Loving Time

forty-seven

“Let’s get this straight.” Sergeant Joyce stopped to sneeze all over the phone as she replaced the receiver. “Jason Frank gave you a used condom that came from Treadwell’s appointment book a week ago?”

April stood in front of Sergeant Joyce’s desk and nodded. She wondered if this was a good time to tell her about the FBI.

Joyce sneezed again and barked, “Sit down—you’re giving me a headache.”

April flinched and moved over to the windowsill, where the air was still leaking cold. She knew of some Chinese remedies that might help her supervisor’s condition, but she didn’t think the Sergeant would appreciate them.

“And you did what with it?” The Sergeant honked.

“Uh, I took it to the labs to be tested.”

“Give me a hint, April Tested for what?”

“Well, to get a blood type, to try for a match with—”

The door opened and Mike came in with a funny smile on his face. “You asked for me?”

“What’s with you, Sanchez?” Joyce hacked into a paper napkin.

“What?”

“You know something I don’t?”

Mike turned to April and winked, then shook his head, looking serious. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, just the Feebies want in, that’s all. What the fuck is going on here?”

Mike’s crooked eyebrows came together. “The feds? In what?”

“I just got a call from Special Agent”—she glanced down at the note she had scribbled, then sneezed on—“Stephen Daveys. He wants to work closely with us on the case. He’ll be in to chat with us at four. That gives us about four hours to clear it.” She barked out a short laugh.

April didn’t share her enjoyment. They’d been talking for several minutes and the Sergeant had waited until Mike appeared to mention it

Mike scratched his nose. “Excuse me, I must have missed something here. What case are we talking about?”

“It remains a little confused, a little hazy, Sanchez. What would the feds want with the case of an unnatural death of a shrink at the Psychiatric Centre? You tell me.”

“Hmmm. Could be a number of things.” He went silent, then glanced at April. “I heard you were at the labs this morning. We missed each other.”

“Detective,” Joyce said sarcastically, “why don’t you tell the Sergeant what you were doing there.”

April made a clicking noise with her tongue. It was the same noise Skinny Dragon Mother made when she was about to release her pent-up rage. April sniffed cautiously, wondering if Joyce’s cold happened to be traveling her way, clicked her tongue again. Then she cleared her throat and smiled at Mike.

“I had some sperm I wanted tested.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Whose?”

“Dr. Treadwell thinks it came from the guy who offed Dickey.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike said again. “I don’t remember any sperm at the death scene.”

April kept her face straight. “It came up before the death. It appeared at some meeting Dr. Treadwell was having to discuss the Cowles case on Friday. Someone put it in her appointment book.”

Mike chewed on his mustache. “Uh-huh,” he said. “And how did you get it?”

She squirmed a little. “Jason Frank gave it to me.”

“No kidding. How did he get it?” Frustrated, Sergeant Joyce grabbed a hank of hair to torture.

“Jason Frank is Dr. Treadwell’s consultant on the Cowles suicide.”

“And what does that have to do with this?” Joyce screamed.

“Dickey was Treadwell’s supervisor on Cowles’s treatment eighteen years ago. And Treadwell and the hospital are being sued for twenty-six million by the widow and the insurance company.”

“Oh, shit.” Joyce let go of the hair to blow her nose. “Oh, shit. I don’t like this.”

“And you think …”

April threw out a possible. “Dickey’s the only witness to Cowles’s treatment. If he’s dead, he can’t testify in a malpractice case.”

“What are you suggesting here, April? You think the Director of the Psychiatric Centre—a woman who happens to be on the President’s Commission on Mental Health—killed her former supervisor to prevent him from taking the stand against her in a case he supervised eighteen years ago? That sound plausible to you?” Joyce was still screaming.

“They getting much federal funding?” Sanchez drummed his fingers on the armrests of the chair he finally fell into.

“Who?”

“The hospital, hospital community programs—”

“Bingo, a nice fed connection. Fine—let them deal,” Joyce muttered, wiping her hands of it.

“Yeah, but it might not be that. Hell, the Feebs can come in on anything. They’ve got a thousand excuses to step on any toes they want. Hey, maybe it’s not homicide they’re interested in. Maybe it’s some kind of corruption.” Sanchez turned to April. “So what’s this about a used rubber in your possession this morning, April?”

