Judging Time

25

Mike drove uptown on First Avenue, through the Twenties and past the New York University Medical Center complex in the Thirties, where the medical examiner's building was set apart.

"Jesus, it's cold. My hands are frozen." April chaffed her hands. "What a day. What do you think, is Ducci a crackpot or are we in trouble?"

"He is and he isn't. But either way, we are."

"In trouble?"

Mike smiled. "Ducci may be right that Petersen died before the Liberty woman. He may not be right that Petersen was murdered."

"You don't buy the sharp-stick-in-the-heart story?"

"I saw Petersen's body and the Liberty woman's body, and so did you. The hole in the woman's throat was a hole. The wound on Petersen's chest didn't look like a hole. It wasn't red like a fresh injury, and there was no dried blood around it. Not any. It looked old to me."

"But the chest is a different part of the body from the throat," April pointed out. "Ducci said when the weapon was removed from the chest, the skin would close up around it. That wouldn't happen on the neck."

"Maybe. But it looked old. And there's no chance for a second autopsy."

"What about the hole in the sweater?"

"There's a hole in the sweater at the site of Petersen's tiny wound—that could have been made days, weeks, or even months before he died—and in the severed yarn fibers is lint from a T-shirt that the victim was not wearing at the time of his autopsy. So one could argue he was not wearing it at the time of his death. One could also argue that the chest injury— whatever its nature—also occurred sometime in the past."

"Many would argue that," April agreed.

"If Petersen was wearing a T-shirt at the time of his death, the T-shirt would have bloodstains on it— maybe not pints of blood, but some—and there would be a corresponding hole in the shirt that would be hard to miss."

"But he wasn't wearing a T-shirt."

"Or if someone wanted to make Petersen's death look like a heart attack, he'd also have to make the T-shirt disappear." Mike crossed on Fifty-seventh Street where the huge Christmas snowflake still presided over the crosswalk of Fifty-seventh and Fifth, forcing cheer out of a thousand tiny white lights. More white lights sparkled on the bare branches of the trees lining the avenue.

"No matter how this gets resolved, it's going to be bad. Liberty's taken off. Why would he do that if he weren't guilty of something?"

April's eyes burned. She felt lousy because they hadn't gotten anywhere with Liberty yesterday, and because of the way they were being treated by her boss. She was also troubled by the things Ducci told them. "What if Liberty was having an affair with the Petersen woman, they planned the murders together, and now she's trying to get him to take the fall?" she mused.

"Oy, the bitch." Mike turned up Madison, then left on Sixtieth. At Fifth Avenue even more white lights twinkled on the dozen Christmas trees still stuck in several levels of the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel. The only yellow lights were those that cast an eerie glow from the thirty-foot menorah in Central Park at Fifty-ninth Street, right across from Daphne Petersen's building.

Now April's throat felt raw. Everyone working the case had messed up. Most of all she had. The Chinese god of messing up was hovering over her. She could feel his hot dragon's breath on her neck, in Iriarte's dashed hopes for her, in Mike's too. Dean Kiang would not think well of her either. He needed a solid case to prosecute. She'd be exiled to Ozone Park, put back in uniform. Her mother would gloat and make her life a misery, and she'd never get laid by anybody.

Mike stopped the car.

"Well, look at that." April sat up in her seat.

Daphne Petersen was hurrying up Fifth Avenue toward the spot where Mike had parked. She was wearing a huge black mink coat that swirled around her like a furry tent. Daphne was talking animatedly to a tall and strikingly handsome young man in a silver warm-up suit. The guy had bronze hair curling around his tanned neck and face and looked like an underwear ad with his clothes on.

"She looks cold. Let's take her for a ride," Mike suggested.

"Good idea." April opened the car door and got out, heedless of the traffic surging around her.

Mike swore as she headed around the front of the car.

