Judging Time

10

Yes, sir, he told me to go straight home from the theater." Until this point in the interview Wallace Jefferson, Jr., had held Mike's eye without wavering. Now he looked down at his big-knuckled hands, clenching the natty cap he held in his lap. "I'm sorry I did. If I'd been there to pick them up, that fine gentleman and lady would still be alive."

And how could they be sure of that? April was feeling less than patient with this one. Her exhaustion was returning after a second wind that had lasted most of the day. Now it was nearly six, and she was in a hurry to get out of there and meet with Jason and Emma, who'd left a message saying she could come to their apartment at six-thirty.

Okay, there it was. A patch of white showing in Jefferson's apparently downcast eyes, as if he was actually trying to look up at her and Mike from his half-closed lids to gauge their reaction without the appearance of doing so.

"They were fine people. I will miss them," he intoned, speaking like a worshiper in church and not a suspect in a grubby precinct interview room.

"Did your boss often send you home to fend for himself in the middle of snowstorms?" Mike asked.

"He was a thoughtful man. I live in New Jersey."

"Doesn't it seem contrary to the point of having a chauffeur, though?" Mike mused.

"Sir?"

"Isn't the point of a chauffeur to have him around in the worst weather?"

Jefferson's eyes came alive at this. "I do—did— whatever Mr. Petersen asked me to do. Whenever he sent me home he had his own reasons."

"What reason do you think he had last night?"

"What reason?"

Wally Jefferson seemed acutely respectable with his dark suit and dark driver's cap, his manner of almost exaggerated gentleness, and his voice that was soft, reverent, and well spoken. To April he seemed old-style African-American in the same way her mother was old-style Chinese. Everything hidden behind a predetermined formula for expression that could be altered neither by flattery nor torture.

If he was nervous in the interview room, he did not show it. Jefferson was a broad slab of a man of about five nine, weighed something over two hundred pounds, was the color of roasted coffee beans. They'd run him through the computer. He had no priors. Still, there was something about him that April did not trust.

"What was his relationship with Mrs. Liberty?" she asked.

"They were in the same social set," Jefferson said easily.

"Is that a way of saying they were friends?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I just drive the car." He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed delicately.

"Were they possibly more than friends?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What was your work schedule?" Mike changed the subject.

"You mean with Mr. Petersen?"

"Yes, what days did you work?"

"It wasn't the same every week. Mr. Petersen traveled a great deal. When he was here, I sometimes worked every day until midnight, one a.m. When he was away—" He shrugged.

"You drove other people."

"Not really." Jefferson looked wary.

"How about Mr. Petersen's wife?"

"Oh, yes, I drove her."

"What about Liberty?"

"Well him, too. Sometimes."

"Why was that? Doesn't Mr. Liberty have his own driver?"

"He did when Mrs. Liberty was working. But she isn't working—wasn't working anymore. He likes the walk to work. So now when they need someone, they call a service for a driver." Jefferson poked under his coUar to scratch at the skin on his neck.

"Or you drive them."

"Yes." Jefferson famed his attention to his knuckles. They were thick and crooked, almost deformed.

"Did Mr. Liberty call you to drive him to the airport yesterday?"

"No, he didn't."

"Why not?"

Jefferson reached for his nose and pinched it between two fingers. "I really couldn't say."

"Is it because he didn't have a car?" Mike leaned forward in his hard chair, shrugging his shoulder holster a little.

Jefferson seemed particularly interested in the gun. "Sir?"

"Liberty's car? What happened with that?"

"Oh, yes. Mr. Liberty's car." Jefferson nodded solemnly.

"It was stolen, right?"

"A bit of bad luck."

"How and when was the car stolen?"

Jefferson hunched his shoulders, shaking his head, as if the whole thing were a sad story he'd heard.

"Come on, now, Wally. We know you took Mr. Liberty's

Jefferson was stunned. "Mr. Liberty didn't tell you that!"

"Oh, yes, he did. He said you stole his car."

"Oh, now, that just ain't true. Let's correct that right now. I had permision to use that car. Ask the boys at the garage. I could take it out anytime."

