Stealing Time

CHAPTER 18

W

ell?" April demanded when Jason came out of Heather's room.

He shook his head. "April, you know better than this."

"She's coming out, though, isn't she? Come on, Jason, don't hold out on me. This woman threatened my life two hours ago."

"What are you talking about, she threatened your life?"

"Well, predicted my death."

"That's pretty dramatic. What did she say?"

"Jason, I know she's not in a vegetative state," April insisted.

"People often attribute consciousness to people who are out of it." He gave her a sympathetic pat.

"Don't patronize me. I know what I'm talking about."

Jason sighed. "You always get me in trouble."

"And you always get me out of it. Please, pretty please? I have to nail down whether this baby is dead or alive. Come on. It's a police investigation."

"She didn't tell me what you want to know." Jason checked his watch, then started down the hall. "I have a patient waiting for me."

"Did she tell you anything?"

"No."

April scurried after him. "All right, maybe not this time, but she's not totally out of it, right?"

Jason blew air through his nose. "I'm not making a judgment call on this."

"But you'll try again later, right? Please, don't make me beg. A life is on the line here."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll come back later. Just take me home now. And don't come for me next time. I can get around on my own." They were downstairs, and Jason was looking at Baum as he spoke. April knew what he meant.

After they returned Jason to his apartment, she decided to have a little talk with Woody. They had been heading uptown, and she tapped her finger on the dashboard, checking for trouble and trying not to think about Heather in the hospital. The shrubs and fruit trees here were in pink-and-yellow bloom and the parks were alive with activity: babies in their strollers, dogs, people sunning themselves, running around. She didn't see any trouble on the street or in the parks.

"What did you think of Dr. Frank?" she asked Woody.

"Great guy. I liked him. Where to?"

"Fifth Precinct, Elizabeth Street."

"I know where it is." Woody made a sudden U-turn. He didn't hit the hammer as a warning when he was about to execute the change of direction, just dodged between oncoming cars. April inhaled sharply at a near miss.

"Woody, about your driving . . ." she said when her pulse slowed.

"Yes, ma'am." One arm hooked out the window, the man was now driving with one finger.

"What was your last unit?"

"I was in Anticrime." He accelerated, racing downtown as if he were in a car chase with a bad guy who'd just shot someone in a mugging gone wrong.

"I guess you did a lot of cowboys-and-Indians in that job," she mused.

"We had some fun," Baum admitted, slamming on the brakes at a red light.

April didn't doubt it. The boys (and the few girls) in Anticrime units dressed way down. They had unusual haircuts, tattoos, rings in their ears—whatever accessories they felt they needed to fit in with the scum they surveilled. Anticrime drove around in fast, battered, or flashy cars to appear badder than bad. Some never saw the light of day. Others looked like Con Ed workers. One Anticrime officer in a downtown unit drove a UPS truck. Another dressed like a pimp and drove a T-bird. Getting into trouble was what they lived for.

"I'll bet you liked the action," she said.

He gave her a sheepish grin. "It was fun for a while." Then he got silent.

"Yeah?" she prompted. "How long is a while?"

"Couple of years."

"You were on foot patrol before that?"

"Yes, ma'am. One-Nine."

That was the Upper East Side. Park Avenue. Madison Avenue. Lexington Avenue. Foreign consulates. Fancy restaurants, shops, and deluxe co-op apartment buildings. "Nice quality-of-life neighborhood," she commented.

"Yeah." He rubbed at his short sandy hair. That, apparently, was all he intended to say on the subject. April figured there was an incident in his past he didn't want her to know about. She made a note to check it out when things quieted down.

So the haircut was something new for the new job. Probably so were the button-down shirt, the pricey blazer, and the loafers. The pistol in the ankle holster was no doubt an old habit. Like the driving.

"So you want to be a detective," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"In that case you've got to do more than cut your hair and change your clothes, know what I mean?"

"Does it show that much?"

She shrugged. Out on the street cops had to process people and their body language in a special way, work on adrenaline and instinct. "Running on raw nerve and reflex is fine for the streets. Hey, slow down!"

"Sorry."

"No, I mean it. You've got to put that testosterone on hold. You can't live to scare people in this job."

"You don't like my driving?"

"In this job a lot of the time you're working with a different class of people."

"Is this about my driving?"

"I want to live to enjoy my next day off, so that's a yes," she confirmed.

"I've never had an accident off the job," he said earnestly.

"Well, how about improving your record and never having an accident

on

the job? If you hit somebody or scare one of my most important sources to death, it's on my head. Understand?"

"Oh, so the

shrink

didn't like my driving. He complain?"

"Nothing more than changing color a few times." She braced herself against the dashboard as Woody turned east without slowing down. This guy was going to be hard to train.

"Listen, about the case. Whatever you hear while you're on the job with me, you keep to yourself, understand?"

"Fine with me." Baum sped up through a yellow light.

Apparently he'd decided against the West Side

Drive, preferring to try to break the sound barrier going downtown on Seventh Avenue.

April had kept the snapshot of Paul Popescu with her. Now she took it out of her pocket and stared at it for a while, wondering again who and where he was.