Loving Time (43 page)

Jason brooded quietly about his. He was losing time on all sides. He’d had to juggle patient appointments to carry out Dickey’s teaching duties. He had spent many hours on the Cowles file. He now knew that Clara had given him the file because she wanted him to back up her story that she hadn’t been responsible for the direction of Ray’s treatment; her supervisor had betrayed both her trust and that of her patient. It was a nasty story that she was counting on him, the hospital, and its various committees not to reveal, for it would discredit them all. Unfortunately, the supervisor in question happened to die under suspicious circumstances in his office while Clara was with him.

Jason was shocked by Clara’s arrogance. She seemed to believe that nothing could touch her. Never mind the suicide of her patient Ray Cowles and her six minutes of conversation with him before his death. Never mind her presence in Dickey’s office when he died. Clara was going to rely on her position to stonewall her way through it all. She intended to
come out of it unscathed, and Jason knew that she would sacrifice anyone and anything to accomplish her goal. There were some very good reasons not to get into a confrontation with her. Jason didn’t want to discredit the Centre. On the other hand, he didn’t want Clara to get away with murder by blackmailing the institution, either. He was torn, overworked, and overtired. And now he was taking the time to be with Emma and have lunch.

“Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this,” Emma said happily.

“What—winter, homicide, Clara Treadwell, or you?” Jason grumped.

“Thanks, that’s lovely. I could have left you there and gone out to a fancy lunch, or gone shopping. Could have gone to the gym. Lot of things I could have done, you know.”

“Sorry. Except for Clara, I’m having a ball, really.”

“What’s going on, Jason?” Emma asked, suddenly serious.

“I don’t know, Em. I really don’t.”

“Oh, come on, you’re a shrink. What’s your theory?”

Jason inhaled on the question. His breath caught on the cold air, and he coughed.

“It’s hard to imagine Clara a murderer,” Emma mused when he didn’t answer.

“There are other possibilities.” Jason sighed, scratching his beard. “I really hate getting sucked into this.”

“What are you going to do, baby?” Emma tucked a hand in his pocket, found some fingers. “You’re rich. You don’t have to put up with it.”

They speeded up to cross West End Avenue before the yellow traffic light turned to red.

“Darling,
you’re
rich. I’m not. I still have to put up with it.”

“What does that mean? If you made lots of money, wouldn’t you share it with me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He fell silent, not wanting to seem churlish by pointing out that he couldn’t exactly count on her good fortune since she’d only just returned from
leaving him for six months. She might take off again at any time. And having a big earner for a wife would not be a complete joy to him in any case.

“Sexist,” she muttered.

They got to their favorite place, the Lantern Coffee Shop, where they used to go years ago when they first met. At the door, Emma tugged at his arm.

“Look, there are those cops and that FBI guy.” She turned away. “I can’t go in there.”

Jason peered through the dirty glass door. April Woo, Mike Sanchez, and Special Agent Daveys were sitting at a table in the back. As if she sensed Jason’s presence, April suddenly glanced up. She saw Jason and smiled.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked, her eyes troubled at seeing the two detectives who’d saved her life.

“We could go in and find out,” Jason proposed.

Emma withdrew her hand from his pocket. “You’re really into this crime thing, aren’t you?”

“I thought you were interested.”

She turned south on Broadway, forcing him to follow. “I was interested in the FBI. They need spook shrinks. You’d be perfect. Shave off your beard and let’s go to Washington. But what’s this thing with New York street cops? Why can’t you stay away from them?”

“Emma, cops come in handy sometimes.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” She kept walking fast. Jason had to trot to catch up with her. He was dying to know what was going on. He wished he and Emma could sit down and join the law-enforcement party. But he knew from long experience that Emma did what she wanted and wouldn’t be budged. She had to deal with things her own way. If she didn’t want to be reminded of what it felt like to be a victim, fair enough.

Jason decided he’d put in a call to April and ask her if she’d drop by to update him on the case later. His breath frosted the air as he jogged to catch up with his wife.

D
aveys chewed on an ice cube, staring at April’s plate. “Something wrong with that?” He pointed at the uneaten last quarter of her tuna club.

