Stealing Time

CHAPTER 15

W

hat's going on, boss? You look upset," Woody said on the return trip to the squad room after the visit with Heather Rose.

April shook her head. Oh, man, she hated to see this. A Chinese woman, college educated, married to a creep. Okay, it happened. But there was more. Heather Rose might be one of those people who could do weird things. What she'd done just now was make her voice fly around the room like a ventriloquist. Called herself an insect, cried like a baby. "Nutty as a fruitcake" was the only explanation April let enter her mind. She got a tingling in the middle of her palm. Her skin crawled. And all this gave her a bad feeling. Iriarte was always threatening to fire her. Could be that, but it could be the woman was crazy. She had those scars on her arm. Perfect circles. In the twenty minutes April had spent trying to get Heather Rose to stop making crying noises from outside her body, a voice called April insect woman and predicted her death. It was creepy because the new sound had a toneless quality that almost made April think it came from the other side.

I don't believe in portents, signs, and predictions, and I'm not going to die,

April told herself. She also told herself she was a cop and hadn't heard this. No one heard this. But she was shaken all the same. Crazy people could do that to you. Now April had to reconsider this whole issue of the woman killing the baby, after all; and maybe the husband was shielding

her.

She shivered. One thing was clear: this woman was no longer unconscious, if she ever had been.

"You okay, boss?" Woody asked a second time.

April didn't hear him. At the precinct she left Woody to park the car and climbed the stairs to the second floor, fervently hoping to beat the odds and find her office free. Instead, there was a federal agent comfortably ensconced at her desk. She saw him through the glass in the door and didn't have to ask who he was. She knew he was FBI by the gray suit, white shirt, gray-and-white-striped tie. Mouse-brown hair a quarter of an inch long, features undefined enough to act like putty whenever necessary. No glasses, about thirty-five, medium height, slender build. This one was sharp, though. He looked down at the "Sgt. Woo" nameplate on the desk and up at her. Then he stood up behind the desk and waved her into her own office with three fingers. Showing her who was boss.

"Sergeant Woo, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. Special Agent—?" April got it all, the seeming politeness of his standing to invite her in, and layered under that, a putdown in the clear indication of his intention not to surrender the territory. God, she hated this.

"Gabriel Samson. Good to meet you, Woo." He held out his hand, challenging her to advance to the front of her desk. She advanced for the shake. She didn't have much choice in the matter. Then when she reached out for the bony hand he offered, she got her knuckles crushed.

"You must catch a lot of flak for the name," she remarked, flexing her fingers. "Gabriel

and

Samson. Your mother must have had high hopes for you."

"I disappointed her in the music department," he said modestly.

"Only that? Then you're doing well. What can we do for you, Gabe?" April wasn't feeling as perky as she might, what with the crushed fingers, disembodied death threat and all.

His lips tightened. Oh, he didn't like a cop using his first name. He was a real FBI type. She felt a little better.

"There was no space outside, so the lieutenant offered me your office. I hope it won't inconvenience you too much." His smile lacked sincerity.

"Not at all. What's the deal?"

"The deal is we're cooperating. You tell us what you've got, we tell you what we've got, and together we clear the case."

"Great. What have you got?"

He laughed and wagged a finger at her. "April, your boss said to be careful of you, you're a pistol."

"I'm flattered." April laughed, too. They were having quite a party, but he hadn't answered the question, and she wasn't going to play nice and brief him on the case after Iriarte gave him her office without mentioning it to her and there were a dozen other detectives right outside the door who could brief him just as well as she could. And besides, right now she needed to use the phone. "Do you mind if I use the phone?" she asked sweetly.

"No, go ahead." He nodded toward the phone.

"I mean, privately."

"Oh, sure. How long will you be?" He was a pistol, too.

"Two minutes."

He checked his watch. "No problem."

April was impressed by his efficiency. The man was actually going to time her. She wasted no time dialing Dr. Jason Frank's number. If she was going to consult with anybody outside the precinct, it was going to be Jason, and only Jason. He was a psychiatrist she'd met a while ago, when his actress wife was being stalked. Ever since April had called him whenever she had a head case. He was always busy with patients and rarely answered the phone, so she was astounded when he picked up now.

