A Killing Gift (14 page)

"Don't you guys talk?" Bill demanded.

Mike shook his head. "Let's not get into politics here. I'm not asking what you told IA or anybody else. We're the primaries in this case, and for us the cash is a factor. A big factor. It may be missing, but it's not going away."

Bill was not an ugly bruiser like his dad. He was five-eleven, stocky, close to forty. He had a prosecutor's irritability in his stance, almost as if he carried a gun in his pocket. But his anger died away as he said, "I just don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? You don't know your dad had four million dollars in cash in his possession? Or you don't know where it is?"

"He got strange after Mom died."

That wasn't an answer. "What's strange, Bill?" Mike asked.

"He was distant, secretive." Bill looked away.

"How about sad? Would sad describe it?" April cut in.

"Did you go into the house Thursday morning?" Mike changed the subject.

Bill blinked. "You know I did. So what?"

Mike glanced at April. Now they did.

"What for?" she asked.

He didn't answer. "Maybe I should get a lawyer. Everyone says I should. I don't know what I'm waiting for."

"What did you go to the house for, Bill?"

He shook his head. "You guys are real shits; anybody ever tell you that?"

"Imagine that. We're the shits, and we're the ones on your side. Come on, what did you go to the house for-the files, the money. What?" April demanded. Her jaw was beginning to ache. A new pain.

"I went for Weenie," he said. His angry face erupted in a smile.

"Weenie?" Mike frowned.

"Oh, Jesus." April looked down at her feet. "Weenie was Bernardino's dog."

"I didn't see any sign of a dog," Mike said.

"Well, you don't see a lot of things." Bill snorted.

"What time did you go for the dog?" April asked.

Bill made some breathing noises. "I don't know. I remembered him sometime in the middle of the night. I went to get him early in the morning."

April considered the story for all of two seconds before rejecting it. "You know what it sounds like to me? Sounds to me like you got a lot of money from your dad, and maybe your sister didn't know about it." She watched his hands. He was a prosecutor, for God's sake. He knew how to tell a story.

"My sister was in California," he countered.

"Maybe she was going to get her share later." April gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"What are you saying? What are you implying here? It was Dad's money. He'd already paid taxes on it. Whatever he did with it was his business. Why can't you leave it at that?"

"Gee, Bill, we would have. But somebody killed him," April said flatly.

"I'd like to see Weenie," Mike said.

"Fine, toss my house. You're not going to find what you're looking for." His fist hit the car.

"How do you know what we're looking for?" April asked.

The prosecutor's face revealed that he'd been thinking money. He didn't know about the Tiger Liniment. For a change he was out of the loop. He didn't know what they were looking for. "Fuck you," he said softly.

M
arcus Beame called on Mike's cell phone at four-fifteen. "How ya doin'?" he asked.

Mike and April were in the Camaro, heading to Brooklyn to take a look at Weenie and collect some of his hair to see if they matched those Duke had found in Bernardino's cuff. Also to check on Bill's medicine cabinet and sports bag for muscle analgesics. They were supposed to be treading softly. If they tossed the house of an ADA while he was at his father's wake, they'd break every rule in the book. They'd been talking about it for the last hour. April was close to Kathy. That complicated things, too. Frankly, they needed a warrant or Bill's blessing, or both, to do the search, and April wanted to stay far, far away from it.

"Hey, Marcus. What's going on?" Mike asked, then put the cell on speakerphone so April could hear it.

"We're working about fifty tips down here, and we're not even on the task force. Everybody here is on it. How about you?" Marcus's voice was animated. It sounded as if the second whip in the Fifth Precinct had had a battery charge since they'd talked last. Maybe his hangover was gone.

"Same," Mike said.

"We've checked out Ridley and Washburn," he reported.

"Who?"

"April suggested we look at old cases. Those two went down for criminal negligence in five fire deaths back in-"

"Oh, yeah, I remember. What about them?"

"Bernardino handled the case. They just got out of the can last week and always said they'd get back at him. Is she with you?"

"Yes, Marcus, April is with me." Mike glanced at her. She didn't say anything.

"Well, tell her they've been in the Bahamas on vacation with their families since the day after they got out. We're still going with old cases, but we've got two people working the dojo angle."

Mike glanced at April again. "Who's on it?"

"A couple of guys in the unit are into it big-time- with the martial-arts magazines and the training equipment. The whole nine yards. They're taking the lead here."

