A Killing Gift (23 page)

E
ver since April's visit, Jason Frank had been thinking about Max Bassett's first wife. Cornelia had been a spoiled narcissist with an arctic temperament and a scorched-earth policy toward her husband and children. She'd frozen them out of her heart, then ignited their jealous rage with her other passionate relationships. Brenda's and Burton's characters had been formed in the cradle of their mother's volatility. Neither had ever worked or ever wanted to. Neither could love or connect with anyone. And Birdie, his second wife, who'd come from a loving middle-class family and had made their father happy for the first time in his life, had been their nemesis.

One thing about Birdie's murder was crystal-clear to Jason: Her killer was organized, and the two siblings were not able to plan anything. Burton had been missing doorways and walking into walls all his life. Burton couldn't remember his own phone number and was too pickled most of the time to keep track of movable objects like his wallet and credit cards. For Burton, optimism, not regrets and rage, lived in the bottle. Drinking had never made him want to kill. For Brenda, happiness could come only in the form of a wealthy man who would love and tolerate her as her daddy had loved and tolerated his wives. Her revenge would be in making such a match. So far she hadn't been able to do it, but she was an aggressive seeker. She didn't have time to kill her stepmother.

Jason was screening his calls when April phoned late in the afternoon. "Do you want to meet someone?" she asked when he picked up.

"I haven't even located my notes yet," he said. He had his opinion, but he wasn't ready to make pronouncements. He wanted to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

"Are you free?"

"For ten minutes. What's the story on Birdie's will?"

"Don't have it yet. The lawyers have not been responsive. It's not clear she had one," April said.

"How about Max's will? Does Birdie's legacy revert to his children upon her death?"

"It's early days, Jason. I don't have that yet."

"Well, I haven't had time to do a profile on your killer," he said slowly.

"May not matter now. We have a lead. Will you come down to talk to him?"

"Who is it?"

"A fund-raiser. Looks like a nutcase to me. I want you to talk to him."

"Why me? Why not your people?"

"I have my reasons," she said.

"They are?"

"You're not threatening. I have a theory."

"A lot of people aren't threatening."

"Okay, you're not one of us."

"What else?"

"Three more things, Jason. This is between us. I want to know if he recognizes me. I want to know his feelings toward Jack, if he was targeted. But I can't go there directly. Jack is freaking out already. Maybe you could talk to Jack, too. He doesn't want to be rich."

Jason sighed. "That's it?"

"Well, one more little thing. From a psychological perspective, could this squirrel do two such bold killings on his own? Or did he have someone with him-not actually doing the kill, but serving as a kind of commander or validator? You know what I'm saying?"

"That's very interesting, April. Ah, tonight I have a meeting at the institute until nine-thirty," he said slowly. "But for this I can cancel."

"Well, that's not necessary. Ten will be absolutely perfect. I'll send a car for you."

"Don't make it a squad car." Jason groaned. He hated traveling in a blue-and-white.

A
l Frayme had to pee. Mike could see it in his face. He was sealed away in the same small room where they'd parked Cherry Packer for two days while they'd tried to nail either Harry or Bill Bernardino. Cherry was back upstate feeding her horses. She had orders not to flee. Harry was home with Carol, still on warning, too. Neither was deemed a flight risk at the moment. And Al Frayme was all alone in the hot seat.

Two teams of detectives were taking turns with him. A confession would be preferable to the thousands of man-hours it would take to make a case, but Al wasn't the scaredy-cat type. So far he hadn't had any trouble containing his temper or his bladder. He'd refused soda and coffee, but spent the afternoon guzzling bottles of sparkling water without any concern about volume. Only now was it looking as if his full bladder was getting to him. That was good. Detectives came and went from the room, had their sandwiches and cigarette breaks. Frayme's requests to take a piss were ignored. He was beginning to get the idea.

When April returned from three interviews at York and caught up with Mike outside the viewing room, she was starved. "Have you eaten?" she asked.

"Hours ago. It's practically dinnertime now. What do you want?"

"Club sandwich," she said.

A uniform took the order and went away to have it filled. As they waited for it, they sat outside the viewing room watching the suspect squirm in his chair.

"How's he doing?" April asked.

"He's had about four quarts, so we know he's got a lot of control. You first."

April opened her notebook and turned the pages. "Wendy Vivendi doesn't have this guy on her radar screen. He's a nonentity as far as she's concerned. He isn't asked to any of the important functions, doesn't know the president to shake his hand. The big donors are not even handled through the alumni office. Two independent teams work the donors. Under a hundred grand is the development office. Over a hundred is handled on the executive level. Vivendi does it herself. If she knew that Bernardino was a target for fund-raising, she certainly didn't tell me. Same with Birdie. Jobs are on the line for sure, but it turns out Baldwin is the one on notice. He's got the quota to fill."

