Hanging Time

13

It was still light at eight o’clock. Downstairs, three reporters hung around, hoping to get more details on the case before their deadline for the morning papers. At two, the NYPD spokesman from downtown had read from a statement about what the reporters were now calling “the boutique slaying.” The information had come too late for that day’s papers and left a whole lot of questions unanswered, including the victim’s identity. By five that information was released so Maggie Wheeler’s name could appear on the six o’clock news along with the clip of her corpse bag being loaded into an ambulance.

April and Mike didn’t have to see the news to know what was in it. As they came in, the desk sergeant was busy with a huge woman in a black silk dress. A thick coating of a white powder covered the woman’s face like a mask. She was claiming that a calico cat in the neighborhood was Christ.

“What would you like me to do about it?” the Desk Sergeant asked politely.

They headed for the stairs, passing the reporters camped out in Reception without being stopped. That was one advantage of not being in charge.

Upstairs in the squad room, the noise level was high, and the air conditioner wasn’t up to its job. The accused mugger who had been so disruptive earlier was no longer in the pen. Two other detectives, both older men with their stomachs sprung and their hair going, were sitting at the desks April and Sanchez had used on the day shift. They didn’t look up from their typewriters as April and Sanchez headed straight for the squad supervisor’s office without stopping first to check for messages.

Sergeant Joyce was still there, the phone receiver plugged into her ear. She looked as if she’d been in a dogfight, short hair on end, eyes bloodshot and pouchy, blouse a mess. She hadn’t given up her office to the night supervisor, probably had to kill him for it, April thought.

Hah, considering her boss’s concentration right then, Sergeant Joyce was probably talking to the Mayor himself. April had to revise that speculation when Joyce banged the receiver down at the sight of them. “Well?”

“Scratch Olga,” Mike said, taking a chair. “She didn’t go in that day and says she doesn’t know a thing.”

“Didn’t work at all Saturday?”

“Oh, she worked, just not at the store.”

April took her usual place on the windowsill so that Sergeant Joyce had to turn her head to address her.

“What the fuck does that mean, Sanchez?” Joyce didn’t have a lot of patience. This was the kind of case that drove everybody nuts. Columbus Avenue, just around the corner from the precinct, was an upscale neighborhood. Lot of wealthy people lived and shopped there. Reporters in bush jackets no less were hanging around downstairs, cluttering up the place and making everyone nervous with their expectation of a break in the case at any moment. The press was like having a bunch of the other team’s cheerleaders jeering “Do something, do something. When are you going to do something?” all day long while the detectives on the case tried to ignore them and get their work done.

Word had come down that the Captain wanted this one tied up in a day or two, like the cop found shot in the head in the marshes out by LaGuardia Airport, or the millionaire lawyer stabbed in a motel in the Bronx. Both cases were highly visible; both were nailed within forty-eight hours.

On the windowsill, April got the frigid blast from the air conditioner full force in the face. Reminded her of Maggie Wheeler’s hair blowing in the cold wind and the skin on the dead girl’s arms raised in goose bumps. April knew the goose bumps were a post-mortem thing, had nothing to do with the girl’s being refrigerated for several days. Still, it was unnerving. The corpse seemed to be alive and suffering still. No question her spirit was still there. April shivered. If Maggie were Chinese, her family would try to coax her spirit out of the storeroom and into a joss stick so she could have a peaceful afterlife. But no one would do that for Maggie Wheeler.

April worried that she had no gut feelings about this, only a strong appeal from the girl herself to do something about it. Thing was, the older a case got, the more unlikely they’d find the killer. Ninety percent of the time, if they didn’t get a break in the case fast, the perp had a good chance of getting away with murder. No one wanted to let this one get away. She could see Joyce’s mind working. They didn’t have anything, couldn’t even do a 24–24 on the victim. Without statements from people who had been with Maggie in the twenty-four hours before her death, they couldn’t put together what she had done, whom she had seen.

And forget what happened in the twenty-four-hour period after the murder. The store had been closed.

“Olga got another job,” Sanchez said.

“High-class call girl.” April spoke for the first time.

“Great.” Joyce raked both hands through her hair like a man and turned to April, scowling. April’s skin and eyes still looked fresh. Her pale blue blouse was neatly tucked into her well-tailored navy trousers after twelve hours on the job. It was clear April was a devoted cop. Her favorite color was blue.

“She give you any background on the girl?” Joyce directed the question at April.

“Olga said she was very quiet, worked hard, kept to herself.”

“That all?”

April shook her head. “She said Maggie had been looking unhappy lately, like something was bugging her. What have you got?”

“Haven’t come up with anybody who saw anything yet.” Joyce wasn’t too happy about that.

Nobody mentioned the guy on Maggie’s answering machine. It occurred to April she might go back to Olga with the tape to see if she’d heard that voice before. Olga said she didn’t know anything about Maggie’s luff life, as she put it. Apparently Maggie didn’t talk about things like that. But maybe the guy had been in the store and the sound of his voice would jog Olga’s memory. It was a long shot.

She also wanted to talk to the mother. They’d been on it for twelve hours. Sergeant Joyce told them to go home.