Judging Time awm-3

by Leslie Glass

  He turned the key in his front door lock, opening the door as quietly as he could in case she was asleep. Inside the apartment the lights were on and some of the nine clocks in the living room and hall had already started to chime the hour. They were mechanical, pendulum clocks, all old, less than precise, and it would take a full seven minutes for them to finish their racket. So much for quiet.

  "Emma?"

  "In here," she called over the noise.

  Jason passed the untouched stack of mail on the hall table and turned right. Now he could see Emma in the living room, on the phone with her address book open in front of her. A tray with a teapot and milk jug sat on the coffee table. The cup near her hand was half full of milky tea. She waved at him, her face registering surprise at seeing him so soon.

  "Yes, it's a terrible loss. Look, I have to go now. I'll call you later." She hung up and put out her hand to him, tears welling in her eyes.

  He took her hand. "How are you doing?"

  "Jason, thank you for staying with Rick and me. It meant so much to both of us."

  "What's going on?"

  "Rick's apartment is filled with people now. I had to leave. Oh, Jason, I love you so much." She kissed his hand, dragging him closer.

  "What's this for?" he asked, the darkness in his heart easing a little at the unexpected sign of affection.

  "It's so terrible to lose someone you love. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you." She pulled on his hand until he was sitting beside her on the couch. Then she folded herself into his arms.

  "You tried to lose me once and couldn't, remember? I don't lose easily." He hugged her tight. In his embrace she felt fragile, smaller than usual, as if she'd lost some of herself since yesterday. Underneath the scent of her floral perfume, he could smell panic.

  "How's Rick doing?" he asked.

  "Not well. But neither would I in the situation." She mashed her face into his shoulder, wetting his shirt with her tears. "Jason, thanks for being there for us."

  "What?" Jason was shocked to hear her thank him for so little. "God, Emma. You make me feel like a shit."

  "No, no. I don't mean it like that. I mean—well, I know you never really liked Liberty."

  He pushed her away so he could look at her. "Hey, that's not fair."

  "Well, you didn't like him." She blew her nose.

  "That's not true and not fair. I just didn't know either of them very well. You were the one who spent time with them." "You were always too busy working," she reminded him.

  He didn't want to hear how alone she used to feel, how he didn't like her friends. He shook his head, didn't want to go there at all. She changed the subject.

  "Jason, was this how it was for you?"

  His stomach growled. He stared at the teapot, needing food. When she was kidnapped? "It was worse. I didn't know whether you were alive or dead. And if you were alive, whether I could save you. I was crazed."

  "Did you love me that much?" she asked. "As much as Rick loved Merril?"

  "Oh, Emma," he said softly. "I still do."

  First her shoulders shook, and then her whole body. "Jason, I've been so selfish. I'm so sorry." She huddled against him, sobbing again.

  "Hey. Let's say we've both been a little single-minded."

  "I don't know what I'd do without you. I can see that now."

  "Um . . . Emma?"

  "Hmmm?”

  "You're getting my shirt al wet, baby, and I have to eat something."

  She detached herself and reached for the tea tray. "I'll make you a sandwich. Listen, Jason, what do the police think?"

  "Here, I'll take the tray." He led the way to the kitchen. "Have you talked with April Woo yet?"

  "She called and asked if she could come over later. But I didn't know what time you'd be free."

  Emma started pulling plastic bags and containers from the refrigerator. Jason watched, thinking the detective would want to talk to Emma, not him. She was the one who'd been with the victims just before they died. "What did you tell her?"

  "I told her to call you. Do the police have any leads?"

  A sandwich took shape under Emma's trembling fingers. She thoughtfully filled a baguette with all the cholesterol Jason wasn't supposed to eat, all the stuff she loved and sneaked whenever he wasn't around. The sandwich she made consisted of salami, brie, pate, roasted peppers, arugula, and tomato. In earlier days, he would have complained of her insensitivity, taken it apart, and removed the bits dangerous to his heart and arteries. Now, he accepted her offering with pleasure and gobbled it hungrily, savoring every poisonous bite.

