by Leslie Glass
"Well, maybe we'd better have a little talk with the DA about that, because the situation's changed again."
Iriarte rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, what now?"
"A lot."
"Well, talk."
April sat down. Mike did not. Mike nodded to April to go on. She complied. "Before Dr. Frank left here the other day, he asked to see the death reports and photos on Petersen and Merrill Liberty. I showed him the photographs of Petersen's body. He was interested in the pinpointed spot above Petersen's abdomen. The same thing Ducci was interested in."
"Shrinks aren't doctors. Dust and fiber nuts are not doctors. What do they know?" Iriarte grumbled.
"Remember the story about the woman and the wire hanger?" April was unruffled.
"Not that again." Now Iriarte was looking really peeved.
"I asked at the labs if there's any way they can enhance the autopsy photographs to show the exact size and nature of whatever that thing on Petersen's chest is—and whether the injury had been filled in and disguised with makeup so that we all might have missed it during the autopsy."
"What?"
"In Petersen's autopsy the ultraviolet lights weren't on. There was a lot we might have missed, including the lint from Petersen's T-shirt."
Irarte scratched the side of his face. This was getting away from him. "Makeup?'' he grunted, ignoring the T-shirt issue.
"You know, like they do in funeral homes to fix customers who've had really bad illnesses, or injuries, to look—"
"All right, I get the picture." Iriarte rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. "Don't make me guess. Can they perform this photographic miracle?"
Mike was smiling broadly. The makeup idea was his.
"We don't have the answer to that yet, sir. But we have enough other problems with the autopsy to cast serious doubts on the ME's report."
Iriarte inhaled noisily, then exhaled, making the sound of an angry goat. He changed the subject. "What did Liberty and the woman say?"
April gave the short version from her notes. "They said the guy who shot Jefferson ran across the four lanes of Broadway, recognized Liberty, and threatened him with a gun. There was a second man with the shooter. He punched the Lindsay woman in the head, knocking her down. Liberty went for the shooter, causing him to drop the gun. The other man came at Liberty with a knife, slashing him in the chest. Liberty went down, saw the gun, picked it up, and threw it out of reach. That's how his prints got on the gun. The woman started yelling. The two men ran away."
"Chest wounds?"
"Yes," April confirmed.
"Could the injuries have been caused during the earlier homicides?" Iriarte demanded.
"They're fresh, sir. EMS took a look at them, no infection, no healing—new."
"Shit."
Mike took it up from there. "Both Liberty and the Lindsay woman picked out the mug shot of Julio Andreas Garcia as the shooter and the man who attacked them. Has ballistics come up with anything else on that gun?"
"Yeah, they picked up a floater around the Statue of Liberty yesterday. No il yet. Hispanic, thirty-five to forty, exotic dental work, what's left of it. He was shot in the head. There are fragments of gold bridge-work and only a few of his teeth are left. Probably went in the water four days ago. But he may have died before that. Three bullets in the head match with the gun that killed Jefferson. They're checking with the blood in Liberty's car to see if it's a match with the floater."
"I'd guess the time frame of the man's death isn't going to match up with Liberty's other busy killing and running schedule. What do we have now, four homicides?" Mike asked.
"Three homicides," lriarte said, still taking the hard line on Petersen.
"You can probably send Julio down for the two shootings, Jefferson and the John Doe."
"No, Jefferson could have killed the John Doe. He was the mule who stole Liberty's car.' '
"Well, we can credit Jefferson with being the great brain who thought of using Liberty's car for drug exchange. Something went wrong. One of them shot the guy. They abandoned the car. At some point they got scared and dumped the body in the water somewhere off Staten Island. We'll have to check about the currents near where the car was found to come up with a time frame."
"I'm betting no connection with the Petersen/Mer--rill Liberty homicides," Mike said.
"One homicide," Iriarte insisted.
"I'm betting on a double homicide," April said. "And I think Julio had to get rid of Jefferson last night because he didn't trust Jefferson to keep his mouth shut about their drug activities once Jefferson was a suspect in Merrill Liberty's murder. Julio must have worried that Jefferson would rather go down on a drug charge than a murder charge."
The three were silent, thinking it over.
Finally Iriarte figured out a solution. "All right," he sighed, "we'll handle it this way. Two of these homicides don't belong to us. Jefferson belongs to the Thirtieth. Let them go out and pick up this Julio."
April and Mike nodded. Good plan.
Iriarte licked his lips. "Now about this Liberty thing."
"Jason Frank has been trying to reach me all day. You want to see the little present he brought me?"
"I don't like shrinks. Shrinks aren't real doctors," Iriarte muttered.
