T
he alumni office of York University was housed on the second floor of the main administration building on Fourteenth Street, right next to Admissions. Beyond the small reception area, Albert Delano Frayme had a small cubicle without a window. When April and Mike arrived there at noon and flashed their gold, he was busy strewing his napkin-spread work space with crusty crumbs from a French-bread sandwich.
"Lieutenant Sanchez, Sergeant Woo," Mike said.
He took a moment to chew and swallow. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't have time for breakfast today. I was just taking an early lunch." He put the half-eaten baguette down and flashed an apologetic smile. "Marty isn't in right now. Is there something I can do?"
"We'd like to talk to Albert Frayme," Mike said, eyeing the name plaque on his desk.
"Oh. That would be me. How can I help?" Al smiled again, totally benign and relaxed.
It was a little disconcerting. He did not even remotely look like a killer. He looked like thousands of midlevel employees in companies all over the world. He had a soft voice without any discernible accent, wide shoulders on a slender build, a small head with a round face, a button nose, and an eager-to-please expression. His almost-blond hair was short in the back and long enough in front to dip into pleasant gray eyes. He looked like a very nice man, until he brushed away the crumbs on his desk and showed the flat, callused blades of his big-knuckled hands.
"We're investigating the murder of Lieutenant Bernardino last week." Mike's eyes flickered at the size of the hands, but Al didn't seem aware of their interest.
"What a loss. The lieutenant was a great guy." He shook his head and brushed his palms together.
"How well did you know him?" Mike asked.
"I wish I could offer you both seats." Frayme indicated the one chair in front of his desk. "I don't rate two chairs." He laughed.
"No problem. We can stand," Mike replied.
April didn't say anything. She was standing close to the door, inhaling deeply as if the air itself could tell her this was the man who tried to kill her. The space smelled of newly baked French bread, the citrus aftershave that Jack remembered, and something else, a rotten something.
"What did you want to know?" Al frowned as if he'd forgotten the question. He looked from one to the other with no apparent recognition of April. She would work on that.
"How well did you know Bernardino?" Mike repeated the question.
"Very well. He was an alum, of course. This is the alumni office. It's our job to keep track of them." Al shrugged.
"How do you do that?"
"We send out postcards for them to fill out their news for the alumni magazine. If they don't keep in touch, we go to their parents, ask their classmates. Then, of course, we have a press service. Every time the university name pops up in any kind of article, we get a clipping of it. Same with alums. When their names come up anywhere, we know it. God bless computers, right?"
"How did Bernardino's name come up?"
"Oh, his name has always been on the front burner. He's spoken here many times. He was a local hero, you know. Everybody tried to get him to fix their parking tickets." Al laughed again. "Not that he'd do anything to help," he added quickly. "But he was useful with security issues. He helped us out… and, of course, a few years back when that girl was murdered in Chinatown, we did an article on him in the alumni magazine."
April flashed again to her first big case, the one that had made Bernardino notice her. She'd been the link to the family after the little girl was kidnapped by a neighbor for ransom. She was the only one in the unit who could speak Chinese.
"Then we had a theft here. It wasn't even Bernie's territory, but he helped us out with it. A real nice guy." Al Frayme nodded. "A good cop."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Oh…" Frayme scratched his chin. "Let's see. Hmmmm. I don't know that I saw him. I called him a few times."
"Why?"
He grinned. "His name came up when he won the lottery. He was a big winner. You knew that."
Mike shifted from one foot to the other. "And?"
"Well, it was a natural progression. He's always been a great friend to the university. My job is to make the ask. I knew him the best, so I was the one to make the ask."
"You called him up?"
"Oh, yes, several times."
"Where did you call him?"
"I called him at the precinct before he left. I called with my condolences after his wife died. Let's see." He pursed his lips. "I called a few weeks later to see how he was doing. We were going to have lunch, but-"
"How do you make the ask?" Mike broke in.
"Why do you want to know all this?" He looked bewildered by the interest.
"Two of your donors and personal friends were murdered. Struck with a karate chop." Mike demonstrated.
