A Killing Gift (8 page)

"
M
r. Frank, this is Birdie Bassett returning your call." Birdie's voice was soft, almost a whisper. She spoke to an answering machine, but the doctor came on before she finished.

"Yes, this is Dr. Frank. Thank you for calling back so quickly."

Birdie did not jump into his pause.

"I want you to know that we at the institute are deeply saddened by your husband's passing," he went on.

Birdie was sure he was.

"Your husband was a wonderful man." The doctor's voice was pitched to soothe, but she wasn't soothed by it. She'd been studying the foundation's tax returns all afternoon and knew that Max had given the Psychoanalytic Institute of New York a whopping five million dollars over the last several years. It hurt her that she'd never heard of it.

"The funeral was very moving," Dr. Frank went on. "And there was a wonderful turnout. I couldn't get anywhere near you to pay my respects," he rattled on.

"Yes, the line was very long," Birdie acknowledged, and she hadn't known a quarter of the people who'd shaken her hand. It had made her feel horrible. So much of her husband's life had already been lived decades before she was even born. But the funeral was three weeks ago; enough about it.

"Dr. Frank, how well did you know my husband?" she asked.

"Oh, very well. He'd been deeply interested in psychoanalysis for many years, as you know. And, of course, he served on our board. I was privileged to know him personally for over twelve years."

Birdie exhaled silently. A growing complication of missing Max desperately was her increasing fury at all the things he'd done without her.

"He was a very astute businessman, very helpful. We will miss him a great deal." Dr. Frank's voice droned on. It sounded more unctuous than sad to Birdie, and she hated this shrink already. He'd never get any more money from her.

"How was he helpful to you?" She said the words slowly, trying to get a handle on her feelings.

"Your husband advised us on the reorganization of our institute, helped us with our business plan. He donated to our building renovation. He was very active." He sounded surprised that she didn't already know all this.

"I wasn't involved in the foundation. Your call came as a surprise to me. I'm playing catch-up," Birdie admitted. In fact, Max had treated her like one of his children. He hadn't told her anything.

"I'd be delighted to help you. What would you like to know?"

There was a subtle change in his tone. Birdie hesitated. She needed a translator, someone close enough to Max to explain his state of mind, his decisions, even the cause of his death. If she didn't know whom she could trust, how could she go about finding out if he'd died of natural causes?
You're next.
She couldn't get the words out of her mind. Next for what? Finally she answered.

"Dr. Frank, there are a lot of things I need to know, including everything about you. I never heard of the Psychoanalytic Institute until your call today."

A long silence suggested Dr. Frank's continued surprise.

"That's the reason I asked how well you knew him," she added. "The truth is, I have some questions about the way my husband died."

"What do you mean?" the shrink asked cautiously.

"He was a very healthy man," she said.

"Yes, he was lucky. He did not show any vulnerabilities. He hadn't slowed down yet."

"He was a healthy man. He had the heart of a forty-year-old," Birdie said flatly.

"I understand, but surely your doctors have told you that it's not uncommon for older people-"

"He was in good health. I would know," she insisted.

"Well, healthy people can have hidden vulnerabilities."

Dr. Frank still sounded smooth, and Birdie realized that he was arguing with her. She didn't like that.

"I thought shrinks were supposed to listen," she said sharply.

"Ah…"

Silence. She'd stopped him cold. But now she didn't trust him and didn't want to go in that direction. "Why was he interested in psychoanalysis?" she asked.

"Oh, he was interested in the human mind, why people behave the way they do."

"This is news to me. Did he talk about his children?"

"Ah…"

"Dr. Frank, you called me for my support of your organization. If you want my support, there are a great many things I need to know."

"Of course, would you like to come to my office? I'd be happy to fill you in…"

"Tell me now," she insisted. "Why was he so interested in the human mind?"

"Max didn't tell you about his wife's history?"

"Dr. Frank, my husband was from the old school. He wanted life to be pleasant all the time. As far as I was concerned, his wife was perfect, his children were perfect, his life was perfect, and psychology simply didn't exist."

Now she heard him sigh.

"Max was a very private man," he murmured.

"Are you telling me that Cornelia Bassett had a history of mental illness?"

"She had problems," he said hesitantly.

"Problems? What kind of problems?" This was news to Birdie.

"I'm surprised he didn't share this with you."

"What about Max's children? Do they have problems, too?"

"Everybody has problems, Mrs. Bassett."

This was not what Birdie expected to hear.

"Dr. Frank, were you my husband's doctor? Did you treat him or his wife or his children? Is that why he gave so much money to your organization?"

"Mrs. Bassett, I met Max after his wife died. He felt he hadn't given her the right kind of support and didn't want to make that mistake again with you or his children."

"Oh, really." Birdie was stunned. Once again, he hadn't shared his issues with her.

"We talked, but he felt he was too old for therapy. That was how he came to be involved with the institute. He wanted to learn more. He was an interesting person," Dr. Frank finished up.

He was indeed.

"Well, I need to know a lot more. Would you mind coming to the apartment?" Birdie said.

