Stealing Time (37 page)

She shook her head. Give me a minute, will you?

He drummed his fingers on the desk. "April, you with me?"

"Yeah." She swallowed.

"What if she gave birth there in the Popescus' building?" Alfie rocked his chair, thinking. "That might play."

"Is Baum back? I gotta go," she said faintly.

"No way. You're not finished here."

"Alfie, I don't work here anymore. I'm looking for a missing baby, that's all." She put the file down and concentrated on rallying the energy she needed to leave.

"Hey, I didn't go looking for you. You came down here wanting my people to trace newborns. This is not what we do here."

"Well, I truly appreciate your helping out."

Bernardino changed the subject. "April, you look like shit. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off." His hollow cheeks were corrugated with concern. That meant he wanted her to take the day off from Midtown North.

"No, thanks."

He continued to rock forward and back, exercising his chair. His shrewd eyes went from hard to soft to hard again. "What's the matter? We're old friends— you can tell me."

"I know."

"You in trouble, kiddo?"

"Nothing long-term," she assured him. Unless it turned out to be fatal.

"What's with the—" He wiggled his fingers in front of his nose.

"Old family remedy. If I die, you can investigate my mother."

Alfie laughed. "What did you do to piss her off this time?"

April shook her head.

"Are you sure you're not—you know . . ." Alfie's hand curved over his belly.

"For Christ's sake, Alfie, stop pushing. I'm not going to tell you."

"I'm not a detective for nothing, sugar."

"Well, get off the idea. It's not that. When are you getting organized on this?"

"I'm organized. You might want to know your boy, Woody Tree, has Heather Rose Popescu and her parents downstairs. Heather wants to talk to somebody." Alfie frowned over her head at the squad room door. "You know this guy?"

April turned around as Mike pushed the door open without invitation. He swaggered into Alfie's glass box, looking very much the cool dude with his silky black hair and luxuriant mustache, in his uniform of cowboy boots and coordinating grays—pants, jacket, shirt, tie. And, for April, a shit-eating grin.

Her sweaty face lit up. "Never saw him before," she said.

"Mike Sanchez, Homicide. How ya doin'?" he said, advancing to the desk with his hand out.

April introduced Alfie. "My old boss, Lieutenant Bernardino, the guy who taught me everything."

"I thought I taught you everything," Mike countered.

"How ya doin, Mike? I got a call about you. You going to clear this thing up for us?" Bernardino shook Sanchez's hand with no apparent sign of rancor at this invasion from outside.

Mike lifted a shoulder, than sniffed the air, distracted. "Jesus, what's that? You got a dead animal in here?"

"This precinct always has dead animals in it, just like the O-Nine. What's in the envelope?" April changed the subject.

"Something should be done about that. It's disgus—" He sniffed closer to April.

Bernardino made some faces at him. "Let it go, Mike."

Mike frowned. "What's going on?"

Breathe in, breathe out. Too late. "Excuse me." April rose from her chair and bounded from the room. Half an hour ago there'd been nothing more to puke. But that was a half an hour ago. Now she rushed down the hall to the women's room and fell to her knees before the toilet that had become her altar. Her worst nightmares used to be job-related—having to be the one to find a dead body behind a closed door, having people shoot at her with assault rifles, having to subdue crazy killers who set fires or built bombs. Now she knew her worst nightmare was a lot closer to home. She flushed the toilet and got to her feet. At the sink she saw a wreck. Her hair was plastered to her head. Her eyes were red, her face bloodless. She was the color of window caulk, the palest she'd ever been. Almost a white girl. She wet a wad of brown New York City-issue paper towels and washed her face and armpits with the nasty green liquid soap on the sink. The paper towels disintegrated and the sponge bath left her feeling clammy all over. I have to go downstairs and talk to Heather Rose, she told herself. I have to find the baby. Got to check out the building where the girl died. There were a lot of things she had to do.

She resisted a powerful urge to sit down on the floor and rest for a while. Instead, she tossed the soggy wad of wet paper in the direction of the overflowing wastebasket in the corner. She missed. Then it occurred to her that she couldn't afford pride any longer. She had to get over whatever was making her so sick. She remembered the cell phone in her pocket, pulled it out, and dialed her home number. It rang and rang. Her worst nightmare, it seemed, was not answering the phone.

She slogged back down the hall to the squad room, where Mike and Bernardino were busy studying the dead girl's autopsy photos. When April came in, Bernardino said something April couldn't hear, and Mike turned around.

"Querida
." His tone stopped her at the glass door. He gave Bernardino a quick look and drew her out into the hall, taking her arm and sitting her down on an empty bench by the stairs. "What?" he demanded. "What is this?"

"I feel worse than I look." Tears came to her eyes. "And I stink."

"Don't worry about that. I've smelled worse. I don't remember when, though. What is it, some kind of Asian flu?" He put a hand on her forehead. "
Muy caliente.
How about I take you to the hospital?" He was being cool, a cop who didn't freak at anything. He chewed on his mustache, though, seriously worried.

"They won't know what to do. It's not a flu."

"How do you know?"

"Just one of those things. What did you find out?"

"April, you first. We've got to do something about this."

"What do you want to do? There's some poison stuff in me, but I didn't eat or swallow it. It was steam. I breathed it."

"You breathed something that made you this sick?"

"It's not a nerve gas. It's not biological warfare. She was cooking it on the stove. So I'm guessing it's some kind of purge."