He laughed some more. "A karate chop? I don't think so."
"Why not?"
He looked at his hands for the first time. "From what I've heard it's not that easy. You might be able to disable somebody for a little while. But kill, no. Maybe a child," he amended.
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"I just use it for balance. Am I a suspect?" he asked, stroking the blade of his left hand.
April guessed he was left-handed. It was time to pin down the ME on which arm the killer had used to yoke Bernie. The death report hadn't come in yet, and not even the preliminary death report was in on Birdie. Gloss was being thorough. He had speculated on the scene that a blunt weapon, maybe the side of a hand,
could
have made the artifacts on Birdie's neck, but he wasn't sure. He wanted to photograph the bruises and try to make impressions of different possible weapons to see what matched. He hadn't speculated about which-handed the killer was.
"You do karate?" Mike asked.
"I think you know I do. Or you wouldn't be here. It doesn't make me a killer. Lots of people do it."
"True, but probably none of them know both victims." Mike and April did not look at each other as Al laughed comfortably.
"Well, you can rule me out. I love God's creatures. I couldn't kill a cockroach."
"That's good to know. Then you won't mind telling us where you were the last two Wednesday evenings."
"Oh, that's easy. I was right here. This is our big season. Graduation, reunion. I'll be working pretty much twenty hours a day until the end of June. Our office has a big goal this year."
"What kind of goal?"
Al made a face. "Ten million."
"Is that unusual?"
"It sure is. The alumni office does not traditionally go after the big donors. We're on notice, like everyone else."
"Did anyone see you?"
"When?"
"The last two Wednesday nights?"
"Oh, I don't count them, but I'm sure. There are plenty of people around here all the time."
Mike made a note, then changed the subject. "Tell me about making the ask."
Al lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, God. It's an art, and I love it. People don't always know that they need to give back. But they really do. The fun part is opening their eyes to the need. They're so happy when it comes together for them."
"What do you mean, people need to give?" April spoke for the first time. He shifted his eyes to her and gave her an odd smile.
"Have you ever noticed how messed up rich people are?" he asked.
"More than nonrich people?" Mike asked solemnly.
"Oh, of course. Rich people have a limitless amount to give. They buy their wives, have a kid or two, spoil them all with indulgences you wouldn't believe." He let his eyes crinkle at those indulgences. "Then they leave them for prettier women who smell good. I see it all the time." He dropped his eyes to his half-eaten sandwich, which was beginning to smell.
April's nose twitched. Brie cheese, that was what it was. Warmed by the hot bread, it was beginning to soften around thin slices of prosciutto ham. And reek.
Many old-style Chinese, who could tolerate any odor of garbage, were totally repulsed by the smell of cheese. Thousand-year-old eggs (buried for weeks in crocks in the backyard) and a whole host of other fermented foods that stank to heaven were considered lovely and fragrant, but cheese products? Disgusting. April was first-generation American with old views stuck deep in her psyche. She swallowed her aversion to the rank smell and thought about Brenda and Burton Bassett.
"How do they need to give?" Mike echoed her thought. This question put Al in an expansive mood.
"Most of the money that comes to us isn't old, you know. The students who come here don't have anything. It's not like Harvard and Princeton, where families go way back. This is a down-to-earth kind of school. A lot of our kids work their way through. Frankly, we make them what they are. Down the line they become big earners. A surprisingly large proportion of our graduates make big money."
"And where does guilt fit in?"
"Oh, you want to be educated."
"Of course. What happens when they don't give?"
"They feel bad, really bad. You have no idea. People who don't give are selfish. They hurt other people." He tapped his head. "Psychology. If they give back, they feel better."
"What if they don't want to feel better?"
"I feel sorry for them, I really do."
"Did you feel sorry for Lieutenant Bernardino and Martha Bassett?"
"Very sorry," he said sadly. "I'll miss them."