"No, of course not. Would you like me to bring the president of the institute? He knew your husband very well, too."

"Not at this time. When are you available?" It was Thursday. Dr. Frank was not available to see her until the following Thursday. They made a date, but Birdie Bassett wouldn't live to keep it.

T
he Bernardino task force was working out of the Sixth, the precinct where
NYPD Blue
was filmed. At eight p.m. Thursday-twenty hours after the killing-the second-floor squad room was no quieter than it had been at noon. The priority case had sucked in ten of Mike's detectives from the Homicide task force, plus eight detectives from the Sixth. Plus a half dozen more from downtown. That didn't count the number of detectives from Internal Affairs, which was running its own parallel investigation, the hot line that had been established, or the Crime Stoppers van that had been cruising the area all day. They were looking for witnesses. A man with a big dog. So far, nothing.

In some cases, no matter how many detectives and uniforms fanned out to canvass an area for witnesses to a crime, they weren't the ones to get information. The anonymous channels out to the public sometimes caught it. Hot lines and Crime Stoppers numbers were flashing on the news, and the nuts were coming out.

Since two p.m. Mike had been supervising the collection of data from people working the streets. He was also organizing the time charts. Where Bernardino had been in the twenty-four hours before his death. Whom he had seen and talked to. What he had planned for the next day. And Mike had to manage the delicate task of mapping the movements of everyone who'd been to Bernardino's party and what they'd done after they left.

No strong leads had emerged yet. But it was impossible to know which bits and pieces that were coming in from many sources might be useful down the road. Only the scope of the investigation was clear. It was going to be wide. By eight-thirty Mike had done all he could do and needed a break from the noise. Before heading home for the night, he decided to visit Marcus Beame, Bernardino's closest associate. He knew that Beame was working the second tour that day-four p.m. to midnight in the Fifth Precinct. Mike headed over to see him.

The Fifth was one of the oldest police precinct buildings in New York, built before the turn of the last century and renovated twice during the tenure of the last three police commissioners. Finally completed for the final time with the typical second-class workmanship precincts were known for receiving, the building was already looking like the dinosaur it was.

Mike parked his dirty red Camaro in a no-parking spot on Elizabeth Street, walked into April's old precinct, and climbed the steep, old-fashioned staircase to the detective unit on the second floor. He found Marcus at his desk, talking on the phone. Here it was quiet. At just before nine p.m. on a Thursday night there was no one in the holding cell. Two broad-faced Chinese women were talking loudly to a Chinese detective who chewed on a toothpick. Two other detectives, neither Chinese, were yakking into their headsets. Everyone else was out. The CO's office was empty. A quiet night.

Mike entered the CO's glass-enclosed office with its window that overlooked Elizabeth Street. Unlike Mike, who stared at four solid walls and had no glass in his office door, Bernardino had been able to view the comings and goings of a busy Chinatown street. For fifteen years he'd watched the uniforms arriving and leaving the precinct, vendors going in and out of their stores, residents doing business on that block every day, and the tens of thousands of visitors who traveled to Chinatown from the tristate area and beyond on weekends to shop.

Every time he came in here, Mike couldn't help being reminded that April had grown up only a few blocks away, had gone to school and high school here, and had returned as a patrol officer after eighteen months in Bed-Stuy. She'd been promoted to detective here, and stayed more than six years. Those facts swam in and out of his thoughts, as everything about April did: where she came from, what she was doing and thinking, her health at the moment. April was the sun and moon that waxed and waned around him. She was his yin and yang. He thought about her all the time, the way some people obsessed about work, and he knew that she was pissed off at him. She wanted to be there right now. Too bad. She needed a rest.

He was bone tired, too. Day one of the investigation was gone, and they didn't have a clue who Bernardino's killer was. Some maniac out there in the wind didn't know that April couldn't remember his face. That was too close for Mike. He was glad she was living with him, where she was safe. Not even insiders knew that address. While Mike waited for Beame to get off the phone back in the bigger room, he took a look around Bernardino's old office. The usual precinct business was posted, but there were no personal photos on the walls or surfaces. He checked the desk drawers one by one. Some used tissues, pencil stubs, forms. But no computer disks or notebooks, nothing resembling the stack of important calling cards-the bigger the better and in two alphabets-that were so prevalent and necessary in Chinatown. Bernardino's stuff was gone.

Mike sighed again. The old wooden desk that was centered right in the window over Elizabeth Street that Bernardino had occupied for nearly fifteen years no longer housed a single item he'd owned. The desk chair was also a relic. A wooden rock-and-roller. Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. The chair creaked noisily. After a few minutes Beame came in.

"How ya doin'?" Mike said before he opened his eyes.

"Okay."

Reluctantly he opened them. He was the one who'd been up all night, going on thirty-six hours without sleep, but Marcus was the one who didn't look good. Mike noted the bad color, kind of graying out, as if Beame had been pickled. His skin sagged around the eyes and chin. No tone at all, and his meager lips looked thinner than usual. Mike frowned at the wrinkled tan shirt, the knot of his tie pulled down to the middle of his chest. Beame's tawny sport jacket was still hanging on the back of his chair. He hadn't bothered to clean up for the interview.