"You had permission to take the car out of the garage when you were going to drive him. Just as you could take Mr. Petersen's car out of the garage for his use."

Jefferson shook his head. "I could use the cars."

"Both of them?"

"Yessir."

"Well, what happened to Mr. Liberty's car then?"

Jefferson shifted his position. "His inspection sticker was expired. Before he went to Europe he asked me to take the car to a service station and get a new one. I did that." He shook his head. "I left it there. The car was gone when I came back for it."

"It only takes a few minutes to check a car out. How long did you leave it?"

"Three days."

"You left Mr. Liberty's car at a service station for three days?" Mike said incredulously.

"I had the flu. Mr. Petersen can confirm that"

"No, he can't. He's dead. And Liberty was in Europe."

"Well, Mrs. Petersen can confirm it."

"Wally, where did you go last night after you dropped Mr. Petersen and Mrs. Liberty at the theater?"

"I took the car and drove home. I've been home with my wife since then. You can ask her."

"We will ask her. Thank you, Wally. I want you to write down here on this pad the name of that service station where you left Mr. Liberty's car. Then I want you to sit here for a while and gather your thoughts about all the things-you've told us. Maybe your memory will improve a little over time. In a few minutes we're going to send in a detective to go -over all this with you again. We want you to make a full statement about the last few weeks, as well as the events leading up to the murders last night. You've got some explaining to do, understand?"

"The car was not in my possession when it was taken," Jefferson said flatly.

"Well, Wally, I don't think a judge would see it that way. Liberty certainly doesn't."

"But he didn't press charges against me, did he? And if he didn't press charges, I guess that proves I didn't do anything wrong."

Wrong. April glanced at her watch. She'd had enough of this.

"And I was in New Jersey with my wife when poor Mr. Petersen, and Mrs. Merrill, were killed," Jefferson went on. "Bless their souls, I'll miss them."

Feeling sick, April got up and left the room.

Fifteen minutes later she was on her way uptown in an unmarked unit. This time she'd decided to forget worrying about having someone drive her. Once again, it was dark outside and the weather was bad. All the way up to Jason's apartment, she worried about when his next patient was scheduled. Unless there was a major crisis, Jason would not cancel an appointment. That meant if she got there too late, he'd cancel her. What was it with these mental cases that made them so special that all life had to stop when they were with their shrinks? Jason's inaccessibility really annoyed her as she slid around ice-encrusted construction sites and skidding taxis, trying to keep calm behind the wheel. She did not think about her refusal to have diner with Mike because she had to get some rest, or about the problem that Wally Jefferson presented them with a wife as his alibi. He was clearly lying about a lot of things.

The only good thing about the lousy weather was the decrease in traffic. Problem was, the lousy taxi drivers from hot countries who didn't have any experience with snow or ice were the only ones left on the hazardous streets. Her parking effort was to ram the car into a snowbank in front of a hydrant. She knew she was going to have trouble getting it out later.

By the time she was in the cage elevator in Jason's building, jerking slowly up the five floors to his apartment, she was panting with anxiety. She swallowed, breathed eight counts in, held her breath for six counts, exhaled for eight counts, and did it again a few times to slow down her heart. Jason opened the door almost before she put out her finger to ring his bell.

"Hi," he said, looking her over.

About to meet the famous Emma Chapman again, April felt shabby and double ugly in the new navy wool coat she'd bought only a few weeks ago, the long navy-and-maroon-printed scarf wrapped several times around her neck, and the Chanel-copy shoulder bag that Emma Chapman would certainly know she'd bought on the street in Chinatown but that was strong enough to hold anything April wanted to put into it.

"Hi. Sorry I'm late. I got tied up."

Jason smiled as she removed her leather gloves and extricated herself from the scarf. "No problem. Come on in."

"Thanks." She followed him into the hall where the table with the glass dome covering a large clock made to show its works was piled with unopened mail.

