The Silent Bride

"Maybe she was playing another angle."

"What?" April knew a lot of Chinese like Wendy— self-important people who never stopped talking and arranging things

their

way. The political ones made trouble. Manipulators. Look how Wendy had engineered getting the wedding food to the funeral.

Not only that, Wendy looked as if she were all set for her own wedding, with cupboards stocked with many pairs of candlesticks, crystal glasses, bowls and plates all with their labels sdll affixed. Stacks of table linens: napkins and place mats still tied in white ribbons. Lot of stuff in there. The woman was a pack rat, a hamster. What did she get, free samples?

Mike was busy with his Department minicomputer. April sighed, grateful that the long day was over. She lifted her hot hair off her neck and clipped it into a ponytail, pleased that it had been her turn to win the daily debate between Chinese and Mexican food. This reminded her of the wedding food on the banquet table at the Schoenfelds' house. Funeral food now. She knew a little about Jewish cuisine from her days on the Lower East Side. Smoked fish and meats, pickles and pickled herring. Knishes, noodle pudding. Gefilte fish. Chopped liver, all heavy stuff.

She mused about Mike's taste for meats and chicken that had been stewed all day so you couldn't tell what it was or how old it had been when it went into the pot. He loved melted cheese and weird-tasting sauces made with ingredients the Chinese never used: ground seeds, green tomatoes, red tomatoes, many types of dried peppers, cocoa, beans, avocado, cumin.

Like many Chinese, April thought even the freshest, mildest cheese smelled bad and that Mexican sauces left a gritty taste in the mouth. When she married, her parents and friends would expect a Chinese banquet. Fifteen to twenty-two courses, without mole.

A skinny waiter set a teapot on the table. The Chinese believed twenty cups of green tea a day was a necessity for good health. Yesterday she'd come up fourteen short. April poured and downed her first cup of today. Nineteen to go.

"Come up with anything?" she asked.

Mike had one of those gizmos only the top brass had. About the size of a Palm Pilot, the thing beeped, then printed on the screen every major crime as the dispatchers called them in. Already a shooting in Brooklyn and two rapes in the Bronx that day. Mondays were usually pretty quiet.

"I'm running a warrant check on Wendy. It's showing an error." Mike fiddled some more, then put the thing in his pocket.

The skinny waiter reappeared. He and April consulted in Chinese. "Any special requests?" she asked Mike.

"Yeah." He pocketed the computer and turned serious. "Tell me your problem,

querida."

"My problem?" The question surprised her.

"Uh-huh. You're not truthful. You say you trust me, but you don't trust anybody." Mike had the expression he used for suspects—the bad ones, not the not-so-bad ones.

April's face reddened in front of the hovering waiter. She placed an order in rapid Chinese.

"What are you talking about?" she asked as soon as he was gone.

"Tell me what picture you see in this case." Changing tack rapidly was one of Mike's effective interview techniques.

"Okay. The wedding was for show for sure. They hired a party planner to pull off a Broadway production. What?" He was giving her a funny look.

"I mean about the girl." Again with

the girl.

"Oh. Tovah." They kept calling her

the girl.

That really bothered her. "Her name was Tovah," she said.

"Tell me about Tovah then," he said, chewing on his mustache.

"She was marrying a boy she didn't know well because her family didn't want her dating. She had a zoned appearance. The party planner thought she was on drugs, is that what you mean?" April raised her delicate eyebrows. "Drug angle?"

"Why don't you tell the truth to a man you know well, who loves you very much and wants to marry you?"

Who needed this tonight of all nights? Twice in one day was too much. April tossed her head. They'd been through it all before. Certain things were facts of life. Their differences. She didn't want to go into it again.

"Don't you get it?" he demanded. "You're nearly twice that girl's age. You talk about getting married. You think about the menu and your dress, but that's about it. What are you waiting for? A death in the family?"

"Mike!" April inhaled sharply, taking a direct hit from the man she'd always counted on to be a good sport.

"You know your mother is not going to die to release you. She'll probably outlive us both. Why can't you do what's right for you and me?" His face was angry. He meant it.

April stared at him, annoyed that he'd just tossed away any chance for a happy moment at the end of a very difficult day.

"Why bring this up now?" She poured more tea for health. Drank her second cup of the day, immediately needed to pee.

Mike put his hands on the table. "A relationship has to move forward or end. That's it, April. I'm telling you right now."

"What's this, an ultimatum?" Her cheeks flushed hotter.

"Look, I've tried everything to show I love you. How many years now? I'm discouraged. I have bad dreams." Mike shook his head. "And now this case."

April was tired and just as upset by the case as he was. The press was doing its usual dirty work, blaming the victim for the crime. The Ribikoffs and Schoenfelds were being held up as child abusers for arranging the marriage of teenage children. April wished her lover would stay focused on the crime. It wasn't about them.

"You'd be insulted if a man lived with you forever without setting a date." He drank some water, then called the waiter over and ordered a beer.

"This case is doing something to you," she said finally.

"Maybe, but it isn't only the case. It's a lot of things coming together. You've been stalling. You only think about your point of view, never mine."

"I think about you all the time," she protested.

"Look. Last week when you went home I had dinner with

Mamita.

You know what she said?"

"I can guess." April put a hand to the medal Maria Sanchez had given her to make her a Catholic. It was the patron saint of soldiers and policemen. St. Some-thingorother.

"Mamita

has a boyfriend who wants to marry her."

April nodded. Nothing new there.

"She's telling people she's thirty-eight, two years older than me; that's going some on the Virgin Mother. And she loves that what's-his-name." Mike waved his hand, unable to remember the name of his mother's lover.

"Mami

says she can't marry him until I'm married."

Oy. Diego Alambra, believe it or not, was an Italian maitre d' who wanted to marry Mike's Spanish mother, a widow of five years. She was over fifty. What was she waiting for? Figure it out.

"Mamita

says she's living in sin. She says we're living in sin. And the truth is, I wouldn't live endlessly with someone who wouldn't marry

me.

Would you?" Mike gave her a clear-eyed stare, and April finally drew breath.

There was a Chinese saying: A reladonship can endure anything but disrespect. So now they had a pride situation: the pride of Maria Sanchez against the face of Sai Yuan Woo. A pathetic situation. Maria Sanchez had plans of her own, and now she had muscle. She'd found the right words to influence her son. Pride and honor for the Spanish ran as deep as face for the Chinese. Mike had to defend his honor now, and now that April saw it his way, she couldn't deny he was right. Jimmy Wong, who'd been her sometime boyfriend for several years before Mike, had frequently promised to marry her. When he hadn't made good on his promise, she'd dumped him. Mike always told her she was the love of his life, but right now she could see that pride was gaining strength. Certainly in Chinese, face for millions of people was more important than love.

The waiter returned with some pickled vegetables, a plate of steamed vegetable dumplings, and

shui mai.

April poured herself another cup of tea. She'd lost her appetite. Poor Tovah had gone along with her mother's wish for her to marry a boy she didn't know in a big production. This was something only poor and hopeless Chinese women did these days. Independent people didn't marry to suit their parents. It wasn't as though April didn't

know

this.

"Querida?"

Mike wanted an answer. She owed him one. She wasn't a girl like Tovah with no will of her own, a wuss, a sop, a weakling afraid to defy her parents.

There were consequences for everything. So she decided to tell him and let him figure it out. She put her hand to her forehead and blurted her secret. "I hold the mortgage on the house."

"Your house?" Mike frowned. What did that have to do with anything?

"Yes."

"That's it? That's your reason for not getting married?"

April pressed her lips together. Not qi*»te, but pretty much that was it.

"So ... you owe, what, sixty thousand dollars? Seventy?" It wasn't that great a property; how much could it be? Mike frowned, trying to figure it out. It was just across the bridge from Manhattan, but small, had no garage. They'd bought it before the Queens real estate boom. There wasn't even a dishwasher in the kitchen.

"Seventy-three," April admitted. "It has a thirty-year mortgage, and the house is probably worth more now."

"Lots more now. I don't get this. You don't want to get married because you owe seventy-three thousand dollars?" He was incredulous. She made more than that in a year. Together they made more than twice that every year. He already had more than fifteen years in. He was being recruited to the private sector practically every day. Plenty of jobs out there for a lot more money.

"The house is probably worth two hundred now. Maybe more," he said. What was her problem?

"I don't own it, only the mortgage." April's bladder was bursting. She needed a bathroom.

"That's it?" he repeated, frowning some more.

"Yeah." She lifted a shoulder. It was a lot of money, and she couldn't force her parents to sell. The way she saw it, Mike supported his mother. That was two rents in his column. Her father helped with the house, but not a lot, and Skinny Dragon not at all. Both of April's parents were tightfisted in the extreme. They were saving for their old age, afraid of an empty belly. April's head ached. Money and filial piety, and love for Mike. Those were her conflicts. She'd almost gotten over the whole ambition thing. Almost.

"I'll be right back." She jumped out of her chair, charged to the bathroom, and peed copiously, sighing with relief. Then the case popped back in her mind. So much for lack of ambition.

Wendy may or may not have had a cigarette or a drink and then gone to pee during the ceremony. But she had opportunity. She was the manipulator here, the one who knew everything. April made a note to herself to have a word with Hollis to stay out of it and let her handle the questioning. She wanted to go over the client list, do her own background check of Wendy. There was something there, but she didn't know what it was.

When April got back to the table, Mike was sipping his beer, deep in thought. He picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks and smiled at her enigmatically. "Pretty good," he said about the food.

"I'm glad you like it." April waited for his next words. But none were forthcoming. She gathered that the ball was in her court now. She poured her fourth cup of tea. Now for health she had only sixteen to go.

Nineteen

A

t eleven-thirty that night April picked up her home phone on the first ring. It was Ching.

"Ching. How ya doin'?" April was disappointed. She'd hoped it was Mike, calling to say he was sorry he'd been so tough on her.

Ching started wailing right away. "Oh, God, April. This is a terrible thing. Who killed that poor girl? Ma saw it on TV and she's going nuts."

"I don't know. It's an odd, sad case, but it doesn't have anything to do with you. Tell your mother."

"I told her, but she thinks it's bad luck."

April sighed. "How can a stranger's murder be bad luck for you?"

"Well, not only me, April. You, too."

"Oh, God," April muttered.

"She thinks you'll never get married. Did you call Gao back?"

"Huh? Gao?"

"He's the chef you had lunch with yesterday."

Oh, Jesus.

April closed her eyes. She didn't have dme for this. "Sorry, Ching, I remember. You know I can't fix parking tickets. I have no 'in' with Immigration. He wants a green card, get a lawyer, whatever.

If he's been collared I'll check it out. But not right now."

"He hasn't been collared," Ching said.

"Good." Anything having to do with a hostage or kidnaping she could get Special Case detectives on it. She didn't want to sound harsh, but her plate was full and her influence limited.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. He wants to better himself is all. He's a good guy, relative of a relative of Matthew's. And he's really good, trust me."

"Ching, can't this wait?" April wailed.

"No, it can't wait. I know your father is slowing down," Ching told her.

April groaned. She had to look at Wendy's client list, see if there was anything funny about any of the other weddings she'd done. She had to stay focused on finding Tovah's killer. But she couldn't resist the sore subject of her father slowing down. It would be a disaster if he retired.

"Who says?" she demanded. Her father looked pretty good to her. As long as she could remember he'd been bald and skinny, had worn thick glasses, and stumbled around with his buddies after drinking too much Johnnie Walker. As far as she could tell, he was still energetic on the two-P.M. to two-A.M. schedule.

"This is what I heard. You with me? Gao is interested in meeting him. He's very good. They come from the same area, you know, speak the same language. I thought it might help you out."

April didn't see how it would help her out.

"April?"

"Yeah."

"You're very stubborn, anybody ever tell you that?"

"Yeah." Everybody told her that. Her parents, her bosses, Mike, now her sister-cousin. What were they talking about? She wasn't stubborn. She was the essence of flexible.

"Look, I don't want you to have bad luck. Be an old maid. Do I have to spell this out for you?" Ching was getting impatient.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," April said huffily.

"Oh, come on, April. I wanted to marry an American. I

intended

to marry an American. My parents flipped; I'm not kidding. Boy, did we fight. Every time we talked it was a fight."

"I remember. But you didn't marry an American." End of argument.

"Where Matthew grew up, he was like the only Chinese in school, okay? He's as American as they come, hot dogs and pizza every day, no Chinese food at all, and he doesn't speak a word."

"Ching, I have to get up early tomorrow."

"And frankly, he didn't want to marry Chinese any more than 1 did. He thinks Chinese girls are bossy. Our falling in love was an accident."

"Ching! Stop already."

"You love fighting with your ma. Get over it. Just make it happen. Take control. Listen to the

I Ching,

Apr 0."

April snorted. The

I Ching

was the Chinese oracle, possibly the world's oldest fortune-telling device and guide to correct behavior. April did consult the I

Ching

from time to time, but it never gave her any advice she wanted to have. Patience, patience, patience. That was about it. But that wasn't the

I Ching

Ching meant.

"Look, you and I go back a long way," Ching said.

True, all the way back to birth. Ching had a fat mother. April had a skinny one. In middle school they used to roll around in bed laughing about it. Same mother, different sizes. Ching ended up going to college in California and dating a bunch of American boys. She'd gotten out. April had always been jealous. Now Ching was marrying a Chinese after all and was considered the good and golden daughter by everyone. April's concessions to her parents left her with nothing but the unpleasant label "worm daughter" because she wasn't doing better.

"Stubborn!" Ching repeated. "If your dad retires without choosing his replacement, he'll have no one owing him. He'll get nothing out of it."

"So you're thinking of Gao as his replacement," April said slowly. That would mean she wouldn't have to take care of him and Skinny in their retirement, as they threatened every time she talked about marrying Mike.

"Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Ah, so. Replace me," she murmured thoughtfully.

"Yes, replace you," Ching said. "Duh!"

April wondered why she hadn't thought of this before. Outsourcing children was a ten-thousand-year-old Chinese tradition. No son, adopt a son. When April started dating Mike, she'd given Skinny Dragon the poodle Dim Sum as a peace offering. The dog was cute but couldn't pay the rent or fix the toilets, couldn't have a grandchild. Brilliant, Americanized sister-cousin understood Chinese manipulation better than she. Interesting.

"Gao had a good position in Hong Kong. He just threw it off and came here with the wrong people. You know your dad's a good guy. If he thinks Gao is a comer, he'll help out. If Gao caters to your mom, she'll like him. You leave. Gao takes your place and pays the mortgage."

"Does he have the money?" April said finally, a little breathless with the possibility of escape.

"He will as soon as he gets the job."

"Ching, you're amazing." In all the years that April's father and mother had schemed and plotted to get her to do what they wanted it never occurred to April that she might actively manipulate her parents right back. Ching interrupted her reflection on the subject.

"April, you know that murdered girl?"

Again

that girl.

"Her name was Tovah," April said softly.

"She was wearing a Tang Ling gown. I saw Tang today. She's very upset about it, but doesn't want her name in the paper. It's bad luck for her too."

'7esus." April was stunned. She'd forgotten Ching's acquaintance with the famous designer. "Did Tang know her?"

"Yes. It was a custom gown. She'd met the girl and her mother. It's just so terrible."

"Yes, it is, Ching," April murmured.

"One more thing," Ching said, suddenly hesitant.

"What's that?"

"Tang offered me a gown," she said meekly.

"Wow. Lucky you," April said lightly, though her head spun a little with the happy news. Not only a Chinese groom, and a Chinese wedding, but a famous Chinese designer gown, too! Skinny was going to have a field day with this.

"My mother doesn't know. She's going to kill me because she wants a traditional wedding, the whole bit. No white gown."

"No, no, Ching. Don't worry. It's your day. You get to choose. Mai will understand. Everything's going to be fine," April told her. The magic words finally got the happy bride off the phone.

Twenty

O

n Tuesday morning at quarter to eight April called in for her messages at Midtown North. Lieutenant Iriarte himself instantly came on the line.

"You in today?" he demanded.

"No, sir."

He grunted. "What's the story with that bride

case?"

"Unclear," she murmured, wondering whether she should ask for his help.

"Had a gypsy case a few years back," he mused, trying to be friendly. "Let me tell you, those Romanies sell their girls, too. At the weddings, they take over a trailer park or a motel. Relatives come from all over. Crime goes way up in the area. People don't know what hit them. They get ripped off every which way. You hear about that?"

"Yes, sir, there was a seminar about it a few years ago," April replied. Gypsies posing as plumbers, driveway pavers, phone repairmen, utility workers, went into people's houses, got them all confused, stole their money and everything else they could carry away. The victims were mostly old people, no longer sharp and thinking defensively. It didn't apply to midtown Manhattan, or to Riverdale.

"I could go on and on about those Romanies. Their weddings are just an excuse for a big brawl. They get drunk, gamble money and women, knife each other. When we bring them in, they run riot over the precinct. They have it all over us. I'm telling you these people have no rule of law. We've seen some pretty bad stuff. Killings, knifings, rapes ..."

"Yes, sir," April said. But it didn't have anything to do with her law-abiding Orthodox Jews.

"Anybody who'd sell a little girl is sick in the head. You got a line on that?" he said finally.

"Not yet." But after a late-night conversation with Inspector Bellaqua, April did have a slightly different take on the matter. Turns out it was the girls' families that enticed the boys' families. They didn't

sell

their daughters; they bought husbands for them. Quite the opposite of the Chinese way. During a restless night, April tried to imagine her parents putting out a nickel to impress a son-in-law. She thought about Ching agonizing over wearing an extravagant Tang Ling gown, and her auntie Mai worrying that she would never get married. This started her thinking about something Mike had said last night, but she couldn't tease out what it was.

"Thanks for the input, sir, I'll look into it," she said about the gypsies. Should she ask him?

"And you're getting behind here. That's not good," he grumbled, abandoning friendly. "Don't drop the ball."

"No, sir," April said.

Iriarte was always worried about her dropping the ball. But she never did. Last week she'd been working a car theft. A tourist from Tennessee had left his Mercedes unattended on Sixth Avenue in front of

Radio City Music Hall. She also had a home invasion on Central Park West. A white male posing as the decorator had forced his way into a co-op, tied up the maid, and stolen some expensive jewelry and silver that turned out to be the owner's family heirlooms. Neither exactly major crimes. She also had a court appearance on another case for which the DA's office needed to prep her. But it was nothing hot-button like this major homicide racing toward the forty-eight-hour mark with no resolution in sight. Should she ask him?

"Oh, and by the way, you got Doled," Iriarte said.

"What! Are you sure?" Was he pranking her?

"Dead sure. The notification's for today, so you gotta go, you hear me?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir," she said.

She was in her car on her way up to the Bronx to warn Hollis off Wendy before meeting Mike and Poppy Bellaqua at headquarters to view the wedding video, which had been viewed so far only at the Five-oh. She'd left Queens and just entered the Bronx going west on the Major Deegan Expressway toward Riverdale. Now she had to get off, turn around, and head back around the heel of the Bronx to the Bruckner Expressway that followed a northeasterly course in the direction of White Plains and New England.

Shit.

Dole was random drug testing. This was the one Department order that put all other orders, including major homicides, on the back burner. There was no getting around it, no missed appointments, no changing days, and nobody was exempt, from the police commissioner on down. Names were drawn every day, and the day you were picked you had to

go up to Health Services and pee into two vials. The second vial was kept in case there was a challenge on the first one. If the drug test was positive, you were fired. Period.

