Judging Time

38

Six days after the murder of Merrill Liberty, there were no more reporters hanging around Midtown North. A number of crime junkies from the local newspapers were now parked at the Two-O, bugging everybody in sight for printable material on progress in the Central Park basher case. Downtown at One Police Plaza, a huge crowd of reporters from all the communications gathered each afternoon, where Public Information held a press conference on the state of the Merrill Liberty investigation. The state that Public Information reported did not necessarily bear any resemblance to what was actually going on. Excessive amounts of airtime and page space, however, were filled with background stories on Liberty and Merrill and Tor, featuring the many highlights in their lives. Since all three of them had led very full lives, the saturation point had not yet been reached.

When April returned to the station from the medical examiner's office at 4:37, there was a chilling message on her desk. "Call mother." There were another two from Dean Kiang and one from Mike. In addition to those, there were five more messages related to cases she'd put on hold because of Merrill Liberty. She was looking through the little pile when Creaker leaned in the door.

"What's up?" April asked.

He smirked. "The lieutenant wants to see you pronto."

"Okay. Tell him I'll be right there." April didn't move. She stood at her desk with her coat on and called her mother.

Sai picked up on the first ring and spoke in a dangerously angry dragon voice. "Wei?"

"Hi, Ma, you all right?" April asked.

"No aw light," Skinny screamed. "Velly bad."

"What's the matter?"

"He die. Father no home. No can go."

"Who died?" April bit her tongue. Oh, God, she didn't need this.

"Unca Dai die," Sai screamed. "You worm, ni, you no better than ant—" She would have gone on, but April interrupted her.

"Oh, Ma, I'm sorry. What happened?"

Sai switched to Chinese for her account of going to the hospital with April's father (in a taxi because worm daughter wasn't there to drive them). Dai was in intensive care. She couldn't even recognize him he was so full of tubes and needles, Sai said. Tubes going in, tubes coming out. She began to weep. All the relatives were there. Al the friends. Out there in the hall, of course. April's father had to wait in the hall. Everybody in hall. The nurses only let special people go in. For some reason she got in. Then, when she went in, she'd only just had time to say hello and remind old Dai how they'd played together as children back in China when he began to jerk at his tubes. His eyes had been closed all the time and he seemed to be sleeping. But when she came in, it was as if old Dai had wanted to get up and join the living again. His spirit was not strong enough, however, Sai lamented. "Old Dai went to the other world before your father had a chance to wish him a safe journey."

Sai went on to describe how Dai had grunted as if he had something to tell her, then suddenly he was gone.

"I'm sorry, Ma," April said again, wondering who'd let her in intensive care and thinking most likely the old man had died trying to tell her to get out.

"It's almost five o'clock. Shift over. Come home now. Pay respect," Skinny Dragon shrilled.

"Ahhh, I'll be home soon."

"No bereave. How soon, ni?"

"As soon as I can. We've got a deadline here."

"TV say you double stupid, ni. Say you no good, can't find nothing."

"You watch too much TV, Ma."

As soon as she'd said it April knew it was the wrong thing to say. Dragons carry the pearl of life in their mouths and sometimes they breathe fire through it. Skinny picked that moment to breathe fire through her pearl. "You no gimme babies to take cawr, nothing to do, just watch TV."

Why did other Chinese mothers gather together in societies to improve the community in Chinatown and the neighborhoods in Queens? How come they bothered to build and work in community centers? Hah? How come other mothers found useful things to do and Sai Woo could only watch TV and nag her daughter?

With her coat still on, April hung up and went into Iriarte's office. Mike was sitting in his visitor's chair.

"Hi, Sergeant," he said carefully, then stroked his mustache.

Oh, great, trouble. April smiled at Iriarte.

Iriarte glared back. "Well?"

Well, it hadn't been the best day April had ever had. She made a big deal of searching for her notebook in her purse, then getting it out and opening it up. During her handbag rampage, her fingers brushed the paper with the printout of Liberty's E-mail to Jason. She knew she should give it over. But she turned the pages of the notebook, leaving the E-mail printout where it was. She didn't bother to inform anybody that there'd been a death. A pillar of the Chinese community had died. An old friend Skinny had known since the terrible China days. Maybe they'd been friends. Maybe even lovers. Who knew what went on back then? Her mother was distraught and wanted her to come home, which was not entirely unusual. But nobody would care about any of that.

