T
hey settled for April's aging white Chrysler Le Baron because the muffler of Mike's even more ancient red Camaro was making too much noise in the quiet Queens neighborhoods even for him. His pained surrender to the girlie car was not appeased even when she put the top down and insisted that he drive. Behind the wheel Mike looked like a movie star with his shiny black hair and dark sunglasses. They both needed new cars, but neither thought about it now. They were saving for a house of their own like Bernardino's in Westchester, also for a big wedding and maybe a baby. For months, on weekend days off they'd been house hunting. They were looking for just the right area, just the right place. But things came up, and lately they hadn't had the time they needed to finish the job. They didn't mention this lost weekend. The sun shone down on their heads and the air was sweet in their faces. They were detectives first. Murder took precedence over everything else.
April sat in the passenger seat, brooding about Bernardino's children. Her gut feeling was that Bill had taken, or been given, the missing money, and Kathy didn't know anything about it. The niggling certainty that the brother was cheating a trusting sister wouldn't go away. This kind of playing favorites happened in Chinese families, in Irish families, in Jewish families. In all families. Relatives ganged up against each other-and the IRS. Every time April thought of the way her own parents had tricked her into a thirty-year mortgage debt on their own house, her adrenaline spiked with rage. And she didn't even have a sibling to worry about. But was Bill a killer, too? Was he?
It was not a long trip from Forest Hills to Kew Gardens, where the state-of-the-art police labs were located in an unmarked brick building on the back side of a commercial street. At eleven on this balmy Saturday morning the facility that handled all the physical evidence from crimes in the five boroughs was not exactly abuzz with activity. Except for the CSU unit, which was open for business around the clock, it was always pretty quiet here on a weekend. These post-9/11 days, however, personnel was down to a skeleton crew. Retirement of specialists who hadn't yet been replaced had taken its toll.
April and Mike exchanged pleasantries with the sergeant on duty in the cage that kept people from wandering in and out with unauthorized materials. They submitted to a routine search, signed in, and were admitted. Inside, they threaded their way to the back of the building, where they knew Bernardino's car was in the loading bay.
"Anybody home?" Mike called out when they got there.
No answer, but the victim was a sorry sight. The late-model navy Ford Taurus was dirty and smudged from various fingerprinting and other tests. The trunk was open and the inside of it dismantled. The glove compartment was open and disassembled, too. The backseat was out of the car on the floor, and some car parts were missing altogether. Even the owner wouldn't have recognized his vehicle now.
The car had been parked several blocks away from the murder and was possibly unconnected to it, but it was being analyzed as part of the crime scene. Unfortunately, no one was around to enlighten them as to what clues, if any, it had given up.
Disappointed, April circled the wreck as if a visual tour alone could yield some useful information. "Let's go see if Duke is here."
"He's here," Mike said. "I called while you were in the shower."
She didn't say, "Thanks for sharing." She'd been afraid the trip was a waste of time. On their way back to the elevators they heard a familiar voice droning out a familiar lecture. They detoured down a long hallway to a classroom. There, Mike cracked open the door and saw Lieutenant Loeff of CSU doing his number with grisly crime-scene photos. He was challenging a roomful of people in plainclothes to guess how a bloody body in a kitchen told an exact story of how the victim had died. The audience could be anybody- uniforms who'd been promoted to detective, people from other agencies. A number of them turned around as Loeff pointed a finger at Mike.
"Yes, you over there. Thanks for stopping in. Catch you later."
Rebuked for interrupting, Mike nodded and closed the door.
"He's still using the same case," April remarked as they took the elevator up to Fernando Ducci's dust and fiber lab, with the million-dollar equipment that could help identify particles of just about anything except the wet stuff.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Mike touched April's hand and they moved out. As they started down the wide deserted hall, a deep voice thundered out at them.
"Fee fi fo fum, I hear steps of the pretty one."
"Oh, Jesus," April muttered.
"Fee fi fo fum!" The disembodied voice came again, sounding like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the giant in
Jack in the Beanstalk.