"Were they at the party?"

"No, sir. They were working that night. I know the case they were working. I'm their supervisor."

"Names?"

"Wagner, Francis. Angelino, Fred. April knows them."

She shrugged and nodded. They were okay. "Hey, Marcus, tell them to check out where Bill Bernardino trains and who he spars with. Tell them to be discreet, okay?"

"Will do."

"And tell them you're looking for someone who has a reputation for hurting his opponents."

"You know something?" Marcus asked.

"There's always somebody like that. Maybe one of them went over the edge to see if he could get away with it. It's just a guess," April croaked.

"Good point. I'll tell them."

"Anything else?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, one other thing. Bernardino and his old partner had a falling-out last week. I didn't tell IA, but I thought you'd like to know."

"I do. Thanks. You got a name for him?" Mike asked.

"Harry Weinstein. Big talker, big with the horses. He's retired now."

April nodded again. She knew that.

"Oh, yeah. He was at the party. Tall guy, bald head, beard, yellow plaid jacket?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"What's his story?" Mike asked.

"Oh, he's a gambler from way back, had some scheme he wanted Bernardino to go into with him. I don't know the details. I just know that Bernardino blew him off, and he was pissed about it."

"Has anybody interviewed him, Marcus?"

"I wouldn't know, Mike. The file's in the Sixth. I'm down here in the Fifth. We're working in the dark here."

"Well, we're not keeping any secrets on this case, and we need all the help we can get. Go over there and tell Peter Ashley you have my blessing. He'll give you whatever you need. Good to have you on the team. I won't forget it. And let me know what time Weinstein left the party and who interviewed him."

"Thanks, I will."

The call ended. "Looks like Marcus has had an attitude change," Mike said.

"Definitely looking for a way in," April agreed.

"Good for him. What do you know about Harry?"

April snorted. "A real loser. He used to come and bug Bernie for betting money, years ago. Two dollars, five dollars. Never won much, never paid anything back." After a stoical afternoon, April's features finally came alive as the lightbulb went off. Harry was a gambler, chronically in need of money, and his old partner had won the jackpot. Here was another recipe for trouble.

"Did you talk to him at the party?" Mike asked.

"Not me, I keep my distance there. I don't like him. I don't think Bernardino talked to him much, either. Who was he talking to?"

"I wasn't watching. The chief wanted to reminisce. You know how that is."

"No, I don't know how that is. He doesn't reminisce with me." April laughed without much mirth, and Mike changed the subject quickly.

"What about Harry as our killer?"

"He's a big man, and he's a loser. But Jack Devereaux and I didn't lose a fight with a sixty-year-old. I don't care what's wrong with my memory. That wouldn't be it. But he knows how to yoke, and maybe he has a friend."

"What put you into this buddy thing?"

"You always have a sparring friend, a kind of a coach," she murmured.

"No kidding." Mike swerved into the exit lane. "I'm thinking we shouldn't go to Brooklyn right now."

April opened the passenger window as relief flooded through her. Good-even if Bill was their killer, she didn't want to search the house of an old friend's son. The day was heating up as the BQE took them to the Brooklyn Bridge, which dragged them into the worst Chinatown traffic of the week. Then north to the Village, where things weren't any better. Mike finally pulled up in front of the Sixth Precinct, where they spent the next three hours reviewing the file and time lines with detectives there.

As in every case, there were pieces of information that weren't shared with everyone. Mike didn't share the medical examiner's remark about the odor of spearmint on Bernardino's body or Ducci's finding Tiger Liniment, which contained oil of spearmint as well as eucalyptus oil, on his jacket. Neither mentioned Jack Devereaux's memory of smelling Icy Hot-which contained some of the same ingredients, but not all of them-on the killer. And absolutely nothing about the yoking cause of death. These bits were not for general release. They didn't want the details leaked. April put the mastiff with the chain leash on the table to assign a dog-fancier detective to track his owner down.

The case was a big operation. The hacker was still working on Bernardino's computer down at headquarters. Crime Stoppers was still driving around Greenwich Village with the van, hoping someone would come forward. At the end of the day, something else emerged. A check of all the people who had tickets for the party revealed that Harry Weinstein had crashed. Nobody remembered what time he had left and nobody had bothered to interview him. As usual, he'd been freeloading, and as a freeloader, he'd been overlooked.