It was absolutely firm that you had to go that day so there was no chance for the passage of time to get anything funny out of your system. And there was no chance of cheating because someone came into the room with you and watched you provide your sample. In April's case, this was a particular agony because she had a major peeing-in-public phobia. Major. Everybody else breezed right through the nothing ordeal, but to April it was not a nothing ordeal. She didn't like even a female person in there with her, didn't like it at all.

"Listen, you could help me out," she said slowly.

"Oh, yeah?" Iriarte's voice brightened.

"You could save us some time and have Charlie do some background work for me."

"You got a suspect?"

"Could be."

"You got a name on that suspect?"

"Yeah. Wendy Lotte. That's Lincoln, Oliver, double Tom, Eleanor. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Lot with two Ts and an E. Would that be Gwendolyn?"

"No, just the W."

"Would there be anything else?"

"Tang Ling."

"The dress designer?"

"Yeah. The bride was wearing a Tang gown. Just indulge me a little."

"Okay, can do."

The Schoenfelds had five girls and four boys. April

finished her Dole in record dme and spent an hour in the Schoenfelds' finished basement, talking in turn with all five girls and two of the boys while upstairs more sitdng shivah was going on, and outside a dozen reporters were taking photos of mourners and trying to get them to speak.

April had totally expected to waste her time. Unlike in the movies, investigative interviews were never wrapped up in five minutes. First of all, it took hours of traveling time, across a bridge, two bridges, traffic all the way. When she got wherever she was going, sometimes the person she wanted was available, sometimes not. If she was really lucky, the person was there and willing to talk. But a lot of people thought they didn't know anything worthwhile and didn't want to talk. April had learned a long time ago that she couldn't ever go anywhere cold. She had to do some homework first, had to have some idea of what kind of information she wanted to elicit. And she had to know something about the person she wanted to question so a connection could be made.

Usually it took hours and she went away with a little something, a tiny tidbit that might be important down the line and might not. What April knew about Tovah was that she was spacey, not all there. She wanted to know what that meant.

At the same time Mike traveled to the Ribikoffs' three-story brick house in Flatbush, Brooklyn. He hadn't slept well without April. But after their dim sum dinner last night, he hadn't felt like spending the night with her and took her right home. A first. Now he was wide-awake and focused on his interview with the groom's family.

He'd done some research on the family, and the background check had uncovered an uneventful life. The Ribikoffs were registered Republicans, had traveled to Israel in 1998 and 2000. They paid taxes every year and had never been audited. Their credit cards were far from maxed out. They owned their house and '94 Ford Explorer. No vehicular violations. They had four children of which Schmuel was the second. Their oldest child was a girl, married last year, now living upstate. The wedding had cost in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars, about ten percent of what the Schoenfelds had put out for Tovah's. The Ribikoffs' two younger boys were still in high school. Neither of them had ever been in trouble, nor had Schmuel, who was highly regarded by his teachers and classmates. The family business was real estate—not big-time like the Schoenfelds—but the Ribikoffs were not doing badly, either. They were connected to some recent Russian emigres, who hadn't been invited to the wedding. Was that good enough motive to kill the bride? Mike didn't think so.

Unlike the Schoenfeld house, this one was comfortable but had little display of major wealth. Mr. Ribikoff himself answered the door. Thin, balding, sad-looking, and small, he didn't look like the kind of man who would seize a valuable diamond ring off a dying girl.

"I don't know how I can help you. I told the detective yesterday I don't know why anyone would do something like this," he said, reluctantly offering Mike a seat in his living room.

"How well did your son know Tovah?" Mike got to the point right away.

Ribikoff lifted a hand. "The boy saw her picture.

She was a pretty girl." The almost-father-in-law's face became animated for a moment as he thought of how pretty his son's wife would have been. "A nice, quiet girl, not a chatterbox. He liked her; what else did he need to know?"

"How did they meet?"

"My wife's friend, Ruth Lasker, she had the photo. My wife, she liked the girl's face, too. I liked her. Rebecca told Ruth we were interested." He dipped his chin. "Then he came to take a look at Schmuel praying."

Mike frowned. "Who?"

"Schoenfeld. He came to the Yeshiva, looked at the boy, liked what he saw." Mr. Ribikoff had moment of pride for his son, who'd attracted the interest of a rich and important family.

"Then what happened?"

"Naturally my wife wanted to go to the house, have a cup of coffee, eat a piece of cake, and see the girl before they started to date. But Suri Schoenfeld refused. That's the kind of person she is."

"Why?"

"She didn't want us telling Schmuel what to do. She insisted it was up to the children to decide if they liked each other." He rolled his eyes. "My wife is not like Suri Schoenfeld with the airs, but she does have a mind of her own. Why are you asking this? Who do you suspect?"

"We're looking for anything unusual."

"Oh, there was plenty unusual." Ribikoff made a face. "We live in a tight community here. You can get everything you need here. You never have to leave. Everybody understands the rules. My wife complains that the whole world knows your business,

knows your kids' business. They see you coming, they see you going, and the talk keeps up all day long. That's why it's a tradition to find new blood for the children, people outside your own four corners. But new blood that's the same blood. You know what I'm talking?"

Mike nodded. He knew exactly what Ribikoff was talking.

"Tovah was a religious girl and the family would have been good for Schmuel, but they polluted us."

"Polluted?"

"Yes, we do things simply, in a family way. We stick with the people we know. We don't bring in goyim—

shfartzes

from Africa to arrange the flowers. No offense, but you see what I'm saying? Look at the shame they've brought us," he said sadly.

Mike changed the subject. "Tell me about Tovah's ring," he said.

"It was a very costly ring. That's all I'm going to say." His eyes strayed toward the ceiling.

"Why did you remove it from Tovah's finger?"

Ribikoff closed his eyes, opened them, avoided the steady gaze of the detective. "It has nothing to do with this."

"Did you think the girl was dead?" Mike persisted. Did he want the girl dead?

"I didn't know. I wasn't thinking." Ribikoff crossed his legs.

"It seems an odd reaction."

Ribikoff clicked his tongue. "It was what it was."

"You just wanted it back?" Mike probed softly.

The man erupted. "Well, of course I wanted it back. The boy couldn't have married her after that, could he?" he said angrily.

Mike frowned. "Even if she'd recovered?"

Ribikoff shook his head as if only a dummy would think otherwise, then jabbed his chin belligerently at Mike. "It was a costly item. They would never have given it back."

Mike was chilled by these answers. He had his suspicions about the whole arrangement. Bad feeling rocketed back and forth between the two families. The Ribikoffs were not sitting shivah with the Schoenfelds. Something was way off the normal about the Ribikoffs, but that didn't make them killers. Mike questioned Schmuel and his mother closely but learned nothing really useful.

Twenty-one

Just before noon April, Mike, and Inspector Bellaqua met in the video section at One Police Plaza to view the video of Tovah Schoenfeld's wedding preparadons. It was crowded in the room where usually only one person pored over surveillance tapes of banks, stores, fast-food chains, and the elevators of housing projects where crimes had been committed. This was an eerie first. Not many homicide detecdves got to see their vicdm alive and the murder scene being constructed.

The video opens on the synagogue with its two bloodred azalea bushes out front, then cuts to a Caucasian male, five-ten, heavy build. Distinguishing feature: a blond pompadour that stood up a good three inches. He's wearing a pink silk shirt and fusses with the huppah, his lips moving as he waves away the camera. Get out of here, he's saying.

There is no audio or time frame. The next sequence shows a good-looking, skinny Latino, five-five, five-six, wearing tight jeans. His thick black hair is in a short ponytail. He's adjusting flowers in the party room, sashaying from table to table, aware of the camera. He sticks a lily stem between his teeth and poses. Cut. Next, waitresses are setting the tables with glasses, silver, napkins, plates. Three women— all have thick curly hair and gold Jewish stars around their necks. Cut to a short take of an African American, black as midnight, a big man, around six-two. He's standing by the exit door between two orange trees with an unreadable expression on his face. Cut to an elaborate ice sculpture on the food table, not yet beginning to melt. Cut to .. .

"There she is," Bellaqua said.

Tovah appears, disconcertingly alive with her hair in rollers under a hair dryer. Her hands are splayed in front of her on a table. Only the back of the manicurist is seen as she bends over her task of painting Tovah's nails are pearl pink. The manicurist has red hair. On the table beside Tovah is the blond wig on a Styrofoam head. Behind her are many colorful dresses hanging on a clothes rack, among them her wedding gown and veil in two plastic bags. Tovah looks at the camera as if she doesn't see it.

"She looks drugged," April commented.

"Mmmm," Bellaqua agreed.

"Weird," Mike murmured.

Cut to a little girl on the floor crying. Tovah leans over to hug her, hands her a hard candy The little girl takes the candy, puts it in her mouth, and stops crying. Tovah smiles.

"There. She looks okay there," Mike said. "Pretty girl. Likes children."

Cut to Tovah and her mother and grandmother arm in arm. Tovah's hair and nails are done. She's smiling here, too.

"She looks fine here. Eyes are okay," April said.

Cut to ...

"Ah," Bellaqua sighed.

"Just look at that!" Mike marveled.

At last, Tovah is wearing her voluminous wedding dress. A small Asian male stoops to arrange the folds of the dress, then steps back and tosses a cloud of white over her. A fog drops over her. The veil makes Tovah look as if she's trapped inside a tent of mosquito netting.

"Jesus. That's something. Who's that guy?" April said.

"Name's Kim. He's from the dress store."

"She sent someone?" April said, incredulous. Tang again. Not good. The presence of Ching's famous friend in this case was beginning to bother her.

"Guess so."

Cut to Tovah in her ten-thousand-dollar tent walking out of the room—not into the party room, but into the corridor on the other side that leads to the elevator that leads to the rabbi's study on the second floor. The camera follows her and her mother into the study, where Rabbi Levi waits with her father and the Ribikoffs. Nothing can be seen of Tovah through her veil as an illustrated scroll of some kind is brought out and displayed. Papers are signed.

It's a long movie. Then the camera follows the bride, her train, and her family downstairs to the corridor outside the sanctuary. Cut. The film ends at the open door of the sanctuary. They groaned and played the video two more times.

"Let's get stills of all the non-family members," April said. "We'll see if anyone saw them."

"Yep. And backgrounds on all of them. It's time to widen the net. Maybe one of these people hates Jews enough to kill one," Bellaqua said. "Ugly," she murmured. "Let's break for some lunch."

They left headquarters and walked across the street for a hamburger at the Metropolitan. While they ate Mike recounted his interview with the Ribikoffs. April did not say a word about going up to COOP City to pee in a cup, but she did describe her visit to the Schoenfelds.

"Tovah was a very nervous girl, probably had an anxiety disorder that was treated with antacids and bed rest. She liked shopping trips in the city with her mother and grandmother, but didn't do well with the strict adherence to rules. Apparently Tovah didn't like controls and direction. Her sisters said she was the only one who consistently wiggled out of tasks and schoolwork and anything else she didn't want to do. She had headaches and tuned out a lot."

Bellaqua shook her head. "So we've got zip on the families and their friends."

"No one who was present had opportunity. Everybody was accounted for, but. .." Mike shrugged.

"But what?" April asked.

"The families were at odds before the incident. Ribikoff took the ring because he didn't trust the Schoenfelds to give it back, and he didn't want his son marrying a damaged item. He was thinking very clearly, almost as if he had a plan."

"Oy." Bellaqua picked up the tab, thought about it for a minute.

"Okay, let's take it further, then. We'll run a check on everyone Ribikoff knows, every call he made in the last month, every withdrawal from his bank. See what he was up to." She rolled her eyes. "It's a hell of a way to break off an engagement, but we'll follow it through."

Mike nodded as she paid the bill. "Thanks. They make good burgers here."

Bellaqua didn't answer. She and April were heading for the door. Already on to the next thing.

After lunch, Mike checked with Ballistics to see what they had on the gun. He couldn't make contact with the right person so he and April headed uptown to see the blond guy in the video, the florist who called himself Louis like one of the French kings. On the way April told him about her two-minute conversation with Hollis. "I told him we'd deal with Wendy ourselves. Do our own background on her."

"How did he take it?"

"Seemed fine with it."

Louis's shop was icy, and they almost walked out when they saw a woman with little packages of foil in rows all over her head sitting under a hair dryer reading a magazine. Then they saw Louis.

"Come on in. We do hair on Wednesdays," he said.

"Sergeant Woo, Lieutenant Sanchez," Mike said.

"Louis the Sun King. What can I do for you?" Louis's hair was yellow. It stood straight up. His shirt was purple. Stuck in the open collar was an ascot. Bright red and yellow spilled out. His nails were manicured, shiny. His accent was slightly, incongruously British. He tilted his head and looked, for a second, like a huge, curious canary.

"We're investigating the Tovah Schoenfeld homicide," Mike took the lead.

"A terrible tragedy. Come out in the garden where we can talk." Officiously, he patted his astonishing pompadour.

As they walked through the shop, April glanced around at the planters and display of glass and porcelain vases. Everything looked expensive. Outside, Louis plopped himself on a garden chair in the shade of the building next door and indicated to Mike and April the two chairs in the sun. Mike moved them into the shade and waited for April to sit down.

"I've already made a statement. What else do you want to know?" Louis said, leaning back in his chair.

"Details. A lot more details."

"Why? Do you suspect me?" Louis laughed loudly.

Mike sniffed delicately and took out his notebook. "How did you get the Schoenfeld job?" he asked.

"They came in one day. They wanted something no one else they know had done. And, of course, the more the better. The Schoenfelds were not hard to please."

"People just come in off the street?" Mike said incredulously.

"Some do."

"How do they know about you?"

"Oh, the magazines. I've been written up in all the industry rags. Plus the New York Times, Town and Country. Word of mouth." Again the hand went to his hair.

"I understand you have a waiting list. And people offer to change their dates just to get you." This from April.

"The spring is a busy time," Louis said modestly.

"So people don't just come off the street," she said.

"Well." He lifted a shoulder.

"Who referred the Schoenfelds?" Mike again.

"I'll have to check. Maybe it was Wendy Lotte. I've been doing a lot of work with Wendy lately."

April glanced at Mike. Wendy again.

"Does Wendy get a commission?" she asked.

Louis looked surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"Decorators get commissions on everything they provide for a job. I just wondered if party planning works the same way." April was all over it. She'd checked it out. Party planners got a commission on everything.

"No, I have one fee. The principals pay me directly. It doesn't go through Wendy," he said glibly.

She made a note that he was a liar. "Does Wendy use other people?" she asked.

"Oh, of course. And so do I."

Mike grew silent as April took over and led Louis through his movements the two days before the Schoenfeld event. It took a while. They got an earful on the difficulties of working with suppliers of all kinds. This week, for example, Louis needed fresh coconut palm fronds. He had to order out of state. He showed them the plans for the Hay wedding.

"The Hays wanted whole grass huts constructed, but the St. Regis refused, so they had to settle on thatched umbrellas with twinkling lights."

Mike and April saw how a ballroom got transformed into a fantasy place.

"Sometimes a client wants to create a real night sky complete with the Big Dipper and the Milky Way. I use theater techies for lighting, and carpentry. They're the best." Louis's hand went to his hair again. "I love the theater, don't you?"

"Absolutely," April said.

Then Mike asked where Louis's staff had been at the time of the shoodng.

"We were gone long before the guests began arriving/' Louis said.

Mike asked a few more questions about his relationship to Wendy, then collected the names and addresses of the "boys" in the video. Tito wasn't there at the moment, but Louis explained where he could be reached.

"Ah, and Jama?"

"Jama isn't his real name," Louis said. "I call him Jama because he's from Africa. That's how they say hello there."

April knew Louis was misinformed about that or lying again. "What's his real name, then?" she asked.

"I have no idea. He didn't tell me," Louis said loftily.

"Where is he now?"

"Home sick."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's scared to death of cops. Wouldn't you be if someone was murdered and you were the only one on the scene who happened to be black?"

Mike took the man's address and stuffed his notebook back in his jacket pocket. From the car April called Poppy on her cell.

The inspector didn't have anything on the others yet, but a computer check on Louis's social security number revealed his real name as Steve Creese.

"Guy comes from western Connecticut, near Hartford. At the age of six, he and his older brother, David, were removed from their parents. An arsonist, possibly their estranged father, burned down the house, severely injuring their mother. Steve grew up in a number of foster homes, got in trouble in middle school, straightened himself out in high school. He turned up running an art gallery in Hawaii in the early eighties. Returned to California in the late eighties, where he dressed sets for movies. Migrated back east and became the assistant to Jack Eldridge, a well-known florist whose inspiration was the regimented shrubs and gardens of Louis the Fourteenth. Jack Eldridge died of AIDS in 'ninety-three. Steve Creese inherited the shop and the business and reinvented himself as Louis the Sun King."

April handed the phone to Mike. He heard it all again. Then she dialed the lab out in Jamaica. Still no word on the gun. The rest of the day was busy, but uneventful. Just after ten April headed home to Queens alone, disappointed when Mike didn't mention spending the night together.

Twenty-two

P

rudence Hay woke up on Wednesday morning with the dreads, the same dreads she'd had for the few last months about whether she really wanted to marry Thomas Fenton, or not really The dreads were nauseating. Dizzy making. She'd also had too much to drink last night, trying to goad some life into him. She pulled her face out from under a mountain of pillows, rolled over on her back, and tried to make the room stop spinning.

OhGodithurt.

Her thoughts were as agonizing as her hangover. They spun with the room, for Thomas was perfect on paper but not so perfect in real life.

I want to get married. I don't want to get married.

Oh, Prudence felt sick. She was in her bed in the Sutton Place apartment where they were staying all week until the wedding—barely three days away. Her room was all pink and apple green.

Girlie

was the only word for it. She groaned. She adored her mother even though her mother was sometimes silly and extravagant. Her mother had been loyal to her no matter what she did, and she'd had her share of scrapes growing up. Her mother wanted her to marry Thomas Fenton: he was tall, dark, handsome, suitable in every way. Her father was her rock, her advisor, and her friend. She was his only daughter, and he wanted her to marry Thomas Fenton: his family was prominent and wealthy. He trusted Thomas to take good care of her. Already Thomas had bought an apartment for them and was making it absolutely perfect. Everything with Thomas had to be perfect except himself.

He didn't like travel, didn't like going out and having fun. Didn't play golf or tennis, didn't finish work before ten or eleven even on weekends. And he didn't get hard when he hugged her. That was the problem. He had no passion, no juice. Still, he was every girl's dream. He was on partner track, had money in the bank. He was a perfectionist who personally oversaw every detail of the apartment renovations so that she didn't have to worry about a thing. Thomas wanted her totally free of worry, just a happy-go-lucky wife with nothing much to do. When he wasn't fussing with the contractors, he was working to make money all the time so she could have a perfect life. A hammer beat in Pru's head as she imagined Thomas's vision for her perfect, orderly life. She was twenty-four. He was thirty-two and certain she was the One. Everyone she knew thought he was an absolute doll. All twelve of her bridesmaids thought so. Thomas kissed her on the street, insisted on holding hands all the time, and no one knew their infrequent sex together took less than two minutes. He had no staying power. She wasn't sure how much it should matter to her.

"How about some coffee?"

"Jesus! Get out of here, Anthony!" Prudence yelped. "It creeps me out when you do that." She sat up, clutching her throbbing head. Why did Anthony do that! "Jesus! Are you crazy!" she said, furious at him for yet another intrusion into her private space. He had no right to come into her room.

"Wendy is here opening your gifts. I'd worry about it if I were you," he said, neutral as always.

"You aren't me," she said. "I trust Wendy completely. What is she going to do, take something?"

"You should open your own gifts," he told her. "If you were a happy girl, you'd be taking an interest."