There was a lake at the curb. April hurdled it, landing just north of Daphne Petersen on the sidewalk. The woman gave a little squeak and sprang back with surprising agility. The minute Daphne sidestepped, the underwear ad took her place, moving in quickly to attack April. Mike was out of the car when the man grabbed April by the arm and swung her around back toward the street. Her feet got tangled up in a dance step she hadn't seen coming, but she had the presence of mind to signal Mike to take it easy. No one was supposed to touch a police officer, and now Mike was coming on like a SWAT team to save her. The man swung April around to take her down in the icy lake on Fifth Avenue. But April shifted her weight at the last moment and tossed him away from her.

The man screamed as his feet left the sidewalk and he landed hard in front of their parked car, splashing filthy water on Daphne Petersen's leopard-topped boots.

Daphne stamped the boots on the sidewalk, yelling at April. "Are you mad?" Her piercing English shriek drew the doormen out of the Pierre.

"What's going on?" The one with the top hat tried for some authority.

Daphne ignored him. "Are you mad?" she continued screaming at April, who stood next to her, a little surprised by her ability to send a six-footer flying into the gutter.

"What do you think you're doing? You scared me to death. Giorgio, honey, are you all right?" Daphne put out her hand to the man with his butt in the street but did not advance close enough to touch him or get her feet wet.

He was sputtering in some foreign language as Mike. pulled him to his feet.

"Ow, beetch, crazy beetch."

"Hey, watch that, buddy," Mike said. "You just assaulted a police officer." He rubbed his wet gloves together, then smacked one against the other. "You could go to jail for that."

"No way. I didn't do nothing." The man held his hands palms up. "She—"

"You assaulted a police officer. I saw you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Daphne Petersen turned to Mike. "The woman practically jumped on me. We thought she was one of those antifur people."

"What-?" April demanded.

"Can't you hear? We thought you were going to throw red paint at me."

"Crazy beetch." The handsome man didn't have much of a vocabulary. He was combing his fingers through his hair, managing to appear both peeved and injured.

Daphne shot him a scathing look. "Oh, shut up, Giorgio."

"Who's he?" Mike jerked a thumb at the bronze hair.

Daphne sniffed. "Just my trainer."

Mike stroked his mustache speculatively. "Nice job."

"You need any help?" the doorman tried again.

"Police," April said. "We're fine." She nodded him away.

"You're blocking the street," the doorman pointed out.

"That's what we're paid for," she told him.

"All right, you ruined my boots, you practically killed my friend. What are you doing here?"

"We're investigating a homicide."

"I had nothing to do with it. I hardly knew the woman. Let's go, Giorgio." Daphne turned away.

"Mrs. Petersen, would you mind getting in the car?" Mike said.

The widow swung back, stunned by the request. "What for?"

"We want to talk to you."

"You talked to me before." She eyed April now.

"You didn't tell me anything I wanted to know," April said evenly. "Now we're really going to talk."

"But I don't know anything," she protested:

"Funny, that's not what you said on TV."

The woman's face reddened. She glanced at her friend. "You'd better go now, Giorgio."

He peered at her as if he'd never heard such a command in his life. "Where?" he asked dumbly.

"Wherever you want, honey. You're a big boy."

He gave her a pathetic look, a hunk deprived of purpose, then scowled at the two cops. "Huh?"

"Go," Daphne commanded impatiently.

Giorgio looked at her again, saw that she was determined, then sloped off downtown, his shoes squishing on the sidewalk.

She turned to them angrily. "I don't know where he kept the stuff or who he got it from. I know that's why you're here." She leaned toward them on the

sidewalk, speaking passionately. "It's not my problem. I told you he was a cocaine user. I warned him it would kill him one day if he kept drinking the way he did." Her cheek glistened in the light. She raised a white-gloved hand to wipe away the single tear that teetered on the curve.

April couldn't help herself. She glanced at Mike.

"Where were you the night your husband died?" he asked.

She gestured to April with the gloved hand. "I already told her. I was at home watching a movie. I talked on the phone. I have a list of people who dialed my number."

This was the first April heard of that.

"Tor died of an overdose," Daphne went on. "I hadn't seen him since—oh, I don't know, a couple of days." She started shivering inside the heavy coat.