O
n Sunday, four days after Bernardino's murder, the story dropped to the back of the Metro section of the
Times,
and Harry Weinstein could not be located at any of his usual haunts. He wasn't at home, or his local beer joint, or any of the racetracks in the area, Yonkers Raceway, Belmont, Suffolk, New Jersey. And he wasn't picking up his cell phone, either. At least he wasn't picking up for private callers. Harry was out in the wind.

Worked out of the Sixth Precinct, the Bernardino homicide was taking on that air of workmanlike organization that always settled in when a case was in for the long haul. Half a dozen major lines of investigation were being followed at the same time. Bank and brokerage canvasses searched for accounts. Neighborhood canvasses continued. The hacker in Bernardino's computer searched for the files that had been scrambled in its hard drive. Bernardino's military record had been obtained, and all the people he'd known back then were sifted through. The list of black-belt members and teachers in martial-arts schools, including the one Bill frequented, were scanned one by one. There seemed nothing unusual about him. He was a popular guy. The case file thickened with interviews that didn't go anywhere and tips that had to be checked out. One by one, people who had known and worked with Bernardino, his friends and associates, were being ruled out. There was still no luck with the dog.

Only a few members of the task force knew about the missing lottery millions, and they were told they'd lose their jobs if it leaked to the press, so it didn't come out. The lid was on the pot, but inside the water was on a hard boil. A deep probe was also prying into Bill Bernardino's personal and business life. And now, despite his size and age, Harry Weinstein was moving up the list of suspects. He had a motive.

On Sunday morning April called Bill and caught him just as he was leaving for the open house at the funeral home where his father's wake was still in progress in Westchester.

"I'm in a hurry. What's going on? Anything new?" he asked.

"Just following up on a few things," April told him. "Tell me about Harry."

Bill was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Harry who?"

"Harry Weinstein, your dad's old partner."

"Oh, Jesus, that crook. I haven't heard the bastard's name in years. Frankly, I was surprised that he showed his ugly face at Dad's party."

"He crashed," April said.

Bill blew air out of his mouth. "Cheap asshole."

"Yeah, well, what happened between them?"

"Christ, who remembers? Guy's a thief. He'd take money out of your back pocket while you're taking a piss. Anything, steal the shoes off your feet if you nod off. Dad gave up on him years ago. Why are you asking?"

"Just looking at everything, Bill."

"Jesus-Harry?" Bill sounded puzzled. Then he was silent for a long time, suddenly not in such a rush.

"What do you know, Bill?" April asked.

"Nothing. Not a thing. Look, I've got to go. You coming today?" He sounded almost hopeful.

"No." April wasn't superstitious or anything, but one viewing of a dead body was enough for her.

"How about the funeral tomorrow?" Bill was actually reaching for civility.

"I wouldn't miss it," she told him.

Later she tried Harry's home. His wife, Carol, answered the phone promptly.

"Mrs. Weinstein. It's Sergeant Woo. Harry isn't picking up his cell. Do you know where he is?"

She laughed. "Never. Harry could be in Florida, or out west, for all I know. People were out here this morning looking for him. What's going on?"

"What people?"

"Cops. Not anybody I know, though. What is it this time?"

Oh, so there were other times. "Didn't they tell you?" April asked, playing with the phone cord.

"No. It isn't about Bernardino, is it?"

"Yes, it's about Bernardino."

"Poor Bernie; he was such a
nice
guy." Carol's sympathy gushed out in a powerful Long Island accent.

"Yeah, he was. What time did Harry get home Wednesday night?"

"Oh, God, they already asked me this. Oh, I don't know when he came in. In time for breakfast Thursday, I think. Or maybe lunch. I don't remember. I told him first thing. Why are you asking this?"

"You told him about Bernardino?" April was surprised.

"Well, you know. Harry doesn't sit in front of the TV like I do. I always turn on the news first thing when I wake up to see if someone killed him in the night. Ha ha." She paused for a laugh but didn't get one from April.

"Harry, I meant. Not Bernie. See, I was shocked anyone would hurt Bernie. He was such a straight arrow, a real family man. Let me tell you, I can vouch for Harry. He didn't know a thing about it. Another cop was attacked at the same time; who was that?"

That would be me,
April didn't inform her.

"What did you say your name was?" Carol asked.

"Sergeant Woo."

"Sounds familiar. Are you that famous Chinese?"