"Dr. Frank."

"Jason, it's April."

"Hey, April, my favorite police officer. What's up? I only have thirty seconds."

"Head case. I need a consultation."

"Could you elaborate a little?"

April peered out into the squad room where Gabe stood at the door tapping his finger at his watch. A real nice guy. She was tempted to flip him the bird. "In twenty seconds?" she asked Jason.

"Well, for you I have two minutes. What's up?"

She turned toward the wall in case Gabe could lip-read. Never underestimate a white shirt. "Got a creepy case, Jason. Missing baby. Possibly a battered wife. But the baby isn't hers. A lot of people are banking on the kidnap angle, but I'm not completely convinced this woman didn't maybe kill the baby, after all. I could be wrong, but I think this is a head case. Would you see her?"

"What's a head case, April?"

"You know what I mean. Wacko, crazy. By you, certifiable illness."

"Well, you know my credo on the subject: if they seem crazy, they probably are. Sure, I'll see her. You want to bring her to my office?"

"Sorry, can't do it."

"Oh, I don't know. I can't come into the station. I'm really socked in here." "We'll come and get you. How's Emma?" April played the trump. She and Mike had saved Emma's life, and they both had scars to show for it. Jason owed her, and she would never let him forget it.

"All right, I had time set aside for jogging in an hour. Pick me up then

_;

" he said wearily.

"Thanks, I'll pay you back," she promised cheerfully.

"That won't be necessary, and Emma's fine. Thanks for asking."

April hung up, and Gabe walked right back in.

"Okay, have a seat. Let's do that debriefing now," he said.

"Sorry, I can't. Something's come up downtown."

He looked disappointed. "How about later?"

"Later's great." April picked up her purse and bade her office a sad farewell. She didn't plan to come back for a long time.

It was noisy out in the squad room, and chaos still reigned. Ousted squad detectives were trying to do their jobs in impossible circumstances, without their desks and phones. At the moment four of them were squeezed into Iriarte's office, having a conference. When Lieutenant Iriarte saw April through his window, he waved at her to join in the meeting.

"Whatchu got?" he asked, motioning for her to shut the door after her.

When no one jumped up to give her a chair, she leaned against the door frame. "I like our Feeb; he's a real charmer," she remarked.

"Oh, Gabe? He's from the New York office. We want to help out all we can, all right?"

"Sure. What's going on?"

Iriarte pointed at Hagedorn. "Charlie was about to give us some deep background on the Popescu family."

"What about the baby's mother?"

Charlie gave her a look. "Nothing on her yet. One thing at a time."

"Look, Charlie, if this guy Anton has a babe on the side, I want her name and address. When are you getting on it?"

"That was your job," Iriarte barked. "Go ahead, Charlie."

April shut her mouth. Charlie Hagedorn happened to be a first-rate hacker, good enough to go downtown to the Big Building with the big boys. Iriarte wouldn't let this happen as long as he drew breath. He saw computers as policing's future, and Charlie's talent for finding out things as his alone. He nodded for his favorite to begin.

Charlie gave April a smug look and let his chest puff. "The Popescu family came in from France in the thirties. The grandfather, Paul, and the two sons, Marcus and Peter. Had some money, set up shop on the Lower East Side. Marcus Popescu had one son, Ivan. Peter Popescu had two sons, Marc and Anton. Anton is the younger by twelve years."

"What kind of shop?" At the mention of the Lower East Side April got interested.

"Sounds like a sweatshop kind of thing. Any of your family in the sewing business?"

She shook her head. Her father was a cook. Her mother—though April found it hard to believe—had been pretty and popular enough to work in the front of a restaurant. A downtown hostess was a person who bossed people around. The job had been perfect for her. Skinny had screamed at waiters and argued with people who had problems with the bill or didn't like their food. The place had been old then. Now it was truly ancient. Thousands of holes-in-the-wall like it had come and gone in the ten years since Skinny Dragon had been lucky enough to stop working, but Doh Wa was still there, surviving the Chinatown trend to white tablecloths and dishes like Grand Marnier shrimp prepared with profoundly un-Chinese ingredients like mayonnaise and orange liqueur.

"But you came up in the Fifth, right?" Hagedorn demanded.

