A Killing Gift

Twenty-five

On 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.