  "Emma," he said cautiously. "April doesn't want me. She's going to want to talk to you. You knew them both better than I did. You were with them last night."

  Emma's mood worsened. "I didn't see Rick last night," she said.

  "Rick? No, but you were with the victims last night. Merrill and-"

  "Tor." Emma wrinkled her nose.

  "What about that? Did they have a relationship?"

  The wrinkle turned into a frown. "I don't think so, but I don't know."

  "Were they involved?"

  "I said I don't know." Angrily, Emma removed a plate from the table, then banged it on the edge of the sink, chipping it. "Shit."

  Jason watched her, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed. "I'd guess you're worried about it."

  "No."

  "Turn around and look at me, baby. I know you're worried. I can feel it."

  She turned on the water. "You'd worry, too," she said with her back to him.

  He sighed. "They're going to ask you to tell them everything you know about Merrill, and Rick, and this other person, Tor—"

  "Petersen, just about the richest and craziest man in America. I can't believe they're dead. I can't believe it. They were so alive last night. They loved my play."

  Jason finished the sandwich.

  "And I don't know what to tell them."

  "You'll have to tell them the truth."

  "The truth" She spat out the word. "The whole idea makes me sick. What if the truth doesn't have anything to do with who killed them?" Finally she turned around and stared at him. "Jason, do you know what I mean about this?"

  "You mean you don't want to share the secrets of your closest friend. You don't want her life exposed. You don't want yourself exposed. You don't want Rick exposed." He sighed again. "What's your part in it?"

  "They picked me up at the theater. We had dinner together. I left before dessert. I came home to you, Jason. I didn't want to keep you waiting." Her eyes teared. "We made love, remember?"

  She'd been in high spirits, as she usually was after a performance. Jason had been exhausted, had fallen asleep. She'd woken him up to be with her, but it had been worth it. "I remember," he murmured, then, "Emma, Merrill's dead. The only thing that matters now is to find out who killed her."

  "Jason, you do it."

  "Do what?"

  "You work with the police," Emma entreated him. "You find out who killed her."

  Jason checked his watch. Ten past four. He'd eaten a huge sandwich, full of cholesterol, in four minutes flat and would suffer for it later. He groaned. "I'm a psychiatrist, not a detective."

  "It's the same thing. Come on, do this for Rick, no—do it for me. Find out who did this."

  "Then you'll have to tell me what you know. Try it out on me."

  "It's probably nothing useful," she muttered.

  "But still, you're afraid. Look, I have to go." He got up from the table to embrace her one last time before getting back to work.

  She put her arms around him. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

  "Well, you're safe," he told her. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

  "It's not myself I'm worried about," she said softly as he left.

  When Jason got back to his office, his patient—a young psychiatric resident who didn't know Jason lived next door—was sitting in the waiting room, tapping his foot impatiently. The man stared at the wet spots on Jason's shirt, and the
n his face, clearly trying to figure out where Jason had been in the dead of winter, and what he'd been doing, without his jacket or coat. Jason excused himself for a moment to go into his office and try April again. She still wasn't in.

  9

  Rosa Washington heard the phone ring in the suit e where her office was located. She ran down the hall to get it before the secretary picked up and whined to whoever was on the line that no one was there. No one at all. Everyone was sick or dead, and the place was falling apart. The woman was a bit of a loon even for the morgue. Rosa thought they must have gotten her from Bellevue's psych bin down the street.

  "I'm here," Rosa called as she jogged into the suite, her white coat flapping around a fresh scrub suit. "Is it him?"

  "He." Elinor Dunn corrected her boss's grammar with a shake of her graying head.

  Rosa scowled at the thin, wispy woman, nearly twice her age, whose disapproving face always gave Rosa the feeling that she herself was a fake, always on the brink of making some ghastly social or grammatical faux pas.