A
pril left Mike with the suspect and went downstairs to make some calls. Woody Baum showed up in the unmarked unit she'd requested and waited in the car. Two good-looking uniforms borrowed from the Sixth idled by the front door of the building. Three bigger ones guarded the room where Mike was showing muscle while getting educated by a nut. April was on the phone for close to an hour. She called Hagedorn at Midtown North to check on his progress with the Bassett heirs. He'd done his homework.
"Wednesday evening Brenda walked her dog at nine-thirty and didn't leave the apartment the rest of the night. Confirmed by her doorman. She would have to pass him, and he would have to unlock the front door for her to get out," he said. "She's been married twice. Two nasty divorces, came out pretty well. She owes two million on her apartment, but pays off her credit card debt monthly. She has nearly eight figures in a brokerage account. A standard credit check comes up with no financial difficulties, no other debt. She winters in Santa Fe, votes Republican, plays golf at two private clubs where she's a full member. She likes to go on cruises. Crystal Line. Two or three a year. She's clean, no arrests, no troubles in the past. I've just started, though."
"What about the brother?"
"He bought land outside of Denver for development twelve years back. Turned out there was no water there, and the zoning changed. Lost his shirt. He's down to a couple of mil, drinks like a college freshman, golfs at a club in Connecticut where he has a restricted membership. Votes Republican, had a couple of DUIs in the past. No driver's license at the moment. That's it."
"And he has an alibi for Wednesday."
"Yes. In plain sight at a bar at the time of the murder. But he could have hired someone. We need to subpoena bank records to get more. Cherry Packer is a small-time horse breeder and trainer, nee Olivia Brancusi. Not even a parking ticket on her. Lot of financial problems, though. She's had to refinance the stables several times. The property is maxed out, so are her credit cards, and she owed almost nine months on her mortgage until a month ago. She does have a three-year-old called Warlord, but it's never run any race.
"Pretty horse, but probably a hacker. She's had a longtime association with Harry Weinstein. They talk on the phone every day, traveled to Florida twice together last winter. She still has two hundred twenty-five thousand in her account-didn't pay off the credit cards yet, nor has she gone on any spending sprees since the money came in. She's acting as if this is all she's getting. Do you want me to work on Weinstein?"
"That's terrific. Thanks, Charlie. I owe you. But that's a no on Harry. Mike's people are on it."
"Give me a few days and I'll come up with more," he said hopefully.
"I've got a bigger fish for you. I want you to work on a guy called Albert Delano Frayme. He's in the alumni office at York U. He's a karate freak. Hands like sledgehammers. He might have been a competitor. See what comes up on him."
"How are you spelling that?"
"Sorry. Frank, Robert, Allen, Yankees, mother, Ellen."
"That's frame with a Y?"
"You got it."
"How are you feeling?" he queried before she hung up.
"Better, thanks for asking. I didn't know you cared," she said.
"See ya."
She dialed Kathy Bernardino's number at one p.m. "What are you up to?"
"I'm going through the shit, cleaning up. No one else will," Kathy replied.
"Looking for the money?" April couldn't resist saying.
"Maybe. Your people didn't help in the mess department, and I'm sure Bill tossed the place, too. I miss Weenie, but the kids want to keep him. Dad and Mom left me the house; did you know that? It was in the will from years ago after they helped Bill buy his house."
"It must be nice to know your parents were thinking of you. The place will be great once you get it cleaned up. Are you going to live there?"
"No, I'm selling it."
April had no comment for that. Too bad. "What do you think is the significance of the number four?" she asked after a pause.
"As in million? I have no idea." Kathy's voice sounded weary. "No idea at all. Does it tie into the murder?"
"Still working on it. Have you heard of a guy called Al Frayme?"
"No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Who is he?"
"He's a fund-raiser in the alumni office at York U. He knew your dad from way back. Our guess is he started putting the arm on him for a contribution as soon as the lottery money came in."
"Him and everyone else."
"Yes, but he knew Birdie, too. Neither one gave him any money."
Kathy whooped. "I knew it wasn't Bill!" Then she was quiet for a moment. "What's the motive? He killed them because they didn't give money to a
school!"