"I worked with Lieutenant Bernardino," April said smoothly.

"Well, it's a terrible thing. What do you want Harry for?"

"We're hoping that he can fill in some blanks for us about Bernardino's last few weeks."

"I wouldn't know where to look for him. I'm the last to know anything."

"Mrs. Weinstein, did Harry tell you when he was coming back?" April asked.

"No, he didn't even tell me he was leaving."

"Is that usual for him?"

"Well, he's been working pretty hard lately. We're moving to Florida, you know." She said this proudly.

"No kidding. I love Florida. Where are you going?" April wondered what Harry's hard work was, and if Bernardino's Florida files tied in somehow.

"Real soon. He could be there now, for all I know."

"When did your husband leave for Florida?"

"Friday or Saturday. I never said he went to Florida."

"Saturday was yesterday. Did he leave yesterday?" April persisted.

"Could be. The days all run together for me now. I'm in a holding pattern." She sounded as if she'd been in a holding pattern for some time.

"Look, when you hear from Harry, tell him I'd like to talk to him." April gave the woman her name and numbers.

"I'm sure he'll go to the funeral. He wouldn't miss that. Honey, you should do something for that cold," Carol added. "Your voice sounds terrible."

That Sunday was a quiet day for some people, but nobody working the Bernardino case. After April's early calls from home, she felt well enough to start running again. Forest Hills wasn't as much fun as Astoria. Here the expressway cut through the neighborhood, and there weren't as many stores to look at, just blocks of brick apartment buildings and houses that she and Mike couldn't afford. For a little while she turned her mind off and let her body take care of itself. Mike had left early for the gym. It was a cool day, a beautiful day. She ran four miles. Mike returned about the same time as she. They showered together and fooled around just long enough to remind each other there was life after murder. Then they got dressed and drove into the city.

Mike went to the Sixth, where dozens of detectives were working overtime. April went to the tae kwon do studio on University Place. It was in an old building that smelled of ancient plaster, not unlike a police precinct. Up a steep and sagging staircase with green linoleum treads the door was open to more than one activity.

Early Sunday afternoon had a step class going on in one room and ballet going on in another. Females mostly, in a variety of ages and shapes. It certainly didn't look as if this were the place a serious empty-hand fighter would come to bulk up or spar.

A skinny girl with a long rope of dark hair, a red bindi between her eyes, and a piercing in both eyebrows sat at the front desk. She was reading a book and seemed oblivious to the disparate music coming from opposite directions.

"I'm interested in tae kwon do," April told her. "How many members do you have?"

The girl gave her a blank look. "Gee, I couldn't give you a number. It's pretty busy. The classes are always filled."

"Do you have sessions every day?"

"I'll have to check the schedule." She riffled the pile of papers that covered her work space.

"How about advanced classes?"

The girl gave up the search. "Jooooe, need you," she called.

The sweet classical music ended and the ballet class broke up. The pop music in the step class thundered on. April turned to watch an overweight, middle-aged male with a jiggling tummy struggle with the moves.

"Well, hello. What can I do for you?" Joe was a buff male of the Dudley Doright school-six feet tall, a hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. His profile was godlike, his hair was blond, and his eyes were a striking azure. April preferred dark-haired men, but why quibble? He was grinning at her, and she felt the heat.

"I'm interested in martial arts," she said. "Do you have an active membership?"

"We have whatever you want. Would you like my credentials? A demonstration? Are you a beginner?"

April smiled. "No, I'd be interested in your advanced classes," she said. "How much practice can I get in?"

Joe nodded. "You want some juice or something? We could set something up for you."

"That would be nice. And I'd like a little background on the styles of all your best practitioners."

"You're really into it," he said.

"Oh, yes, I am. I'd like their names and addresses, too."

She stayed there for quite a while. She checked out what they had in the way of training equipment. They didn't have a lot. No Scoreboard, either. It didn't look like a killer's playground, but you never knew. Joe was happy to talk about the personalities of his members and didn't have a class until four.

"Do you know anyone with a mastiff?" April asked her last question.

Joe laughed. "You do dogs, too?"

"Very funny."

After April identified herself as a detective, the girl with the bindi gave her the names and addresses of ten black belts. All of them lived in the neighborhood. None of them were women. Frank and Fred from the Fifth hadn't been there yet. Score one for April, but who was counting? She was out of there.