  The nasty woman punched a button and held the receiver away from her ear as if it had lice. "It's a Mrs. Petersen. She sounds English," she hissed. "And you have company." She jerked her head at two detectives standing inside the door of Rosa's office.

  Rosa gave them a small smile and removed her cap.

  "Himself did call twice, since you asked." Elinor made a point of checking her notes as to what Himself had said. "He said to hold off on Petersen and the Liberty woman. He's coming in tomorrow for sure."

  Rosa didn't let her face show her disappointment as she turned away. Her two prizes had been on ice since four this morning. Already it had been a twelve-hour wait to open them up. There was no excuse for this. None at all. They didn't have a full house at the moment, and there was certainly nobody who couldn't wait. These two babies were hers. By anybody's rights they were hers. She'd been arguing this to herself all day. Hadn't she been there and seen them in situ? Hadn't she, in fact, been practically the first one on the scene? You couldn't get more conscicntious than that. In her mink coat, no less. She was proud of thc mink coat. It could take anything.

  "Hi, guys, what's up?" She smiled at the two cops, covcring every negative feeling she had. She tossed thc cap on the desk and pointed at April. '''You're April Woo, right?"

  As far as Rosa knew, there wasn't another female Chink detective. She turned to the Hispanic. "Who's this? Oh, yeah." She smacked her forehead. "I couldn't mistake that bit of facial foliage, now could I? You're Sanchez, Two-O, right?"

  "Wow, I'm impressed at the good memory, Doc. But I'm in Homicide now."

  "Well, good for you, we'll be meeting more often, then. What brings you two over here?"

  "What's the schedule on Petersen and Liberty?" April said. "We're under some pressure here."

  "Well, have a seat and relax." Rose threw herself in her chair and swiveled back and forth. "You know I can't believe this. I've got those two babies down there waiting for me. And I ean't open them up."

  "What's the problem?" Mike asked.

  "You haven't heard? Dr. Abraham is home sick."

  "Oh, yeah?" Mike said. "And?"

  "And, he doesn't want the cameras on anybody else."

  "Too bad," Mike sympathized.

  "Was I not there first?" Rosa demanded of April. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

  "Yeah, you were there first. In your mink coat. Nice coat."

  "You like it?" Rosa beamed.

  "Who wouldn't? How did you get the call? Someone beep you?"

  "No, I was off last night." She laughed. "But who of us is ever really off? No, I like to know what's coming down. I have a beef about these non-MD inspectors going to the scene. You know how much training they have? Believe me, it may seem cheaper in the short term. But the public is going to suffer in the long run. These guys miss a lot, that's for sure. No, I pick up what's on the scanner. If I'm in the neighborhood, I'll hop over."

  The pretty Chinese woman had a closed face. She sat on the end of her chair. She wasn't relaxed. Rosa wished she'd lighten up. "And I thought I got lucky last night. No way these two babies aren't mine. Am I right?" she asked April.

  "Sure. So, what's going to happen now? We need a death report."

  "Blinky's out sick, too," Rosa went on.

  "Who's Blinky?" April asked.

  "Blinky's the other deputy. He's got a drooping eyelid, so we call him Blinky."

  "You mean George?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah, Blinky."

  "Is that why he's out sick? The eyelid?" The Chink was still deadpan. Not exactly a barrel of laughs, that one.

  Rosa laughed anyway. "Oh no, he's out because one of his babies infected him with hepatitis A. I'd call that pretty careless, wouldn't you?"

  Mike nodded. "It kind of gives you the willies about playing with other people's blood, doesn't it?"

  "You have any leads yet?" Rosa got serious and tapped her desk with a pencil.

  "Early days," Mike said. "Give us a call tomorrow. I'd like to be present."

  "Fine, I'll let you know." She stood up to show she was done with them, then changed her mind and took them to the door. Then she walked down the hall with them to the elevator. But after all that they still didn't tell her anything worth knowing.