April didn't know any people who lived in apartments like this. The living room was large with windows facing Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. Many books and clocks covered every surface. Neutral colors on the walls and furniture were chosen to soothe, as were the large upholstered club chairs and sofa that April knew from earlier experience were deep and soft. She longed to sink in for a long winter's nap. From the dent in the sofa, it looked as if recently someone might have been doing just that. No sign of Emma now, though. She probably took off when she heard the downstairs buzzer ring.

April knew that Emma didn't like her and could understand why. Years ago, Ja Jien, April's best friend in high school, had gotten pregnant by a white guy. Her family had been murderously angry, had told Ja Jien she would die if she had an abortion. The doctor would blunder, he'd kill her, or do it wrong so if she lived, she wouldn't be able to have more children. At the same time they'd said—didn't matter if she lived, might as well be dead since she was ruined anyway. Ja Jien had the abortion, changed her name to Jennifer. Afterward she didn't want to see April, who had supported her during her ordeal. The two friends drifted apart. Later, when Jennifer became successful as a beautician and opened her own salon, she made it clear she didn't want to cut April's hair, didn't want her in the shop. Didn't ever want to know her again. April had seen Emma Chapman as a naked hostage, her whole body and face painted, her stomach in the process of being tattooed. Emma would not forget that.

Jason gave April one of his penetrating looks. "You hungry, want something?" he asked.

She was starved. She shook her head. "Not at the moment, thanks."

"Yell when you want something." He took her coat and hung it on a doorknob.

"Emma around?"

"Yes, she's coming." Jason went through the opening into the living room. "How's the investigation going?"

April ignored the question. "Liberty mentioned your name when we went to inform him of the death. I gather you've spent some time with him since."

"He's an old friend."

"From the way he spoke about you, I got the feeling he was your patient."

"He's not."

"Oh, really, then you might be able to help us," April murmured.

Jason nodded noncommittally.

April moved into the living room and picked the chair she'd sat in the last time she'd been in the apartment, sank into it gratefully. Her last visit had been in November before she'd made sergeant. She wondered if Jason knew about her promotion.

Emma Chapman strode into the room, wearing soft black trousers and a black sweater. Looked like cashmere. Probably was. As Emma took the chair opposite, April wondered what it would be like to have long legs, peach-colored skin and blond hair, to wear such expensive things, and walk with such authority and grace.

"Ah, Sergeant Woo, congratulations on your promotion," Emma said with a brittle smile.

"Yes, congratulations," Jason threw in.

"Congratulations to you, too, for your new play. I see your name in the top place at the theater every day. I'm downtown in Midtown North now," April explained.

"Your new phone number confused me," Jason said. "Someone told me you're a supervisor now."

"Yes, it's true."

"Well, you'll have to come and see the play—and bring your friend. What's his name—Mike . . . ?" Emma made a face, trying to remember the name of the cop who'd saved her life.

"Sanchez," April said softly. "He's in Homicide now."

"No kidding? Then who's left to take care of us in the Twentieth?" Emma asked lightly.

April thought of Aspirante and Healy. "No one," she said. Her stomach gurgled. She put a hand over it to silence it. Time to go to work. "I'm sorry about your friends," she began, taking her Rosario out of her purse.

"Thank you." Emma twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. She glanced at the notebook, then at Jason. He had his bland shrink face on. April had her cop face on. The actress had her . . . actress face on. April wondered if she'd be able to get past it.

"Let's start with your relationship with the—uh, with Mrs. Liberty," April suggested.

"I've known Merrill for—a long time. We went to acting classes together more than ten years ago. That's how we met. We both wanted to be actors. Merrill made it first. She got a part in a soap. I did voice-overs for a long time. We were very close, even after she married Rick."

"Rick?"

"That's what Liberty's friends call him."

"So the three of you go way back."

Emma took a bite out of an unpolished thumbnail and spoke impatiently. "We all go way back. Rick and Tor were friends the way Merrill and I were friends. This is a devastating thing. Just horrible." She glanced at Jason, sitting silently beside her, then reached for his hand. "For Rick especially. I can't imagine losing both my husband and my best friend at the same time."