“No.” She watched his face twitch over the fries still piled up on her plate. He’d made a point of saying he never ate fried food. He’d said a lot of things. They knew the whole of his pedigree.

“You going to finish it?” Daveys asked.

“No.”

“Can I have it?”

“Sure.”

“You guys don’t talk much, do you?” he said, pulling the plate toward him.

Smiling, Sanchez nodded at the waiter for some more coffee.

“Shouldn’t drink all that caffeine, you know,” Daveys told him.

Sanchez dumped two sugars in his fresh coffee. He didn’t reply.

“Water’s best, trust me on that one.” Daveys took a bite of April’s sandwich. “Not bad, want a bite?” He offered it to Mike.

April glanced up and saw Jason with Emma through the glass door of the restaurant. So the beautiful wife
was
back. April smiled at them. Emma caught sight of her and looked startled. She grabbed Jason’s arm. Her lips moved. In a second they’d turned away. April’s smile faded.

“So you’re not going to trust me on this? What’s with you kids? I’m offering you a present. You go over to Boudreau’s place and you pick him up, take all the credit. Case closed. What’s your problem?”

“Maybe you’re our problem,” Mike offered.

Daveys looked wounded. “I’m your solution. How could I be your problem?”

“Hey, Spiro,” Mike called out to the owner, a fat man sitting at the counter under a No Smoking sign smoking a cigarette. “Ever heard of the saying ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’?”

“Want a baklava?” Spiro asked. “It’s just out of the oven. I made it myself.”

“I’m sure it’s great, but then I’d end up looking like you.”

“Ha, ha.” The fat man laughed.

“So what’s your point?” Daveys whined.

“Why offer us the gift? Why not make the bust yourself, split it with your team?” Mike said, winking at April.

This wasn’t federal jurisdiction. That’s why he couldn’t do it himself. Daveys had another interest in this case they didn’t know about yet. He was working with Treadwell, who was the girlfriend of a U.S. Senator.

“Oh, come on, guys,” Daveys wheedled. “I gave you all you need. This guy was a misfit from the word
go
. The dirtbag fragged an officer in ’Nam. He’s a pile of shit. We start digging into this, I bet we find out he’s a mass murderer, like Dahmer or something. I’m doing you a big favor. Get him now before he does someone else. Trust me on this.”

“So where’s the rest of the team?” April asked abruptly.

“The team?”

“I’ve never seen a federal agent work a case alone. There must be more of you in the woodwork. Why don’t you guys pull Boudreau in and get the credit?”

“Have I got a challenge here from a girl cop?” Daveys rolled his eyes. “You know why I can’t do that. I’m handing it to you. What’s your resistance here—are you kids nuts?”

Mike slammed his cup down. Coffee slopped over the edge. “Hey, Daveys, call us kids one more time—”

Daveys made a similar gesture with his glass. An ice cube jumped out and skidded across the table. “Look, I’m just being affectionate. My dad was a cop. My brother’s a cop—”

“I thought your brother was a Green Beret,” April interrupted.

“My other brother.” Daveys caught the cube before it slid off the table, popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

Mike raised his hand for the bill. “Thanks for the family history.”

“Look, if you pass up this opportunity, I can guarantee it’ll be your ass. You can kiss your future good-bye.”

Mike sighed. “Look, Daveys. We’ve got our own procedures here. We work with the D.A.’s office. We’ve got to get these things nailed down just right before we run in and arrest somebody, you know what I’m saying here? We don’t like to fuck up, makes the Department look bad. But thanks for the tip about the scotch bottle in Boudreau’s kitchen—funny how you know about it when you haven’t even talked to the weasel yet. What does he do, leave his door unlocked?” Mike threw back his head and laughed.

“Yeah, it’s a riot, all right.”

Mike sobered. “But, hey, we’ll check it out. Maybe we’ll find out Johnnie Walker’s his brand. Maybe we won’t.”

“I don’t see gratitude here. What did you kids get on your own, huh?”