"I'm a happy

woman.

And it's not your business. Haven't you heard of the intercom?" she added.

"I'm worried about you, and you don't answer the intercom."

"I told you I don't like your bugging me." Prudence sighed. "I'm not a little girl anymore."

Anthony humphed about that. He didn't move. He stood in the doorway, looking at her. She hated that.

"Wendy wants to go over the guest list and the seating plan with you. Your mother wants you to go over to Louis's after your fitting. She'll meet you at the florist's. Hurry up. It's getting late."

"All right, all right. I'm coming. Close the door, will you?"

"Is everything all right, Pru? You look so unhappy—"

"Close the door, Anthony."

"I'll get your coffee."

"Fine, but don't bring it here. I'll have it in the dining room."

"Very good." Anthony backed out and closed the door.

Unhappy? She didn't like him saying that. She wasn't unhappy. She just had a hangover. Prudence threw back the covers all the way She was wearing a peach slip and nothing else. Groaning, she dragged herself out of bed.

Ohshitohshitohshit. I feel like dog food.

Muttering this, she stumbled to the bathroom, where she tossed down two aspirin without water, then squinted at herself in the mirror. She breathed noisily through her nose as she assessed the damage. Did she look unhappy? No, she did not. But she did look pretty wasted. Thomas wouldn't like seeing her like that. She didn't want Wendy seeing her wasted, either. Spoiled her glow.

She splashed cold water on her face.

Hello.

She was back in the world, about to be Mrs. Thomas Fenton. Never mind that that her head hurt like hell, and she somedmes had a niggling worry. Life was great. It would all work out. She knew it would. She threw on jeans and a T-shirt and padded into the dining room, where Wendy sat with a mountain of opened blue Tiffany boxes.

"Okay, I'm ready," Prudence said brightly, smiling and happy again. "Bring it on."

Twenty-three

W

endy's life fell apart when she was ten, after a jolt of pure terror forged together a jumble of images. War was on the news, and though science was on her mind, war was in her heart, too. That day she'd killed the gardener's pet rabbit to feed the shark.

Feeding the shark had not been her smart idea. Her brother Randy wanted to see if a shark would eat a rabbit. But Randy was with Daddy on a hunting trip in Alaska and she'd been left alone for many days, so she'd decided to do some hunting herself. She killed the big tame white rabbit that was a prize from a local magic show, then put it in a garbage bag and hid it under the dock.

Later, she saw stunned little bundles on the news— children with missing hands or legs wrapped in rags. Maybe land mines. Maybe civil war. Wendy didn't know what it was. Little faces bobbed over the shoulders of grown-ups who were walking in a long line away from the popping-corn sound of bullets. Some of the bundles were on the ground, not moving, wrapped up tightly so that nothing showed. It scared her. She thought she was next.

When it was dark, she took the spear gun and underwater light from the rack of scuba gear in the mudroom. Outside, the sky was a light show with a three-quarter moon so bright she didn't need the flashlight to make her way down to the saltwater pond. She walked across the wet grass of the broad lawn that sloped down to the water, then through the trees following the path through the sea grass down to the dock, trying to be brave without her brothers. She hated being left behind.

The ocean crept in here at high dde, rising to meet the dock at the farthest end, more than a mile from the cut that made it a suitable breeding ground for clams and mussels and scallops. That night was so quiet and windless that the water barely lapped at the wedge of rocky sand on the shoreline where the biggest clams dug in deep; the crabs scuttled along, pincers ready to grab at anything that crossed their path; and the razor clams were as sharp and lethal as their name.

From here, the mainland lights joined together as a soft glow against black land. The few pale white halos that could be seen around the pond marked the nearest summer houses, far down unconnected dirt roads. The Lotte farm was a lonely spot.

When Wendy finally turned on the light and shone it on the inky water, right away she saw the dark shape of the dog shark that came in with the tide at night. It circled in the shallows near the dock, possibly looking for lobster bait, or a place to spawn. She dumped the rabbit into the water. It hit with a splash and sank quickly into the black, then bobbed up in the shallows. The shark swam in, close to the shore, almost close enough for her to reach out and touch with the tip of her spear gun. It circled and circled but would not strike the dead rabbit. Wendy was scared.

If the tide didn't draw the rabbit out to deeper water by morning, everyone would know what she had done. She crept back to her room, certain she'd be caught and punished. She was sorry, really. When she heard the

chop chop chop

of a bird in the sky, she thought the helicopter was war coming to her from far away. Her punishment. A strobe flashed into her room, lighting it brighter than ten flashes of lightning on a nor'easter night.

"Mummy!" She wanted to hide in the attic. Instead, she ran down the hall calling for her mother.

"Ssshh, it's just the Coast Guard. There must have been a boating accident. Go to bed, sweetheart, everything's all right."

But Wendy didn't want to go to bed. She could see someone in there. Daddy was back; her brothers were back. They'd know it wasn't a boating accident. The strobe lit the room again, and she realized the man with her mother was not her daddy. After that night, she knew the divorce that ruined everything was all her fault.

Twenty-four

What happened to it? I don't understand." Prudence had lost her good spirits. She was getting weepy. Her wedding gown was too tight. It wouldn't zip up, an impossible situation. She stamped her foot. "What are we going to do?" she demanded. "I want to talk to Tang."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary." Wendy was eager to prevent her from making a scene. "Don't worry so much, dear. We can get this fixed."

Wendy sounded cheery, but she was seething inside. This should have taken five minutes, should have been a nothing visit. Instead, Prudence was flipping out. Wendy didn't need this. She glanced at her watch, then looked up in time to see Tang herself sweep down the stairs to the second-floor showroom from her private office on the floor above. Her ice blue spring suit was a stunner.

"Prudence, I heard you were here," she said with a smile.

Her assistant, Tessa, a tall, blond girl wearing a sober suit, followed Tang, carrying an alligator briefcase and matching purse. Tessa was briefing her boss in a fully audible whisper.

"You have four minutes right now. Remember, you have to leave the leadership luncheon in an hour. You have to be at CBS for your taping at two. I booked makeup for one-thirty. Ben doesn't have a lot of time for you today; he's doing Hillary.... Don't worry about leaving the dais. They know you can't stay for dessert. After your taping, your husband will pick you up at the studio. His plane leaves at eight. You only have dme for a quick drink, but he insists—"

"That's enough." Tang raised her hand, and Tessa shut her mouth. Wendy knew Tang needed constant reminders about her schedule and clearly enjoyed the running monologue. She raged at her own Lori for taking such an inconvenient vacation.

"Tang, how are you?" Wendy said, rising quickly to her feet.

Tang tapped at her diamond watch. She didn't have time to comment for Wendy.

"How does your mother like her jacket?" she asked Prudence, all smiles for

her.

Prudence, however, could barely respond. She was that close to tears. "I don't know. I think it's all right. But Tang, this gown is a complete mess. My underwear shouldn't show. I expected better than this from you."

Tang frowned. "Let me see. Oh, my goodness, you're right. Have you been partying a little too much, Prudence?" she teased.

"Two minutes. The car is waiting," Tessa reminded.

Wendy glared at her. Tang made the silence signal with the back of her hand, then pushed the fitter out of the way so she could poke at the back seam of

Pru's gown, with its long zipper and two hundred tiny buttons that wouldn't close.

"Oh, this is not a problem. Kim can fix this in a second." She turned to Kim, her honey voice turning to acid. "Fix it in a second, Kim."

He nodded. "No problem."

"It's a problem for Miss Hay Don't disappoint her," Tang said coldly. Then the honey voice again. "You'll have it tomorrow. Say hello to your mother for me." Tang turned to the open elevator and got in,

^p

followed by Tessa, already talking again.

Wendy smiled until the elevator doors closed and Prudence disappeared into a dressing room. Then she let loose.

"What's wrong with you? I wanted that dress done today!" she fumed, so furious at Kim she could barely control the tremor in her voice. "The gown was way too tight. The bustier showed. You upset Prudence and Tang."

"Don't yell at me, Wendy." Kim couldn't take it when people were upset with him.

"You did it on purpose," she ranted. "Why?"

"She got fatter," he protested.

"She did not get fatter. You fucked up her dress. Are you crazy? Don't you understand we can't afford having anyone suspicious now?"

Suspicious? He looked as her sideways. "Why you mad at me, Wendy? I don't understand. No one's suspicious."

"Don't give me that shit. The cops are all over me. You understand perfectly what's at stake. What do you think you're doing messing with that dress?"

"Clio so mad with me I'm scared she'll kill me in my sleep," he said. He was holding the heavy dress and long train in a plasdc bag. It dipped to the carpet when Wendy took him by his two shoulders and shook him hard.

"You messed up Tovah's dress. You shouldn't have fucking been there. Don't you understand!" she hissed at him. "Now Prudence's. What are you thinking! Do you want us all in trouble?"

"Don't be mad with me, Wendy." Kim's teeth clacked with her shaking.

Wendy stopped shaking and dug her fingernails into his upper arms. "Yes, I'm mad at you."

"You're hurting me," he said.

She let him go. "What's Clio's problem?"

"Clio hates Tang. She don't pay me. I do extra work. She don't pay me."

"Oh, please. You make extra work on purpose. You want a tip, isn't that it?"

"Clio hate those rich girls." He swiped at his nose. "She hates them. She's not happy with me," he added sadly.

"Well, hello. Surprise, what did she expect?"

"Every day more mad. The police ask so many questions. Help me, Wendy. Tell Clio don't be mad."

"The police ask questions, doesn't mean they know what they're doing. Remember poor Andrea? God knows that was bad enough. ..." Wendy let him go, her heart racing at the threat of Kim messing up those dresses just so he could do more work and get a tip. "What did you tell them?" she demanded.

"Oh, police?" Kim lifted his shoulders with the meek smile that was his trademark. "I don't understand English," he said softly. "Hardly a word."

"What did Clio tell them?" Wendy demanded.

"Clio crazy," he said. "She told me she'll kill me in my sleep."

Wendy blew air out of her mouth to stop herself from laughing at Clio's dilemma. She'd married a gay seamstress, hoping he'd become a heterosexual waiter. It wasn't going to happen.

"Look, keep me out of your troubles, Kim. Just keep my name out of it. And get that dress finished tomorrow the latest, you hear me? Make it perfect."

"Wendy, I gave Tang the plant you suggested. She's not mad with me, is she?"

"How should I know?"

Prudence came out of the dressing room, wearing her street clothes.

"There you are." Wendy smiled.

At three-thirty, after Prudence and Lucinda left the shop, Louis collapsed at his conference table, surrounded by the sketches for Pru's wedding. He was creating Hawaii again with real blooming passionflower vines, and a water wall studded with birds-of-paradise. A hundred and fifty Hawaiian Sunset cattleyas would bloom in real seashell centerpieces on the tables, and even the band members would be dressed in leis and tropical shirts.

"What's the matter with you?" Wendy demanded as soon as they were alone. Everybody was in a funk today.

"Why bother asking? I thought you hated me." Louis's stormy gray eyes raked her over.

"What are you talking about?" Wendy tossed her head at the ridiculous idea.

"You stormed out on Monday, shrieking that you hate me, don't you remember?"

Wendy laughed. "Getting paranoid again, are we? Forgetting to take our medicine?"

"Oh, very funny." Louis made an irritated face and patted his hair uneasily.

"We're in this together, so don't freak on me. Prudence is having her prewedding jitters."

"Not exactly my problem. You're the Hay manager," Louis said.

"Uh-uh-uh. It's all our problem. Kim made her dress too dght. Her bustier showed. Lucinda is freaking out because of what happened to Tovah. We can't afford anyone acting out now."

"Well, I don't like her, either," Louis said sullenly.

"Who?"

"Spoiled, silly Prudence."

"Oh, for God's sake! Prudence is a lovely girl... . What's that face supposed to mean?"

"The police were here again."

Wendy's stomach heaved. "Which one?"

"The one with the mustache," he said, rolling his eyes.

"They all have mustaches," she said, impadently.

"This one was in cowboy boots, quite attractive but a terrible dresser."

"Oh, the Spanish one. What did he want?"

"He had his Chinese sidekick with him," Louis added.

"Oh, Jesus." Wendy didn't like this. She needed a little drink to give her a lift, wished Lori were around to take over.

"They wanted to know who went up to the Bronx with me and how long we were there and what time I left. Same things they asked before. I told them what they asked."

"They haven't a clue," Wendy said angrily. "Everyone is freaking out."

"And now Jama is out there somewhere. He hasn't turned up since Sunday. My nerves are shot. I could just jump out of my skin."

"Well, tell the police about him. Let them deal with it," Wendy told him.

"I did." Louis groaned. "I told them where he lives. I hope they get him fast, so I can calm down and do St. Pat's. Now I'm down one helper. I should have six people working for me."

Pat pat

to the pompadour.

Wendy snorted. It was Louis's own fault that he didn't hire regular people to work for him instead of his pretty boys, all those runaways from civil war in those oh-so-faraway countries. The drama of the misplaced and traumatized every single day—that was Louis's thing. Who could even think of having people like that in their lives? Who needed it? Louis was a one-man social work agency. He had no fear.

And every boy Louis "helped" with work was a beautiful, troubled specimen. Only six months ago one of them had stolen fifty thousand dollars worth of art glass. Louis didn't know which boy was the thief, so he'd fired them both. Now he had Jama, an African near mute who'd never seen a town, much less a city, before he'd arrived in New York. Tito was an Argentinean whose family were among the disappeared. And Jorge, the Argentinean hair colorist, was another one. Who even knew his story? Louis could read her mind.

"Jorge wants to make a permanent spot for himself in the shop. Is the place big enough for two of us? Is it? I don't know. Tito is threatening to quit because there's too much work." Louis was frantic. "I don't know how I bear it."

Wendy changed the subject back to Pru's wedding. "How are the Sunset cats doing?"

He didn't answer. The orchids had a color palette of rust, lavender, white, and purple and were supposed to bloom in large seashells. But they were fragile and had a bloom dme of exactly two and a half days. Only a lot of luck would make them absolutely perfect for the wedding luncheon on Saturday.

"How are your fifteen minutes of fame going? You selling your story to the National Enquirer?" Louis asked instead.

"Not yet. They haven't come up with enough to get me." Wendy smiled. Fifty thousand dollars to tell about the secret rituals of matchmaking among Orthodox Jews in America? Please. It was tempting, but not anywhere near enough. She wanted a quarter of a million for her story, an escalating story for sure. Wendy's hands were trembling. She needed a drink.

"Be nice to Prudence, will you? She's having a hard time," was her parting remark.

Twenty-five

A

fter a second night sleeping apart, April and Mike worked separately on Wednesday morning. Mike and a detective from Homicide interviewed Louis's helper Tito for many hours. Tito stuck to the same story as Louis. Either they were both telling the truth or both of them were lying. April drove up to Riverdale to the Five-oh to talk with one of the detectives who'd visited Kim and his wife out in Queens on Sunday night.

"Kim is a real cutie, and his wife gives him a solid alibi," he said confidently. Detective Calvin Hill was maybe twelve and a half years old and newly promoted to the bureau. He held a copy of his DD-5, but April shook her head.

"I want to hear it from you. What do you mean, cutie?" she said.

He flapped his wrist. "The wife, Clio, definitely wears the pants in the family. Much older than he. Kim doesn't speak English. I think he speaks Philippine. Wife wouldn't let him talk. She says she drove him and the dress out to Riverdale in their car on Sunday afternoon."

April frowned. "He brought the wedding gown to his home? When and how did he get it there?"

Calvin shook his head. He hadn't asked that quesdon.

"Why did he deliver the dress so late?" she asked.

"Kim's wife said the gown needed last-minute alterations. She says Mrs. Schoenfeld asked him to deliver the gown and help Tovah get dressed."

"Where did he do these alterations?"

Calvin shook his head again. He hadn't been interested in the movements of the dress, only the fitter.

April had the case file on the desk in front of her. It was already stuffed with hundreds of statements and interviews, but there were gaps everywhere. And the information they had didn't add up. The story of the gown didn't play to April at all.

"So Kim's wife drove him to Riverdale. Where did she park the car?" she said, back on Calvin's report.

"Down the block. There was no room in front of the synagogue. And Clio said she didn't want to get stuck in the lot because so many cars were moving in."

"Which way?" April asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Which way down the block?" she said impatiently.

"She didn't know," he said.

April blinked.

"I asked her, but she didn't know the area. She said she moved the car down the block, waited an hour for him to come out."

"I want to know where the car was parked. What time was that?" She moved on to the next question.

"Two P.M.," he said.

April scratched her head some more. "Two P.M.

they arrived? Two P.M. they parked? I need a more precise time frame here."

"I think they arrived at two P.M."

April was silent.

He thought

was not good enough.

Cavin consulted his notes. "She waited for him for an hour. He came out and the two of them drove home to Queens."

"That put the time at... ?"

"She said they left just after three. The shooting occurred twenty-five minutes later." " "What make of car? Did you take a look at the car?" April snapped.

Calvin shook his head.

"Find out what make of car. Where the two drove from. I want to know what time that couple arrived and where the car was parked. Every single thing about that car. And the gown. I want to know where it was. Who handled it, what time ..." April couldn't contain her annoyance at the incomplete interview.

"Right here you had two people, husband and wife, who had the opportunity to get close to Tovah and the means to get away. I want to know everything about them." Her voice was hard. "Today."

Calvin gave her a stunned look. "Yes, ma'am."

A little while later she got a call from Lieutenant Iriarte on her cell phone.

"What do you have on Wendy Lotte?" he said.

Across the room April could see Hollis talking on the phone.

"You got something." She knew her boss, could hear excitement in his voice.

"Oh, yeah. We got a lot. She's a sport shooter, almost went to the Olympics. And she has a sheet."

"No kidding!"

"She was arrested for shoplifting three times in college, then shot her fiance up on Martha's Vineyard. All these incidents occurred in Massachusetts. The family is prominent there. She was not charged in the shooting, got suspended sentences on the thefts. In the shooting incident, the young man was treated and released. They broke up. That was seventeen years ago. Funny thing, she's been clean as a whistle since."

April stared at Sergeant Hollis, knowing he'd held out on her. "Lieutenant, could you put that in written form and fax it to Inspector Bellaqua?"

"Uh-huh, already working on it. You owe me big." He hung up before she could ask him about Tang. Okay, looked like Wendy was it again.

April got Bellaqua on the line in her office at One PP.

"Hey, April, what's up?" she asked.

"Turns out Wendy Lotte is a sport shooter and she has priors. Shoplifting in college. Shot her boyfriend. No charges were pressed. Nothing for seventeen years. At the time of Tovah's shoobng, she was out of sight for twenty minutes."

"Yeah, I know. What's her story?"

"She says she was outside having a cigarette. Then she went inside arid was in the ladies' room when she heard the screams."

"Motive?"

"I don't know, jealousy? She's an unmarried woman. Apparently she shot her own fiance. I don't have the full story on that. It occurred in Massachusetts. I have the feeling she gets squirmy watching brides walk down the aisle."

"Yeah, well, a lot of us get squirmy watching brides walk down the aisle, doesn't mean we shoot them." Bellaqua snorted. "Have you spoken to the DA about this?"

"Not yet. You're my first call. What about you, Inspector? Anything on the bias angle?" April asked, switching gears for a moment.

"Nothing. The Schoenfelds are highly respected, have no known enemies. Everyone loves them. Same with the synagogue. The Ribikoffs have an ongoing investigation on some of their relatives, but they weren't at the wedding, and there seems to be no connection to this. Same with the real estate issue. Both families are in real estate, but in different areas. That's about it."

