook her head again.

  "I'll make a deal with you. I'll help you if you help me."

  Heather's eye traveled to the little window in the door. She became upset. Jason turned around and followed her gaze to a face peering in. When he looked back at her, her eye had closed and her hand had gone limp again.

  "Heather? Heather? Come on, wake up." He squeezed and patted her hand. "Come on." The face in the window was gone, but so was she. Finally he got up and went out in the hall to find out who had frightened her.

  The hefty nurse at the desk identified the densely built dark-haired man with a prominent forehead and soldier's rigid bearing. "That's the husband."

  He was in deep conversation with someone of a similar stocky build but softer around the edges. This man had thick black hair sticking out here and there like a half-tamed fright wig. Unlike Heather Rose's husband, who was wearing a suit, the second man had several days' growth of grizzled beard on his face and was casually dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt.

  "Thanks." Jason went to talk to them. "Mr. Popescu."

  Anton spun around angrily and quickly evaluated

  Jason from haircut to loafers. "How do you know who I am? Who are you?"

  "I'm Dr. Frank, one of your wife's doctors."

  Anton snorted. "You guys don't know fuck." He glared at Jason. His companion put a hand on Anton's shoulder, whistling softly under his breath. Anton shook off the hand. "Fuck you."

  Jason didn't pick up the gauntlet. The silence forced Anton to go next.

  "What were you doing with her? What did she say?" he demanded after a pause.

  "I'd like to talk to you for a few moments, if you don't mind." Jason was coolly professional.

  "What for?" Popescu took a challenging step into Jason's space.

  Calmly, Jason retreated, taking a quick look at the man in the sweatshirt to s
ee how he was reacting. He was now standing there with a vague air of detachment, looking away and scratching the extended belly under his shirt as if this was just another in a lifetime of Anton Popescu-generated embarrassing moments.

  "Maybe I can help you," Jason suggested.

  "Whose side are you on?" Anton said suspiciously.

  Good question. "I have no stake; I'm just interested in finding the baby and helping your wife," Jason murmured. He turned toward a lounge area at the end of the hall, where there were some unoccupied chairs.

  Anton stiffened. He glanced at his companion who offered a little shrug of encouragement. "Fuck you," Anton said again; then, to Jason, "So, what do you have to say to me?"

  "I thought we might say a few things to each other."

  "All right, all right." Anton marched down the hall to the chairs and indicated the one he wanted Jason to take.

  Jason sat in a different one. "I can see you're very upset."

  "Of course I'm upset. The police have fucked this whole thing up. There's someone watching me all the time. Look at that guy. They think I had something to do with this." He pointed at the uniform in front of his wife's room.

  "It might be useful to get a little insight into what was going on in your life before this happened."

  "I told the police everything I know," Popescu said, a little uneasily. He glanced quickly at his companion, then turned back to Jason. "What do you want to know?"

  "There is some speculation that Heather may have harmed the baby—" Jason said.

  "I know, I know. That's bullshit," Anton burst out.

  "We need to rule it out as a possibility."

  "This is making me nuts."

  "You have some question about it?" Jason asked.

  "No, no, absolutely not."

  "She has a number of bruises and scars on her body that predate this incident—"

  Anton nodded, gloomily. "Yes, she has some problems. This goes back a long way. She's a clumsy person." He shook his head. "It really worries me. Some people are just dangerous in the kitchen."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She just"—he rolled his eyes up to the sky as if only God could explain it—"knocks into things. Trips and falls. I swear to God, I've never seen anything like it. She could be humming along just fine, and suddenly—

  bam.

  She's on the floor, tripped over her own feet. I'm a busy man and I can't tell you how much time I have to spend mopping up after her. Icing her wounds." He made a noise. "But I don't want a medal for it. Somebody has to take care of her." He made another noise. "I swear the woman should have a nurse." He raised his shoulders, shaking his head fondly. "But what can you do?"