"This is very early days. We think he didn't want them to have a guilty conscience."
"What?"
"It's a little unclear why, Kathy. But he knew their movements well, and he had opportunity."
"Do you have anything else on him?"
"Not yet. We're still in the process of subpoenaing the wills and financial records of Birdie and your dad. The paper is coming in. In the Bassett case we don't know yet who stands to gain."
"What can I do?"
"It's Frayme I'm interested in at the moment. If you see anything with his name on it, any notes your father may have made, anything to connect the two recently, that would help. I don't want to jump the gun, but at the moment he's looking good."
"I'm sorry I haven't been more help," Kathy said after a pause.
"No problem. I'm still on your side. We'll find that money. Give me a call on my cell." April hung up. She didn't have anything else to add.
Al Frayme's name wasn't on April's list of black belts at the nearest tae kwon do studio on Twelfth Street. That didn't surprise her. She called Marcus Beame to alert Fred and Frank.
"Hey, April. I'm going nuts here with no news. What's going on?" He sounded more than glad to hear from her.
"I have a question for Frank and Fred on the karate angle."
"Shoot."
"We have a suspect. His name is Albert Frayme, with a Y. He lives in the area, East Eighth Street." She gave the building number.
"That's Frayme with a Y," Beame confirmed.
"Yes. Mixed-fight expert. He has the hands. I don't know about the feet."
"Is he the one? You'd know, you fought him, right?"
The question made her uncomfortable. Mike had given her the look in Al's office. Before that, she and Jack Devereaux had given each other the look in his apartment. Jack couldn't be sure; her memory was faulty. It was pitiful. She just didn't know.
"We're just fishing at the moment, Marcus. Just ask them if the name has come up."
"Will do. Anything else?"
"You know, yes. I'm getting a funny feeling about a guy seen walking a dog near both homicides. We've been thinking of him as a witness, but maybe he was a lookout."
"How would that play, April?"
"I'm getting some expert help on this. But I'm guessing it might be someone who was on the scene but didn't actively participate-like someone riding shotgun in a car. Frayme may be one of those guys who wouldn't kill without a friend to egg him on. Check the name Frayme, his known associates and sparring partners. If we're real lucky, one of them has a dog."
"Yeah, I got it," Marcus said excitedly.
"Call me back right away." April was sweating with excitement. That dog piece of the puzzle had been driving her nuts. Now it was beginning to play.
She caught Marty Baldwin coming in the front door of the administration building. "Mr. Baldwin. I'm Sergeant Woo from the police. I'd like to ask you a few questions." She showed him her ID.
Marty Baldwin glanced back at the two uniformed officers and nodded. He was a short, round-faced cherub with a balding head and a bulging muscle in his neck that masqueraded as a double chin. He wore a yellow-and-blue tattersall shirt and a brown suit with a red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. "Okay. Let's go to my office," he said.
April followed him up the stairs to where the three big officers hung out in the hall.
"Did something happen?" he asked anxiously.
April didn't answer. She took the lead as they went into the alumni office, where Mike was sitting in Al Frayme's only guest chair.
"Oops, getting crowded in here," Mike said cheerfully. "Mr. Baldwin, I presume. I'm Lieutenant Sanchez, Homicide."
Marty nodded again. His eyes slid over to Al. "What's happening?" he asked again.
"Just clearing up a few details about Wednesday night. Al, let's give your boss some privacy here."
"Where are we going?" Al asked.
"To the station."
Al made a farting sound with his lips. "Sorry, Marty, looks like I'll be out of the office for a while." He glanced down, then carefully started wrapping his half-eaten sandwich to take with him.
"You won't need that," Mike jerked his head at April. She went out into the hall and beckoned the officers. They filed into the office.
"It cost nine bucks," Al protested.
Mike tossed it in the trash, and Al's gray eyes grew stormy.
"Sir, would you go into your office, please," April directed Baldwin. He complied without a word.
When Mike, Frayme, and the three officers were gone, April sat down in Baldwin's office and took out her notebook.