"Has the Riverdale canvass come up with anything?"

"One lady reported a flasher walking on Palisades Avenue. Could have been Saturday, could have been Sunday. She's not sure. According to her, he waved it at her as she drove by. She says she swerved and almost went off the road, down the bluff, and into the river. Mike is chasing down the missing African who works for Louis. I heard from him an hour ago."

"Me, too. Anything else from Riverdale?"

"A number of people reported a parade of strange cars in the area that day. But there's always a lot of activity around the synagogue. Saturdays, people walk. But Sunday is wedding time. A lot of people from out of the area drive in. We do have the plates of every car in the lot. But the killer could have parked on the street, even down on Palisades Avenue."

April flashed to Kim and his wife. They took off in a car; Louis had a truck. Wendy had a car, too. Lots of possibilities.

"Do you have anything on the weapon?" she asked.

"We're still looking for it."

"What about a computer check on the shell casings?"

"They're working on it. Look, I'll get with the DA about Wendy."

"Inspector, does anything strike you about this?"

"A lot of things. What's on your mind?"

"Psychologically, I mean. What's the message of the crime?"

"Strikes me as impersonal," Bellaqua said promptly.

"Yeah, I didn't think so at first, but now it has the feel of a public execution. I don't know. Maybe I'm dreaming here."

"Go on. You got a theory?"

"If it was a rage thing, wouldn't the killer have gotten up-close and personal? Done the thing in private so the victim could look in his face and know her killer? And they've been planning this wedding for, what—only two months? Isn't that kind of rushing things?" April mused. Matthew and Ching had been planning their wedding for eight months.

"So?"

"There were a hundred ways to do Tovah with a lot less risk. Where she lives is a cul de sac in a quiet neighborhood. She was a solitary girl, liked to sit on the back porch out of sight of the rest of her family and listen to her Walkman. Anybody who knew her knew that and could have picked her off anytime in her own backyard. We wouldn't have had a clue. What does that tell us about our killer?"

"Experienced sniper or maybe a country club shooter. Who knows? Whoever it was may not have known the girl, but knew all about the wedding. Wasn't afraid of crowds. Not a professional."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. Our shooter didn't know the girl. That's why I'm curious about the weapon. Might be another homicide with the gun in the computer that we don't know about yet. Could give us a link."

"Yeah, get on them about the gun," Bellaqua agreed.

Twenty-six

I

t's afternoon. He doesn't know what time it is.

Maybe dark. Maybe not. He's not moving. That's all he knows. He tells himself his story. He was a good boy, one of the good ones. He doesn't like it when people cheat, when they hurt each other. Ask Louis, he know. Ask anybody. Every day he help somebody. Somebody on the street. Tito. A little child. He say the prayers, and he don't do no bad things. This is what he tells himself when he's hiding.

He's hiding from Louis, from Tito, from all the policemen who could shoot him. He knows the policemen shoot Africans here. They told him that the first day. Don't get in no trouble in New York City. The policemen shoot black boys. Don't go for your wallet, passport. Whatever happens, don't start running.

He's hiding in the basement, afraid the police will shoot him. The men he shares the damp basement with know they're not supposed to open the door. Too many people live there, and they can't cook or wash. They all know the woman who lives upstairs and takes rent money from them can get in trouble. If they get caught living there, they can be sent back. None of them want to be sent back, so they never open the door.

He doesn't know what time it is when the woman from upstairs opens the door. He runs to hide behind the tank that makes the water hot for the apartment upstairs, squeezes himself in close to the crumbling wall, and prays no one will find him. Please, God, no one find him.

"Look, you can see for yourself no one's here," the woman said.

But two men came in and found him right away.

"Jama, come out, I won't hurt you," one of them says.

He starts to cry. He can't help crying. No one is with him now, no one to help him. No Louis, no Tito, no two brothers in Minnesota. The church people told him they only had room for two boys. So he had to stay here. And now he only does what Louis tells him. Then he comes back here. That's it. That's the life he has. He prays for the spirits of the dead. He drinks beer. Sometimes the stories in his head stop for a while and he falls asleep. Somedmes he wakes up sweating, crying. Other times he's screaming.

In the morning the noise is so loud in the subway. Too many people close together, pushing, looking at him. Laughing if he stumbles on the platform. He's still afraid the doors will close on him. Inside the train, he's scared the doors will open and someone will push him out on the tracks. He knows that happens, too. He's scared when the train stops in the tunnel and no one can get out. When that happens, he's sure they'll all be shot in the dark. Some of the people on the train look like people he used to know. The death soldiers.

Sometimes he's so scared in that shaking train he can hardly breathe. He's sure the death soldiers know him. Even in the store noises bother him. Little Tito coming up from behind when the hair dryer is on and he doesn't know he's there. He's afraid of planes attacking from the sky.

He puts the rose stems with the thorns in his pockets and takes them home. At night when he's in a panic, he pokes himself all over his arms and hands with the rose thorns until he's wearing a blanket of blood. Like the blankets of blood on the dead where he came from. He doesn't know why he pokes himself to bleed. He's not a walking dead. Not a boy with stumps where hands and feet should be. He's a whole boy, one of the lucky ones, one of the good ones.

The man is talking to him, and he's trying to listen. The man has a mustache. He watches the mustache move. He's talking about Louis, something about Louis. Asking what he does in the shop.

He tells the policeman what he does in the shop, how he copies the way Louis puts the flowers together in the water. He shows him with his hands. Yes, he likes doing that. He doesn't look at the man when he says it.

He doesn't say he hates riding in the van when Tito drives. It makes him remember things he doesn't want to remember, but he doesn't say anything about the van. He's so scared of the policeman he can feel his eyes rolling around in his head.

He knows people here are afraid of him. They look at him and move away on the street. In the subway they move away. He knows the policeman has a gun. He looks up for a second and sees the man's lips moving. He doesn't know what the man is asking him. He's trying to answer the man's question.

Now the man asks him if he has a gun.

He shakes his head, not anymore. He does know someone shot the girl. But he didn't do it. He doesn't hurt people. He sweats, worrying that the man might think he hurt people. He doesn't remember ever shoodng anyone or doing anything bad. He sees the pictures in his head, the blood pouring out of screaming people, and the bloody blankets that covered them. But he's sure he was one of the good ones. He tells himself this every day. He was one of the good ones.

He doesn't know which militia killed the girl. He doesn't know how it works here. His voice starts making no-talk sounds. He's talking no-talk, cowering in front of the man, almost on his knees. Not saying that they came into a quiet place where there were fields and a few huts. They put the first men they saw on a truck, took them away. Later they came back for the women and children.

They didn't have a system, no list of names. It didn't matter who was who. It was always the same. Whatever side they were on, rebels or army, the enemy was the people in the huts. The enemy was the people in the fields, in the schools, whoever they wanted it to be. Wherever they went, wherever they were, anyone they didn't like the look of was the enemy. Anyone who didn't give them food. Anyone who talked back or resisted. They took those people away, or they killed them right there.

It always happened fast, like a storm coming up on a sunny day. No warning, no dme to hide. They came in a truck or many trucks, waving guns in the air so everybody ran inside. The boys were in the fields, at school, with their fathers. Sometimes just by themselves away from their mothers. When the men in the trucks came, the girls stayed with their mothers. The boys ran away. That's what happened with him. His father and uncle and two of his cousins were killed. He saw their bodies in the field behind the house and ran away before the soldiers could find him. When the soldiers were gone, people came out of their huts to cry and bury their dead. But the trucks came back. In daylight, at night, didn't make a difference. When they came back they killed the little girls, the babies first; then they raped the bigger girls and the women. Sometimes they didn't rape them, just killed them.

The first time he came back to his mother. After the second time, he ran away and didn't come back. He was a little boy. He didn't know who shot his father, his uncle, cousins in the field. He didn't know who cut off his sisters' arms with a machete and sliced the baby out of his mother's big belly. He ran away and lived in the forest with other boys he called his brothers, places where no one came. They were sick and many boys died. They were frightened and naked and starving. When men in the trucks found them and gave them food and guns, they became killers, too.

All this fills his head, and his mouth is talking no-talk. He's peed in Iris pants. The policeman has strapped his wrists behind him. He sees the cuts on his arms and asks about the cuts. Then he asks more questions about his bloody clothes. His ID card. Where is it?

"What's your real name? Where are you from? Do you have a visa, a green card? Where's your passport?" The policeman asks him more questions.

He's so scared his eyes roll up in his head. He's forgotten what name is in his papers, what he's supposed to say.

"Brother," he says. His name is Brother. He knows he's going to be executed right here in this chair. He's big and he's strong and he knows how to fight.

He strikes out at the policeman with his boots, kicking him in the head so hard the man falls over. The straps holding his arms break apart, freeing him to fight for his life. The other policeman runs over to help. The first one struggles to get up. Now they're all fighting. But he's big. He's the biggest, and he doesn't want to die in this basement.

Twenty-seven

A

pril and Inspector Bellaqua and her driver were waiting for Wendy outside her building in the inspector's unmarked four-by-four when she got home. Mike and his partner were off the radar screen somewhere in Brooklyn when Wendy strode up the block at nine-oh-five. The two cops slowly got out of the car. The driver stayed put.

"Oh, Sergeant Woo." Wendy flashed April an uneasy smile from her higher vantage point of natural height plus spike heels.

"You know Inspector Bellaqua," April said.

"Hello," she said, looking down on her, too. "What can I do for you?"

"We'd like to come inside and ask you a few questions," Poppy told her.

Wendy hesitated, glanced in both directions, then nodded. "Okay, I understand. Come inside, of course. Maybe you'd like a drink."

Maybe not. It looked like she'd already had a few. The three women went up in the elevator without exchanging another word. When they got to Wendy's floor, she unlocked her apartment and switched on the light. The place was neat and didn't look as if it had been gone over a few hours ago. If Wendy had any sense that her apartment had been searched while she was out, she didn't show it. She dropped her purse and briefcase on her dining/conference table, then moved purposefully across the living room to the window.

Bellaqua didn't react, but April's heart raced. Several years ago during an arrest, a female homicide suspect like this one—much larger than herself—had jumped out of a window and tried to pull April out with her. She'd hung on as long as she could before the woman finally twisted out of her grasp and fell four stories. The resulting broken legs did not prevent a jury from convicting her of the two stabbing murders she'd committed.

"Hold it right there," April barked.

Wendy stopped and raised her hands. "Okay, no problem. Don't get jumpy on me, ladies."

Bellaqua moved forward and grabbed the gauzy curtains. Nothing but an air conditioner behind them.

"Okay if I turn it on?" Wendy asked.

"Okay." April relaxed, but only a little.

"What's your problem?" The sheers billowed out in icy air and Wendy gave them a disgusted look as the room cooled. Then she sat on her beige sofa, crossing her excellent legs. "Your reaction is upsetting me."

Bellaqua's eyes swept the living room as if the search there might have missed something, nodding at April to take the lead. April pulled out her Rosario and read Wendy's words from her notes.

"The key to your business is planning. You orchestrate everything from beginning to end," she said.

"It's my living. I'm good at it." Wendy swung one long leg over the other and bobbed her foot. "I've already told both you and Sergeant Hollis everything I know. I gave him my statement."

"Well, you'd better start over, Miss Lotte," April told her breezily. "You left out a few things."

"Look, I answered all your questions. You can call me Wendy. Everyone else does," Wendy said calmly. She checked her manicure, as if unconcerned about what was coming.

"Wendy, I want to level with you. Someone with planning ability, expertise with a rifle, knowledge of the timing of the event, and the ability to move around without suspicion planned and carried out this shooting."

Wendy nodded seriously. "I'm aware of that. I've been thinking about it, too." She glanced at the inspector, who'd taken a call on her cell phone and wandered off into Wendy's office.

"And what are your thoughts on the matter?" April went on.

"I'm not sure. I don't know what to think."

"Do you think there's a religious basis for the killing?"

"Maybe. I don't want to go into it though." Wendy shook her foot, studied her nails.

"We know about your past. We know you can shoot," April said. "We know you can plan. We know you were there. Your story about where you were at the time of the shooting hasn't been verified. All we're missing on your case is the gun."

The foot stopped bobbing. Wendy clenched her fist. "Look, I know what you're getting at. I had an accident a long time ago. I was young. I was engaged.

I changed my mind. The man had other ideas and threatened me." Wendy's face showed pain. It looked pretty real to April except that was not the way the story went up in Massachusetts.

"I was afraid for my life, but I did not mean to shoot Barry. Even cops are allowed to shoot someone if they're afraid for their lives, isn't that right?" she asked defiantly.

April shook her head. Nope. They were not allowed to shoot. A good defense lawyer could get a cop off for killing someone sometimes. But allowed to shoot, uh-uh. Shooting someone was always a bad career move. "We're looking hard at you, Wendy. What do you have to say?"

Bellaqua wandered back into the room. Wendy gave her a hostile stare and bobbed her foot some more. "The bullet grazed his arm. He's still playing golf, has a twenty-four handicap. Believe me, if I'd meant to hurt him I would have taken his driving arm off." Wendy said this with a dght little smile, acknowledging her prowess.

April locked eyes with Bellaqua. This was a dangerous adversary, a competent person flawed in some fundamental way who could think in terms of taking a man's arm off to spoil his golf game if he angered her. It clicked again. Tovah's death had been an assassination. The perpetrator hadn't wanted her to see what was coming and be afraid. Sadists were people out for revenge and liked the face-to-face high of seeing their victims paralyzed, frandc with terror. They got their kick from the squirm, the fear. Tovah's murder had been a cold hit.

Wendy's mouth twitched. She was smiling now. "You really don't have anything at all, do you? You're going to keep harassing me even though I had nothing to do with it. And the maniac who did it is going to get away. It makes me sick."

Made them sick, too.

Bellaqua replied angrily, speaking for the first time. "This is how we run an investigation. We put the pieces together one by one. You have a better way, let us know."

"Well, it's a fucking insult. You know I didn't do it. Why would I kill that poor girl? I haven't shot a gun in years. I don't even

have

a gun anymore."

There.

Bellaqua and April connected again. Smart people like Wendy became more sophisticated as they developed, but they didn't necessarily change in the fundamentals. She had guns, they were sure of it. The search of her apartment had not come up with any, but April guessed she still had some somewhere. People who loved guns didn't give them up. She also guessed that Wendy had been lifting things from the gift tables of her clients, judging from the merchandise that had been in her cupboards two days ago, but was missing this afternoon when the police did their search.

Wendy grimaced suddenly, and April knew that she was still a shooter, still a thief, but they didn't have what they needed to arrest her. It made the two detectives sick as they headed home for the night. Nothing from Mike in many hours. April was anxious with him out there in the wind.

Twenty-eight

M

ike called on April's cell at midnight just as April was pulling onto her street in Astoria.

"Thank God! I was getdng worried. Are you okay?" she asked when she heard his dred voice.

"Yeah, dne, why?"

"You sound ftinny." And she hadn't heard from him. That made her uneasy, especially when she hadn't seen him all day.

"Nah, I'm fine. What's up?"

"You first," she said.

"Okay. Something's way off about that guy Louis, the florist. Everybody he has working for him has a shadow past." Mike's voice crackled on the cell phone, and she wondered where he was.

"What kind of shadow past?" The reference made her think of Citing's chef Gao Wan and his tall tale about the river god he claimed was his father. Immigrants frequently invented mythic histories for themselves. They all had shadow pasts.

"He hires young men who fought in wars."

April parked in front of her house, killed her engine, doused the lights, and sat in her car in the dark. Boys who fought in wars. Where was this going? "Any wars in particular?" she asked after a pause.

"Nope. He's an equal-opportunity employer. He's had them all—Tutsis, Hutus, Bosnians, Angolans, Cambodians, Iraqis, Afghans."

"Jesus, Mike, what does that mean?" She shivered in the quiet of her Astoria street.

"It means he puts his clients in contact with a bunch of unstable young men with a history of violence. I called a social worker friend of mine about it. She said we've still got boys coming in from all over the world who participated in mass killings back where they came from, civil wars on many continents. Also survivors. There are a lot of traumatized EDPs out there who get through INS."

Were they back to terrorists? "Aren't we doing anything about screening who comes in?" April asked, checking the row of silent houses where most of her neighbors had already gone to bed. EDPs were emotionally disturbed persons.

Mike didn't answer, but April knew perfectly well that nothing the FBI, CIA, and INS did could stop the flood of people who sailed, flew, walked, swam, and were smuggled into the USA every day. Some of them were persecuted back home, some persecutors. There had never been a treatment protocol for killers, walk-in clinics for the tortured and traumatized. One of April's motives for becoming a cop long ago had been to help Chinese immigrants negotiate the system, get the services and protection they needed.

Mike's voice became stronger. "The guy we picked up calls himself Brother. He came in from Africa about six months ago through a church group. I haven't been able to contact them yet. They're based in Liberia. He's young, possibly psychotic. Louis told me he tried high school in Brooklyn for a few weeks, couldn't hack it.

Has very little English. He lives in a basement in Brooklyn with a bunch of other guys like him. It's not a healthy place. The Health Department's going to be all over it if any of them have TB.

"Louis seems to have a network of illegals going. He calls our guy Jama. We don't know what his real name is yet. He has scratches all over his body, and we found bloody clothes. Somebody may be torturing him, but the injuries look like they could be self-inflicted."

"What makes you think so?"

"It's a long story. Have you spoken to your shrink friend yet? This guy's a head case."

"No, I called his office on Monday. His voice mail said he's away for two weeks. Emma and the baby must be with him. Got the machine on the home phone, too."

"You know where he is?"

"Uh-uh." Psychiatrists didn't exactly leave their itineraries for their patients. "But he says self-mutilators hurt themselves, not others. Is Jama organized enough to be Tovah's killer?" April didn't want to get too excited.

"Probably not by himself. But somebody could have directed him to do it, supplied the gun, then took it away afterward. He appears to be in shock."

"Oh, God, I hope he's it. Anything new on the gun?"

"No, no. Nothing found yet. Nothing from FAS, either."

April didn't want to get out of the car, go into her house, sleep alone. She missed him. "FAS, what the hell is that?" she demanded.

"Firearms Analysis Section, don't you keep up?"

"No." She hated the Department's constant name changing. "It'll always be Ballistics to me. What about Tito?" she asked, still sitting in the dark.

"Tito's brothers were among the disappeared in Argentina."

"God, what's the connection with these people? Wendy has a shadow past of her own."

"Oh, yeah, anything new?"

"Her apartment came up clean for drugs and guns. Cupboards were pretty much emptied, though. Looks like she moved a lot of stuff out. We couldn't get anything out of her. I get the feeling she's holding back a lot, but she's toughing it out, hasn't gotten herself a lawyer."

April paused. She knew the type, the kind who thought they could handle anything. She went on, "Wendy's profile doesn't make her a perfect fit for this kind of hit. And there's no motive. But she has some empty cupboards.... Where are you now?"

"I'm finishing up at ER."

What!

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it's nothing."

"Mike, you want me to meet you? I could come over," April offered quickly.

"I need to crash for a few hours. Where are you?"

"I just got home. I'm still in my car. I could come over," she repeated. She wanted to clap eyes upon him, make sure he was all right. But he wasn't going to let her.

"Get some sleep. I'll pick you up at seven." His voice cracked and died.

"Damn."

The phone rang again and she answered, hoping it was Mike calling back to enlighten her.

"Sergeant Woo."

"April, thank God I got you. I've called and called. Are you all right?"

"Ching, of course I'm fine." April inhaled deeply.

"I hate not being able to reach you," Ching complained.