"Let's see, I talked with Daphne Petersen. She told me some interesting things about her husband's character and that she'd fought with him on the day of his death. She still maintains that although he deserved to die, she didn't kill him because she worships the divinity in all creatures. She gave me a lock of her hair." April smiled then read on.

"I saw Emma Chapman, who told me Merrill Liberty was something of a shrew. The screaming and fights between the couple were pretty much onesided—Merrill was a coke user and did her partying with Tor Petersen because her husband didn't approve. That was one of their issues as a couple. I also had a long talk with Jason Frank," she said. "He told me an interesting story about a woman who tried to pierce herself in the heart with a coat hanger, and guess what? She didn't have to stab herself in the chest to do it. Dr. Frank also told me Liberty was not the kind of guy to kill his wife, anyway not with a coat hanger. I've just come back from a visit with the deputy medical examiner. We've gotten very friendly. She was so helpful she left me one of her hairs on the sink. I gave all the hairs I collected to Ducci."

Iriarte didn't look too happy with the report so far. "What do you want the hair for?" That was the part that got him.

"There was a hair on Petersen's body. I just want to find a match for it. You know how these little details can complicate a court case." April's bland expression didn't change.

Mike smiled. Oh, boy, are you looking for trouble!

Suddenly she smiled back. So I'll get an afterlife. "You know what else Dr. Washington told me? She now thinks the murder weapon may be a knitting needle. Did Merrill Liberty knit?"

"A knitting needle?" Iriarte coughed into his handkerchief.

"They come in all sizes," April said, sobering her face even more.

"This is all shit," Iriarte thundered. "You had a whole day to find this son of a bitch, and what did

you do? You went visiting with a bunch of women and a shrink."

"You wanted me to make nice to the ME," April reminded him. "I made nice to her."

"I didn't tell you to go asking for her hair."

"It was on the sink. All I had to do was pick it up," April said modestly.

"What do you think you're doing—no, don't answer that." Iriarte turned to Mike. "I get a call from the commissioner every hour. You know, we've known each other from way back. He used to like me. You know what the commissioner keeps telling me? He keeps telling me how personally let down he feels because we didn't clear that murder in the park last summer, and because of us, that maniac is still out there hurting young women. Now we can't clear a simple boyfriend/girlfriend murder. The whole world's watching us, and we can't locate one of the most famous people in the city. We got several people positive they saw the bastard on the street last night when there was an incident involving a possible shooting. The commissioner wants you two to get in a car and go up there and drive around until you get that guy. We've got to make an arrest before the week's up."

The heat rose to April's face. Her week was already up. She'd missed a day off. If you missed a day off, you didn't get to make it up later. She'd worked all day. It was her night off. Her mother was going to kill her. She glanced at Mike. He loved nothing more than driving around in a car with her all night. His eyes crinkled and he smiled like a pirate.

"Look, April, I'd like to talk to you about this in person," Dean Kiang said to April on the phone at 7

P.M.

"I don't want to lose touch on this. The boss is getting anxious. He's talking about putting some new people on the case."

So what else was new. April stared grimly out the window in her office door at Lieutenant Iriarte, talking to his men with his coat and hat on. The lieutenant

was on his way downtown for a huddle with their big bosses. Each time there was a downtown huddle, the effects radiated outward through the precincts like ripples in a pond. The talk would be followed by a press conference. The press conference would be on all the news programs. And out of the TV would come an announcement that some new important action was being taken that would inevitably make life a little harder and more pressured at the precinct level.

"April, you listening to me?" Dean demanded.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Here's the deal. I think you have potential, and I don't want you screwing up."

She'd heard this before. "I won't screw up," she promised, fairly sure it was too late for such assurances.

"I heard you paid another visit to the ME's office," Dean went on.

"Yes, I went to make nice."

"Well, that's the kind of thing I like to hear. Now tell me what's happening."

"Not a lot. We've got a BOLO out on Petersen's driver, Wally Jefferson. Also on Liberty. Word is Liberty's hiding out up in Harlem." She didn't add that she was still working on the double homicide/Daphne Petersen angle.