"Is this about Birdie Bassett?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, it is, Mr. Baldwin. On the tenth of this month you went to a meeting in the School of Social Work. Do you want to tell me about that?"
"Huh?" He was startled. He glanced up as Woody Baum came into the room.
April nodded and Woody took a seat next to her. "This is Detective Baum."
"Sir," Woody said.
He looked from one to the other.
"What was the nature of the meeting?" April asked.
Baldwin cleared his throat. "That was a while ago. I'm not sure. We've been meeting in all the schools. There are fourteen of them at the university." He made a face. "President Warmsley read the riot act when he took over, so each school has to stand on its own financially now, raise its own money." He licked his lips. "How is this relevant?"
"What time was the meeting?"
"Ah, I don't recollect much about that week, much less that day. It's the end of the school year. We're pretty pressured right now. I'd have to look it up."
"That would be good."
He didn't move. "Ah, I think the one you're talking about was pretty much a meet-and-greet. The dean there is new. Her alumni traditionally give little to nothing, so she has a problem. Going into the social services, as you know, is not the way to make money in this world."
"What was discussed in the meeting?"
"We were trying to come up with some alternative fund-raising strategies. Going to private foundations interested in vulnerable populations, to the state, and so forth."
"Is that part of your job description?"
"No. It was a waste of our time."
"Did you stay all the way through it?"
"Of course."
"How about bathroom breaks?"
Baldwin blinked. "Everybody takes bathroom breaks. What is this about?"
"What about Al; was he there?" She scribbled some notes.
"Oh, Al is everywhere."
"Does he take bathroom breaks?"
"He's in and out. I don't know why you're asking this. He's terrific. I don't know what I would do without him. He does most of the writing for the magazine. That's a quarterly. And he's great on outreach. He answers the phone, never gets annoyed."
"Mm-hmm." April wrote that down. "Tell me about the outreach."
Baldwin hesitated. "He does the reunions, follows up on careers. Thousands of them. He was very upset to hear about Birdie's death. She was an undergrad classmate of his."
That was news. So that was the reason for their lunches and talks. They went way back. Frayme hadn't mentioned it. "Did he come in on Thursday, seem normal?"
"He was upset. We all were."
"Was she one of his targets?"
Baldwin stared. "I don't know what you mean."
"As a giver."
"Oh. Yes, I guess so." He looked down as the phone rang. April shook her head.
"Did you talk about her?"
"Well, sure. We talk about everybody. They all promise to come up with the big bucks as soon as they have something to spare. With her husband out of the way, Al thought the time was now with Birdie. He's not a violent man, if that's what you're asking. Once a mouse got in his desk. He couldn't even kill that. He caught it and gave it to Maintenance."
"Thanks for the anecdote. But maybe he didn't hate the mouse," April remarked.
"I don't think he hated anyone," Baldwin said angrily.
"How long has he been with you?"
"Well, let's see. I've been here for three years. He started here after college, a decade before that."
"How come he didn't get your job?"
Baldwin checked the ceiling. "I wouldn't know that."
"Take a guess."
He lifted a shoulder. "He's great at what he does, but he's not a closer. He oversells, and that makes people nervous."
"That must be death in the getting world." April made a note of it. "Tell me about Wednesday night."
On safer ground, Baldwin exhaled and began describing the dinner. He'd left the office at four-thirty to set up the cocktail hour and talk place cards with Wendy Vivendi. It took forty-five minutes to get through it. Except for the president, they were the very last ones to leave. He was not able to verify Frayme's whereabouts on Wednesday after four.
"Thank you, Mr. Baldwin. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else about that night, would you give me a call?" She left him a card with all her numbers. On the way downstairs Woody spoke.
"When the maintenance man came by to lock up the building Wednesday night, Al was in his office. They close down at eleven," he said.
"Anybody see him between eight and ten-thirty?" April asked.
"Not yet. Where to?"
"Wendy Vivendi," April said.
"She's on the fourth floor," he said.