April crawled out of the car. "I'm on a homicide, you know how it is. But I'm here now, just got home. I'm walking up the walk. Talk to me."

"Have you arrested the killer?" Ching asked, breathless with hope. "There wasn't anything on the news."

"We're real close," April lied. She put her key in the lock, opened the door. Inside it was still quiet. Her parents had not returned from their little trip to New Jersey.

"It's been almost a week." Her voice sounded accusing. "How can you not know?"

"It's been only three days," April corrected her. It was a complicated case, a bizarre case. There was a lot to sort through. She didn't want to be defensive. "It's coming together," she said. "We'll nail it soon."

"Did you talk to Tang yet?"

"Not yet." April took the stairs to her apartment two at a time. "When is your next fitting? I want to go with you."

Ching hesitated. "Well, sure you can. But April, your dress isn't from Tang's," she confessed.

"My dress?" April kicked her door closed, hit the light switch, and collapsed on her pink sofa. She hadn't had time to think about dresses.

"I want you to be my maid of honor. I want you to stand at my side and say something at the reception," Ching blurted.

Maid of honor? Say something? April was stunned. She'd had no idea this was in the wind. "Did Mike have something to do with this?"

"Please, April. Just a short speech. It's time the girls stand up, not just the guys. The fathers, know what I mean?" Ching was pleading. "You're my sister. I want to honor you. You can't say no," Ching said.

April shuddered at the thought of being on display, making a speech. "I don't know." It was a bad time.

"I got you a drop-dead dress. It will be ready on Saturday. Will you pick it up?" Ching wheedled.

"Ching, I'm very touched, but you didn't have to do that."

I don't want a drop-dead dress.

She didn't say it.

I don't want to think about your wedding right now with Mike's ultimatum hanging over me.

"Of course, I had to do it. My fitting at Tang's is Monday. Will the case be solved by then?"

That was four days away. "Absolutely," April promised.

"You'll pick up your dress on Saturday?"

"Okay, sure. I'll pick it up." She loved Ching. She didn't want to be selfish, thinking only of herself. Of course she would do whatever Ching asked.

"I'll come with you, okay? I want to see your face when you try it on."

"I love you, Ching," April said suddenly. "Don't be nervous. It's going to be a great wedding."

"Love you, too, April. I know it will." Ching hung up, and April was alone in the empty house. Skinny Dragon wasn't home, so there was no late-night conversation, no force-feeding. She didn't like the feeling.

Mike didn't answer either of his phones. He told her he'd picked up a suspect, Louis's African, Jama/Brother. Mike was in the ER, but who had the nothing? Just like him not to make a big deal of it! She brooded as she brushed her teeth and drank down three glasses of water, too dred to forage for food. She hoped Mike was all right, figured he was all right and just didn't want to be with her. That upset her, too. She knew she wasn't going to sleep at all. She got in bed and brooded. Jama had to be their man, had to be. Mike had broken the case. Maybe it was over. But where did that leave Wendy. • • • She fell asleep right away.

Twenty-nine

A

t seven A.M. sharp on Thursday morning Mike parked his Camaro in front of April's Le Baron and pulled himself out of the car with far less energy than usual. April had been waiting for him by the window and saw right away that his right cheekbone was bruised and a white bandage decorated his forehead. He hated showing wear and tear, so he held his hand over it as if shading the morning light. She had her answer. Brother must have resisted being taken in.

"Looks worse than it is," Mike said sheepishly as she ran out to give him a long hug.

"How's the other guy?" she asked lightly. Mike was on his feet, nothing in a sling. She knew better than to make a big deal about it if he didn't.

"Heavily sedated on the psych ward. Hungry?"

"Yes."

April didn't want to admit that she'd missed dinner and missed him, but at least last night there had been a reason. She gave him another hug and climbed into the car, making it a point not to press him for details as they headed up to the Bronx. They stopped for a big breakfast in a diner. Mike ordered bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, lots of ketchup.

While they were waiting to be served she skirted the subject, keeping neutral. Was Brother their man? Come on, give.

"Stitches?" she asked about his forehead.

"Only six. Right along the hairline." He sugared his coffee heavily, then sipped. "Not as good as yours," he commented, giving her a crooked smile. "Are you missing me yet?"

She nodded. "What do you think? Is Brother our killer?"

Mike stirred in more sugar. Four packets made it a record. "I want to think we have him. He seemed pretty out of it last night, but drugs could do that. When he comes around, we'll see how connected he is to reality." He touched his forehead. "I'll tell you, he has a lethal kick. I wasn't expecting it," he admitted. "Careless."

April's heart thudded. Between the two of them, Mike was the dirtier

mano-a-mano

fighter, but she had it all over him in kickboxing and karate. She felt she should have been there. She didn't say a word. The food came. They started eating. Two fried eggs suddenly didn't seem like enough. Mike ordered pancakes, too.

"I hope he's our guy," she said.

Let Brother be our guy,

she prayed, pouring on the syrup with a heavy hand.

"Let's hope. I think Louis is involved somehow, but I don't see him as a killer. The question is, did the African leave in Louis's truck at two-thirty, as Tito and Louis said he did, or did he stay behind? If he stayed behind, how did he get back to the city? Subway? Bus? Did he ditch the gun in a garbage can? Did they wait for him?"

All the garbage cans in the area had been thoroughly searched on Sunday and Monday, but the killer could have dumped it in the Hudson River. There were many places to get rid of a gun.

They ate slowly, puzzling over different aspects of the case. The tangle of leads kept going back to the wedding people, none of whom were entirely what they seemed, but none of whom had a motive, either. April flashed to Ching's call last night and her request for April to be her maid of honor. She didn't want to discuss it with Mike right now. They had more important things to worry about.

"What's the matter, run out of steam?" he said.

"Yeah." The pancakes sat there in a lake of syrup.

Mike paid up and they were on time for their meeting with the Bronx DA, an older guy neither of them knew. Shad Apply was tall and skinny. His face was the color of window caulk, prematurely rutted with deep wrinkles. Two younger, gray-suited ADAs were in the office with him. All three showed signs of life when Mike told them about the suspect in custody.

"Where is he? We want to talk to him," Apply said, nodding with satisfaction at his henchmen, a chubby male who looked about thirty, and a long-haired female of indeterminate age. Both were intently taking notes on legal pads. Apparently between last night and now, no one had been in touch.

"Talking's a problem right now. He's in Bellevue," Mike told them.

"Is he injured?" Shad Apply frowned at Mike's bruise and the bandage on his head. "Did you hurt him?"

Mike shook his head. "Not as bad as he hurt me.

The guy's a head case. He went berserk in the middle of the interview. We're having him evaluated, but it may take some time. He'll have to wake up first."

The prosecutor's face organized itself into a smile. The good news outweighed the bad. The good news: A confused psychotic would be a big plus for everybody. They could nail him quickly and have done with an ugly case. The DA's office wouldn't have to dig too deeply for a motive. Crazies lived in worlds of their own; their circuit boards were down. The pathways to reason didn't connect.

There were other pluses. Incidents involving seriously mentally impaired people, though catastrophic for the victims and their families, were not that common. If the perpetrators happened to be wholly unconnected to reality, they couldn't plan, couldn't repeat a crime, couldn't get away. Such a resolution of the Tovah case would be ideal. The bad news: It would probably take quite a while. Psychotics didn't get stabilized overnight.

"Good job," Apply said, appraising Mike in a rosier light. "You're the one who brought him in?"

Mike nodded.

"Did he give you anything at all?"

"Not enough. He was scared to death, less than lucid. Also, his boss, the florist, made an initial statement saying he was with him at the time of the shooting. We have a little problem with that."

The DA pulled on his nose. "We can bring him in as a material witness, hold him for a while. That might jog his memory. I'd like to clean this up before the weekend. Okay, thanks. That should do it for now. I'll start talking to the attending shrink. You follow through on the background check." Apply unfolded from his chair.

"Excuse me, sir." April took a few minutes to fill them in on her and Bellaqua's work on Wendy.

He wasn't that interested. Her past misdemeanors were way too old to be admissible in any case against her. He looked fifteen years younger when they left.

By two in the afternoon Mike and April were on the phones at the Five-oh. Mike was trying to locate the church group that had brought the Liberian into the country. April was following through with her study of the seven-page printout that described each event Wendy had done since January, five months of completed events and a summer of parties to come. April also had an older file of events Wendy had managed, going back some five years, that had been printed out from her computer. She spent all day on it. Late in the afternoon she found something that pushed her alarm button.

Another of Wendy's brides-to-be hadn't made it to the altar. Andrea Straka. April recognized the name right away. Another sad case. The day before her wedding, Andrea Straka had jumped or fallen—or been pushed—off a subway platform in front of an oncoming train. She'd been killed instantly. The tragedy made all the newspapers. A horrible thing, a famous unsolved case. Had it been suicide, accident, homicide? No one knew for sure.

April's heart raced as she considered the possibilities this new death presented. One bride had died the day

before

her wedding, another bride on the day of her wedding. Eight months apart. April tended to think in threes. Another bride on the day

after

her wedding, sometime down the road? Or what about eight months

before

Andrea's death? Had there been another case—a young woman just engaged?

Maybe Tovah's murder meant that a killer was getting bolder, was coming out in the open. April shivered and shook herself. Her cynicism was getting ahead of the evidence. She had no reason yet to panic. Still, she had to take Andrea's death very seriously. Someone had to take another look at Andrea's file, reinterview the witnesses, the whole nine yards.

April also had to dig deeper to see if anyone else had died near a wedding date. Andrea's death could be a coincidence, but cops were suspicious. When it came to police work, April didn't believe in coincidences.

Thirty

T

hunder rumbled over the city, and jagged shafts of lightning cracked the sky open like an eggshell. The clouds let loose, sending rain down in a long free fall, so heavy the water itself sounded like thunder and the thunder like artillery in a war.

Prudence Hay had settled into a state of peaceful sleep Thursday night, knowing that rain was on the way and they were fully prepared for it. Her father, Terence Hay, was a Weather Channel aficionado. Throughout every day of his life he consulted it frequently. He checked the weather in the morning and afternoon before traveling back and forth to Long Island, and even before he left his office for lunch. He followed storms the way he studied the stock market, trying to keep out of trouble on both fronts.

His concern about rain had affected his decision so many months ago to have a hotel wedding, not a tented affair out at the house where a heavy rain would dampen a good deal more than spirits. He had one daughter to give away, not five or six like his brothers and sisters. One beautiful girl, and he didn't trust the weather to do her proud. Although Prudence would have preferred to hold her reception at home among the spring flowers, her father was always right. The way he always took charge in so many ways had irritated her hugely when she was young. But now his planning contingencies for weather and other disasters made her feel safe. He always said she should let him do the worrying for all of them, so she did.

That was the reason she slept well through the thunder and lightning. Her gown was in the apartment, perfect now. Kim had embroidered a little angel in it. White on white, so it was very subtle. A nice touch, she thought. Tomorrow afternoon they would have their rehearsal in the cathedral and stay for Mass. Then they would have their prewedding dinner. It didn't matter if it rained. Her father's careful planning would become part of the story in the toasts. No one's feet would get wet in the grass. The lunch would not be cold. The St. Regis would bloom like Hawaii indoors. The rain came and washed her doubts away. She was confident she and Thomas would live happily ever after just like they were supposed to.

Thirty-one

Thursday marked the fourth night that April slept alone in her empty family house. Her parents were still away, and not even the poodle was there for company. Mike was taking a hard line with her, probably hurting more from his injuries than he'd ever admit. And Ching was insistent about the maid of honor thing. Nearly a week had passed since Tovah's murder, and now there was just a week to go until Ching's wedding. This uncomfortable juxtaposition of events worried April.

Two weeks—three weekends—meant they were almost in the mid-position of a triangle with tragedy on one side and great happiness for a loved one on the other. In Chinese philosophy numbers had a huge significance. To April, this mid-position of three was like the midsection of a hexagram in the I Ching in which things could change for the better or the worse, depending on the action or nonaction one took.

Whether from Confucius or Mencius, the Tao, or the smiling Buddha, the underlying principles for the superior person (or state) in Chinese thinking were three: whether or not to take action, when to take action, and how to take action. The Tao's absolute favorite course of action was perseverance in complete passivity, a nearly impossible path to travel if one happened to be a cop.

Since Mike's ultimatum about getting married and Ching's pronouncement that she was stubborn, April had steadily been taking stock of herself. She knew that people with whom she'd worked said she was inner-directed, like an ingrown toenail—frustrating and difficult to get to know. Such an assessment might well be in her record. And she knew it was there because she was neither fully Chinese nor perfectly American and couldn't be both at once.

As much as she'd longed to be all reason, April had always been guided by less rational laws of the universe—those of her own gut instincts and the wisdom of the ancients. The homicide of a bride, when Mike wanted her to be his bride and Skinny Dragon Mother wanted her to be anyone else's, brought it all into sharp focus. Tovah's murder had aggravated Chinese superstition (her own, Auntie Mai's, Ching's), and she was stuck trying to sort out reality from feeling.

In many of April's cases, synchronicity played a part. One unconnected event after another suddenly connected unexpectedly in a brutal murder, in catastrophe, and these evils created chaos. The abrupt, dreadful occurrences that changed lives forever were often completely random. The victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The randomness, the luck of the draw in so many aspects of life even in the twenty-first century, was at the core of Chinese superstition and was in complete opposition to Western belief in causality and reason.

What Westerners had always worshiped as cause and effect passed almost unnoticed in the Chinese mind, which was ever preoccupied with chance. The immense importance of serendipity could not be underestimated in Chinese thinking, and with good reason. For the ancients, no amount of foresight or precaution could possibly protect either the state or individuals against the vagaries of disease, war, politics, and natural disasters like earthquakes, floods, and famine. Throughout time, the best shot a human had was to remain as solid as the earth, accepting all with a steadfast heart and praying for the good luck of safety and good fortune.

All her life, in the Chinese way, April had tried to avoid conflict with her parents. She didn't want them to lose face by her marrying a Mexican American. But this correct Asian passivity was highly incorrect and even considered self-destructive in Western culture. Self-destructive didn't even exist in Asian thinking, for the self was not regarded as a separate entity.

In the wee hours of Friday morning, nearing the exact midpoint between tragedy and celebration, April resorted to the

I Ching

and her Chinese heart to get a reading on her life and Tovah's case. The I

Ching,

or Book of Changes, charts the movement of all things: the sun, the moon, fire, earth, water; human activities, qualities, emotions, and good and bad actions. Though obscure to the Western mind, the

I Ching

offers to the informed questioner judgments on when to persevere, when to stand back, when to speak, and when to remain steadfastly silent. It foretells danger and success and reveals the way to act correctly in all situations, to gain wealth and inner peace.

As the rain let loose, April sat on her single bed and prepared to throw the coins—five pennies and a dime—to get the judgment of the ancient oracle as to who was Tovah's killer and what she should do about her crisis with the man she thought it would be bad luck to marry. Like a gambler at a craps table, she blew on the pennies, then threw them out. The coins fell on the flowered quilt three heads, then three tails.

Three heads represented three straight lines one on top of another: heaven. Three tails represented three broken lines beneath the three straight ones: earth. Heaven over earth was the hexagram

P'i

(standstill or stagnation). The judgment was: Heaven and earth do not unite, and all beings fail to achieve union. Further, it said, The shadowy is within, the light is without. The way of the superior was falling. The way of the inferior was rising.

April was crushed. Her dime was in the fourth position, third line from the top. That meant her personal message was: He who acts at the command of the highest remains without blame. What was willed was done.

She was mulling over what it meant when Skinny Dragon opened her door without warning. Four days she'd been away and this was her greeting.

"Ni

(you), I have food; you eat."

A wet Dim Sum ran into her room, yelping happily, and jumped on April's bed to lick her face. It was the middle of the night, but for once April was not unhappy to see her mother. Dragons had things they wanted to talk about, had trouble sleeping, wanted to be nice. And look, Skinny was smiling. She'd brought a ceremonial gift of oranges. Hastily, April gathered up the coins and her fancy Princeton edition of the

I Ching

and hid them under her pillow.

Thirty-two

F

riday morning Mike and April were working downtown in Bellaqua's office when Mike finally located someone at God's Goodness out in Minneapolis who personally knew the man they had under restraints in Bellevue. Daniel Dody came on the line just before eleven o'clock. Mike put him on speakerphone so April and Bellaqua could listen in.

"Oh, yeah, Ubu Natzuma. I remember him. Big guy, real shy." Dody's strong Midwestern voice was cheerful. "Who are you again?"

"Lieutenant Sanchez, New York City Police Department, Inspector Bellaqua, Sergeant Woo."

"Three of you, I see. How can I help you?" The voice cooled down without losing its perkiness.

"I gather you have responsibility for Mr. Natzuma."

"Well, not exactly. We did sponsor him in a school program out here, but after his orientadon, he decided to stay in New York."

"He decided to stay in New York? A real shy guy?"

"He didn't want to get caught in the middle," Dody said slowly.

"In the middle of what?" Mike asked.

"The country. A big landmass. He gets upset when he's frightened, so we didn't try to force him."

"He was upset, so you left him here?"

"Well, no, we didn't just leave him. We gave him some names and numbers, found a place for him to stay and a school for him."

"I need those names and numbers," Mike said. The notebooks were out.

"Uh, sure. I'll have to look them up, though. It may take some time. What is this all about?" Dody sounded a little less sure about those names.

"A woman was shot here in New York last week at her wedding. Mr. Natzuma may have been involved," Mike said flatly, doodling in his notebook, not glancing at April or Poppy.

"Oh, no. Not that one I read about in the paper? That Jewish girl?" The voice flattened out a little more.

"Yes, Tovah Schoenfeld. How does Mr. Natzuma feel about Jews?"

"Oh, goodness. I can't even imagine. I know he may have some primitive ideas, but I'm sure Ubu never even met a Jew."

"Tell me about him."

"I don't know where to begin. He experienced some real deprivation when he was very young. Malnutrition, abuse, just like almost everyone in his country. I don't know if you know anything about Liberia's wars, but he was in the middle of it. Landlocked and also trapped between warring factions, one of which killed his parents. He may have witnessed that." Dody ran out of steam.

"Do you have any dates on this?"

"Gee, let me think. We're pretty sure he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven or twelve, but before that he lived with a gang of boys, hiding out, for several years. His parents may have been killed when he was nine or ten. It's hard to put dates on anything. We can only piece together their histories from their own accounts. If he's eighteen now, we might be able to correlate events in his village nine years ago."

"Did you hear any accounts of an attack during a wedding? Maybe someone from his own family?"

Something he might be reliving a world away,

Mike didn't say out loud.

"Gee, I wouldn't know, but two of his brothers are with us out here. Maybe they would know."

"What about violence?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You said he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven. I assume that doesn't mean he was a mascot."

"Ah, Lieutenant, we try to rehabilitate them; we don't ask them to relive their tragedies."

Very preachy. Mike glanced at April and Poppy. Their faces showed their dismay.

"You don't do any psychological testing before you let potential killers loose over here?"

"I don't like the sound of that. We don't take that view. Let me remind you that soldiers throughout the ages have returned to normal life when their wars were over. Our mission is to help these people do that through Jesus Christ."

"You think of Mr. Natzuma as a retired soldier then."

"A kind of solider, yes. As he was a member of a rebel militia group, we know he was a witness to the torture arid killing of dozens of civilians on many different occasions. But as a participant... ?"

"But he can shoot a gun," Mike interrupted.

"Oh, that, certainly. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Oh, yes, this is just the beginning. We need to pin down if he shot any of those civilians, if he witnessed, or participated in, violence at a wedding. And if he hates Jews."

