Loving Time

sixty-one

At a few minutes before seven P.M. on Monday night April adjusted her blue silk Chanel scarf nervously in the cage elevator that hauled her slowly up to the fifth floor of Jason’s building. It occurred to her that Jason’s wife had many real designer scarves and could spot a fake a mile away. She scraped through the lint at the bottom of her jacket pocket for a shred of tissue to blot her lipstick.

April had been upset that afternoon at the coffee shop when she saw Emma’s face freeze at the sight of her and her lips move, I … can’t go in there, as she turned away. But she wasn’t really surprised. The two women hadn’t met again after the perpetrator in Emma’s case died. Not meeting again was usual. Unusual was April’s working with a victim’s husband on another case since. And yet another one after that.

If she was there to answer the door, the movie-star wife would look her over and April knew she looked a wreck. Her hair was absolutely flat on her head. Her clothes were wrinkled, smelled of mental hospital and the Victorian potpourri from Gunn’s apartment. Her stomach was making terrible noises. She didn’t feel up to Jason’s wife tonight. She was in a state of panic, terrified about messing up the case.

Right now she knew that the Chinese god of messing up (whoever he was) was hanging over her as her Yin and Yang wrestled hopelessly out of harmony. She could feel him hanging around out there, just beyond her vision, waiting for the perfect moment to disgrace her and destroy her life. Maybe he’d come in the form of Special Agent Daveys. Maybe the NYPD was being set up somehow and she’d be the one to take the fall for this. She had a bad feeling about the situation with Boudreau. It didn’t all fit together the way it should, and she had no idea how it would be resolved tomorrow.

Jason’s elevator made a few little lurching hops before the two levels settled into one and the folding metal door clicked to let April know she could get out. Usually she and Jason talked in his office where the clocks didn’t chime. Tonight he’d asked her to come next door to his apartment where the clocks did chime. April hadn’t been there since the night Emma disappeared. Jason’s wanting her to come there must have something to do with his wife.

April hastily retied the scarf one last time. Emma opened the door before April touched the doorbell. She was caught fiddling with the silk folds, felt she lost face. She was also stunned by Emma’s loveliness. Emma had the kind of classic American features that were admired and coveted by the entire planet Earth. She was the standard of beauty by which all else was judged and found wanting. Emma’s creamy pure skin, wide hazel eyes, slender (slender!), graceful, slightly upturned nose. Her hair, more golden than ash now, had just enough curl at the ends to give it body and bounce. Her mouth was larger than April’s, which was on the rosebud scale, and she was taller. April felt small and ugly and utterly humbled.

“Ms. Chapman,” she said. “I’m really sorry to bother you at home.”

“Oh, please, call me Emma. Everyone else does.”

Emma was wearing toast-colored suede trousers and a celadon silk blouse. Tied around her neck by the arms was a soft-looking sweater of the same color. That pale, almost translucent green was greatly prized in the Chinese pottery of the Sung dynasty for what was believed to be its magical power to detect poison in any food served in it.

“I’m glad to see you, Detective. You saved my life, after all. And who knows, maybe Jason’s, too. Come in, he’s waiting for you.” Emma’s slightly uncertain smile made April feel shabby, in addition to everything else.

“Ah, please call me April.” April shrugged a little, returning the courtesy. The truth was, Emma shot the guy, too. And Emma shot him first. Who knew, maybe it was that first shot that saved both their lives.

The French doors were open. Jason was sitting in the living room that April thought was so eccentric. It was filled with books, ticking, bonging clocks, and aging upholstered furniture that was kind of threadbare and needed a face-lift. The curtains on the windows fronting the river also looked as if they had seen better days.

Jason put down the nearly full glass of clear liquid he’d been holding and got out of his chair to greet her. “April, thanks for coming. How are you?”

“Fine. Please, don’t get up.” No one else she knew got up for women. The gesture always startled her.

“Would you like something to drink?” Emma asked.

April eyed Jason’s glass. “Club soda?”

“Nope, gin. Want some?”

April shook her head, glanced at Emma for guidance.

“I’m drinking white wine,” Emma said quickly. “But we have everything. Pepsi, juice, beer …”

April realized that the movie star’s offer of refreshment meant this must be some kind of ceremonial occasion. She struggled with the idea of white wine for a few seconds. George Dong was the only person she knew who drank white wine. She thought of it as a wimpy Yuppie drink. It didn’t taste good or do much for her.

“Thanks, white wine would be fine,” she said.

Emma went to get her a glass while sixty-three dings, dongs, and bongs proclaimed the hour. April pulled off her jacket and took a chair, tried to arrange herself to fill it. She didn’t succeed.

“So,” Jason said. “Where are we?”

April smiled. “Still bearded, I see.” And back with the splendid wife.

Jason raised his hand to stroke the stubble. “Yeah, I’m still polling opinions on it.”

“What does Emma say?”

“I say it scratches.” Emma gave April the glass of wine, chose the sofa, and sat gracefully.

Ah. Six months ago this was the wife who hadn’t come to the station to discuss her own case. At two this afternoon she hadn’t wanted to come into the restaurant where cops were eating. Now Emma was part of the team, willing to sit down in the same room with her. Clever girl. April smiled.

“So, fill us in,” Jason said with a smile that confirmed her insight.

“The blood type of the semen in the condom matches Boudreau’s, as I told you on the phone.” April sipped at her wine, then put the glass down. “It looks like he’s the one who’s been harassing Dr. Treadwell. He’s been in trouble before—”

Jason nodded. “The inpatient suicide a year ago.”

“Even before that. Boudreau was a former Vietnam MASH unit surgical nurse. He may have killed his Captain after a young Marine the Captain was operating on died in surgery. Someone threw a live grenade into the doc’s tent that night. Boudreau was not charged with the crime but did not do well in the Army after that.” That was the part that had gotten Daveys all excited. Daveys’s brother had been a Marine and had died in ’Nam, apparently from the negligence—or cowardice—of one of his men.

Emma shivered.

“Boudreau was fired after the patient’s death. He may have blamed the Quality Assurance Committee for fingering him and the head of the Centre for firing him.”

“How did he maintain his access?”

“He has a friend in the personnel office. She helped him get a job as a janitor in the Stone Pavilion.”

“So he has all the keys,” Jason murmured.

“It appears that he does,” April agreed.

“Is he in custody?” Emma asked suddenly. “Did he kill other people?”

April’s wine tasted light and fresh, hardly like alcohol at all. “Not yet is the answer to your first question, and it’s possible is the answer to your second.”

Emma poured herself some more wine. “What now?” she asked.

“We’re bringing him in for questioning tomorrow.”

“You mean you know where he is?”

April nodded.

Emma fell silent. April didn’t want to imagine what she might be remembering.

“What about Dr. Treadwell?” Jason asked.

“Daveys has that end covered.”

Jason glanced at the phone. “Maybe I should give her a call.”

“Why is the FBI involved in this?” Emma asked. The FBI hadn’t come for her when she was abducted. April saw the other question in her eyes. Why not me?

“Dr. Treadwell’s boyfriend is a Senator. Treadwell was being harassed before Dr. Dickey died and she didn’t do anything about it. When someone got killed, the Senator may have stepped in on her behalf and asked someone for a favor. It’s just my hunch. That kind of thing happens.”

Well, that was enough for one day. Reluctantly, April dragged herself out of the chair. “Well, thanks for everything. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Somehow Emma managed to sound disappointed.

“We’re having dinner?” her husband asked.