Mike glanced at April. On their own they’d gotten Boudreau’s personnel file. He’d been a blood donor, so they knew his blood type, O negative. It matched the blood type of the semen in the condom. Bobbie had been arrested a number of times for drunk-and-disorderly, for assault—bar fights. No one had ever pressed charges. His prints were on file. They hadn’t had time to find out if Boudreau’s prints matched any of the prints that had been lifted from the file, but somehow they doubted he’d been the one to put it back in the drawer in Personnel. They knew about Boudreau’s history in the Army and his dishonorable discharge. They knew where he lived and was currently working. Now they knew where he was hiding out.

“Thanks,” Mike said. “You’ve been a big help. We’ll go for it tomorrow.”

“Good man.” An apparent stickler for details, Daveys nevertheless forgot to pick up his tab when he left.

A
t a few minutes before seven
P.M
. on Monday night April adjusted her blue silk Chanel scarf nervously in the cage elevator that hauled her slowly up to the fifth floor of Jason’s building. It occurred to her that Jason’s wife had many real designer scarves and could spot a fake a mile away. She scraped through the lint at the bottom of her jacket pocket for a shred of tissue to blot her lipstick.

April had been upset that afternoon at the coffee shop when she saw Emma’s face freeze at the sight of her and her lips move,
I … can’t go in there
, as she turned away. But she wasn’t really surprised. The two women hadn’t met again after the perpetrator in Emma’s case died. Not meeting again was usual. Unusual was April’s working with a victim’s husband on another case since. And yet another one after that.

If she was there to answer the door, the movie-star wife would look her over and April knew she looked a wreck. Her hair was absolutely flat on her head. Her clothes were wrinkled, smelled of mental hospital and the Victorian potpourri from Gunn’s apartment. Her stomach was making terrible noises. She didn’t feel up to Jason’s wife tonight. She was in a state of panic, terrified about messing up the case.

Right now she knew that the Chinese god of messing up (whoever he was) was hanging over her as her Yin and Yang wrestled hopelessly out of harmony. She could feel him hanging around out there, just beyond her vision, waiting for the perfect moment to disgrace her and destroy her life. Maybe he’d come in the form of Special Agent Daveys. Maybe the NYPD was being set up somehow and she’d be the one to take the fall for this. She had a bad feeling about the situation with Boudreau. It didn’t all fit together the way it should, and she had no idea how it would be resolved tomorrow.

Jason’s elevator made a few little lurching hops before the two levels settled into one and the folding metal door clicked to let April know she could get out. Usually she and Jason talked in his office where the clocks didn’t chime. Tonight he’d asked her to come next door to his apartment where the clocks did chime. April hadn’t been there since the night Emma disappeared. Jason’s wanting her to come there must have something to do with his wife.

April hastily retied the scarf one last time. Emma opened the door before April touched the doorbell. She was caught fiddling with the silk folds, felt she lost face. She was also stunned by Emma’s loveliness. Emma had the kind of classic American features that were admired and coveted by the entire planet Earth. She was the standard of beauty by which all else was judged and found wanting. Emma’s creamy pure skin, wide hazel eyes, slender (slender!), graceful, slightly upturned nose. Her hair, more golden than ash now, had just enough curl at the ends to give it body and bounce. Her mouth was larger than April’s, which was on the rosebud scale, and she was taller. April felt small and ugly and utterly humbled.

“Ms. Chapman,” she said. “I’m really sorry to bother you at home.”

“Oh, please, call me Emma. Everyone else does.”

Emma was wearing toast-colored suede trousers and a celadon silk blouse. Tied around her neck by the arms was a soft-looking sweater of the same color. That pale, almost translucent green was greatly prized in the Chinese pottery of the Sung dynasty for what was believed to be its magical power to detect poison in any food served in it.

“I’m glad to see you, Detective. You saved my life, after all. And who knows, maybe Jason’s, too. Come in, he’s waiting for you.” Emma’s slightly uncertain smile made April feel shabby, in addition to everything else.

“Ah, please call me April.” April shrugged a little, returning
the courtesy. The truth was, Emma shot the guy, too. And Emma shot him first. Who knew, maybe it was that first shot that saved both their lives.

The French doors were open. Jason was sitting in the living room that April thought was so eccentric. It was filled with books, ticking, bonging clocks, and aging upholstered furniture that was kind of threadbare and needed a face-lift. The curtains on the windows fronting the river also looked as if they had seen better days.