Dody was silent for a while. "He's had a sad life."

"Does that translate into a man too violent to take with you to your church in Minneapolis?"

"No, no, not violent, more like a management problem."

"Why didn't you send that management problem home?"

Dody was silent for a longer time. "We don't think in terms of sending them home. Our mission is to get them out. Bring them to safety, teach them the ways of Christ, our Lord."

"Mr. Dody, will you get those names and addresses for me? We're going to be sending someone out there to talk to you and Ubu's brothers. We'll be following up on this immediately."

Mike recited the squad number and his cell phone number and said, "Thanks, we appreciate your help," before hanging up.

He tried to frown and winced as his stitches pulled.

Thirty-three

L

ouis the Sun King knew the drill. For the Hay wedding, St. Patrick's would be closed to the public for only two hours. He would not be allowed to work after the doors were closed for the night or before they were opened in the early morning. In fact, he was not allowed to work there at all. All he could do was deliver finished product. Same thing with the St. Regis. There was an event in the ballroom that night, so he couldn't get in there undl Saturday morning.

Coordinadng the two sites took master planning. Louis had to get the ten thirty-five-foot, gardenia-plugged dcus trees in place in the cathedral, the massive arrangements down at the altar, and the ribbons and baskets along the pews as soon as the cathedral doors were open Saturday morning. The trees had to be brought in by cherry pickers. The cherry pickers had to disappear, then reappear as soon as the bride and groom walked back down the aisle and out of the building. Everything related to the Hay wedding had to be out of the cathedral before two o'clock, then delivered immediately to the designated not-for-profit for the tax deduction.

What it meant was that the ten ficus trees had to be plugged with five thousand blooming gardenias. Twenty-five giant seashells filled with perfectly blooming Hawaiian Sunset cats and other tropical and marine-type fauna. Twenty-five large umbrellas decanvased, palm fronded, and set with twinkling lights. Four arrangements for the altar and the baskets and ribbons for the pews had to be constructed. All this had to be done before nine. Saturday. The umbrellas had been done before the rain started. The police had stopped bugging him, Wendy was off his case, and he was feeling better.

Louis loved the magic of the party and missed the old days when only the richest people in the world could have what anyone could have now—masses of hlies, roses, lilac, orchids, tulips, hydrangea—anything at all any time of the year. Twenty years ago only the designers had real access to the growers and shippers and suppliers. He felt his business had been destroyed by Martha Stewart do-it-yourselfism coupled with the excessive wealth of the 1990s.

These days it was tough to make events truly unique when anyone could get what he could get. Rower growers had fields all over the world. FedEx flew in every day. Bloom-a-Million on the Internet. Call 1-8OO-FLOWERS. Roses of every hue, six dollars a dozen at every corner Korean market in the city.

At one time Louis's former partner had employed forty-five people full-time. Back in the day more than a hundred people might be involved in an event for hardly more than a hundred people. All that was gone forever. Now everything was canned, nothing was new. He'd done this before. He was bemoaning his difficulties made worse by the rain when his buzzer rang and he saw that the two detectives were back.

Groaning, he buzzed them in and pushed through the crush of extra helpers he'd hired for the day. "Morning," he said. "We're a little crowded in here today."

The Chinese nailed him with a look. "Ubu didn't really come home with you in the truck last Sunday, did he, Louis?" Respectful of his shop, she stood dripping on the doormat.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"Yes, you do. Three of you went to Riverdale, but only two of you came back."

Louis closed his eyes, then shook his head slowly. "He didn't want to be in the back of the truck. He wanted to walk home."

"You left him there, up in Riverdale all alone, a stranger to New York? How did you expect him to walk home to Brooklyn?"

Louis sighed. "It's complicated. We didn't just leave him on Independence Avenue. We took him to the subway. I told him, van or subway—you can't walk to Brooklyn. He chose subway. I haven't seen him since." He grimaced at the lieutenant's purpling cheek but didn't ask how he got it.

"Why didn't you tell us this before?"

"We left the synagogue before three. He didn't know the area. He couldn't have gotten back in time anyway. Why complicate things for everyone irrelevant?" Louis argued. He patted his hair nervously. He was sorry, okay.

"Does Andrea Straka complicate things for everybody, too?" the Chinese said suddenly.

"Jesus." Louis stopped being sorry and took a deep breath. This was getting out of control. "I've never been on a subway in my life. I didn't have anything to do with Tovah's death. You now know everything I know. If you want to arrest me, arrest me. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have a wedding to do."

Thirty-four

I

t rained all Friday night, and it rained Saturday morning. A stranger sat in St. Patrick's, warm and dry at the long information table piled with pamphlets touting Catholicism in different languages. The long table, skirted with green felt, was set back far behind the front doors in the space before the pews began. A TV screen was mounted on a column nearby. Throughout the year different countries had their chance to disseminate at this coveted spot. Now it was the Philippines. Sometimes nuns in gray habits sat at the table with laywomen. Sometimes no nuns. Today there were none.

While a truck moved trees in and young men hurried around hanging baskets of flowers on the very first pews way down in the front, a nine o'clock Mass then a ten o'clock Mass played on the TV screen. At the end of each Mass the small congregation of celebrants who were close enough to each other offered the handshake of peace, and then they left. No one looked twice at the table by the doors where two people gossiped quietly, and a third clicked the beads of a rosary. No one noticed when the rosary went into a pocket, and the lone person got up to examine the chapels of each and every saint, the height of the railing, the darkness of the corners, pausing in front of even the confessionals as if considering whether or not to slip inside.

Whatever the weather, St. Patrick's attracted many different kinds of people. Except on high holidays or when the cardinal was present and politics raged over one issue or another, no one worried about them. On a rainy spring day with nothing political going on no one was fearful.

The rifle was in a carryall under the skirt that hid the legs of the table. No one had looked into it when it was brought inside. When the two women at the information table went out for a break, the rifle was assembled one-two-three. It had a short stock and barrel.

Once the barrel was raised there would be no way to hide it, as there had been in the Bronx. There was no enclosed space to slip into except one of the confessionals, or deep behind the railings in one of the saints' chapels. This was too far away and too uncertain to get off a good shot. Only the front pews way dowm in front were being used. Getting closer would be a problem. A shot from the side might hit others, especially if the guests rose for a better view of the bride, as they often did. More than likely someone else would get hit and the bride might be missed altogether.

Saturday morning on a second day of rain, St. Patrick's suddenly seemed all wrong. The side doors were locked. If Prudence were shot as she entered, the escape from one door would be blocked by her own body. Church people were keeping the public out of the other door. Without the public, there was no way to blend in with the crowd. There was no way to hide behind a column. All the signs were wrong; this was not the right place for killing even though Prudence was destined for a better place, like Tovah.

As the morning lengthened, it became clear that the cathedral would work only if all the pews were filled, if people were standing around the back. Many people. Now only a few people were there gawking at the trees and flowers, and they would have to leave before the wedding began. The killer's nerve faltered. The cathedral was too big, too empty. The rosary beads clicked, but no amount of prayers would fix this. Prudence could not be killed in St. Patrick's. She would have to live on a little while longer.

Thirty-five

E

xhausted from the stress of the long week and her boyfriend's ultimatum, April slept in on Saturday morning. She came downstairs at the impossibly late hour of ten-thirty and found Dim Sum waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs whining to go out. She opened the door, but when the diminutive poodle saw the sleeting rain she changed her mind. April had to nudge her out into the waterlogged backyard, then find a towel to pat her dry after she trotted back in shaking water everywhere and sneezing her disapproval.

No time to eat anything or even leave a note for the Dragon, April showered and dressed quickly. Her hair was still wet as she hurried into the city to meet Citing at the Formal Wear shop on Bowery. A thousand thoughts barraged her as her tires splashed through the rain. The primary one was relief that they had Tovah's killer. Yesterday afternoon they'd clocked two officers from the Five-oh slogging in the wet up the hill to Independence Avenue from Broadway. The time was tight, but there was no doubt that Ubu could have made it in time to slip in and shoot Tovah.

Primary thought two was that Ubu may have been up there. But proving he did it without a confession or a weapon would be another thing. April was glad that the killer wasn't Wendy or anyone involved with Tang, which would have made Ching nuts. She didn't dwell on Andrea Straka.

Her other primary thoughts centered on Ching: happiness for her, trepidation at having to perform at her wedding. Skinny Dragon's new defense maneuvers .. . The pouring rain and her thoughts didn't let up all the way across the BQE and the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. April left the car in front of a fire hydrant on Bowery and dashed upstairs to the dress shop whose windows she'd been studying all her life.

Up on the second floor, above a huge lighting fixture store, Formal Wear was a veritable warehouse of bridal gowns, evening gowns, tuxedos, and traditional Chinese dresses, jackets, and pants. Every style and age was represented. Gray and heather and silver for the old, red and black and purple and green all shot with gold for the young. Ching was waiting for her.

"Hey, sister," she whooped, giving April a hug. "Thank you for coming. One week to go, can you believe it?"

April grinned and hugged her back. She gazed at Ching fondly. April's lifetime competition—Ching— the big brain with the chunky body, the glasses, and blunt haircut, was wearing contacts and had slimmed down quite a bit. And her face was beaming with delight.

"You look so different! I wouldn't even have recognized you," April cried.

"I'm wearing makeup," Ching confessed.

"I can see you are." April happened to be a big fan of makeup. "It's done wonders for you. Really."

Ching looked a little sheepish. Growing up she'd always been brilliant in school but awkward around the paintbox. And April had the looks. Now they were even—both smart, both beautiful.

"You only marry once, right? I had a makeover." She giggled. "Wait till you see my gown. It's going to be so perfect." She kissed her fingers Italian style. "Tang is having an angel embroidered in it for me; isn't that sweet?"

April nodded absently.

"You're late," an aged saleswoman grumbled in Chinese. "Very busy day. I expected you at ten." She pointed at the clock.

April saw that it was nearly eleven-thirty now. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry"

Ching made a face. "Don't worry; I told her eleven."

The woman went away. Ching hugged April again and didn't say a thing about April's hair, straight and still damp. As usual Ching shuddered when she was bumped by the gun holstered at April's waist, and April was thankful that she didn't probe the specifics of the case.

"Here it is." The ancient padded back. "This one's yours." She held up a see-though garment bag as if it contained solid gold.

April recognized it right away and shivered. The cheongsam Ching had ordered for her was a replica of one she and Ching had seen at a community center concert they'd gone to twenty years ago. The Chinese opera star wearing it had changed her dress four times. The dress in the bag, a horror of mismatched colors and patterns, had been the number-one dress. She and Ching had adored it. The dress was purple. Purple like a pope's robe, purple like a spring hyacinth, the purplest purple on the color chart. Woven into the solid-colored silk was a lavish pattern of peonies, but the cheongsam's high neck, bodice, and short sleeves were of a different silk, one printed with red and pink and white peonies on a field of green leaves. Purple piping around the red and pink married the two clashing fabrics. It was louder than any dress April would dream of wearing, garish beyond belief.

"Isn't it absolutely fabulous?" Ching crowed.

"You bet," April said.

"I could never wear anything like that," Ching murmured.

Neither could I,

April thought as she obediently trotted into a dressing room to try it on.

How can I get out of this?

she thought.

"Can't see like this. Why didn't you bring your shoes?" the grandmother scolded in Chinese when April clunked back in her work shoes and climbed up on the fitting pedestal.

"I don't have them yet," April admitted. For sure she didn't have

any

shoes that would go with this! The dress was formfitting, very constricting, but now very much back in fashion. She hadn't worn a cheongsam in a long time, and never for Mike. Critically, she examined herself in the mirror.

"Just right!" Ching squealed. "Look at her, perfect."

April took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She looked surprisingly good in their little-girl fantasy of ultimate elegance. It was like Cinderella, Chinese style. Ching's choosing this dress sent a strong message April couldn't ignore. Even on her special day, Ching wanted April as visible as she and in a starring role beside her. How many real sisters were that generous?

"Ching, you're too much. Thank you." April couldn't help grinning at herself as she twirled around on the pedestal, high off the ground for fitting long evening gowns. She looked tall and slender in the dress, almost like a movie star. Small waist, small but well-rounded bottom. Long neck. Good legs. She had to admit it. She looked good. She lifted her eyebrows at herself as she kicked the slit open. It was high; every step would show her whole leg. Everyone would look. Generous, generous Ching. How could she repay? April shook her head, tearing up just a little. It had been an emodonal week.

"Beautiful." Even the grumbling, overworked women in the shop admired her as she went to change.

"Ching, thank you for the dress, thank you so much. Got to go to work." In seconds April reappeared in her slacks and jacket, her red blouse for luck. She grabbed the precious package that was all ready to go.

"Same old, same old. No time for lunch," Ching complained, but for once her reproach had no bite.

Thirty-six

A

t noon, the rain still hammered down. The wind had kicked up several notches in the last several hours, driving hard from the north. It slammed water sideways at the long red canopy that covered a slash of sidewalk from Fifth Avenue and traveled all the way up the steps to the very doors of St. Patrick's. The canopy did not fully protect Prudence Hay's party-dressed guests as a steady stream of them emerged from limos starting at eleven-thirty.

Under a poncho that was gray as the stone of the cathedral, Tovah's killer saw a mess. Umbrellas moving this way and that, like in a movie, tilted against the wind. Across the street a sparse crowd huddled out of the rain under the awning at Saks Fifth Avenue. The disparate group, unsettled by the weather, had stopped to watch the parade of fancy people fighting their unruly umbrellas as they scurried to get out of the wet. It was a mess. In a big black slicker a uniformed cop stood on the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth. Just stood there doing nothing. Another was on the corner of Fiftieth Street. Both like statues getting pissed on.

The rain was bad luck for Prudence. She would get wet when she got out of her limousine. Her expensive veil would blow off her head. Her white-beaded pumps would get spattered. Nothing could stop it. The rain was bad luck for Prudence, but why not good luck for a killer? The picture was already spoiled; why wait for later?

The killer thought of how perfect Tovah had been for her march down the aisle straight to heaven. Tovah was an angel in heaven now, not a slave in a bad marriage. Why wait? The gun was under the poncho. The poncho hidden by an umbrella. Umbrellas were everywhere. Channel Thirteen umbrellas. Museum of Natural History umbrellas. Chase Bank umbrellas. Black ones, red ones, even American flag ones, touting patriotism.

Ha.

The killer didn't return to the church, and didn't walk away, either.

Prudence hadn't arrived yet. Every second felt like an hour. On Fifth Avenue, the line of limos was a lot longer. The cars were queued up along the block two deep with the windows closed and all fogged up. The killer watched even more cars arrive. The groom arrived. But no Prudence. Things must have gotten stalled by the weather.

Finally!

The family and the bridesmaids arrived. The drivers got out to help the old people and the twelve girls in their colorful gowns and feathered headdresses. So gaudy and tasteless.

Suddenly chaos. The girls were running. They were running to the church, everybody was running. Tovah's killer emerged from the side of the cathedral as Prudence got out of the car.

All in white, no raincoat or anything, Prudence was supported by her portly father and the driver, both wearing tails. One was on each side. They were trying to hurry her along. But Prudence was being careful of her beaded shoes, of the train secured around her wrist by a satin-covered elastic band. She was holding back for her mother and the flurry of squeaking girls in their fluffy chiffon parrot dresses to all get inside first. She had a serene expression on her face despite the rain, as if she knew she was going to a better place. The killer's umbrella went down to hide the gun. Then went up when the shot was fired. It happened in seconds. The first shot grazed Prudence's neck, but it hit an artery and blood bubbled out.

She looked surprised. She stumbled, but was held aloft by the two men on either side of her. Still a good target. The next two shots hit her in the eye and chest. One of the men went down with her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the screaming started. Prudence's killer had slipped away and war was back.

Thirty-seven

T

he phone on Bellaqua's desk rang. The task force was busy so she let it ring. Seconds later a detective from the Hate Squad hurried in.

"Inspector?"

"Yeah, Rudy, what you got?"

"There's been a shoodng at St. Patrick's. Another bride is likely."

Likely

in police jargon meant likely to die.

"Oh, no." April put her hand to her heart, couldn't help herself.

Oh, shit.

They'd missed something.

"Jesus Christ!" Bellaqua swore. She reached for her purse. Mike said nothing. He was already on his feet. They were out the door.

Down in the garage, Inspector Bellaqua and her driver headed for her four-by-four. Mike wiggled his finger at April. She got into a shiny Crown Vic with him, and they followed the inspector out. Bellaqua's driver, a former helicopter pilot, drove like a maniac, occasionally popping the siren for a few seconds to get through a clot of stalled traffic.

April was quiet as Mike turned on the police radio. It crackled with other matters, the airwaves already shut down tight. As Mike wove the unit through traffic, she studied his tense profile.

"Spooky," she murmured.

"More than spooky." He didn't look over at her.

"Connected?"

Tovah's murder was supposed to be like every homicide, a tornado they couldn't have predicted. A second one was a disaster. April's stomach knotted as if it were all her fault. She shouldn't have slept in, shouldn't have gone shopping this morning, shouldn't have been thinking about herself.

Mike's voice came as a surprise. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Could be a copycat. Could have nothing to do with it."

"Hmmm." She could tell by the furrows in his forehead that he didn't think so, and the instant call to Inspector Bellaqua meant no one else thought so, either.

Ordinarily, no connection would be made between a homicide at a synagogue in the Bronx and a homicide at a church in Manhattan a week later. The fact that the victim was another bride on her wedding day yanked them and Bias right back in. It was a bride case, a certainty now that someone was killing brides. It wasn't religious. It wasn't personal. The trigger was the bride herself. Sick.

Mike got off the drive and headed across town to Fifth, where traffic was already showing the strain. Fifth Avenue was closed between Fifty-third and Forty-eighth streets. Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets were closed between Fifth and Madison. Cars and buses were all snarled up on Madison. News vans with their satellite dishes had already begun to assemble, trying to get as close to the action as possible. Mike hit his siren to get through, then clipped his shield onto his jacket pocket for the two uniforms at the barricade on Fifty-third. April did the same.

The uniforms waved them through, and they drove down the three cleared blocks to Fiftieth. There, the entire front section of St. Patrick's had been cordoned off with yellow tape. At least two dozen officers and brass had assembled to view the first homicide in the Seventeenth Precinct in two years.

Mike parked the car on the west side of the avenue and they got out. The rain had finally stopped, and the sun was just beginning to stab through deep banks of clouds as April looked across the street and saw a body lying there on the red carpet. Mike crossed himself, and April's eyes instantly became a camera.

Click, at the line of limos on Fifth Avenue, their windows all steamed up. Click, at the drivers out of their cars talking to officers in front of Saks. Click, at the two ambulances, doors open. Click, at the two men in tails, one of them large, beefy, stunned-looking with his head cocked to one side as he listened to talking brass. The bride's father? The other man, tall, thin, was talking rapidly, gesticulating while a detective wrote down what he said.

They were earlier on the scene here, and organization happened faster than it had in the Bronx a week ago. The body had been isolated to prevent further contamination. All individuals present at the time of the incident had been separated to prevent them from talking to each other and influencing one another's memories. Also to keep them as far as possible from specialists arriving on the scene. There were always complaints about the callous-sounding greetings and gallows humor of police arriving on grisly scenes. April heard there had been complaints about it from Tovah's family.

Click. No wedding guests were milling around outside. They couldn't be gone already, so the officers must have closed the front doors of the cathedral to keep the entire wedding party contained inside. April's first thought pertained to meaning. Tovah had died surrounded by family and friends. This girl hadn't made it inside. Different message, different shooter?