April glanced up and saw Frayme all alone. He was checking his watch, tapping his foot. He had to pee.

"He's been unhappy for an hour," Mike said.

"What else?"

"Let's see. The dean of the social work school remembers meeting the alumni people. She says that Baldwin pretty much nodded through it, and Al Frayme was in and out of the room."

"Clearly not to pee."

"Maybe not. Crease doesn't know either of them well and understood from the get-go that they were not interested in helping her out. Social work is pretty much the bottom of the food chain. There are plenty of students who want to do it, but the field doesn't bring in research, state, federal, or private money. No one wants the poor, the addicted, the homeless, the mentally ill. I got the whole litany. She's a desperate woman."

"So you have nothing."

"Well, maintenance doesn't clean private offices, and there was no scheduled work on the floor that day. We went in and dusted the phone. It had been wiped. We checked the desk, chair arms, doors, and doorknobs and lifted a bunch of prints just in case. Do you have Al's prints?"

"Yes, he parked them all over his water bottles. We're running them. What else?"

"The boys down in the Fifth do not have Frayme on anybody's dojo list. But he has to be training somewhere. He has to be sparring with somebody. You don't do this alone. It's a partner thing, like tennis. Since his own name hasn't come up, I'm guessing he has an alias for this aspect of his life, maybe a code name. We're getting a poster made up now. I have Hagedorn checking on his background."

The sandwiches came. April took a few delicate bites, then gave in and gobbled. When she'd finished half of it, she shifted to Baldwin's input.

"Frayme was a classmate of Birdie's. We can try him with that. Maybe she blew him off back then, and he nursed a grudge. Maybe she blew him off again with the money, and this time he couldn't take it. Baldwin said Al's a schmoozer, not a closer. He was passed over for Baldwin's job three years ago."

"A loser, then! That would play." Mike reached for her uneaten French fries.

Frayme got up and pounded on the door. "I need to fucking urinate. What do you want me to do, piss on the floor?" They'd reduced him to begging.

April and Mike slapped each other five.

J
ason left his institute strategy meeting early. The eight committee members had been contentious and nonproductive as usual, and the prospect of police work was far more exciting. He had plenty of experience evaluating new patients for himself and the institute. He'd worked in psychiatric hospitals, and occasionally did family and marital counseling, although couples therapy depressed him because the sessions were bitter and it was sad when people had to break up their homes. The occasional opportunity to do some forensic psychiatry was a bracing treat.

He made his excuses to his colleagues, grabbed a cab, and headed downtown, relishing the prospect of being on task in a dirty police interview room. With all those cops around, he got a testosterone high, almost as if he were one of them. And suspects were a pleasure to work with. Unlike patients, he had no loyalty to them and didn't have to stick to the truth. Whenever he had the opportunity to help nail a killer, he always felt like Bogey in a trench coat. His job was just to catch them out. It was a real nice change from having to cure them.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the Sixth Precinct, it looked familiar somehow, but he didn't know why. A lot of people were gathered there. Even at nine-fifteen it felt as if he had to push through a hundred individuals carrying guns to find April and Mike.

He made his way upstairs and through the crowded detective unit.

When he opened the door to the CO's office, where Mike and April were presently camped, Mike looked happy to see him. "Hey, Jason, thanks for coming in so late. We appreciate it. Close the door, will you?"

"No problem. I'm happy to help." Jason shut the door and relaxed. His own day was over, and for a moment he considered loosening his tie. Then he remembered that everybody here was still on duty and abandoned the idea.

Mike stood and stretched his arm across the desk to shake hands. "You're looking good. How's life?"

"Couldn't be better. You?" Jason got his second hug from April in two days, a reward for coming in.

She didn't speak, but her eyes said it all.
Thanks.
He sat down in the chair next to her, basking in the warmth. "Okay, I gather you want an evaluation. That's a relief. I'm not a profiler."

"You'll do."

For the next half an hour they filled him in on the case, discussed April's buddy theory involving the mystery man with the dog who'd been on the scene in both cases. Then they blocked out areas of interest they'd like him to cover with Frayme. Jason was a fresh face on the scene with a new role to play.

A few minutes after ten he entered the interview room, where Al had been getting his first taste of the business end of criminal law enforcement. As on previous occasions Jason was shocked by the grunge.

The small room, like so many others of its type in precincts all over the city, didn't appear to have been cleaned in some time, but maybe the mess had only accumulated since morning. It smelled of sweaty feet and spoiling food. The wastebasket overflowed. Plastic cups littered the floor. Some coffee had spilled out of one of them and not been cleaned up. There was graffiti on one wall:
Cops are dicks
-a bit of poetry that no one had bothered to erase. The lack of amenities was meant to intimidate, and it did. Jason took a look at the suspect and pasted on a smile.