April glanced at Mike. Fernando Ducci was not amusing even in small doses. He believed with complete certainty that he was at the very top of the food chain: the king of forensic magic, a true giant among men, maybe the most important man in the entire department. In fact he was small, shorter than April, and beefy from too many years of consuming half a dozen candy bars a day in addition to three sizable squares. Despite the weight, he was always dapper with his full, round choirboy cheeks, his fancy dress shirts in myriad combinations of blue and white, and his full head of slicked-down silver hair. If he wasn't already sixty, he was close to it.
"Pretty one, get in here and give me a kiss to brighten my day."
"What an asshole," Mike muttered. But pretty one smiled and shot back a response.
"Hey, Duke, stop that carrying on. You're going to ruin my reputation."
"You sound terrible. What's wrong with you?"
He didn't get up from his chair until she had passed through the outer room and was all the way into the inner sanctum. Then he was on his feet with open arms, blue-striped shirt with white collar, sleeves rolled up.
"Nothing catching." April crossed the space between them and gave him a quick hug.
"Is that all I get?" he complained. "Hey, Mike, thanks for stopping by." He thrust out a paw, and the two men shook.
"You're looking good, Duke. How's it going?"
"This is a terrible thing. Bernardino was a good man. What do you know?" Ducci tossed the hot potato right back.
"You first."
"Look, I don't know nothing. I get the clothes in a freaking box. Nobody says nothing about it. I have no death report. No briefing on what happened. What do you expect, miracles?" He lifted his arms with exaggerated exasperation.
"Absolutely. What do you have?"
He shrugged. "Not a lot. Dog hair mixed with the lint in his pants cuff. One grease spot and two coffee stains on his tie. Six grease spots on his jacket, shirt cuff, pants-right thigh. He must have been one messy eater. Or never changed his clothes.
"Let's see, oh, and a lipstick smudge on his shoulder. Might be yours, April. It's that Chinese red. I'm working on what kind. I think it's Revlon. His socks didn't match; that doesn't sound like him-"
"What kind of grease spots?" April interrupted.
"What happened to your manners, Pretty? I'm not finished." Ducci looked offended. "There's a long list here."
"We don't have a lot of time," Mike apologized for her.
"Bull-oney." He reached over and opened a drawer, then grabbed three Mars bars from the collection of candy bars stored in there. "Here, relax, have a snack. Didn't anybody tell you're going to have a stroke one day if you don't slow down?"
"Bernardino was my rabbi," April said. "And red is out this season. Nowhere near my color." Especially with the purple dress she'd been wearing. But why was she arguing? Ducci was playing with himself. Bernardino hadn't been killed by a woman.
"Go on, take. I insist."
"Thanks." Mike palmed the candy bar, opened the wrapper, and bit in.
April frowned at him. Ducci stared at her until she relented.
"I'd prefer one of those," she said meekly, pointing to a Baby Ruth. She wasn't a fan of sugar but she was a sucker for those peanuts.
"Sure, sure. Whatever you want. Keep both, I have plenty… Now, what do you want to know?"
"The grease stains. Where and what were they?" April watched Mike devour his Mars bar. Then she handed him hers.
There you go, piggy,
her face said.
"Marinara sauce on the underside right sleeve near the cuff of his shirt. Matching stain on the shirt cuff. He must have put his arm in it. Splatters of olive oil here and here." He touched his chest where his tie would have been, then lower down on the stomach.
"Tiramisu." Right shoulder. "Oil of spearmint." Left shoulder.
Ha ha.
He was making the sign of the cross.
"What about that oil of spearmint? Where did that come from?" Mike asked, deadpan.
"I'm still analyzing it. My guess is Tiger Liniment."
April caught her breath as the long-winded explanation began.
Two hours later, April and Mike joined the large, sober group that had gathered around an open coffin in the white-painted colonial funeral home to which Bernardino's body had been released late Friday by the medical examiner's office. Many of the mourners looked like neighbors. Some were clearly cops with their spouses. It was always a tragedy when a cop was killed, but this group was still in mourning for Bernardino's wife, Lorna. Everyone who'd known Bernardino had expected him to remain a fixed figure in their firmament, a grumpy but steady friend, for years to come. There were some teary faces.
