Judging Time

13

At 8:20 A.M. on Tuesday Daphne Petersen cracked open her apartment door and frowned at the Chinese detective who stood outside.

"You're from the police," she said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, that's what I told your doorman."

"What do you want? I can't see anyone now." The woman patted her lacquered black hair irritably. "Monica," she screamed. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

"I need to talk to you," April said.

"I just told you that isn't possible. I answered all your queries yesterday. That should do." Daphne tried to close the door. April's booted foot swiftly moved into the doorjamb to stop it.

The door whacked April's foot. She gave it a push, but the widow Petersen pushed back, determined to keep her out. Through the tug-of-war over the door, April could see a portion of Daphne's shiny silver-blue dress. "Look like silk," Sai liked to brag of her polyester bargains. Here the satiny sheen was very real. With some people, class and privilege made April feel humble and small, shy about asserting herself. This was not the case with Mrs. Petersen. The widow of a day didn't budge, and April felt the sneer behind her emphatic dismissal.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Petersen. Often people have to speak with the police more than once." She took the calming approach.

"I don't see why."

"These things take time. Please open the door. I don't want to hurt you." The woman was begging for a cross-body block.

"Why bother with me when it's clear who killed them?"

"Well, before we make that important arrest, there are still a few details that need clearing up."

"Oh, my . . ." Daphne checked the scene in the room behind her, showing off the back of the complicated hairstyle that featured two tightly sprung black coils dribbling down her back. ". . . It's absolutely not convenient right now. You'll have to telephone for an appointment at some other time."

April opened her bag for her identification. "I'm sorry to intrude on your grief," she said smoothly, "but we're in the middle of a homicide investigation here. That's a matter of some urgency, wouldn't you say? I don't have time to make an appointment."

"I know who you are, and I know what you're doing. And I'll have you know I'm just as concerned about this as you are. I happen to be involved with the issue at this very moment. You'll have to wait downstairs until I'm ready for you."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mrs. Petersen. I can talk to you here, or you can come with me to the station now."

"To the station? Who do you think you're talking to? I can't go to the station. Do you have any idea what's going on? There are people from the press all over the place."

April inclined her head. She hadn't noticed any in the immediate vicinity. "Maybe you can tell them you're helping the police with their investigation. I need to know a few things about your husband's habits, his schedule, and what you know about his driver."

"Wally?"

"Yes."

"Actually, I'm just giving an interview right now." The pressure on the door eased just a little. April gave the door another little shove, but by this time Daphne had made her decision and backed away, causing April to lose her momentum and fall into the room.

"What's going on, Daphne?" A large woman with bright red hair rushed to the door. "Sorry, didn't mean to abandon you, I was in the loo," the woman whispered. "Sick tummy." Then she gushed to April, "I'm Monica Abeel, who are you with and what can we do . for you?"

April showed her ID and pushed farther into the room. The thick ice blue living-room rug was now snaked with fat black wires for TV lights. Some of the furniture had been moved and a love seat had become the focus of an instant TV set. A crew of three lolled around on the furniture eating doughnuts and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. The interviewer, a dark woman in an unbecoming lemon yellow suit, was on the phone.

"Oh, my," the redheaded Monica said. "Didn't you tell the officer we're working here?' '

"She didn't want to listen. Deal with this, will you."

Daphne Petersen walked away.

April flashed to Steve Zapora and the mirror in Bed-Sty. You, in the slutty blue dress. You with the bad hair. Yes, that's right, you. Stop. She smiled and followed Daphne Petersen into the already crowded room as Monica Abeel clearly contemplated, then thought better of trying to physically detain her.

"Oh, my." Monica flapped after April, changing course toward the woman in the nasty yellow suit. "Oh, my. Cinda dear. Can you take a short break, darling? Daphne has just a tiny little chore to attend to in the other room. That's right, relax. Call out for some Chinese or something. Ooops. Come this way, Daphne, be a dear now and cooperate. This is all so difficult. Miss-"

"Sergeant—" April began. Across the room the TV crew looked alive.

"Never mind," Monica cried. "Come this way, dear."

"A cop?" The woman called Cinda drifted over.

Monica grabbed April's arm. "You're very pretty, aren't you? Do you have an agent yet? I've never seen a Japanese cop before."

April stared. "I'm Chinese," she said.

"Well, that wouldn't hurt sales either. Look, don't say a word to anybody without a contract." Her hand snaked into her pocket and came out with a business card, which she handed to April.

"I wouldn't dream of it," April murmured, taking it and thinking her mother would love this.

At 10

A.M.,

April was filling in her notes on Daphne Petersen's views on Liberty's violent temper, his abusive behavior to his wife, and Merrill Liberty's ten-year affair with her dead husband, Tor, when Hagedorn pushed open the door of her office. A huge grin transformed his pudgy face.

"Yeah, Charlie, what you got?" She glanced up at the detective and was reminded of a moon-faced bully she'd known in grammar school, who was now running half a dozen sweatshops in Chinatown that paid illegal immigrants starvation wages. The bully sweatshop owner had a complicated evasion system that nailed his partners every time there was a shutdown and allowed him to get richer and fatter every year.

Charlie leaned against the open door, one hand gripping the knob as if to keep it from getting away. He was wearing a green jacket, a yellow shirt, and a thin black tie. His girth was too big for the shirt. It gapped at the lower buttons. His jacket pockets bulged. His trousers hung dangerously low on his hips. Energetic for a change, he was punching the air triumphantly. "I thought I remembered something about this guy Liberty," he began.

"He was a famous football player," April suggested, wondering for the ten thousandth time just how dumb Hagedorn could possibly be.

"Uh-uh." Hagedorn continued grinning. "Something else."