"Who?"

"Mom." April swallowed.

"Your mother did this to you?" Mike looked stunned. "Why?"

"I don't think she meant any harm," April said stoutly, except that Skinny Dragon probably did.

"What is she, some kind of witch?"

"Let it go, Mike. I'll be all right." Maybe.

"Oh, yeah? When?"

Good point. "What did you find out?"

"Not much more than I told you. The victim had tuberculosis and herpes. That means the baby might be sick."

"Heather Popescu is downstairs with Baum. Maybe she's ready to tell us something."

"Let me get the photos of the victim; then I'll go down with you." Mike returned to the squad room.

April waited on the bench. Minutes passed. She got out the cell phone and tried her mother again. No answer. She dialed Jason Frank. He picked up on the first ring. "Dr. Frank."

"Hi Jason, it's April."

"Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you since last night."

"Sorry, something came up. What's going on?"

"I talked to the Popescus last night. Both of them. I'm not convinced Anton was the one who beat Heather up Tuesday, but I think he's been abusing her for years. He's not the father of the baby—he's never had sexual relations with anyone, including her. Apparently, he has some kind of sexual dysfunction."

"Thank you." April watched an old man in a gray cardigan slowly climb the stairs and pass her by, his nose twitching. She took a moment to think about it. Heather had married a white guy who abused her and couldn't have sex. That added another layer of mystery to the situation. Why would she marry someone like that? No wonder her mother was so unhappy with the match. April thought Skinny Dragon's objections to Mike were petty in comparison.

"April, are you there?"

"Yeah, just trying to figure it all out. Why would an educated girl like her marry someone like him? Why would they pretend the baby was theirs?"

"When she married him, she didn't know. I gotta go, April. Call me later?"

"Jason, I almost forgot to tell you. We've located the baby's mother. She's dead. Someone threw her out the window of the Popescus' factory last night."

"Oh, God, April, that's bad."

"Yes."

"Do you know who did it?"

"We're working on that."

"Will you call me later?"

"I'll try." April was preoccupied by the mystery of Heather's disastrous marriage. She hurried into the squad room to pass on Jason's news. She was relieved when neither Mike nor Alfie made a joke.

A few minutes later Baum was coming up the stairs as she and Mike were on their way down. April made the introductions. The two men shook hands, looked each other over, reserved judgment.

"I hear you have Mrs. Popescu," April said.

"Yes, ma'am, and her parents." Woody beamed.

"I asked you for a photo of her. I didn't ask you to

assemble the family down here in the wrong house." April wasn't happy about this.

"No problem—they found a room for us."

Yeah, but Heather belonged in a different case out of a different precinct. Iriarte wasn't going to like this. Hell,
she
didn't like this. "What did you bring them down here for?"

"When she found out the girl was dead, she wanted to come."

"How did she find out about that?" They were standing halfway down stairs. April didn't want to grill Baum, but she had to know.

Baum appealed to Mike with his eyes. Mike shook his head. "The husband showed up while I was looking through the family photos. They happen to provide the evidence we needed to prove he wasn't the baby's father. Turns out he had cancer of the testicles when he was a kid. Guy has no balls. When he saw that his wife had let me in on his little secret, he assaulted me." Baum couldn't help smiling at the way he'd handled it. The case was shaping up nicely, and he was the one who'd filled in all the important pieces.

April was incredulous. "You got into a fight with Anton Popescu? Are you crazy?"

"No, I didn't get into a fight. He punched me and knocked me off the sofa."

"He hit you!" April was appalled. She was a supervisor now, the one responsible when her people did the wrong thing. "What did you do about it?"

Baum scratched his head. "I unholstered my weapon—but I didn't take him down," he added quickly.

"Jesus Christ," April muttered. What a mess.

"But Mrs. Popescu had already decided to come with me," Baum went on, helpfully.

"But what did you do about /z/m?"

"I left him there."

"This guy—who might be a murderer—punched you, and you left him there?" The nasty green spots jumped in front of April's eyes again. "You didn't call for backup? You didn't take him to the house and document the incident? A possible suspect in a homicide gave you the leverage you needed to make an arrest, and you let him go?"

"Well, you told me to come back here with the photographs. I didn't know he was a suspect. Since when did he become a suspect?"

April licked her cracked lips. "You have to use your head, Baum. You have to be able to prioritize. Bringing me the photo of Heather Rose was not as important as documenting the fact that Popescu attacked you and bringing him into the station to probe the incident and his involvement in a homicide. Think about it: why would the guy freak out at your discovery of his family photo album? What was the meaning of it? Could he be a killer?" She was disgusted with herself for trusting Baum.

"Well, I have witnesses who saw him assault me. They can document that later."

"I don't want to hear any more." At the interview-room door, she stopped Baum with a look. She was going to make him pay for this.

With Baum put in his place, she rearranged her face into a benign expression that didn't change when she saw Heather's bad haircut.

Heather Rose was sitting at a table with her parents flanking her. "Hello. This is Lieutenant Sanchez," April said. "Mr. and Mrs. Kwan, Mrs. Popescu."

Heather's mother nodded. Her father stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

April smiled at Heather Rose. "Thank you for coming; it was the right thing to do," she said softly. "But we're going to have to go back uptown to talk. Have you had lunch?" "He told us the baby's mother is dead," Heather said.