"Anything else?"

April considered Rosa's suggestion of a knitting needle as the murder weapon. Damn. She'd forgotten to call to ask Emma if Merrill had been a knitter. If Liberty turned out to be the killer, he could have picked up something close at hand on his way out, something out of his wife's sewing basket. Nice. But unlikely, since she hadn't seen any such knitting basket when they'd gone over the place.

"No, it's frustrating. There's nothing else," she said. Liberty and his wife were having problems. Merrill was a doper. The usual.

A pause, then Dean made a suggestion. "April, why don't you come down and have dinner with me?"

"Ab," April hesitated. She didn't want to say her evening was already booked, that she had an assignment to drive around Harlem in a car for four or five hours. With Sanchez most likely at the wheel.

"This is your night off," Kiang said.

How did Dean Kiang know when her days off were? "Well, not tonight, Dean. I'm working off the chart," April replied.

"I have to be in court tomorrow, but we could have a quick one. How about it?"

April watched the loyal troops wave as Iriarte departed with a flourish. "Gotta go, Dean, my boss calls. Sorry about" dinner."

April hung up, dejected.

"Ready?" Mike stuck his head in the door. He'd done some washing up, had combed his hair and mustache. It was clear he was ready.

"Give me a minute." April dialed Jason's home number. No one answered. She checked her watch. Of course. It was late. Emma had probably already left for the theater. She dialed information for the number of the theater and explained who she was and what she wanted to three different people before the phone finally rang in Emma's dressing room.

"Hi, it's April," April said when Emma picked up and said hello.

"Oh, God, did you find Rick?" was Emma's quick reply.

"No, not yet. I'm sorry to bother you, Emma, but I have some important questions for you."

"Okay, but I've got to get dressed in a second."

"Okay. One, did Merrill knit?"

"Huh? Knit?"

"Yeah, knit, quilt, do needlepoint? Anything like that?"

"Uh-uh, she thought it was boring. Merrill was a big reader. And she liked to cook. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I'll explain it to you later."

"The other question," Emma prompted.

"Oh, yeah, did you ever show an interest in owning Merrill's mink coat?"

"God, no. I always told her I wouldn't be caught dead in such a display. You know how many animals have to die to make a coat like that?"

"More than two. Well, thanks, Emma, break a leg."

"No problem. Call me anytime," Emma told her.

April went to the bathroom to wash her face.

An hour later she and Mike were seated in a small Mexican restaurant around the corner from the Two-0, where the owner didn't like Mike to pay, but Mike always paid anyway. April gathered that Mike's father had worked there when he first came to New York thirty years ago and had remained friends with the owner until his death. April didn't know all this for sure because Mike and the owner and the chef always spoke in Spanish, and her Spanish was limited, to say the least.

Two tables away from them a yuppie-looking couple with blond hair were groping each other and sloshing down the sangria as if they'd never have to be alert again. April eyed them enviously.

"What are you trying to accomplish, irritating everybody like this? You trying to suicide or something?" Mike demanded.

April didn't think that was a question that required an answer, so she made a face at him. His response was to give her a deep look complete with sultry smile that caused her cheeks to burn.

Then he said, "Relax," and reached over to cover her hand with one of his.

The contact was limited to a small site, yet traveled through April everywhere in a way she hadn't experienced with a simple touch before. Oh, shit, she didn't need this. She made another face. This was the line she wasn't crossing. Okay, so they weren't working together in the same house. But they were still working together! And he still wasn't Chinese!! Mike's hand continued to stroke hers, squeezing lightly. She felt weak from the touch and confused because she was crossing the line and her heart didn't stop her. Her tongue started to protest another issue.

"I've been up since five, and now I have to drive around all night, looking for someone who's about as likely to be hanging out on the streets waiting for us as I am to fly to the moon ...." April fell silent. Under Mike's, her hand turned over so their two palms met. Their fingers laced.

April didn't mention the E-mail Liberty had sent to Jason asking Jason to remove Merrill's mink coat from his apartment, and how they might find him through cyberspace. She was feeling overheated and excited. She'd forgotten it.