"Mr. Frayme. How are you doing?"

Al was in a position of repose. His head with its light-colored hair was cradled in his arm on the table. He didn't bother to acknowledge the new visitor by lifting it up.

"I'm Dr. Jason Frank. I'm a psychiatrist," Jason added.

Then the head came up. If he'd been dozing, he was wide-awake now. "Are you a cop?" he asked.

"No." Jason laughed comfortably.

"The FBI?"

"No, no. None of the agencies. I've had a request to make sure everything is on the up-and-up. I'm neutral."

"Did the university send you?" Frayme said hopefully.

"I'm not at liberty to say. But I do want you to know I'm here to protect your interests. Are you having any problems you'd like to put on record?"

"Yeah. I was kidnapped out of my office. A fucking SWAT team-excuse my French-took me out right in front of my boss. It was humiliating. I've been cooped up here for ten hours, prevented from doing my job. They won't let me pee or call in. You are a cop, aren't you?" He eyed Jason warily.

"Absolutely not. Do you need to go to the bathroom now?"

"No," Frayme replied angrily. "Before. I had to go before."

"Are you comfortable now? Do you need anything?"

"I need to get out of here. I need to get back to work."

"Well, the workday is over now; you don't have to worry about that. But maybe I can help get you home."

"Why doesn't the university send a damn lawyer? They have a whole fucking law school-excuse my French." He said it automatically. "They could get me out of here in a snap. You know the FBI is here, too. It's been crazy."

"I understand where you're coming from. But you seem like a reasonable guy. You know what they're up against. This is an important case." Jason pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Well, I am a reasonable guy."

"That's what I heard. You're a reasonable guy, and the police are interested in you. You know what that means, right?"

"A dozen fucking cops and FBI agents tried to confuse me about the facts of my own life. Excuse my French, but do they think I'm stupid?"

Jason smiled. "As long as you know them, you'll be fine."

"What?"

"The facts of your life," he said.

"Oh, ha, ha. What's the university doing for me?" Frayme propped his chin on his hand and tried to look boyish.

"I believe their position at the moment is that a clean bill of health will go a lot further than aggressive saber rattling. Raising hackles won't cut it with them. Got it?"

"Oh, Christ, don't give me that humanities shit."

"Yeah, well, play ball or lose sympathy, that's the word. You're up against the Feds, here, too. A very important case."

"Yeah, and the victims were friends of mine. This is doubly hard on me." Frayme sighed hugely. "Okay, I'm on my own. What if I want a lawyer?"

"I'm sure one will be provided if you need it down the road. For now we're asking for your help. This is a critical time for everybody. You don't want to embarrass anybody, do you?"

Frayme made a noise in his throat. "Tell me about it. I'm pretty embarrassed myself." But he didn't look embarrassed saying the words.

"Okay, then let's prove they got the wrong guy." Jason scratched his chin. "Why don't you start with the righting."

"They're making a mountain out of nothing. It's a hobby, that's all. I told them that. There's nothing more to it." Al rubbed his hands together.

"I hear it's a hobby you can get into pretty deep."

Al dipped his chin. "It's interesting. There's a lot to it, like chess."

"You ever tell anyone it was a religion to you?"

"Hell, no! I never said that. I never talked about it."

"Are you sure?" Jason sat back on the uncomfortable chair. He was having fun already.

"Of course I'm fucking sure, excuse my French. I did it for balance, that's all. Like dancing school."

"Did you tell them what school you go to?"

"The detectives or Devereaux?"

Oops, there was a name. Jason was careful not to look in the viewing window. "The cops, of course. Did you tell them what school you go to?"

"No, because I don't go to school. I work at home," he said without blinking.

"You said before it was like chess. Don't you have to play with someone else?"

"Not really."

"What about training? Doesn't someone have to teach you how to do it?"

Frayme shook his head. "I don't like the slants. I never wanted to get into it."

"Slants?"

He made a face. "You know, the whole Oriental thing. They give me the creeps. Why are you asking me all this?"

"Oh, I thought you might have a sparring partner, a school, where the people can vouch for you." Jason lifted a shoulder.

"Oh." Al's face froze. "I told you I work alone."

"You just bang away at the bricks in your living room?" Jason sounded doubtful.

"That's right. That's how I train."

"Must be dusty," he remarked.

Frayme shook his head again. His face held a blank expression. "Not at all. I wrap them in napkins. I told you. I don't fight. I just do it for balance."