Kathy broke away from the family group as soon as she caught sight of April. She looked better today. She'd cleaned up for the company, was wearing a crisp white blouse under a dark gray suit that showed off her figure. Her hair was shiny and brushed, and her makeup had been carefully applied.
"Thanks for coming." She kissed Mike and April on both cheeks, very polite, then asked, "Are you working or paying your respects?"
"Half and half," Mike replied, already surveying the crowd.
"Well, thanks for helping out with the funeral. He would have appreciated it." She followed his eyes and helped him put names to faces. "A lot of Mom's family is here. That group is her sister's family." She pointed to an ancient woman with a stoical expression. "And that's her mother, my grandma.
"Dad's family is over there. His brother, nieces, and nephews. A lot of people are coming tomorrow. The cops you know." She turned to April. "How are you doing? Your voice better?"
"Much better," April croaked. She was watching Bill deal with a six- or seven-year-old girl who was hanging onto his leg. A cute kid. He was talking over her head and patting her on the shoulder at the same time. Kathy caught his eye. He detached from the child and stepped over.
"Thanks for coming up," he said, and then closed his mouth to discourage any further conversation.
"We need to talk," Mike told him.
Bill gave him a look. "How about later tonight? I'm busy now."
"Sorry, it can't wait."
Bill made an impatient noise and looked around for his wife, a pretty, worried-looking blond. Her eyes were already locked on his. He gave her a signal, then detached the child. "Okay. Let's go outside."
Mike and April followed him out of the room, out of the somber lobby, out of the building, and he didn't say a word until they hit the sunshine. Then he blinked as if he'd come into another world.
"Look, I'm sorry if I was rough on you the other day." He looked them straight in the face. Man-toman. And woman.
"No problem," Mike said smoothly.
"Well, it is a problem. Somebody's causing trouble for me. I've been put on leave from my office. You people are hounding me. It has to stop." He marched down the sidewalk so fast and furious that April almost had to skip to keep up.
Mike glanced at her, but all that showed was her stone face. All expression had gone to ground while she studied the subject.
"I was home by nine o'clock. My kids had the flu. They still do. Kitty has a fever. She should be home in bed right now. My wife has been questioned half a dozen times already. What do you want from us?" He stopped abruptly and let his body slump against a parked car.
"It's a complicated situation," Mike said, pulling on his mustache.
"What's complicated? My father was murdered at one of your parties. Why are you looking at me?" He addressed at April as he said it.
"You know why," she said softly. And he bit.
"Because I'm a black belt?" he said, exasperated.
"Hey, we're on your side," Mike interrupted. "We both are. No one's pulled a warrant on you. No one's brought you into the station. No one's searching your home. Come on, play ball. All we're trying to do is clear a few things up."
"Look, don't talk warrant to me, okay? I know what you're trying to do." Bill clenched his fists, trying not to lose it.
"Bill, we've had over a thousand calls to Crime Stoppers alone. That's a lot of tips. The street canvass has pulled in more leads than we can handle. Believe me, we're looking into every single one. But face it, this is no stranger murder; you know that. And we're going to find your dad's killer. You can take that to the bank."
Bill's eyes flickered at the bank reference. "No matter who it is?" he said challengingly.
"You bet," April said softly. "No matter who."
He turned to her as if she were an alien, not a longtime friend of his father's. "I don't know."
"Hey, if you want to get off the hook here, you're going to have to help." Mike prodded a little more.
"I was at home. I'm not on the hook," he responded angrily.
"Then let's talk money."
"I can't believe this." Bill pushed off the car.
"We're just looking for a motive here, and fifteen million is a lot of motive." Mike smoothed his mustache and smiled. "People kill for less. A lot less. For a dollar, a pair of sneakers. You prosecute them. You know."
Bill's jaw worked in tandem with his fists. He couldn't argue the facts. "I just can't believe this," he muttered angrily.
"What can't you believe?" Mike asked him softly.