Click. The girl's body lying there in plain view, right between St. Patrick's and Rockefeller Center. Sometimes victims were left in the open like that while family members stood by, helpless and numb. No matter how mutilated or disturbing the dead looked, they could not be moved until the obligatory forensic work was done. Loved ones—children, mothers, wives, husbands—were left just the way they'd been in the last seconds of their lives, after all hope of sustaining them was gone.

Click. A sheet from one of the EMS vehicles had been thrown over the body. The sheet was not big enough to cover the long swath of bloodied, lacy wedding gown train that hid the girl's feet. The train puddled out from under the operating-room-blue drape like an unchecked milk stain.

They moved closer, walking at a normal speed, fighting the instinct to run. Run and stop it. Save the girl. Chase the perp. April stumbled on the high curb on the other side. Mike reached out and touched her arm. Going into situations, partners had many forms of communication. This wasn't a

watch out.

It wasn't a

slow down.

It wasn't even a

Cuidado, careful now.

He touched her arm in a different way, almost as if to make sure she was still with him. Still alive, and still his.

"Contigo." I'm with you,

she murmured.

He squeezed her upper arm, then let go.

Okay.

A few more steps across the sidewalk. Then, click, she saw the blood, almost black on the red carpet. Blood everywhere. Cops everywhere. Mike headed through rain puddles to the people in the know.

"Captain Coulter, Chief." Precinct captain. Chief of detectives, Avise. Present on a Saturday. They must have been gathered together for some event that was interrupted, April thought.

The two men looked grim. "Mike, glad you're here," the chief said. Today they didn't shake hands.

"You know Sergeant Woo."

"Sergeant." The chief nodded at her.

"Sir."

Two minutes later, Inspector Bellaqua turned up with wild hair. She shook her head when she saw that April and Mike had gotten there first. Her hotshot pilot wasn't such a hotshot after all. Humiliating for her. Then she saw the body.

"Who is it?" were her first words. She shot Mike and April a glance full of meaning neither understood, then listened as the chief answered.

"Prudence Hay. Her father's a big shot on Wall Street. Her husband-to-be is from Pittsburgh. Big money on both sides."

"Jesus. What's the story?"

The chief gestured. "The killer was waiting for her out here." He pointed to the cathedral door on the Saks side.

"We had two uniforms over there in front of Saks. Two more up there." He pointed toward Fifty-first.

They followed his finger as it swept in opposite directions.

"It was sheeting rain. None of them had a clear view. The shooter nailed her as she came toward him. In the face and neck. Ugly. She bled out in seconds."

"Any other witnesses?" Bellaqua appeared to be making some calculations. The body was half-off the sodden red carpet under the dripping canopy about thirty feet from the door. Close enough for both the limo drivers and her father to see something if they'd been looking.

Avise glanced back at the limos with their obscured windows. "It's like a steam room in those cars. None of them saw him."

"What about the father?"

"He was trying to keep his daughter dry. He didn't look up."

Bellaqua nodded. Then, smug as a cat, she took stock of each of them and dropped her bomb. "We have a break in the Tovah case."

April frowned at Mike. They did? When did that happen? He seemed as startled by the news as she was.

"You know that partial thumbprint on one of the shell casings they found at the scene? It took so much time because there was so little minutiae that the match couldn't be made by computer. The partial had to be eyeballed against the prints of every person connected with Tovah's wedding. But we do now have a possible match," Bellaqua reported. "I just heard from FAS."

"Anyone we know?" Mike asked.

Bellaqua paused, holding the moment. She looked at April with a slight shake of her head. That caused

Chief Avise to look at April. Mike looked at April.

What?

April felt the chill of the query, even though directly above them the sun finally pierced through the gloom of a gray, gray day. It shot down from an opening patch of blue with such intensity that the last flurry of rain droplets, hanging wherever they could take purchase, were suddenly transformed into strings of sparkling diamonds. Diamonds hung all around the church, the canopy, and trees in front of it.

April saw the shimmering diamonds of light reflected all around her and got it in an instant. She'd known it on Wednesday. She should have been all over it. She had been thinking backward, not forward. Prudence Hay had been next on Wendy Lotte's party list. But they had cooled on Wendy by then, were hot on Ubu.

"Wendy Lotte," April said with a sinking heart. The print was Wendy's. "Is she here?"

"You tell us. You wanted to be her contact," the chief accused.

So she had. "She's the wedding planner. She should be here," April said faintly.

"Bring her in," he said.

"Yes, sir," April said. Why were they all looking at her? She wasn't the primary here. Both Bellaqua and Mike outranked her. April was sweating heavily. Her mouth filled with water. Nausea made her head spin. Already she was taking the fall.

"Let's get this resolved today," the chief said quietly.

"Yessir," the three detectives chorused.

Thirty-eight

T

he brides rose up in the air like ducks over a pond, like clay pigeons in a skeet shoot. Just as they were about to take their vows, those brides took flight. They lifted up, and as they ascended into the heavens, instead of getting smaller they got bigger and bigger until they were as pregnant as clouds. Beyond pregnant, they filled the whole sky, growing as vast as continents on a globe. Looking up, no one could miss those expanding girls. They lifted up into the sights of the waiting hunters, and the guns exploded. Boom, boom, boom. The bride balloons fell down to earth, and one by one deflated into tiny dead babies in christening gowns.

Wendy huddled in a back pew, having her visions again. Prudence was gone just like Tovah, and the people she was supposed to be tending so carefully— moving from ceremony to celebration—had become a bunch of miserable hostages. Even as a calming voice spoke to them over the microphones, telling them what happened and what they had to do, they were getting rebellious. There was no food, no water. How should she deal with this? For once Wendy didn't know.

Her hands were shaking. She needed a shot of vodka, the whole bottle. The organ throbbed under the agitated buzz of voices. Some official was giving more instructions. She was doubled up and didn't hear what he was saying. She jumped when someone touched her arm.

"Wendy, please come with me."

Wendy looked up, but already knew the owner of that flat New York voice. Her misery turned to angry resentment when she saw the little Chinese detective standing over her, evaluating her with those slitted black eyes that were as cold as night. Behind her were two uniformed officers with 9mm Glocks and nightsticks dangling off their overburdened belts. Wendy felt the persecution keenly. Hundreds of people were swarming all over the place. Why single her out to embarrass?

"I was in here the whole time. I didn't see anything. I don't know what happened," she said defensively.

"That may be, but we need to talk anyway." The detective stepped back to make way for her.

Wendy got to her feet shaking her head. "I

can't

be a suspect, Sergeant... ?" For once she couldn't remember an important name. She was sick, couldn't the woman tell?

"Woo," the detective said over her shoulder.

Look,

Woo, Wendy wanted to say.

The shooting happened

outside. She didn't know anything about it. Anybody with a brain could instantly deduce she had

nothing

to do with it. Obviously this cop had no brain. Her anger escalated as the small woman with the gun at her waist and the two officers marched her around the crowd, down the side of the building where the saints' chapels were and candles burned.

She wanted to cover her face. But she didn't have anything to use. She'd left her raincoat somewhere; she didn't know where.

She also wished she had a gun of her own hanging from her own belt to threaten those cops right back. How dare they . . . She kept her head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone, but even so she did manage to see Lucinda Hay flanked by her sons. She certainly

heard

Lucinda, as usual not exactly behaving with dignity. Lucinda was wailing, demanding to see her husband, her daughter. No one was doing anything about it.

Then Wendy and the cops were outside, amazingly in sunlight. Wendy was blinded by the sun. Intense blue sky after all that rain. She was on Fifty-first Street close to Madison, where nothing of the crime was visible. She was marched over to a police car. Her eyes blurred at the sight of the car. It looked like a regular car, but it was a police car. Someone opened the door and pushed her head down when she got in. She was shaking, but not with fear. With anger. The Chinese sergeant got in front and didn't talk to her. Another car with more police followed behind. She didn't see who was in it, but she heard the doors slamming. She weighed her options: Call a lawyer? No! Lawyers were a breed of compromisers, always wanted you to confess to

something

and make a deal. She wasn't doing that again. She could handle this herself. Just keep quiet. She needed to focus on keeping her life and her secrets to herself. She wasn't telling anyone anything. No matter what.

They traveled the blocks she knew so well as they headed east on Fifty-fourth Street. She was wondering if they were going downtown when the car suddenly stopped in front of the Seventeenth Precinct. Sergeant Woo got out of the car and walked back to talk to the people in the car behind them. They didn't get out and show their faces. Who did they think they were, treating her like this? Didn't they know that she was well connected? She knew a hundred lawyers, maybe more. She could sue if she had to, she thought. Her hands were shaking. She knew she had too many secrets to sue. Woo returned, took her out of the car, and led her up the stairs to the second floor, where the detecdve squad room was nearly empty. It was a disgusdng place.

Ignoring her some more, the sergeant conferred with a detective. Together they moved an unwashed male and the fat detecdve who'd been questioning him out of a dirty room that said INTERVIEW ROOM on the door. Woo came back to Wendy and led the way in, glancing at the full wastebasket and abandoned cell phone on the floor.

"Gee, I'm sorry the place is such a mess," she murmured.

Wendy made a disgusted noise. She did not want to enter the malodorous room. She was wearing a very good silk shantung suit and didn't want to sit in either of the chairs just vacated. She smelled alcohol. She needed no reminders that she yearned for a drink.

Woo picked up the cell phone and left the room with it. Wendy looked up and nodced the mirror against one wall. With a sick feeling, she saw that four chairs had been set up in a line. Except for the table, the chairs took up nearly all the floor space in the room. What now, a lineup?

The sergeant returned with a tape recorder. She did not seem distressed by the possibility of catching some disease in the room. She put the tape recorder down, rearranged the chairs around the table, then motioned for Wendy to sit. Wendy stood there. Next to the Chinese woman, she felt the power of her height. She was a tall and elegant girl from a good family. She did not deserve this treatment. Her eyes were puffy. She wasn't feeling well. She didn't like being pushed around by this little female cop, disliked it even more than when the male detectives had questioned her. The need for a drink circled her like a hungry shark.

"Have a seat," the cop told her.

Fine, Wendy sat. She could throw away the good suit. "Would you mind telling me why I'm here?"

Woo popped a cassette into the recorder.

Wendy looked down at her hands.

The cop smiled, friendly. "Wendy, you and I talked last week, remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember. You almost shot me when I went to turn on the air conditioner." Wendy ventured a little smirk.

"Remember I asked you if there was anything in the apartment there shouldn't be?" Woo said, still nice as pie.

Wendy's heart hammered harder. "Yes ... so?"

"And you said there wasn't anything."

Wendy frowned. "That's right. Where's this leading? Did you go into my apartment? I'll sue you ... I'll have your badge!"

April Woo didn't answer. She pushed the record button on the tape recorder, gave her ID, a lot of it. Wendy's ID, the place, the day, the date, and the hour. Who was in the room. Just the two of them. Wendy glanced sharply at her watch, suddenly aware of how late it was. Nearly one-forty-five. By now the guests should be well lubricated and the luncheon in full swing. There would be no luncheon. She touched her hair. It was still damp. She dropped her hand.

Woo led her through some simple questions, where she lived, what she did, her involvement in the Tovah Schoenfeld wedding. An hour passed. Easy questions. Wendy yawned. Woo seemed tireless. She turned the cassette over. Wendy asked for a Coke. The sergeant stepped to the door, called out for a uniform to bring a Coke. A moment later she had one. Woo punched the record button, repeated all the pertinent information. Still only two of them in the room.

"Wendy, in our talks last week you didn't tell me the whole truth about your part in Tovah Schoen-feld's murder."

"I told you I was in the ladies' room," Wendy said, flushing a deep red. How many times did they have to go over this? "There were witnesses who saw me there."

"Did you know that eyewitness testimony is among the most unreliable of all?" Woo said smoothly.

Wendy snorted. "What's reliable? You know I didn't kill Tovah. I couldn't have killed Prudence."

"What's reliable is physical evidence. It's incontestable; there's no way to fight it."

"I know the law," Wendy said angrily. "You can't intimidate me."

"Wendy, why is your hair wet?"

"What?"

"Your hair is wet," Woo said coldly.

"Uh, I was out in the rain."

"When were you out in the rain, while Prudence was shot?"

"Hey. It's been raining for two days. I couldn't get a cab this morning. You're intimidating me."

"Not at all. I'm just trying to get to facts we can all rely on. Did you know that conspiracy to commit murder and accessory to murder carry the same weight under the law as committing a murder?"

"Conspiracy?"

"Under the law it's called felony murder. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No!" Wendy spat out. "I'm completely in the dark. I haven't a clue what you're talking about, and that's the honest truth." Wendy sniffed. It bothered her that her hair was wet.

"Well, you've told me a few dishonest truths. Let's move to the honest truths now."

Wendy shook her head again. "I don't know what you're talking about." She glanced at the mirror. "Whoever you are back there, I don't know what she's talking about."

"Yes, you do, Wendy. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Prudence Hay was the next bride on your list."

"Look, I was inside the church the whole time. I was where you found me. I had nothing to do with it." She brushed her palms together, brushing off the accusation. They were trembling.

"There was Andrea. There was Tovah. And now Prudence. Prudence was the next bride on your list. You're the connection, Wendy—"

"What! Andrea! What are you saying?"

"Andrea Straka, pushed in front of a subway train the day before her wedding."

"Oh, no, I never take the subway. Just—no!" Tears stung Wendy's eyes. "I don't know."

"Yes, you're the link to all of them, Wendy. You know the who and the why."

"I don't. I'm as puzzled as you. If I knew, why would I protect a murderer?"

"That's a good question. Let's get this cleared up right now."

Wendy drank some Coke. "I'm not the only person who worked on all three weddings. Louis did, his boys did. Tang did. Tons of people ... the calligra-pher. I have an assistant."

"Her name?"

"Lori Wilson, she's on vacation."

"Where is Lori on vacadon?"

"Martha's Vineyard. Can I go now?"

"No, Wendy. You can't go. You have to stay and help me out here. You're the link."

"What's your problem? I'm not the link," Wendy snapped. "I told you I don't know."

"And you're lying."

Wendy shook her head. "I don't feel well. I need to go home."

"In dme. We have a lot to talk about."

Wendy kept shaking her head. "What is it that you think you have?"

"Your thumbprint on one of the discharged shell casings, one of the bullets that killed Tovah Schoenfeld."

Wendy's eyes widened. They jerked to the mirror behind which she was sure other detectives were watching her, maybe even filming her. Then to the closed door. No exit.

"Jesus Christ. I'm being framed," she cried.

"You're framing me." Panic filled her for the first time.

"That's not the way it happens. Tell me what you know. I'm here to listen and to help. There's nothing that can't be explained and worked out," Woo said.

Okay, yeah. Of course, everything could be explained. She calmed down. She knew how to spin her stories. Her stomach grumbled. She didn't know when she'd eaten last. She started thinking about food, then drink. She needed a drink. She'd explain fast so she could get that drink.

Thirty-nine

T

he recorder clicked. End side two, cassette three.

April reached over and popped it out, her face showing patience she didn't feel. She had six cassettes. She could get more and sit there for the next two days if she had to. The first three contained a lot of sighing.

"Did you turn the recorder off so no one can hear you torture me?" Wendy slouched in her chair, looking more and more like a surly teenager.

April nodded. She was going to zap the suspect with a stun gun. She almost wished she could, because she was not having much luck finding a way into this irritating woman, and liking her less and less as the hours passed. The pressure for something to break was crushing, and she couldn't help thinking of Jason Frank having fun thousands of miles away, leaving her with a psycho case she couldn't seem to handle. April knew exactly how Jason jumped into the sea of misery with his patients, leading them back into the past and forward into the future at the same time. She'd seen him do it. And now she'd tried being like him, nicer in every way. And it wasn't working.

Wendy responded by slouching and sneering like a big caged cat—or a guy. That was it, she was acting more guy than girl. Her coil of resistance was strengthening. She'd become one hundred percent yang, almost as if she knew for sure that nothing could touch her. The arrogance pissed April off. She felt ever more stressed by the ticking clock, by Bel-laqua's and Mike's depending on her, and the chief's personal command to get it done today. The story was right here in the room. April could feel it just out of reach. All she needed to do was push the right button.

"Can I have a Coke, please?"

"Sure." April stepped outside. "Get me another Coke, please."

Mike appeared. "Want me to take a crack at her?"

"Not yet. Let me keep it soft for a while. We can try that. There's always time to muscle her. Anything come up on Lori Wilson, the assistant?"

"Nothing yet. Her background looks clean, but let's find out where she is."

April nodded, glanced at her watch.

"You sure you don't want me to hammer her?"

"Uh-uh. Thanks," to the uniform for the Coke.

She went back in. "Here you go." It was Coke number five.

Wendy drank half of it in one gulp.

"Feeling better?"

"No."

"Look, don't push me away. I can help you out. Whatever happened I know you had a reason. You don't have to be a tough guy with me," April soothed. "I'm on your side here."

Wendy snorted. "Oh, come on, you're treating me as if I were a common crook, like that bum who was in here before. You said I was a thief, you implied I was fired from my last job. You told me you have my fingerprints on shell casings. Ha-ha." She made the explosive sound of air extruded through closed lips. "I understand what you're doing."

"I want to help you go home, that's all."

"That's what they always say on cop shows." Wendy snorted.

"We're not in a movie here. At least three young women died on your watch. You're the link, Wendy. I need your help."

"I don't care what you need. It's not my problem." Wendy tapped her foot.

"Let me repeat that. Two beautiful young women were murdered at your weddings. A third died the day before her wedding. I'm not forgetting Andrea. Three of your weddings make it your problem."

"Not my weddings." Wendy made a face.

April caught the sudden slice of pain through bravado. "Of course, your weddings," she said lightly.

"Turn that thing back on." Wendy pointed to the recorder.

April lifted a shoulder and complied with a new cassette and the routine of coding in the pertinent information. The mood was shot again. Wendy was an expert at pushing away.

"Tell me about Barry," April said softly, starting at square one again.

Wendy swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "It was an accident. How many times do I have to say it?"

"No, no. I mean what was he like?"

"What was he like?" She shifted position and gazed up at the cracks in the ceiling.

"Yeah, what happened? What went wrong?"

"It won't help you. It has nothing to do with this." She glanced down at April, then clicked her tongue as if she thought April was stupid.

"It's part of your history. It's part of what makes you dck."

"Why do you want to know what makes me dck?"

"You're in a lot of trouble. I want to help you."

"Sure you do."

"What went wrong with Barry?" April could push right back.

"Oh, please. The usual, what else? It happens all the time. A girl thinks she has someone; the guy has a different idea." She rolled her eyes, drawing the pain upward like smoke up a chimney.

"I know what it feels like. Yeah, men suck, don't they?" April murmured.

For the first time Wendy's eyes flashed interest. "Yes, that's about it."

"You got engaged, he cheated on you," April guessed.

Wendy shrugged wide, bony shoulders. "It's no big thing. They all do it. They'll do it the day before their wedding. They'll do it the night of their wedding. Shit, some of them will go out for a shave the morning after and fuck someone else before lunch."

"And you're in a position to know about that," April murmured.

"Oh, I know a lot about that," Wendy agreed, checked her nails this time.

April did not doubt it. She nodded. "Barry was a big disappointment."

"Barry is an asshole." Wendy's burst of laughter was contemptuous. "The jerk's been married twice since then. Doesn't that say it all?" She drank up the rest of the Coke.

"You were, what, twenty at the time?"

"Twenty-three. Old enough to know better," she said bitterly.

"Not really. Twenty-three is a very hopeful age. How did you meet him?"