April felt a twinge of jealousy at the way Jason was looking at his wife. It triggered a thought, then she lost it. "Did Merrill and Petersen have any enemies?"

Emma chewed on her nail. "Well, of course. I'm - sure they did. Successful people always have enemies."

"Can you think of anybody in particular who might want to kil them?"

"Tor just fired twenty percent of the people in his company last week. A lot of people were mad at him. He was a charming man, but he could be ruthless, you know."

April wasn't acquainted with people like Petersen, so she didn't know. She waited for Emma to go on.

"Maybe the killer was someone he'd fired. Sergeant, do you think Tor was the target? Or both of them?" Emma frowned.

"Please call me April. Why do you ask?"

Emma shook her head. "It doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"It was an accident that they were together last night. Merrill and Rick were supposed to come to see me in my new play. I didn't know Rick wasn't coming until after the show when Merril showed up in my dressing room with Tor. I have to admit I was surprised."

"Why?"

Emma smiled weakly. "Rick is a fan."

"Is Tor a fan?"

"Oh, I don't know. I hardly knew him. I don't think he even knew who I was before last night."

"You're too modest. So what changed the plans?" "Rick had to go to Chicago on business. Tor took his ticket. For him it was a last-minute thing. Nobody even knew he was going to be there."

That triggered another question. April made a note.-"What about his wife?"

"Tor's wife? I've never met her. The gossip was they were breaking up."

"Maybe she knew where they were going."

"That's—horrible. How would she even pull it off?" Emma shuddered.

"Maybe she had help," April said softly. "And Liberty knew where they were. Either could have—"

"No!" Emma said explosively. "I know Rick couldn't hurt anybody."

"What kind of marriage did Liberty and his wife have?"

"Devoted," Emma said firmly.

"There must have been stresses."

"Every marriage has stresses," Emma said vaguely.

"Merrill was a beautiful woman. She must have had admirers. Was her husband jealous?"

"Rick?" Emma took another bite of nail, ripped it, and winced. A spot of blood appeared at the quick. She dabbed the blood on her handkerchief, staining it. "I don't think so."

April glanced at Jason. His mask was still on. He wasn't saying. "Are you thinking about it?" she asked Emma.

"Yes! I'm thinking about it. I just don't think he's the jealous type," Emma said firmly.

"Not an Othello," April murmured.

"You've read Shakespeare?" Emma seemed surprised.

"I saw the movie. How did he seem that night?"

"Tor?"

"No, Liberty."

Emma looked confused. "I didn't see Rick that night. He was in Chicago."

"What about the phone call?"

"What phone call?" "He called the restaurant. What was Petersen like?"

Emma started on the other thumb. "We were drinking a bit. Tor was excited—" She stopped short.

April guessed the man had come on to Emma that night, not to his date, Merrill, and that might have been the real reason Emma had left the restaurant before dinner was over and missed hearing the phone call. Maybe she kept looking at Jason now because she didn't want him to know something. April wondered what it was.

"Were Tor and Merrill involved romantically?"

Emma sighed. "Jason asked me that. I—really don't know. I guess they'd spent more time together recently. I know Merrill held his hand whenever he had marital problems." Emma shook her head.

And maybe Liberty was tired of the hand-holding. April changed the subject again. "What time did you leave the restaurant?"

"I don't know. Maybe around midnight. Maybe before." Another check with the watchdog husband.

Jason shook his head. Al those clocks everywhere, and he didn't know either.

"Why didn't Petersen send you home in his car?"

"I don't know. The car wasn't there. I think he sent the driver on some other errand."

"An errand? What kind of errand?"

"I don't know. I just know the car wasn't there. Tor mentioned something, but I forgot."

"How did you get home?"

"I took a cab. A woman was getting out a few doors down, so I got lucky, I took her cab."

A surge of dizziness swept over April. "Could I have a glass of water?" she asked faintly.

Jason got to his feet. "When did you eat last?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said. "I just need a little water."

"I'll get you some juice." He left the room.

"It's nice to have a doctor around," April murmured. Then she put down her notebook and asked Emma what she really wanted to know.