“There’s more to the Treadwell thing,” April said. “Jason confirmed what Mrs. Dickey said about Treadwell and her husband. They did have an affair while Treadwell was in training there. After Treadwell qualified, she left for a dozen years, married, divorced, worked in California; married again, divorced again. She came back here as head of the psychiatric hospital three years ago.

“About six months ago she started dating a U.S. Senator and about the same time began getting threatening notes. Last week Jason was present when she reached in her desk drawer and was cut by a surgical scalpel someone had rigged up in there. The used condom turned up at a meeting when she opened her leather appointment book—”

“And Jason Frank told you all this?” Joyce interrupted skeptically.

“He told me about the events he witnessed. Her personal history I investigated on my own,” April replied.

“Well, good work, Detective,” Joyce said sarcastically.

April lifted a shoulder. Thanks.

“So what’s his interest?” Mike demanded.

“Jason’s? I’m not entirely sure.”

“And what’s the relationship, huh? What does he stand to gain here?” Mike again.

April shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“So, Dr. Treadwell is seeing a U.S. Senator. Whew.” Joyce blew her nose loudly. “And what about the threatening letters?”

“Apparently, she didn’t take them seriously.” April spread out her hands, palms up. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

“And now I guess she’s changed her mind.”

“Now she thinks Dickey was murdered by the guy who’s been harassing her.” April didn’t add that Clara was responsible for involving the FBI.

“Uh-huh. Does Treadwell have a name for this guy?”

“Yeah. Boudreau, Robert Boudreau. He was a former nurse, fired last year after the death of a patient—a young guy who jumped off a terrace.… ”

Joyce’s eyes were wide. She chewed on her lip with dismay. “I remember the case. This is real sketchy stuff, April.”

April nodded. “It has a strong odor,” she agreed.

“And why did Jason Frank tell you all this?”

“I guess Dr. Treadwell doesn’t trust us. She told Jason she’s having the FBI take over the case. Maybe he’s afraid we can’t handle them,” April murmured. “But then again, maybe he likes me.” She smiled.

“Likes you!” Sanchez exploded. “Likes you? I’ll break his fucking head.”

“Shut up!” Joyce screamed, then went into a coughing fit.

“You want some water?” April asked evenly.

“I’m fine. Ghhhh.” Joyce cleared her throat and spit. “So Treadwell had a pretty strong motive for killing Dickey. And let’s not forget that she was with him when he died.”

“Let’s not forget it,” Mike said. “And maybe the Feebs are here to help her cover up.”

Joyce started plucking at her hair again. “So this mischief may be a fairy tale. Anyone see the threatening letters?”

“Well, the condom sighting is legit—”

“That’s a fucking fairy tale, too. What are we supposed to do with that? Why did Frank take the condom? Why did he give it to you? Give me a break.”

“Look, Jason says all Treadwell wants is to have the thing tested to see if the blood type matches Boudreau’s. Then we can nail him.”

“Who the hell is this Boudreau?” Joyce screamed. “How does he tie in? What do we nail him with? Shit, the victim died. Either his death was a suicide, an accident, or somebody offed him. For all we know, Treadwell could have balled this guy Boudreau a week ago and held on to the happy results for just this purpose. The woman kept it for a week. Give me a break, April. This whole thing stinks.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Check it out. Check it all out, every piece. Every scrap. I want to know the story here.” She sniffed toward Sanchez. “What about you? You get anything?”

“Only one tiny thing.” Sanchez shrugged. “The Amitriptyline was in syrup form. The in-patients get it in a little cup. They call it bug juice. It comes from the pharmacy on the third floor, but every floor has its own supply. Dickey apparently drank his with the scotch. There were traces of both scotch and Amitriptyline in his empty glass.”

“Dickey was a doctor. He must have known that mixing the two would be dangerous.… Suicide?” Joyce said hopefully.

Mike shook his head. “Remember, there was no bottle of scotch, no container of the drug on the scene. No note.”

Joyce tore at her hair again. Then suddenly she threw up her hands. “Get out of here. Fill in the dots by four—and get me some chicken soup for this damn cold.”