"He's a stockbroker, makes a million dollars a year." April tapped the phone,- willing it to ring and transport her to another subject. "That's a lot of money."

"What are you getting at?" Hagedorn's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What difference does that make?"

"No difference whatsoever." Except that Iriarte had told her he wanted them to go very gently on this one. Was that the reason he'd chosen gentle Charlie to do the deep background profile on Liberty and her to check out Petersen's will, and the close friendships and recent activities of his charming widow?

. "No dumb mistakes," the lieutenant had told her before going home last night. He had thrust a finger in her face adding, "And watch that Sanchez."

April glanced at her watch, annoyed and suspicious of everyone. Why did she have to watch Sanchez? Was he up to something, or was Iriarte just nervous and wanted her to mess up, lose face and possibly her entire career on this thing? Mike hadn't phoned her last night, hadn't turned up yet, and hadn't bothered to call in with his plan for the day. So maybe he was up to something. She seethed at his coming in on this case and then going off on his own, pissing off Iriarte and keeping her in the dark. Why couldn't they get organized on this thing? She had thought they had a plan, but were they working to plan? Were they organized? No, they were not.

"What do you remember, Charlie?" she prompted cordially, as if she had a high opinion of him and actually wanted to know.

"Oh, I remember we had problems with this guy before." Hagedorn continued to clutch the doorknob, still undecided about whether it was safe to advance further.

"Problems with-?"

"Liberty, who else?"

"Ah, Liberty. What kind of problems?"

"Complaints from the neighbors."

"What about?" Hagedorn was so slow getting his stories out that April yearned to rap his nose with her knuckles.

"Screaming, yelling, domestic disturbances."

"Aod—?" She kept her face deadpan.

"Aod an officer went to the scene . . . domestic dispute, possible domestic violence." Hagedorn grinned. So there.

"An officer went to the scene. You have a namc on that officer and the report, Charlie?"

"I suppose I can find it." His triumph deflated.

"Thanks."

"It could be significant." Belligerent now.

What was it with this guy? She flashed to the advice of a supervisor she'd had once: When faced with a suspect trying to bash your head in with a tire iron, or stab you with a switchblade, don't, I repeat, do not unholster your gun and shoot the bastard even if the law says you don't have to wait for the glint ofsteel to do so. What you do, officers, is widen your perimeter. Why widen your perimeter? Because the asshole can't hit you if you're out of his range.

April did as he'd advised and widened her perimeter.

"How many such reports, Charlie? Was the wife bruised? Was she in need of medical treatment? Did she go to the hospital? You want to check that out?"

He wanted to check that out. He nodded. "I'll get you every single incident in the bastard's life."

"That's great, Charlie. Do it."

He let go of the doorknob and turned to leave, then he turned back. "Oh, and one more thing."

April had already picked up the phone. "What's that?"

"Well, that phone call Liberty made to the victim. At the restaurant."

"What about it?"

"I checked it out. He didn't make it from the plane, or the limo coming into the city. That call came from the phone in his apartment. He was already home. Twelve-fifteen."

Hagedorn let that item hang in the air for a minute, then turned on his rubber-soled boots and stomped away, leaving April's door open. Out in the squad' room, a male in the holding cell started screaming in Greek.

So, Liberty and his wife had altercations that were so noisy the neighbors called the police on maybe more than one occasion. On the night of the murder Liberty had returned home and made a call to his wife in the restaurant where he knew she was dining with his best friend. But they'd already known he'd gotten home by midnight. Was it enough time for him to jog twelve blocks and wait for the two to come out of the restaurant? Did the chauffeur really go home as he claimed? Did Liberty know the chauffeur had gone home?

Eighty percent of homicides were committed by people who were related to or knew the victim. Only twenty percent were stranger killers. It was probably one of the three of them: Daphne Petersen (to make a fortune), Wally Jefferson (because he was a thief?), Liberty (because he was jealous). In any case there had to be somebody who saw something. It hadn't been snowing at midnight.

She dialed Jason's number. He picked up on the first ring. "I need your input here, Jason. What's your schedule?"

"Morning, April," Jason said. "I'm with someone."

"Thanks for picking up. When can we talk—?"

"I'm with someone right now," Jason repeated. "What about twelve-thirty? I can arrange a meeting then."

"You want me to come there?"

"Yes. See you." He hung up.

April called Dr. Washington to find out what was going on at the medical examiner's office. The phone rang ten times before voice mail picked up. April left a message and hung up the phone. Because it was outside the squad room area, there were two solid doors, a wall, and a hall between her and the Special

Cases office where Mike would return soon or not, depending on his mood.

Damn him. April dialed his beeper number. Five minutes later he called her back.

"Yo, querida, what's happening?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Where are you?"

"ME's office. We're in the middle of an autopsy here."

"Thanks for letting me know. Anybody I'd be interested in?"

"Yeah, Merrill Liberty, and guess who's with me?"

She sucked in her breath and had her fourth or fifth homicidal moment in the last twenty-four hours. Son of a bitch. For a second she was so mad at Mike she couldn't think of an appropriate reply. Then she said, "Who?"

"Your boss, Iriarte."

"That's great, Mike. That's really great. When are you coming in?" she asked coldly.

"Miss me?" he teased.

"Don't start that. You know I don't like being kept in the dark."

"Lot of things you don't like, querida. If I worried about everything you don't like, we'd never get anywhere."

"We aren't anywhere."

Mike sighed. "Es verdad. You took off on me last night. It's just like old times, isn't it. Ah, well. I'll be back with a preliminary in an hour."

"I may be gone by then, chico."

"Oh, come on, April. Don't be petty."

"You could have called."

"So could you," he snapped back. The line crackled with New York static. "Just opening her up. Gotta go."