"Look on the bright side, at least we're together."

"Uh-huh. "

A waiter arrived with their food, and Mike removed his hand, the better to communicate his appreciation.

"Well, this looks almost as good as Chinese," April murmured.

Mike's father had been a chef in a Mexican restaurant. April's father still was a chef in a Chinese restaurant. Mike always said this commonality of the occupations of their fathers made a special bond between them. Now he smiled as he expertly rolled two slices of chicken fajita, refried beans, grated queso bianco, salsa, chopped tomato, guacamole, and sour cream into a small com tortilla, then took a bite. None of the contents squished out on his fingers at either end, nor did the tortilla break in the middle, spilling the food back onto his plate. She watched him take a second bite to see if the performance could be repeated. It was.

April looked at her plate of four skewered and grilled shrimps the size of lobster tails, covered with a green sauce, decorated with chilies that couldn't be eaten, and arranged on a plate of squid-ink-flavored rice. She'd had it before and was so impressed by the idea of black rice she'd told her father Ja Fa Woo to try it in the well-known midtown Chinese restaurant where he worked. She thought it might be an exotic addition to his repertoire.

"April—" Mike had finished his fajita and was staring at her with that expression men get when they're full of a positive emotion beyond the reach of their vocabulary.

Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid he could hear it. No, she wasn't going there. "Ah . . . you asked me why I'm bugging everybody. Well, I'm trying to get at the truth." She shrugged. "You know."

The moment passed and Mike laughed. "You really got Iriarte with the bit about the hair on the sink. What did you do with it?"

"I told you I gave it to Duke, what else? I also told him Jason's story about the coat hanger and the pericardial tamponade, whatever that is. Duke was most interested. He really thinks Rosa messed up and Petersen was murdered."

"Too bad we can't take another look at the body."

"The way I see it, with Petersen's death ruled a natural the field for suspects in the Merrill Liberty killing is really limited to her husband."

Mike nodded.

"But with Petersen's death ruled a homicide, we could open it all the way up. We'd have a ton of suspects."

"Has it occurred to you that Rosa might have been influenced to make a quick and positive determination that the hole in Petersen's heart was caused by a heart attack?" Mike asked.

"Yes, it has. There's a huge amount of money involved here. Rosa Washington was on the scene practically the moment the homicide call came in. Why would an ME come out of a party or an evening out, all dressed up, to show up at a crime scene when MEs aren't doing that anymore? Think about it."

"I'm impressed, April, but Rosa's obviously very passionate about her work. ... I came out that night, and I didn't have to, either. I didn't even know you were there, and I came out."

Mike called for the bill, provoking the usual altercation. The owner didn't want him to pay. Mike insisted on paying. They argued in Spanish. April picked up her purse and retreated to the front door, where she discreetly studied a poster of a matador waving a red blanket at a bull. This was one occasion where her interference would not be appreciated by either party. Finally Mike showed up and took her arm. "Thanks for dinner," he said.

"No, thank you."

Winter coats came between them. Many layers of protection against all the various ravages of nature. The comer by the restaurant door was small. A draft leaked in around the edges. April's hands were anticipating the cold already. Yet her face was burning. How to warm her hands and cool her cheeks? Mike's coat and jacket hung open. The hand that was holding her arm slid down the sleeve of her coat until it came to her freezing fingers. He rubbed and squeezed her fingers for a moment, then lifted them to his lips to warm them with his breath. His mustache teased her knuckles. His soft lips opened on the tips of her fingers and drew them just inside his mouth.

"Oh." The impact hit April hard enough to make her eyes smart. She could feel his teeth, even the hint of his tongue against her fingernails. The touch was alive and had her in its thrall. She moved a step closer, and knowing she'd hate herself in the morning, tucked her other hand inside Mike's coat, inside his jacket, around his waist until they were clasped in a full-body hug. He murmured something in Spanish and touched her lips with his own. His kiss was the touch of a butterfly's wing, the petal of a rose, with hardly any pressure at all. He held her close but kissed her lightly, brushing his parted lips against the side of her face, her nose, her mouth. Then suddenly it was over. The door opened on a customer coming in for dinner, and they staggered out into the cold to search for a killer.