Stealing Time

CHAPTER 30

A

t 6:17

P.M

. the phone rang in Jason's office. He was just going into a session but took a moment to pick up. "Dr. Frank."

"Hi, Jason, it's April. Thanks for the delicious lunch."

"You're welcome," he said, knowing this was not a social call.

"You didn't tell me Emma was pregnant." Her voice had a bit of an edge to it.

"You never asked."

"Ah well, always the shrink. It doesn't matter. You're together. She looks happy; you look happy. That's all that matters. I'm glad for both of you." He heard a sigh.

"Thank you for saying so, April. I have thirty seconds. . . ."

"Have you been back to see Heather?"

"I've been with patients all afternoon."

"Will you go and have a chat with the husband for me?"

"I have to go, April."

"You know Heather has been abused. The husband's fingerprints are on the broom that bashed her on the head. He's involved, but we can't take him down on this unless we know more about them, and of course she has to cooperate."

"I thought this was a missing-baby case."

"We're working both angles."

"I don't know what you want me to do." Jason had already told her that intervention was something he did only when people called him. This case was not like the others he'd worked with April. In those, the principals had already been personally involved with him. This time Jason was an outsider. He didn't know the victim, didn't know the suspected perpetrator. He knew nothing about either of them. They were strangers. The ethics of the situation were complicated. He had no authority in the matter. April was asking him to act as an agent of the police department. It was pretty nearly certain that he'd be asked to testify in court. He didn't have the time or the heart for it. He felt cruelly used. He didn't just barge in on people no matter how exteme their crises, but April didn't care about that.

"Just talk to each of them once more." She was pushing hard.

"Don't you have your own police psychiatrists for this?" Jason asked.

April didn't answer.

"Shouldn't there be a DA involved here? Aren't they the ones who determine the course of an investigation like this?"

Yes, yes, and yes. But she wanted

him.

"This is a favor, Jason," she said finally.

"I'll think about it," he replied. Which meant he would stall.

"Look, I spoke to Heather's mother. We can get somewhere on this case if you'd just scare the husband a little. You know how fast bullies crumble with the right inducements."

"April, I'm a doctor. I'm not playing bad cop for you."

"Come on, you played the

good

cop on the last case," she joked. "You can't expect to be the good cop every time."

"But I'm not a

cop,"

he reminded her. He heard the waiting room door open and close. His next patient was there.

"You promised you'd help," she reminded him.

"I never made such a promise."

"Please." Oh, great, now she was begging.

"By the way, April, I was wondering. Did your people come up with any other fingerprints in the apartment?" he asked.

"Well, sure, tons of them. The Latent Print Unit at headquarters is still working on it."

"What are you doing about making a match? Come on, all those experts. You should know something by now. I'm getting the feeling there's more to your request. What's your motive here?"

"Oh, now you're really hurting me, Jason. Good call. We don't have identification yet on some latents that turned up in a number of places in the apartment, including the kitchen and the baby's room," she admitted. "Why do you ask?"

"I've been thinking about this and it doesn't add up. Anton Popescu doesn't have the profile to hit his wife in the face where it would show, you follow me?"

"So what are you saying?"

"You asked me to get to know them. So, I'm telling you I'm not at all convinced Anton was the one who assaulted Heather. He can be rough and nasty, but he's not the kind of guy who'd want to be known for messing up her face. And now you're telling me there are other prints in the place. So you think there's more to this case, too."

"Yeah, I do. One more try with them to prove your hunch is right. How about it?"

"I'm a psychiatrist, April. I don't have hunches. Gotta go." He didn't say he would call, but at eight, right before he was scheduled to go home for his dinner, he dialed the Popescu apartment.

Anton picked up after the first ring. "Yes, who is it?"

"It's Dr. Frank," Jason said.

"Who?"

"We met in the hospital."

"How did you get my phone number?" Anton sounded angry.

"How's Heather doing?" he asked.

"What fucking business is it of yours?"

Good point. "I'm a doctor. She's hurt and upset. I think I can help."

"He thinks he can help," Anton said sarcastically. "I'm her husband. I can handle this."

"You have a lot to be upset about, too."

"Fucking A, I do. I'm suing you for malpractice."

