Hanging Time

42

It took four hours to process the Rachel Stark crime scene and get the body removed by the Medical Examiner. By the time April and Sanchez had finished their own notes and interviewed Ari Vittleman, the stench of death hung over them both, eclipsing even Mike’s powerful aftershave. If they didn’t do something about it, the reek would sit there in the sinuses and in the hollows of the hair shafts for a long, long time. Braun wanted to leave an hour before, but Mike and April weren’t finished then. Braun wouldn’t go if they didn’t. Now they were ready.

“Let’s go,” April said, turning toward her car.

“Salsa?” Mike suggested, falling into step beside her.

She shook her head, frowning. “No way. Szechuan is much better.”

“Nah, you have to eat too much of it,” Mike argued. “Salsa’s better. One shot goes right in there and blows the shit away. Chase that with a few peppermints—you know, the red and white striped kind—hey, and everything’s cool.”

They came to where Mike had parked the gray unmarked car. Braun was leaning against it, waiting for them.

“What?” The Lieutenant was staring at them suspiciously, his beaky face all pinched in annoyance at how long they had taken.

“Just a small debate over the best method for clearing the sinuses,” Mike said, rattling his car keys.

“Horseradish, no question. You folks got a change of clothes at the shop?”

“Yessir.”

“Then clean up. We got some people to talk to.” Braun didn’t get in the gray car with Mike. An unmarked black car, like the kind the FBI favored, was waiting for him. At the crook of his finger it pulled up to within an inch of where he was standing. “Say an hour,” Braun said, getting in and slamming the door.

“So what did he hang around for if it wasn’t the ride?” April asked.

“Nice guy,” Mike remarked. “Doesn’t look like he trusts us.”

“Does he return in another blue jacket?” April muttered.

Mike shrugged, then cocked his head down the block, where an unsuspecting female beat officer was getting ready to tag April’s Le Baron.

“Oh, no.” April sprinted down Second, reaching her car with her badge out just as the officer raised pen to pad.

The officer, young, bulging out of her department-issue trousers, glanced at the badge. “Sorry, Detective. Nice car.” She moved on.

Twenty minutes later April was showering at the precinct, her hair lathered for the second time with lemon shampoo. Mike might be right about peppermint after chilis, but she would swear by lemon soap for the hair. She let the water scald her skin, then got out. She didn’t like lingering in the moldy shower. No telling how many kinds of fungus and rot a person could catch there. She changed into the white shirt, slightly wrinkled black pants, and black silklike jacket she stowed in her locker for emergencies. She’d been working off the chart since she caught the homicide that morning. Her desk in the squad room was now hers, and she was officially on duty.

The call from Jason Frank came in at five thirty-five, just after she had returned from a testy meeting with two warring factions that pretended to be on excellent terms. Sergeant Joyce with eight of her detectives faced off against Lieutenant Braun, who had returned in an unflattering brown jacket missing its middle button, bringing with him three new homicide detectives from downtown.

Sergeant Joyce and her people thought they were at square one on this thing. Braun and his people were pulling in Roger McLellan and Albert Block again, looking for a connection there. Nobody was in a good mood. April had begun to type up her notes, when her phone rang.

“Detective Woo,” she said, picking it up on the first ring.

“Detective Woo, this is Jason Frank.”

“Well, how are you, Doctor?”

“I’m just fine. I’m with someone, though, so I’m going to get right to the point.”

“Fine. What’s up?” She reached for a pen.

“I have someone in my office who’s talking about the murder that was all over the papers last week and the one that’s, uh—apparently on the news today. I haven’t heard it myself.” The words came out matter-of-fact. The doctor was as coldly professional as April remembered.

“I don’t want to speak too quickly. I know how many calls you get. But this is a little different.” He paused.

April realized she was holding her breath. “No problem, go ahead. Take all the time you need.”

“The person with me is a young woman, articulate and well-groomed, no psychiatric history. She came to see me with a concern about her sister, who does have a history. I have never seen or examined her sister. You with me?”

“All the way.”

“So I don’t know the validity of the concern. I’m passing this along for what it’s worth. The woman with me believes her sister may actually have committed these murders. I’ve discussed it with her at some length. The major basis for this belief has to do with the sister’s motivational state and past psychiatric history. There are no other relevant positives.”

“I see,” April said. Instantly she understood what he was getting at. Dr. Frank was telling her that in his professional assessment of the situation, there was no evidence to suggest the sister was involved. But he was worried all the same.

Anybody else would have stayed on the phone asking dozens of questions. In this case April didn’t have to. She had absolute confidence in the caller.

“I think the next step is for me to speak with this person, Doctor. Can I set up an appointment?” April asked.

“Yes,” Jason said. “Hold on, please.”

A few seconds later a hesitant female voice came on the line.

“Hello?” The voice was quavery and a little hoarse.

“This is Detective Woo. Dr. Frank has told me you have some information about the boutique slayings.” With no reluctance she used the press’s name for them.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure …”

“That’s all right,” April interjected quickly. “When are you available? Let’s just meet and you could fill me in on what you know about the situation.”

More hesitation. Then, “I guess I could do that.”

“How about now?” April suggested.

This time there was a long wait. April could hear muffled sounds on the other end. She guessed Jason was talking his patient into it.

“All right,” the woman said reluctantly.

“Twentieth Precinct. Eighty-second, between Columbus and Amsterdam. It’s not far from where you are. What’s your name?”

“Milicia Honiger-Stanton.”

It sounded familiar. April’s heart, which had picked up its pace with Jason’s first words, started racing now. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Camille—Honiger-Stanton.”

April didn’t dare ask what Camille looked like, how tall she was. And by the way, did she have red hair and a dog? All April said was “How soon can you be here?”

As soon as she hung up, she gestured at Mike, who was plugged into the phone himself, his hair slicked back, his Mexican tan tinged faintly pink from his own hot shower, and his whole self reeking once again of every fruit and spice known to the Caribbean.

He raised his eyebrow, but didn’t hang up.

We’ve got a connection to the L. Mango guest book. She wrote it on a pad and shoved it across the desk.

“No shit.” He banged the receiver down without saying good-bye.