He settled in the chair opposite Mike, thrusting out his pelvis and legs. Already defensive. Mike didn't like the show of disrespect.

"You don't look so great," Mike observed. Neutral.

"Four hours of interrogation, you'd look a little ragged yourself," Beame shot back.

Mike sniffed. "So?"

Beame lifted a shoulder. "They've got everything I know."

Mike let go of a small smile that couldn't be seen under his mustache. "That's good. That's very good." He made a steeple with his fingers, rocking in Bernardino's creaky chair. "Let me in, Marcus. You were the last to hear Bernardino speak. What did he say?"

"All he said was he couldn't take any more nostalgia. Period. He was out the door."

"Anything else?"

Beame wagged his chin, then glanced down at the desktop where Mike was twiddling his thumbs. "I'm way behind here." He was chewing gum, showing his teeth. Being a shit.

Mike wondered if the gum was a cover for beery breath, and looked closer at Beame's face. His blue eyes were bloodshot, sheepish. Maybe he was a drinker. But maybe it was guilt about something else.

"What do you have?" Beame asked after a moment. It was clear his four hours with Internal Affairs hadn't yielded
him
any information. Too bad.

Mike put his index finger to his lips as if he were considering sharing. He stroked his mustache. A lot of cops had good mustaches. Mike had a great one. Not too bushy, not too in-your-face with the machismo. He trimmed it every day for discipline. He had a good strong mustache over the kind of nice, full, smiling lips that made women feel safe and didn't threaten men.

"A canvass of the area hasn't come up with much," he said slowly. "We're waiting on the COD." A lie. "When did Bernardino clear his stuff out?"

Beame lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. One day last week."

"What day?"

"Maybe Thursday or Friday. I was off."

"Who was here?"

"You can check with Patti."

"That the secretary?" Mike pulled out his notebook, found a clean page, and started scribbling in it.

"I wouldn't call her that. She does what she can, goes home at six. Her number is posted." He jerked his head at the clipboard where it might be found.

"What about ongoing cases? Anything specific to Chinatown?"

"Small stuff. You can go through it. They did."

IA again. Mike nodded.

"Don't you guys share?" Beame demanded.

"Sure we do." Mike changed the subject. "Was Bernardino working anything on his own?"

"Look, I liked the guy. He was tough, but I liked him. I knew him for years, okay?" Beame said. Now he was washing his hands of it.

So what? They all liked him. Mike prodded a little. "What was he into? Come on, was it gang stuff?"

Beame shook his head. Over the years there was always a variety of criminal activity in Chinatown. Extortion and protection, both Chinese and mob-related. Illegals working in sweatshops and restaurants. Back in the early nineties an influx of immigrants from Fu-jian had brought in unusually vicious gang members who didn't play by Chinatown rules. After a shooting in a restaurant, the unofficial officials of Chinatown stopped it. Chinatown had its own way of dealing with things. Mike was looking for a connection, a string leading anywhere.

"You're interested in the karate. Well, they don't kill that way down here. Gang members cut with big knives, shoot with big guns. They need a lot of blood to send their messages. What was the message here, huh?"

"Anything…" Going on ten p.m. Mike was getting impatient. And it didn't have to be a karate thing. Bernardino was yoked. Any cop, anybody in the military, any corrections officer knew how to do it.

"I'd say nothing, Mike. But what do I know?"

"You were close to him. You saw him last," Mike reminded him.

"Yeah, but after his wife died, it was like someone pushed his off button. He went somewhere in his head." Beame twirled his finger around his ear.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he was treading water here. Grumpy-old-man shit, didn't have a good word for anyone. He'd lost his fight, know what I mean? He was going through the motions. Just did the administrative stuff. He wasn't investigating shit."

"But he was a good cop…?" Mike let the question trail off.

"Yeah, he was a good cop." Beame lifted his shoulder again. "But somebody popped his bubble."

"But not about work, you'd say?"

"I don't think so." Now it was Beame's fingers beating a little number on the chair arm.

"You got a hypo?" Mike asked finally.

"A hypothetical?"

"Yeah, a theory? This a stranger thing? You know the area."

Beame drummed his fingers, reached into his pants pocket with his other hand, blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief, chewed his gum. "You got anything pointing in that direction?" he asked finally.

"Oh, sure. We got stuff. We got a lot of stuff. You think about it. Call me tomorrow. Okay?"

"Yeah, will do."

Mike left unsatisfied. He felt as if a giant gnat were cruising back and forth in front of his face. That gnat was Internal Affairs, taking this case very seriously.
So what?
he told himself.

Back in the Camaro and finally shutting down for the day, he punched automatic dial for his home number. The answering machine picked up, telling him no one was available to take his call. He shook his head, feeling uneasy. If April was at her mother's, he was going to be upset. He couldn't help thinking she might not be safe there, but since he'd already shut her out of the case it didn't seem like a good idea to interfere if she wanted to go home.