Judging Time (36 page)

Sai went on to describe how Dai had grunted as if he had something to tell her, then suddenly he was gone.

"I'm sorry, Ma," April said again, wondering who'd let her in intensive care and thinking most likely the old man had died trying to tell her to get out.

"It's almost five o'clock. Shift over. Come home now. Pay respect," Skinny Dragon shrilled.

"Ahhh, I'll be home soon."

"No bereave. How soon,
ni?"

"As soon as I can. We've got a deadline here."

"TV say you double stupid,
ni.
Say you no good, can't find nothing."

"You watch too much TV, Ma."

As soon as she'd said it April knew it was the wrong thing to say. Dragons carry the pearl of life in their mouths and sometimes they breathe fire through it. Skinny picked that moment to breathe fire through her pearl. "You no gimme babies to take cawr, nothing to do, just watch TV."

Why did other Chinese mothers gather together in societies to improve the community in Chinatown and the neighborhoods in Queens? How come they bothered to build and work in community centers? Hah? How come other mothers found useful things to do and Sai Woo could only watch TV and nag her daughter?

With her coat still on, April hung up and went into Iriarte's office. Mike was sitting in his visitor's chair.

"Hi, Sergeant," he said carefully, then stroked his mustache.

Oh, great, trouble. April smiled at Iriarte.

Iriarte glared back. "Well?"

Well, it hadn't been the best day April had ever had. She made a big deal of searching for her notebook in her purse, then getting it out and opening it up. During her handbag rampage, her fingers brushed the paper with the printout of Liberty's E-mail to Jason. She knew she should give it over. But she turned the pages of the notebook, leaving the E-mail printout where it was. She didn't bother to inform anybody that there'd been a death. A pillar of the Chinese community had died. An old friend Skinny had known since the terrible China days. Maybe they'd been friends. Maybe even lovers. Who knew what went on back then? Her mother was distraught and wanted her to come home, which was not entirely unusual. But nobody would care about any of that.

"Let's see, I talked with Daphne Petersen. She told me some interesting things about her husband's character and that she'd fought with him on the day of his death. She still maintains that although he deserved to die, she didn't kill him because she worships the divinity in all creatures. She gave me a lock of her hair." April smiled then read on.

"I saw Emma Chapman, who told me Merrill Liberty was something of a shrew. The screaming and fights between the couple were pretty much onesided—Merrill was a coke user and did her partying with Tor Petersen because her husband didn't approve. That was one of their issues as a couple. I also had a long talk with Jason Frank," she said. "He told me an interesting story about a woman who tried to pierce herself in the heart with a coat hanger, and guess what? She didn't have to stab herself in the chest to do it. Dr. Frank also told me Liberty was not the kind of guy to kill his wife, anyway not with a coat hanger. I've just come back from a visit with the deputy medical examiner. We've gotten very friendly. She was so helpful she left me one of her hairs on the sink. I gave all the hairs I collected to Ducci."

Iriarte didn't look too happy with the report so far. "What do you want the hair for?" That was the part that got him.

"There was a hair on Petersen's body. I just want to find a match for it. You know how these little details can complicate a court case." April's bland expression didn't change.

Mike smiled.
Oh, boy, are you looking for trouble!

Suddenly she smiled back.
So I'll get an afterlife.
"You know what else Dr. Washington told me? She now thinks the murder weapon may be a knitting needle. Did Merrill Liberty knit?"

"A knitting needle?" Iriarte coughed into his handkerchief.

"They come in all sizes," April said, sobering her face even more.

"This is all shit," Iriarte thundered. "You had a whole day to
find this son of a bitch,
and what did

you do? You went visiting with a bunch of women and a shrink."

"You wanted me to make nice to the ME," April reminded him. "I made nice to her."

"I didn't tell you to go asking for her hair."

"It was on the sink. All I had to do was pick it up," April said modestly.

