Hanging Time

57

The door from the kitchen to the hall was open. April saw a big man crowd Lieutenant Braun, trying to push him out. The man’s cheeks were red and blotchy, his eyes wide with shock and fury. He was thick around the middle and had the threatening gestures and loud, hectoring voice of a bully.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, looking like someone who would have no trouble punching a cop.

“Lieutenant Braun, Homicide, NYPD.” Braun held out his badge.

Bouck didn’t look at it. “Get out of here.”

April glanced down at the bundle of Maggie Wheeler’s clothes on the top basement step, her heart racing. The man was probably their killer. And he was up on something, really high. She’d seen guys like him so high, they didn’t feel pain, couldn’t be stopped by half a dozen officers with stun guns, or even a .38 slug. She was scared.

“Just calm down,” Braun said. “We have a warrant to take a look around.”

The guy had no intention of calming down. “Oh, yeah, what for?” he demanded belligerently.

“A woman in the shop across the street was murdered. We’re investigating the case.”

“Are you nuts? What does that have to do with me?”

“Like I said, we’re investigating the case.”

“Oh, no, you’re not. Not in here.” Bouck spun around. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Sergeant Roberts,” Roberts’s voice replied.

Now two detectives were in the hall. There were five in the house. Where were the others? Adrenaline pumped through April without showing her the job to prepare for. She needed to tell Braun and Roberts what she’d found, to warn them, but they were jammed into the narrow space of the hallway. She didn’t want to provoke an incident. Where was Mike?

“You can’t just bust into innocent people’s houses in the middle of the fucking night. Are you nuts?” Bouck screamed at them.

“Unh-unh,” Braun said conversationally. “We have reason to believe someone from this house may be involved in two homicides.”

“You got to be crazy. No way,” Bouck said furiously. Then as if surprised by the thought, “Who? Jamal?” That stopped him. For a few seconds, while he thought it over, he had nothing to say. Then he got his voice back. “No way.”

He looked from one cop to the other. “Where’s Camille?”

Braun didn’t say where the woman was. His voice got cold and his confidence came back. “You want to see Camille?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Then do what we tell you to do. Got it?”

Wrong thing to say. Bouck stuck out his arm and tried to push past Braun. “I want to see her now. Get out of my way.”

“Hey, watch that.” Braun stood his ground.

“I want to see Camille.”

“Fine. Come with us to the precinct. You can see her there.”

“You took that sick woman out of my house?” Bouck’s voice rose to a shriek.

The three of them were in a tight space, two without much patience and the third walking off the deep end. April’s thoughts whirled. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know Braun and Roberts, didn’t have the language developed with them to say the man they were so busy provoking was probably their perp. Ducci had suggested the killer might be a cross dresser or a transvestite. Bouck was clearly the one in charge here, kept his girlfriend in a restraint in the maid’s room. Maybe he was the shopper, wore the clothes on the racks upstairs. Maybe he signed Camille’s name in The Last Mango’s guest book.

April didn’t have many options. She didn’t see how she could warn them without making matters worse. If she just came out of the kitchen with the bundle, Bouck might freak.

Calamita, the detective who had been searching the living room, made the choice for her. He pushed into the hallway.

“Shit, what’s that?” Bouck spun around and hit the banister.

“We have a few more officers here,” Braun said. “So don’t get excited.”

“Jesus Christ. Gimme that!” Bouck screamed.

“What is it, Calamita?”

April stepped forward to see it. It was then she saw Mike at the top of the stairs. No, stay where you are. Now there was a fourth. Four against one, and the guy was going to resist anyway. Suddenly April realized that the bulk at Bouck’s waist was not all fat. He had a pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Shit.

Bouck grabbed for the open box in Calamita’s hands. Inside was a 9mm Colt All-American. Fifteen-round magazine and 3¾ barrel brushing kit. One automatic, two barrels.

“Stand back,” Braun told him.

“What is that? Where’d you get that?” Bouck’s rage escalated.

“It was behind a false back in an old desk, sir,” Calamita replied.

“Would everybody stand back, please.” Braun’s voice was tight. “Put your hands out,” he said to Bouck. “I want to see your hands in front of you.”

Bouck ignored him. “You brought that in here. You brought it in,” he screamed. “I never saw it before. I don’t even know what it is.” He reached for it.

Calamita moved back.

The top stair creaked. Bouck turned his head and saw Sanchez. “Whaa—”

Instantly April was out the kitchen door, gesturing to Mike and Lieutenant Braun that Bouck had a gun.

“This is a frame,” Bouck screamed at the sight of two more detectives. “You’re going to be history. You took a sick woman out of here. You’re threatening me—I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t do anything.”

“Give me your gun.” Lieutenant Braun’s voice was soft now. “We don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

Bouck froze.

April let her breath out.

“Come on, let’s let the boys finish up in here.”

“Unh-unh. You can’t do this.”

“Come on. Give me the gun. Don’t you want to see your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I do. Why don’t you go outside and wait for me? I’ll come out on my own.” Bouck’s voice turned cunning.

Braun shook his head. “It’s not happening that way. You give me the gun and we all go out together.”

Bouck tried something else. “What, are you nuts? I don’t have a gun.” He reached his hand across his body.

Roberts moved forward to grab him. Everybody changed position, moving in, moving back. Bouck’s pistol was out. Someone shouted. Roberts lunged at it.

Two shots exploded in the small space. Bouck crumpled, shot in the back. Braun sagged against the banister, screaming that he’d taken a hit. Blood poured out on the floor from a neat hole in his right shoe. Braun slid to the floor. More people began crowding in.

“What happened?” Penelope Dunham, the assistant D.A., running late, plunged through the front door with the two cops who’d let Bouck in without stopping him. She skidded in a puddle of blood on the floor. “Dear God …”

For an instant Mike and April stared at each other. Then Braun pointed at them, told them to stop gaping and get the hell out of there.