Oh, shit. Anton Popescu just loved dirty words. Jason didn't think the man could sue him if Anton hadn't hired him in the first place, but he wasn't absolutely sure. April was asking him to do things psychiatrists weren't supposed to do. He wondered if he was a coward. Anton pounced on the silence.

"Ah, I see that got to you. I'll bet you've been sued for malpractice before. It's something I can find out. I'll sue you from here to hell and back," Anton crowed.

Jason started thinking that it wasn't a good idea for a therapist to be

totally rigid.

One had to be innovative from time to time, in dire emergencies. And besides, this guy was pissing him off.

"Mr. Popescu, you're a lawyer. You know much better than I do the legal implications of your case.

You had a baby, but no papers for the baby. Your fingerprints are on the weapon that injured your wife."

"Shut up. How can you say this? Who told you this? This is a pack of lies. I have all the appropriate papers. Anyway, I don't have to produce any fucking papers. And I didn't hurt my wife. I've never touched her in anger. I would never, absolutely never, never hit my wife with a broomstick."

"Who said it was a broomstick?"

"It was lying on the floor next to her. It was a fucking broomstick. You think I'm stupid? The thing had blood all over it and I picked it up. Jesus." Anton's voice broke. Jason could hear him crying. "Jesus. I picked it up. Okay, maybe I was stupid to touch it. It doesn't mean I hit her with it. Jesus, I never thought anybody would think I hit her with it."

"Somebody did."

Anton's voice got very low. "I saved her fucking life. Don't you understand, I save her twice. She was a nothing, and now she's ruined my whole life."

"Mr. Popescu, I'm glad you shared this with me. I'm concerned that when Heather recovers, she may be at risk for suicide. You did tell me she'd hurt herself in the past."

Anton sucked in his breath. "Yes."

"Why don't we get together and talk? Maybe I can help you."

"I don't need help." Anton wasn't an easy person to talk to.

"The police aren't going away until the baby is found. Don't you want to find Paul?"

"I don't see how—"

"How about my office?" Jason suggested.

"I'm not a nutcase. I'm not going to any fucking shrink's office."

"If you come to my office, no one will see you. We'll be able to talk privately." "The cops have gone. They left an hour ago."

"What cops?"

"They tapped my phone. It's probably still tapped. Better watch what you say."

"I have nothing to hide," Jason said, but he was shaken by the idea of cops taping the call. He wondered if the Popescus' apartment was bugged as well. He wouldn't put it past NYPD.

"This has to be confidential," Anton was saying.

"Of course," Jason assured him. Too bad, April.

"Oh, shit, just come to my apartment."

"No problem. I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Then Jason called Emma to tell her he'd be late.

Fifteen minutes later a short, fat woman opened the Popescus' front door, looked him over with a sour expression, and disappeared without a word. Jason stood in the foyer until Anton's voice directed him.

"Come in here."

Jason followed the sound into the living room, which had the look of a professional decorator. Anton was sprawled on one of the green-and-white chintz sofas with his shirt collar open. He looked bad. He picked up the bottle of scotch sitting on the table beside him and refreshed his drink, making a point of not offering any to Jason. "What do I call you?" he demanded.

"You can call me Dr. Frank," Jason said.

"Dr. Frank," Anton mimicked. "I hate fucking shrinks, did I tell you that?"

"I didn't come here to be abused." Jason looked around for a stereo to turn on. He didn't see one, decided not to worry about a bug.

"I'm a nice guy. I don't abuse people," Anton was telling him, not for the first time.

"You've said that before." Jason sat in a club chair without being asked. Already he was regretting the visit. Anton had clearly downed more than a few and wasn't in the mood to cooperate.

"My mother-in-law is here," he said bitterly. "Twenty-eight years in America and she still speaks only about three words of English. It freaks me. The father burps and drinks like a fish. This is the family I married into."

"Are they staying here with you?"

"They're not here yet. But yeah, I'm sure. Can you believe this? I didn't say they could come. If I weren't such a nice guy I wouldn't let them stay here, now would I?"

"How's Heather?"

Anton drank some scotch. "I'm so tense. I want my son. What's anybody doing about it? Nothing."

"How's Heather?"