April nodded.

"Born in Chinatown, right?"

April nodded again. "Born and bred. Any particular reason?"

"The Popescu family's been in the business for quite a while. They've been shut down a number of times over the years. The usual: fire code violations, inadequate wiring for the machines and fans. Building condemned, plumbing didn't meet standards—" He thumbed his notes.

April snorted. Since when did plumbing shut anybody down?

Charlie looked up. "Problem?"

Only the usual societal complaints about exploitation and poor working conditions. April shook her head.

Charlie went on. "Illegal aliens. No record of trouble lately. Looks like they've cleaned up their act. Factory's on Allen Street, but it seems most of their work these days is being done in China. Two sons to Peter, as I said, Anton and Marc. Marc is in the business. Anton is a personal-injury lawyer. Marc has been married twice, messy divorces. Has two children by each wife. By the looks of their settlements, the business is doing very well. Marcus's son, Ivan, is also in the business. He's married, has two children, house in Queens, another one farther out on the Island. The father is retired, lives—"

"Okay, okay. That's enough." Iriarte shut him up.

"They're raking in the money. I gather you don't know them," Hagedorn kept at it. April ignored him.

"Any priors on the Brothers Karamazov?" Suddenly the tadpole Woody Baum kicked in. He was on a roll today.

April glanced at him in his blue sports jacket and blue button-down shirt.

Thank you, Woody.

No, she had not heard of the Popescus just because they happened to have a business in Chinatown. She didn't come from a sweatshop family. Her parents were skilled workers in the restaurant trade. The thought made her want to smile for the first time that day.

"Who the fuck are

they?"

Creaker demanded.

"Russian serial killers," Baum said with a straight face. "You never heard of them?"

"Fuck you, asshole."

"These guys are French. Get on with it." Iriarte was losing his patience.

"Popescu is not a French name. They must have just passed through," said Baum, happy being an asshole with legs and suddenly the self-appointed expert on passing through.

"Anton doesn't pay his parking tickets. And he's a speeder." Charlie gave Baum a dirty look. "Typical lawyer stuff."

"We need more on Anton. Where he went, who he hung with. Name of the girlfriend," April said. She was beginning to have her doubts about the girlfriend.

"That's your job," Charlie reminded her.

"All right. That's it. Check with the health department, see what you come up with on a birth certificate."

"You're not going to find that under his name," April told him. She had a feeling there was no birth certificate.

"It never hurts to check," Iriarte said. Everybody else filed out. He flapped his hand at April to stay, then gave her a little smile.

"Guess what, this guy Popescu wants to drop the whole thing." Iriarte shook his head. "Looks like he's gotten himself between a rock and a hard place on the adoption and wants out before it gets out of hand." He smiled cynically.

"What's your take?"

"This guy certainly has something to hide. Wife and a girlfriend. One baby between the two of them. Looks like the other woman has it. His wife in the hospital, beaten up. Let me tell you, the media would go nuts with this, so keep it to yourself."

"Has Popescu made an offer for some kind of resolution here?"

"Yeah, he says he won't sue us if we go away now. I told him that won't cut it. A baby's missing and a woman's assaulted. That's about as big as it gets for us, and we're not going away."

"I talked to Heather's mother in California last night. She had no idea the baby wasn't her daughter's."

Iriarte shook his head, looking impatient at all the lies. "Do you have any more thoughts about it?"

April did have another thought about it, but she didn't want to open a new can of worms to her boss just yet. What she hadn't verbalized, even to herself, was that the baby in the picture Anton had given them looked an awful lot like him and Heather Rose. Of course, she could be wrong. How much, after all, could one tell from the eyes of a three-week-old? She could easily put it down to just another creepy feeling. She wasn't seeing a white baby, she was seeing a Chinese baby with blue eyes. That didn't speak of an adoption from China, but of something closer to home. Oh, she didn't like this.

Iriarte changed the subject. "How you doing with Woody?"

"He'll be fine." April didn't want to say he could think but couldn't drive, so she didn't say anything.

"Oh yeah? That sounds tentative."

"He'll be fine," she assured him. "He's quick on his feet."

"Go find that baby." Iriarte flapped his hand. "Yes, sir."