"Who told you that?" Mike asked.

Daphne looked at him as if he were retarded. "Don't you people talk to each other? That's what they told me."

"Who told you?"

"Some woman from the police called and told me the toxi . . ."

"Toxicology," April prompted.

"Yeah, those reports came in, and Tor was just"— Daphne shook her head—"chock-full of cocaine and alcohol." She swiped at her face again. "That's what killed hini. I asked her to keep it on the QT, you know. It doesn't help to spread that around, does it?" She looked yearningly at her building. "Can I go home now?"

"We'll come with you, make sure you're all right." Mike's face was impassive at the news of more official blundering.

Daphne made a face and hurried inside.

They left the car where it was on the street and took the elevator up to Petersen's apartment where the TV cables were gone, but plants and bouquets of flowers covered all available surfaces. The flowers were mostly lilies, April noticed. Many of them looked dried or hung over, as if the advice on the accompanying card, "Water me," had not been heeded.

In the living room, which overlooked the park, Daphne opened her fur coat and threw it on a chair. Underneath she was wearing exercise clothes—white tights and a pink body suit with a thong. She threw herself into a deep sofa, careful to keep the boots off the silk.

"You know Tor's death was his own fault. So why are you bothering me?"

"Because you haven't told anybody the truth about anything. That makes a problem for us." April tried not to stare at her body. "Let's start with your original statement. You told us you'd seen your husband the morning he died."

"Well, I didn't." The widow looked at them defiantly, tossing her hair. "I didn't know what the story was. I felt silly, you know. He'd spent the night somewhere, and I felt—awkward."

"Awkward?" April cocked her head. The woman's husband had been murdered and she felt awkward.

Daphne checked her nail polish. "One doesn't exactly enjoy being a jilted wife, you know. I was pretty certain I didn't have much time with him left, and I just—you know, I didn't say anything. I hoped it would blow over. Sometimes they do, you know. It's my own fault, of course," she added.

Mike was sucking his mustache. April could almost hear him think.

"What's your fault?" she asked.

"Marrying him, thinking it would last. Silly me."

April glanced around the lavish living room, full of silk chairs and shiny tables, objects of art from countries and centuries she could not have identified if her life depended on it. Silly Daphne didn't turn out to be so silly. Her straying husband with the dangerous habits was conveniently dead, and she was his final wife, after all. April unbuttoned her own coat and considered the chair possibilities.

"Do you mind if I take my coat off?"

Daphne flicked her a glance that didn't take anything in. "No, of course not."

April took her coat off and sat in a wing chair covered with red leather that sat at an angle to the sofa where Daphne was displaying the sweat stains in her crotch to Mike, who sat in a similar chair opposite her. Lovely girl.

"So, your husband was a cocaine user. What about you?" Mike asked.

"I'm a strict vegetarian," Daphne said, sullen now. "I must respect the divinity in myself."

Uh-huh. "Earlier, you told us you warned him that his substance abuse was serious enough to kill him." Now April.

Daphne didn't answer. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"All the drinking and cocaine use must have made him pretty difficult to deal with," April went on.

"It was sad to watch," Daphne said flatly. "Are we almost done?"

April ignored the question. "You told a TV reporter your husband was having an affair with Merrill Liberty, and that Liberty killed them both in a jealous rage."

"So what?"

"Well, you also said you knew your husband would kill himself with drugs."

"What does it matter what I say? I'm crazed with grief." She appealed to Mike for understanding.

"Well, you accused a man of murder on national TV. That might matter to some people," Mike said. "He might sue you. We might think you did it for us, so we'd go after him and not you."

"I watched a movie and went to bed. Even if I had killed him, how could you prove it?" Daphne circled her head around her shoulders, loosening up those tight muscles.

"Why did you say you thought Liberty killed them?"

She scratched her cheek. "Maybe I thought so at the time. The interviewer thought so, too," she said defensively.

"And now?"