  10

  Yes, sir, he told me to go straight home from the theater." Until this point in the interview Wallace Jefferson, Jr., had held Mike's eye without wavering. Now he looked down at his big-knuckled hands, clenching the natty cap he held in his lap. "I'm sorry I did. If I'd been there to pick them up, that fine gentleman and lady would still be alive."

  And how could they be sure of that? April was feeling less than patient with this one. Her exhaustion was returning after a second wind that had lasted most of the day. Now it was nearly six, and she was in a hurry to get out of there and meet with Jason and Emma, who'd left a message saying she could come to their apartment at six-thirty.

  Okay, there it was. A patch of white showing in Jefferson's apparently downcast eyes, as if he was actually trying to look up at her and Mike from his half-closed lids to gauge their reaction without the appearance of doing so.

  "They were fine people. I will miss them," he intoned, speaking like a worshiper in church and not a suspect in a grubby precinct interview room.

  "Did your boss often send you home to fend for himself in the middle of snowstorms?" Mike asked.

  "He was a thoughtful man. I live in New Jersey."

  "Doesn't it seem contrary to the point of having a chauffeur, though?" Mike mused.

  "Sir?"

  "Isn't the point of a chauffeur to have him around in the worst weather?"

  Jefferson's eyes came alive at this. "I do—did— whatever Mr. Petersen asked me to do. Whenever he sent me home he had his own reasons."

  "What reason do you think he had last night?"

  "What reason?"

  Wally Jefferson seemed acutely respectable with his dark suit and dark driver's cap, his manner of almost exaggerated gentleness, and his voice that was soft, reverent, and well spoken. To April he seemed old-style African-American in the same way her mother was old-style Chinese. Everything hidden behind a predetermined formula for expression that could be altered neither by flattery nor torture.

  If he was nervous in the interview room, he did not show it. Jefferson was a broad slab of a man of about five nine, weighed something over two hundred pounds, was the color of roasted coffee beans. They'd run him through the computer. He had no priors. Still, there was something about him that April did not trust.

  "What was his relationship with Mrs. Liberty?" she asked.

  "They were in the same social set," Jefferson said easily.

  "Is that a way of saying they were friends?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. I just drive the car." He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed delicately.

  "Were they possibly more than friends?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "What wa
s your work schedule?" Mike changed the subject.

  "You mean with Mr. Petersen?"

  "Yes, what days did you work?"

  "It wasn't the same every week. Mr. Petersen traveled a great deal. When he was here, I sometimes worked every day until midnight, one a.m. When he was away—" He shrugged.

  "You drove other people."

  "Not really." Jefferson looked wary.

  "How about Mr. Petersen's wife?"

  "Oh, yes, I drove her."

  "What about Liberty?"

  "Well him, too. Sometimes."

  "Why was that? Doesn't Mr. Liberty have his own driver?"

  "He did when Mrs. Liberty was working. But she isn't working—wasn't working anymore. He likes the walk to work. So now when they need someone, they call a service for a driver." Jefferson poked under his coUar to scratch at the skin on his neck.

  "Or you drive them."

  "Yes." Jefferson famed his attention to his knuckles. They were thick and crooked, almost deformed.

  "Did Mr. Liberty call you to drive him to the airport yesterday?"

  "No, he didn't."

  "Why not?"

  Jefferson reached for his nose and pinched it between two fingers. "I really couldn't say."

  "Is it because he didn't have a car?" Mike leaned forward in his hard chair, shrugging his shoulder holster a little.

  Jefferson seemed particularly interested in the gun. "Sir?"

  "Liberty's car? What happened with that?"

  "Oh, yes. Mr. Liberty's car." Jefferson nodded solemnly.

  "It was stolen, right?"

  "A bit of bad luck."

  "How and when was the car stolen?"

  Jefferson hunched his shoulders, shaking his head, as if the whole thing were a sad story he'd heard.

  "Come on, now, Wally. We know you took Mr. Liberty's

  Jefferson was stunned. "Mr. Liberty didn't tell you that!"

  "Oh, yes, he did. He said you stole his car."