Wendy chewed the inside of her lip, bobbed her head. "You really want the story of my life?"

"Absolutely, we have all time in the world."

"We have the time until I call my lawyer." Wendy laughed again.

April froze. She and her camera became still as stone. Wendy knew exactly what she was doing. The minute she demanded a lawyer it would be over. It would be either arrest her on the spot or let her go home. A partial print was weak, nothing more than a muscle to flex. April had lied about one thing: Even fingerprints could be contested. A paid expert could easily contest a partial. How much minutiae could they have, how many matching swirls?

Please.

Even if there was enough minutiae to suggest a match alone, the print was only a suggestion of guilt, a possibility. Aware of watchers behind the mirror, April pressed on.

"You met him ... ?"

"Barry is my stepfather's son. He's my stepbrother."

"No kidding." A flag. Something new.

"Well, not at first. My mother didn't marry him until years later," Wendy amended. She glanced at her watch, at the ceiling, everywhere but at April.

"After you started going out, you mean?" April ignored an itch in an intimate place.

"Yes, I guess that's what I mean. They didn't get divorced right away." Wendy sucked in her lips and sighed as if bored.

"Right away when?"

"Oh, they knew each other a long time." Now she broke into a smile. Some little secret smile. The woman had swift mood changes.

Oh, this was a long game. April kept waiting.

"I knew Barry. My brothers liked his sister, Miff. It was all pretty friendly when we were growing up." Wendy paused; then her expression soured again. "They had a couple more kids. They're still together."

So Wendy shot a stepbrother and was now out in the cold, probably not so welcome at family reunions, at the very least. April wasn't a shrink, but psychologically speaking, it sounded as if alienation from her own family might be a component of Wendy's problem. April flashed to Jason again. Ha, she could do this.

"Where did the shooting incident occur?" she asked, feeling the excitement of a puzzle piece fitting.

"On Martha's Vineyard. We had a home there."

Click, Martha's Vineyard was also where Lori Wilson, Wendy's assistant, was on vacation. And she'd seen something else about Martha's Vineyard. What was it?

"Had?" she prompted.

"Oh, we lived in it when I was little. My mother got the house in the divorce," Wendy said, offhand.

"Does she live there now?"

Wendy shook her head. "No. They moved to Newport."

Rhode Island. Another resort area April knew nothing about. "Who owns the place now?"

"I don't know." Wendy gazed at the ceiling.

"What kind of shooting did you do?"

"Sport shooting." Hat.

"Oh, yeah, what exactly is that?"

Wendy gave her a look. "Sportsmen shoot bull's-eyes, either slow fire or rapid fire, but it's the opposite of what you do."

"Really. What do we do?"

"You just empty a magazine into the silhouette of a human as fast as you can. With a rifle or revolver. Combat shooting is pretty trashy. It's for the beer-drinking crowd. In sport shooting, the idea is to aim. You do any knockdowns?"

April shook her head. That was for the military.

"In sport shooting you go for silhouettes of game animals about twenty, thirty yards out. If you hit them, they fall over. Or we shoot clay, skeet. No humans." She said it with a nervous laugh. "Unlike you."

"What kind of rifles do you use?"

"It depends. A sporting clay, a skeet rifle. A trap gun. For competition you use a 308; that's a .30-caliber rifle."

"Shotguns." Now they were getting somewhere.

"Mm-hm. They have different chokes in them, seven-and-a-half-, eight-, or nine-size pellets, depending. You could cut somebody up pretty bad from twenty yards away but not kill them with that size shot, but as I said, we don't go out for humans like you do."

"How many guns do you have, Wendy?" April asked, unperturbed.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"The house was burgled during the winter years ago. I don't even remember when. I had a few guns up there then; I don't remember how many." Wendy bobbed her foot.

April guessed that was where the murder weapon came from. She switched off the tape recorder and left the room without a word. She glanced at her watch. Jesus, nearly seven. She had to pee. And she had to go to Martha's Vineyard to find Lori Wilson and more about Wendy's missing guns.

Forty

"Hey, what's your hurry,

querida

?" Mike caught her as soon as she stepped into the squad room.

"Gotta pee. Be right back."

She brushed past him, found the lieutenant's bathroom, cursed because there was no dssue, used some from her purse. She washed her hands and face with the grimy soap chip on the sink. No paper towels, either. They didn't keep up the housekeeping here. Muttering, she glanced up for a moment to see how bad she looked. She was startled by the shadow of a dragon, snapping its tail deep inside the mirror behind her miserable reflection. She clapped her hands the way the noisemakers did on the Chinese New Year to chase away evil spirits. The clap jogged her memory. Wendy had done a wedding on Martha's Vineyard a month ago. Now her assistant was there on vacation. She flushed the toilet with her foot and forgot about applying lipstick. Something was up with Massachusetts.

Mike was waiting for her when she came out. "We located Tito and Louis, just in case you're interested," Mike said.

"Where?"

His hps disappeared in a grimace under his mustache. "At Louis's shop. The two alibi each other again. Louis says they worked half the night last night setting up, then returned to the shop around eleven. They've been there ever since." He lifted a shoulder.

"Very convenient, but he lied about that last time," April remarked.

"Right, we can't rule them out now. The Ubu story is up for grabs, too."

"We're way behind the curve,

chico.

You heard Wendy's fiance was her stepbrother? Missed that one." She shook her head. "Missed a few other things, too."

"Uh-huh." Mike planted himself against a wall of wanted posters, looked pretty tired.

"The shooting must have broken up the family. The parents moved away a while ago. But Wendy still has ties. She did a wedding there a month ago."

"No kidding. April?"

"Yes. Mike?" April poked him to get by.

"Not you,

querida,

the month. Who gets married up there in cold, rainy April?" he mused, still keeping the wall up.

"Someone did. I have to go to Martha's Vineyard." April had stopped trembling. The female fog of yin had been replaced by the male energy of yang when she didn't need food, didn't need sleep. She could feel energy spiking her system. How long it would last she didn't know. She wanted to keep at it, though. She knew all these wedding people were intertwined somehow. Covering for each other. And the one who'd kicked Mike in the face, now on suicide watch at Bellevue. All in it together. The how and why was what they didn't know.

"You want to tell me why?" Mike said.

"Lori Wilson, the assistant. All these people and their movements. And the house. Houses are powerful things. I want to get a look at the house." She was certain Wendy had lied about the house.

"Okay." Mike watched her think.

"Look, we'll talk about it later. I want to get back to her."

Mike shook his head. "We're going to Sutton Place. Poppy wants to take a go at her now."

April shook her head, disappointed. "But I was getting somewhere."

"Let's go talk to Mr. Hay and his butler before their memories blur." Mike pushed off the wall.

"We were just establishing a rapport," April protested.

"She'll keep."

April frowned. "She won't keep. She'll shut down. I know this woman."

"But you're going with me," he said.

"Vamos."

He smiled ruefully at the door. There was nothing he could do. Poppy was the boss.

"Fine." Frowning, she swung her purse over her shoulder. Sutton Place it was.

Forty-one

A

nthony Pryce set out milk, sugar, and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. He was wearing a crisply ironed pair of chinos and a white shirt. His eyes were red, but his face was composed and his movements quick and sure. Relegated to a yin position again, April's energy faded down to a shadow. Suddenly she was dead tired.

She watched Anthony's intense focus on correct service, her thoughts flashing like a neon sign to Martha's Vineyard. Martha's Vineyard. What a waste. After an hour with Mr. Hay, all they got from him was a deep conviction that the shooter was very tall. Who was tall? Louis and Wendy were tall. The African in a psych ward at Bellevue was tall. Why couldn't he remember anything else?

Anthony set down a white china coffeepot, a matching teapot, and a plate of cookies, arranging them just so on the table. Then he quickly attacked a wayward cookie crumb, brushing it off the polished wood into his hand. A perfectionist. Good. April's nose twitched at the deep and smoky aroma of Lap-sang souchong infusing in the teapot.

She and Mike sat at a small table on the window end of the kitchen in a grand apartment that overlooked the East River. At eight o'clock it was dark outside. Over in Queens the lights twinkled on a cool and silvery city evening. Mike ate a few more cookies, deep in his own thoughts. April's paranoia uncoiled just enough to make her wonder if he knew something he wasn't sharing.

Anthony disappeared into the butler's pantry around the corner, then reappeared with two dessert plates and two linen napkins. He set down the plates, folded the napkins, went back for a pitcher of water and two glasses.

"We have food. I could make you a sandwich," he offered.

"No, thanks. This is terrific." The plate of cookies was nearly gone and so was Mike's coffee. "Have a seat," he said.

"It's no trouble." It was clear Anthony didn't want to take a seat. He poured more coffee in Mike's cup, continuing to hover.

Mike raised his eyebrows at April. Food?

"No, thanks," she echoed, dying for a sandwich but not enough to take the time for him to make one.

"I read about that other girl in the paper," Anthony said. He brushed at the crumbs that littered Mike's side of the table.

"Did you know her?" Mike asked.

"No, no, of course not. It was in the Bronx, wasn't it?" he kneaded his hands nervously.

"Yes, Riverdale."

"This is so upsetting. Who would do this?" His eyes filled. "Did the same person kill both girls?"

"It's a possibility," Mike said slowly.

"When that girl was shot, the first thing I did was go to St. Patrick's to look around."

"Why?" Mike was surprised.

Anthony finally sat down, his face suddenly animated. "Someone attacked the cardinal there. A few months back, do you remember that?"

"Yes. Were you expecting something to happen?"

"No, not expecting, really, but you have to be vigilant. People will do anything in these troubled times. We can't ever forget that, can we?" Anthony found another crumb.

"Did you have any special danger in mind?"

"The Hays are Irish."

Mike's eyebrows shot up like flags.

Ah, the Irish.

He caught April's eye. "Do you think there's an Irish connection to the shooting?"

"Everything's so political now, isn't it? One can't ignore the risks."

"Are you Irish yourself?" Mike asked. Everybody had a natural enemy these days.

"I've lived in Ireland, of course. Thaf s where I met the Hays. But no, I'm Welsh," Anthony said proudly.

"So you think there may be some political motive at work here? Can you be more specific about your concerns?"

"I thought about it, that's all," Anthony said vaguely.

Mike glanced at April again. Her face was the Great Wall of China. Impenetrable.

"When you went to St. Patrick's, what were you looking for?" She spoke for the first time.

"I try to be thorough. It's my responsibility to see that things go smoothly." Anthony brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"You thought something could go wrong?"

"I told you, there was the other girl. And the cardinal. It worried me."

The phone in April's purse started to burble. She located it, checked caller ID. It was Ching. She turned the phone off, then tossed it back into the mess.

"Tovah Schoenfeld was not Irish. She was an Orthodox Jew," Mike pointed out.

"I heard something about that. It just made me think, that's all. People get ideas from these things. Politics, it makes sense, doesn't it?"

Not really. "What did you hope to find?" Mike asked.

"I was concerned about people walking in and out throughout the ceremony. I wanted to see how that would be."

"You didn't know it would be private?"

"No. And maybe he didn't either. That's why he shot her outside."

Click. Ah, it might have been someone who had been inside but went outside when the cathedral was cleared.

"Are you certain it was a he?"

"They've asked me that. I don't know. I didn't really see much. It was so sudden. I just saw the flash of gray, the raincoat. I never even saw the barrel of a gun. It might have been a revolver. There was just a little sound. More like a cough than a pop. She just..." Anthony shook his head as if it were his fault. "I just didn't see it coming."

"I know you've gone through this with the officers before, but we want to see what we can do to jog your memory. Just for a few seconds. Try to tell us what you saw, what you might not even know you saw. It's okay if you just give us impressions."

His color leached out as he searched his memory. "It's like a black hole in my mind—" He stopped. "All I can think of is I was struggling to keep the umbrella over her head, their heads. Then blood spurting out on her dress. So much blood. It covered her in a second. She drowned in it." He reached for his own neck.

April's heart thudded.

"It was so . .. horrible.

Horrible!

I was trying to hold the umbrella over them. The wind changed; it turned inside out. I let it go and I saw .. . her eye was gone." His shoulders shook. "All I know for sure was that the man's raincoat had a hood."

"Were you aware that Wendy Lotte was the party planner for both weddings?" April asked.

"Yes. After the first girl was killed, it was in the newspapers."

"Were the Hays concerned?"

"About their daughter, yes. About Wendy, no. They trusted her."

"How about you? Did you trust her?"

"No."

"Was that why you went to St. Patrick's?"

"No, I didn't trust her because she has light fingers," Anthony said.

"You mean she steals." A confirmation of what they knew. April glanced at Mike. His eyes flickered.

"I'm not accusing. It's just possible," Anthony said, neutral.

"How about the florist? Anything unusual about him?"

"I don't know anything about him. He never came to the house."

April began to revive with the tea. "Did you drive Prudence everywhere?" "Pretty much."

"Great. Let's go back through the week. Everything she did, who she saw, that kind of thing."

Anthony nodded and poured more tea. It was going to take a while.

Forty-two

T

he dog was barking, and Kim was upset. Wendy wasn't answering her phone, and he had no one to talk to except his wife. Clio wouldn't let him near the phone. She stood in front of him, pushing the broom against him so he couldn't get to the phone without hurting her.

"You so bad person," she screamed.

This made Kim feel terrible, but he knew he wasn't a bad person. He did so many things for people. "Honey, I bought you a diamond ring," he reminded her, pushing a little at the broom.

"Only little one," she screamed, shoving back. "Who you calling, huh? After all I do for you? Who you calling? I hope that woman's business fall into the ground. I hope you lose your job."

"Don't say that. Tang's a great woman." This made Kim mad.

"I married you for nothing. I should throw you away today."

He bit his tongue because he didn't want to scream back. Whenever he fought back, she hit him.

"You don't give me money. I should divorce you. You can go right back to those ships."

Right now it didn't sound so bad to him. He'd had some beer so he wasn't really listening to her. He was thinking of his poor sister beaten so bad by her husband. His not listening made her madder still.

"Why are you crying? I didn't hurt you." She poked him in the shoulder with the broom handle, almost knocking him over.

He shook his head. He wasn't crying.

"Yes, you're crying. Stop crying. You're not a child." She stamped her foot, mad enough to hit him some more.

People said Clio Alma was a beautiful woman. She had a round face with smooth skin, full lips, and not a bad figure for someone so old. But she was a cold woman, hard and angry all the time. She pushed him back against the wall, screaming at him.

"Why you so bad person? Why don't Tang give you more money? Huh, why not? Why you like her?" Clio was so mad her English broke up.

Kim was scared of her. Everyone said she was a nice woman, but he knew she was really a witch and not right in her head. He had bruises. His head hurt. He didn't just like Tang. He loved Tang. She was good to him. He didn't love Clio, it was true. She was mean to him. And even though he'd told her before they married that he could never give her a child, she was still mad that he wouldn't sleep in her bed. Three years and she wouldn't give up.

She wanted money. She wanted a child. She wanted to know where he was every minute of the day Jealous of everybody. Who could live like that? He was only thirty and could not sleep even on the same floor with her. He had to be downstairs, near the door so he could get out whenever he had to. He felt choked to death, also contrite and sorry that she thought so much was wrong with him. He wanted to tell her he didn't like Tang that way, either. No girl.

Clio spat at him. "You didn't come home last night."

"Yes, I did," he whispered. But she always knew. He wiped her spit off his face with the back of his hand.

"Where were you?"

He was not going to tell her he was with his friend Bill, an old man who gave him money. She didn't like him having friends. She didn't like him getting money that she didn't know about. If he told her he had money, she always took it from him.

"Tell me," she demanded.

He put his hps together. He wouldn't say anything. Whatever he said made her madder.

"It's your fault he did it. You were supposed to come home and take him out. His mess is your fault." Now she was complaining about the dog.

He looked sorry. He was busy. He'd forgotten about the dog.

"Stop that; you're disgusdng."

His face turned sullen.

"Stop it," she yelled.

He wasn't doing anything. He bit his lips. This angry woman who didn't get what she wanted burned him like acid. He wished he weren't such a good and tender person, so kind to her no matter what she did. She was the one who hid all the money. Even if she were hit by a subway train, he would never get any money.

"You're worse than the dog," she screamed. "You took my money. You took a thousand dollars."

He shook his head, his eyes rolling up. It was the other way around. She took his money. He didn't even know where she hid it.

"Yes, you did. You took my money. Where is it?" she demanded.

"I didn't take your money. I have my own money." He couldn't help teasing her just a little.

"What money?" Her voice rose almost to a howl.

Sometimes Clio screamed so loud in this quiet Queens neighborhood that someone called the police to make her stop. As soon as the police came, she opened the door nice and calm and said she was so sorry. Her husband was a little crazy, but nothing she couldn't handle. She assured them he wouldn't hurt anyone, and no one ever looked to see if she hurt him. It made him feel bad that she would say the noise was his fault.

"No money. I was just kidding," he said, meek again. "I'll talk to you. What do you want me to say?"

"What money?" she yelled, hurting his ears. She let him go and started looking through his things for the money.

"No money, really," he cried. He didn't want her to take the money he'd gotten from the old man. He wanted to use it to buy more flowers for Tang. She'd been so happy with the last ones. Clio didn't find the money. He forgot he'd hidden it somewhere else. When she took the dog out he called Wendy. He wanted to tell her he'd found her gray raincoat, but she didn't answer her phone.

Forty-three

Candles burned. Dozens of them, all colors. Some smelled like wine, others like vanilla, oranges, root beer. The peculiar collection of scents assaulted April's nose when Louis the Sun King opened the door to his Beekman Place town house apartment. The warmth and aroma of candles reached out and choked the air in the second-floor hallway.

"I thought we were finished." He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with a pleated front, a Spanish shirt, and was surprised to see Mike again. From the look of him the party had been going on for a while. April glanced at Mike.

"Uh-uh, we're not finished," Mike told him.

Louis groaned and retreated into his highly stylized living room that was all clogged up with deep, soft sofas in orange and red, black and white Moroccan inlaid tables, oversize sari-covered pillows. Painted ostrich eggs, twig balls, vases and urns. Chairs and upholstered stools filled every corner. Scrolls covered the walls. It was a busy place. The burning candles danced colors around like spangles in a kaleidoscope.

"We're coping as best as we can," Louis murmured, indicating the martini shaker. "Poor Prudence loved her martinis. Would you care to join us?"

April's eyes swept the room, taking in the objects and the boyfriend, handsome as a movie star.

"This is Jorge," Louis said proudly.

"Sergeant Woo," April introduced herself.

"I know. I know. Come in." Louis led the way to the sofa Jorge wasn't occupying. 'Two in one week. This epidemic could ruin me."

"Two what?" April asked, playing the dummy.

"I already told him these dead girls are bad for business."

"What a joker," Mike remarked.

"Believe me, I'm not laughing. What do you want from me now?"

April didn't appreciate his attitude. "A better story than your last one."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm just a civilian. I don't know what that means."

"Fine, let's start with Wendy."

"Oh, before it was poor Ubu and Tito and me. Now it's Wendy. Jorge, these people can't make up their minds." Louis threw himself on the sofa next to his friend, jogging him slightly with his foot. April tilted her head at Mike.

'Jorge, go to your room," he said.

"I don't live here," Jorge replied, reaching over to pour himself more drink.

"I don't care. 'Bye now." Mike squared himself off for a little Latin confrontation. Jorge evaluated the situation and said something—something probably not so nice in Portuguese. Then he downed the last of his martini and stood to go. His compliance indicated to April that he didn't have a green card.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You can't throw my friends out." Louis jumped up to follow