Daphne made a face. "Well, Liberty had no interest in women. I don't know if he and Merrill even made it together. He might be a fairy, you know. But he might have been upset if Tor wanted his wife. That's poaching, isn't it?"

Oh, so now Liberty was gay. "This is the first I've heard of that," April murmured. "So, do you think Merrill Liberty was having an affair with your husband?"

Daphne's face hardened. "I don't know. She was boring. He liked more—exciting women. And he didn't like blondes."

"Then why did you say it?"

"They were old friends. They were together a lot lately. You know how old friends stick together." Daphne glared.

"So you were a little jealous of the friendship." April changed tack. "You've made a lot of speculations." April pretended to search through her notes. "But you left one out."

"Are we done?' '

"You left out the jealous wife."

"Oh, here we go."

"You had more motivation for murder than anybody."

"It was probably his girlfriend,"' Daphne said abruptly.

"Who?"

"The woman Tor was seeing."

"Do you know her name?"

Daphne shook her head. "But I know her smell. Want to smell her?" She jumped up without waiting for an answer. April realized that she was tall, five eleven with her boots on.

Mike watched Daphne's bottom and legs progress across the room. April frowned at him. He didn't seem

to mind. Daphne returned in less than a minute carrying a purple bag with a dry cleaner's name on it, reached inside, and handed a man's large burgundy cashmere sweater to April. "Smell."

April sniffed and wrinkled her nose. She handed the sweater to Mike.

He put the soft knit to his face. "Vanilla musk." His crookcd eyebrow went up as he examined the sweater. Inside, like a lining, was a white T-shirt. It smelled of deodorant and the same woman's perfume.

Daphne reached out and pulled something off the hem of the T-shirt. "See," she said, holding up a four-inch length of black hair that was inky like Carmella's but straight. Both detectives examined it. Then Daphne took it back, put the sweater and the T-shirt and the hair carefully back in the plastic sweater bag as if they were still bits of evidence she might need in a divorce case.

"Maybe she killed him with bad stuff," Daphne offered.

"Why would she do that?" April asked.

"Maybe he was breaking up with her."

Mike shook his head. "From what you've told us earlier, Mrs. Petersen, it sounds more like your husband was breaking up with you."

Daphne started to shiver again. "I've never touched cocaine in my life. Tor didn't get the stuff from me. He could have gotten it from that woman, or Patrice— I heard someone was selling at the restaurant. Or it could have been from his driver, Wally. He and Wally were very close. He certainly didn't get it from me." She'd raised her voice and was shouting now. "j didn't kill him!" She stopped the tirade abruptly, her face red.

"You made me say that," she said, for the first time frightened by something that had come out of her mouth. "Tor wasn't even murdered, and you made me say that." She shook her head. "You'd better go now."

"Maybe the information you got on the phone this morning was premature," Mike said. "We'll need you to come down to the station to make a formal statement. "

"What?" Alarmed, Daphne reached for her coat.

"Not right this minute, Mrs. Petersen. We'll call and make an appointment." In the meantime, they would check out every comer of her life.

"Oh, do you mind if I take this?" April reached for the sweater bag Daphne had dropped on the table.

"What for?"

April wrote out a receipt. "Oh, who knows, it might prove useful." She handed over the slip of paper and reached for her plain navy wool coat. Daphne seemed too tired to object. Maybe it was all that exercise.

"Thanks, you've been a big help." April smiled. Next time she'd ask Daphne about her calls to the medical examiner's office and how she'd gotten her husband's body cremated in record time.

The two detectives started for the door. Before they got there, Mike turned back to the widow, who had wrapped the coat around her shoulders and was now shivering uncontrollably in her mink. "By the way, Mrs. Petersen, did your husband always wear a T-shirt under his sweaters?"

Deep in her own thoughts, Daphne responded without hesitation. "Always. He thought it was unhealthy not to have cotton next to his skin."

"He wasn't wearing a T-shirt when he died. Where do you think it went?" April chimed in.

Daphne stared at them too stunned to answer.