"What do you think you're doing—no, don't answer that." Iriarte turned to Mike. "I get a call from the commissioner every hour. You know, we've known each other from way back. He used to like me. You know what the commissioner keeps telling me? He keeps telling me how personally let down he feels because we didn't clear that murder in the park last summer, and because of
us,
that maniac is still out there hurting young women.
Now
we can't clear a simple boyfriend/girlfriend murder. The whole world's watching us, and we can't locate one of the most famous people in the city. We got several people positive they saw the bastard on the street last night when there was an incident involving a possible shooting. The commissioner wants you two to get in a car and go up there and drive around until you get that guy. We've got to make an arrest before the week's up."

The heat rose to April's face. Her week was already up. She'd missed a day off. If you missed a day off, you didn't get to make it up later. She'd worked all day. It was her night off. Her mother was going to kill her. She glanced at Mike. He loved nothing more than driving around in a car with her all night. His eyes crinkled and he smiled like a pirate.

"Look, April, I'd like to talk to you about this in person," Dean Kiang said to April on the phone at 7
P.M.
"I don't want to lose touch on this. The boss is getting anxious. He's talking about putting some new people on the case."

So what else was new. April stared grimly out the win
d
ow in her office door at Lieutenant Iriarte, talking to his men with his coat and hat on. The lieutenant

was on his way downtown for a huddle with their big bosses. Each time there was a downtown huddle, the effects radiated outward through the precincts like ripples in a pond. The talk would be followed by a press conference. The press conference would be on all the news programs. And out of the TV would come an announcement that some new important action was being taken that would inevitably make life a little harder and more pressured at the precinct level.

"April, you listening to me?" Dean demanded.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Here's the deal. I think you have potential, and I don't want you screwing up."

She'd heard this before. "I won't screw up," she promised, fairly sure it was too late for such assurances.

"I heard you paid another visit to the ME's office," Dean went on.

"Yes, I went to make nice."

"Well, that's the kind of thing I like to hear. Now tell me what's happening."

"Not a lot. We've got a BOLO out on Petersen's driver, Wally Jefferson. Also on Liberty. Word is Liberty's hiding out up in Harlem." She didn't add that she was still working on the double homicide/Daphne Petersen angle.

"Anything else?"

April considered Rosa's suggestion of a knitting needle as the murder weapon. Damn. She'd forgotten to call to ask Emma if Merrill had been a knitter. If Liberty turned out to be the killer, he could have picked up something close at hand on his way out, something out of his wife's sewing basket. Nice. But unlikely, since she hadn't seen any such knitting basket when they'd gone over the place.

"No, it's frustrating. There's nothing else," she said. Liberty and his wife were having problems. Merrill was a doper. The usual.

A pause, then Dean made a suggestion. "April, why don't you come down and have dinner with me?"

"Ab," April hesitated. She didn't want to say her evening was already booked, that she had an assignment to drive around Harlem in a car for four or five hours. With Sanchez most likely at the wheel.

"This is your night off," Kiang said.

How did Dean Kiang know when her days off were? "Well, not tonight, Dean. I'm working off the chart," April replied.

"I have to be in court tomorrow, but we could have a quick one. How about it?"

April watched the loyal troops wave as Iriarte departed with a flourish. "Gotta go, Dean, my boss calls. Sorry about" dinner."

April hung up, dejected.

"Ready?" Mike stuck his head in the door. He'd done some washing up, had combed his hair and mustache. It was clear
he
was ready.

"Give me a minute." April dialed Jason's home number. No one answered. She checked her watch. Of course. It was late. Emma had probably already left for the theater. She dialed information for the number of the theater and explained who she was and what she wanted to three different people before the phone finally rang in Emma's dressing room.

"Hi, it's April," April said when Emma picked up and said hello.

"Oh, God, did you find Rick?" was Emma's quick reply.

"No, not yet. I'm sorry to bother you, Emma, but I have some important questions for you."

"Okay, but I've got to get dressed in a second."

"Okay. One, did Merrill knit?"

"Huh? Knit?"

"Yeah, knit, quilt, do needlepoint? Anything like that?"