"I don't know. They won't let me see her," he complained bitterly. "I just don't get it. They say she's all right, but they won't let me in. It's the fucking cops. I'm going to sue the city for this."

Jason didn't say anything.

"You want to know if I hit her, don't you? Well, I didn't hit her." Anton looked at Jason. "Want a drink?"

Jason shook his head.

"I'm offering you a drink. Have a drink," Anton insisted.

"I'm fine," Jason assured him.

"What's the matter, isn't my scotch good enough for you?"

Jason acknowledged the expensive, unpronounceable single-malt label. "It's a very good scotch."

"Damn straight. So don't insult me, have a fucking drink," Anton insisted.

"You like to get your way," Jason observed mildly.

"What are you talking about? I'm being nice.

You're being an asshole. How do you expect me to talk to an asshole?" He glared.

"What if I don't want a drink?"

"That's not the point."

"To get along with you I have to do what you want me to do, is that the deal?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You have an aggressive way of getting your points across."

"What do you want from my miserable life? I didn't hurt my son. I didn't hit my wife. I could kill the bastard who did this to us."

Jason shifted in his chair. "Who

is

the bastard who did this to you?"

Anton looked uncertain for a moment, then shook himself. "How would I know?"

"Okay, let's go backward a little bit. Let's talk about you and Heather in happier times."

Anton relaxed a little. "What do you want to know?"

"What attracted you to your wife in the first place?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"It's a background kind of question, exploring your feelings about each other, your issues."

"She adores me," Anton said, playing with the pants crease along one thigh.

"How did you two get together? What did you like about her? You went to Yale, right? There must have been a lot of girls to choose from. What made her special to you?"

"Well, that's a good one, isn't it?" Anton looked out the window. "Oh, God." He shook his head. "She was there, wasn't she? That meant she had to be different."

"Different from—?"

He jerked his head as if anybody should know. "The JOBs."

Jason frowned. "The what?"

"Just off the Boats. Everybody calls them that."

"She was an educated Chinese girl, born here, is that what you mean?"

"Yeah, she talked like us. I thought . . . you know, she was like us."

"How did you meet her?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. Yeah, I do. She was a freshman. She had a class and she was wandering around lost. I gave her directions."

"You liked her looks."

"Well, she had that blunt dykey haircut a lot of them have, but, yeah, I thought she was kind of cute."

"Was she your first Chinese girlfriend?"

Anton balled the fist that wasn't holding his drink. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The choice of a mate has meaning, that's all. I just wondered what the meaning was to you."

"My family. They're all bigots, you know. I was the smart one, had to get out of the family business. There wasn't room for three of us in the business, and, like I said, I was the smart one. So I went to law school. Hell, I wouldn't want to do what they do, anyway. They work with shit; everything they touch turns to shit."

"What do you mean?"

"They're my relatives, but let's face it, they're fucking morons. Look at this mess."

"Tell me about the mess."

"The police took my fucking fingerprints! Even you know about it."

"So why are you upset about it?" Jason asked.

"I don't like being accused. It makes me angry. I'm not like them. I don't use people. I always liked the Chinese girls; they weren't nasty like the girls in school. You never had to do anything to impress them. They just liked you, know what I mean? It didn't matter to them if a guy wasn't perfect. I never used them." He pulled on his fingers, wringing his hands. "I'm a good person. That's why this whole thing burns me so much. Did you see my wife's face? She's a mess. This is too much." He dropped his hands to his lap and let his chin fall to his chest as if depleted of all his energy.

"Do you think Heather will tell her mother the whole story?"

Anton raised his head slowly, as if considering it. "I don't know her anymore. I don't know what she'll do. Do you think she's crazy, I mean really crazy?" He asked it with his eyes wide, innocently.

"You suggested it yourself the first time we met. And again tonight."

"I know, but there are other factors," he said vaguely.

"You mean somebody hit her on the head with a broomstick."

"Not me," Anton insisted.

"Who?"

Anton pushed air through closed lips making a farting noise.

"How could I know? I wasn't there."

Jason didn't like the guy, but oddly enough he believed him. Half an hour later, when Anton nodded off in the middle of a sentence, Jason went home for dinner.