"How do you get the balance if you don't practice with anyone?"

He didn't answer.

Jason made a clumsy karate chop with his hand. "What does this have to do with balance?"

"I don't use it to fight."

"Okay, if that's the truth, it's the truth," Jason said. "But what about the witnesses?"

"Oh, Christ. Come on, you know they don't have witnesses." He put his wrists together and raised them over his head. "If they had witnesses, they'd have arrested me already. Anyway, they were my friends. Why would I hurt my friends?"

"Well, that's a good question." Jason tilted his head. "Sometimes friends piss each other off and they're not friends anymore. Then one might have to take revenge."

"Not me. I'm a sweet guy."

Whenever a man claimed he was a sweet guy, Jason always knew he probably wasn't. Nice guys didn't have to advertise for themselves. "Well, that's good to know. I want to talk about karate some more. How long does it take to get good?"

Al made a noise with his lips. "A long time."

"What level of skill do you have?"

Al shook his head. "I wouldn't know. I'm not into competition."

"Okay. When these murders occurred, you were working a big donation with both of the victims. Isn't that a little suspicious?"

A little anger erupted in Al's eyes. "No. This is a personal tragedy for me," he said.

"You hoped it would get you out of the alumni office, away from your do-nothing boss, right?"

Frayme shifted in his metal chair. "How do you know that?"

"Oh, there's a lot of change happening. It was time for a change for you. You do all the work. He does nothing. Clear as crystal. All you needed was one little break on the donor end, and you'd be golden in corporate. That's what you wanted, right?"

Al nodded. "I deserved it. I've given everything for this school."

"Well, maybe your friends refused you, and you lost it," Jason suggested.

Frayme shook his head. "It wouldn't happen like that. I used to get mad, but I don't anymore. I've grown up."

"Why did they refuse you?"

"I didn't say that. I said if they
had
refused me I wouldn't have been hurt or angry. I'm way over that. I've learned a lot."

"You've learned a lot from your karate. And you're a sweet guy. Maybe you didn't mean to hurt them, just a slap on the cheek."

"You'd have to prove it," he said, looking down at his hands.

"Okay, I understand. I can see how it might happen. That lottery cop coming along the night of his retirement party, a little high and loose, celebrating his good fortune right in your neighborhood. Maybe it was just a chance meeting. He told you he was going to Florida, was taking off without giving you any of his money. So you hit him, just a little tap."

"That's not the way it happened." Frayme slammed his fist on the table so hard it jumped off the floor. "I didn't hit him. I wouldn't do that."

"So how did it happen?"

"I don't know. I was in my office."

"But no one saw you there."

"Doesn't mean I wasn't there."

"Okay, so you're a bit of a loner, no one to practice with. Maybe you don't know how strong you are. The cop pissed you off… an accident. We could work with that."

"I'm not a loner," Frayme said sullenly. "I have people."

"You just told me you practice your religion alone. Doesn't that make you kind of a loner?"

"Marty sits all day playing chess with a fucking computer. If no one sees it, what kind of win can that be?"

"I see your point. Now, Birdie told you she was giving ten thousand to the university the day she was murdered. That must have been a disappointment for you."

"Listen, I don't know where you heard that. It's a crock. I was getting a couple of million from each of them. B and B were doing it for me. I'm telling you it was a sure thing. You just said I was on the way up. Why would I kill my future?"

"Do you have anything to support that, something in writing?"

"Who wants to know?" Frayme's chin quivered. "Maybe I could document with my notes. The pledges were made on the phone, but I don't have tapes. We're not supposed to do that."

"Did Baldwin know about it?"

"Not the amount. He would have tried to handle it himself, and the man couldn't squeeze dick out of the mint." He paused. "Do they think we could go to the estates?"

Jason raised a shoulder. "Maybe."

"I could take a crack at it," Frayme said with an engaging smile.

"How about Jack Devereaux?"

"Oh, God. Don't get me started on Jack." Frayme looked at the graffiti without seeing it.

"What about him?"

"A sad story! I know what it's like. My dad left me, but at least I know where he is. Jack's dad wouldn't even admit he had him. I feel real bad for him."

"Well, you don't need to feel bad for him now. He's on top of the world now. A wonder boy."

Frayme laughed. "Oh, you don't know him. He's a real kook. Afraid of his shadow-crazy-in-the-head paranoid. Look at what he told you about my fighting. A lot of paranoid lies."

"Jack is paranoid? I didn't know that."

"Well, it's common among them. You can't imagine what it's like working with those people day after day. They get some money in their hands and they start treating you like shit."

Jason flashed to his rich banker client who often treated him like shit. "I bet it's tough," he said. Then he got down to it and began questioning the suspect in earnest.