"Uh-uh, she thought it was boring. Merrill was a big reader. And she liked to cook. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I'll explain it to you later."

"The other question," Emma prompted.

"Oh, yeah, did you ever show an interest in owning Merrill's mink coat?"

"God, no. I always told her I wouldn't be caught dead in such a display. You know how many animals have to die to make a coat like that?"

"More than two. Well, thanks, Emma, break a leg."

"No problem. Call me anytime," Emma told her.

April went to the bathroom to wash her face.

An hour later she and Mike were seated in a small Mexican restaurant around the corner from the Two-0, where the owner didn't like Mike to pay, but Mike always paid anyway. April gathered that Mike's father had worked there when he first came to New York thirty years ago and had remained friends with the owner until his death. April didn't know all this for sure because Mike and the owner and the chef always spoke in Spanish, and her Spanish was limited, to say the least.

Two tables away from them a yuppie-looking couple with blond hair were groping each other and sloshing down the sangria as if they'd never have to be alert again. April eyed them enviously.

"What are you trying to accomplish, irritating everybody like this? You trying to suicide or something?" Mike demanded.

April didn't think that was a question that required an answer, so she made a face at him. His response was to give her a deep look complete with sultry smile that caused her cheeks to burn.

Then he said, "Relax," and reached over to cover her hand with one of his.

The contact was limited to a small site, yet traveled through April everywhere in a way she hadn't experienced with a simple touch before. Oh, shit, she didn't need this. She made another face. This was the line she wasn't crossing. Okay, so they weren't working together in the same house. But they were still working together! And he still wasn't C
h
inese!! Mike's hand continued to stroke hers, squeezing lightly. She felt weak from the touch and confused because she was crossing the line and her heart didn't stop her. Her tongue started to protest another issue.

"I've been up since five, and now I have to drive around all night, looking for someone who's about as likely to be hanging out on the streets waiting for us as I am to fly to the moon ...." April fell silent. Under Mike's, her hand turned over so their two palms met. Their fingers laced.

April didn't mention the E-mail Liberty had sent to Jason asking Jason to remove Merrill's mink coat from his apartment, and how they might find him through cyberspace. She was feeling overheated and excited. She'd forgotten it.

"Look on the bright side, at least we're together."

"Uh-huh. "

A waiter arrived with their food, and Mike removed his hand, the better to communicate his appreciation.

"Well, this looks almost as good as Chinese," April murmured.

Mike's father had been a chef in a Mexican restaurant. April's father still was a chef in a Chinese restaurant. Mike always said this commonality of the occupations of their fathers made a special bond between them. Now he smiled as he expertly rolled two slices of chicken
fajita,
refried beans, grated
queso bianco,
salsa, chopped tomato, guacamole, and sour cream into a small com tortilla, then took a bite. None of the contents squished out on his fingers at either end, nor did the tortilla break in the middle, spilling the food back onto his plate. She watched him take a second bite to see if the performance could be repeated. It was.

April looked at her plate of four skewered and grilled shrimps the size of lobster tails, covered with a green sauce, decorated with chilies that couldn't be eaten, and arranged on a plate of squid-ink-flavored rice. She'd had it before and was so impressed by the idea of black rice she'd told her father Ja Fa Woo to try it in the well-known midtown Chinese restaurant where he worked. She thought it might be an exotic addition to his repertoire.

"April—" Mike had finished his fajita and was staring at her with that expression men get when they're full of a positive emotion beyond the reach of their vocabulary.

Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid he could hear it. No, she wasn't going there. "Ah . . . you asked me why I'm bugging everybody. Well, I'm trying to get at the truth." She shrugged. "You know."

The moment passed and Mike laughed. "You really got Iriarte with the bit about the hair on the sink. What did you do with it?"

"I told you I gave it to Duke, what else? I also told him Jason's story about the coat hanger and the pericardial tamponade, whatever that is. Duke was most interested. He really thinks Rosa messed up and Petersen was murdered."