April smiled. That's what she used to think. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a round thin plastic container.
"What's that?"
April opened the container and drew out a thin ten-inch needle with a sharp point on one end and white
plastic head on the other. The needle was sheathed in clear plastic tubing. Iriarte grabbed his glasses and read the words on the container. Trocar catheter. 3.3 mm. He put his hand to his mouth, worried.
Finally he said, "Does this little goody match the hole—assuming there is a hole—in Petersen's chest, and the hole in Merrill Liberty's throat?"
"Three millimeters is about half the size of an ice pick. We'll have to get the lab to make the measurements and see. In Merrill Liberty's case, we can dig her up if we have to."
"Where did the shrink get this?"
"Every emergency room, every operating room, every EMS unit has them. Trocars are used to create an airway, or draw fluid, or blood or air to release pressure. Every resident has to practice with them. They come in several sizes: for adults, children, and infants. They're sharp, can penetrate quickly and deeply. Looks like a knitting needle, doesn't it?"
April slipped the unsheathed trocar back in her sleeve, then drew it out, demonstrating to Iriarte how it would neatly slide out to become a lethal weapon, then be easily concealed when the perpetrator left the scene.
"You're going to have to let Liberty go for now, sir."
Groaning, Iriarte checked his watch. It was 8:59 P.M. Liberty had been there for four hours. At 9 P.M. Sunday night the lieutenant was going to have to call the mayor's office, the police commissioner's office, and the DA. Everyone had to hear about the problem with the deputy medical examiner—and the release of Liberty—from him first. It wasn't going to be a good night for him. He scowled at April. She knew her mother's curse would be accomplished, and she would pay for tonight. She glanced at Mike.
No one mentioned Rosa's name.
Iriarte said, "Well, get out of here and go bring her in. I'll have the DA here to talk to her, see how deeply she's involved. He's not going to like this," the lieutenant added in a warning voice, as if the homicides and improper autopsies themselves were all April's fault.
"Thank you, sir," she said.
She and Mike exchanged knowing looks. Once again Iriarte wanted the two of them gone as fast as possible. He wanted to be remembered in the photos, not as the one who arrested Liberty, but as the one who let him go.
48
Rosa Washington lived in Greenwich Village. April was silent as Mike drove Captain McCarthy's unmarked green Ford Taurus south on Broadway. It was a clear starless night, the coldest yet. She stared out the window at the dizzy
ing display of lights. Neon signs selling theater, underwear, watches, sex, sneakers, punched out of the dark, jolting the senses like a drug shot through the veins. Cruising through Times Square, where the golden ball had dropped on the new year only twelve days ago, April felt a slight surge of energy. Outside the car, the air cut to the bone, but there was still action on the streets this Sunday night despite the frigid temperature. January in New York. April adjusted her scarf. Static, more static, then a garbled call jumped out of the scanner. Mike reached over and turned it off. Ducci had left a message: The ultraviolet lights had not turned up any traces of blood on Merrill Liberty's mink coat. But it was definitely Rosa Washington's hair that had been taken off Petersen's body. When it had gotten there was now the question.
"What are we taking her in for?" April asked after a minute. "Intentionally messing up an autopsy or unintentionally messing up an autopsy?"
She had been working for seven days straight, the last three days for fourteen hours at a stretch. Today with the funeral and the fiasco in Kiang's office had been the worst. Mentally, she shook herself, trying to wake up. She was tired, felt flabby and soft as she tried to work herself up to the nervy state necessary for telling the deputy ME she was in big trouble.
"You know her best. What's your call?"
"Here we go again with the your call, my call bit," April complained.
"You did pretty well last time."
"Fine. No plan. We play it by ear." She sank into her own thoughts and didn't glance in Mike's direction until he said, "There it is."
April studied the building at Rosa Washington's address. Nine stories. Red brick. Small windows except on the Hudson Street side, where the middle apartment every other floor had French doors and a narrow balcony for plants. The building was prewar, but not the kind of prewar Petersen's lavishly appointed Fifth Avenue building was—all limestone and brass and marble with huge windows. This kind of prewar was just old, kind of run-down, had an external fire escape. Mike parked in front of a fire hydrant and killed the engine.
"Let's take this real easy." April inhaled and exhaled a few times, trying to take it real easy herself. She glanced up at the sixth floor. The left apartment still had Christmas lights ringing the window, but the inside lights were off. The right apartment was dark. The middle windows glowed. April guessed that Rosa was up.
The front door of the building was open. Inside, the second door was locked. Mike found Washington's name on the menu of tenants: 6B. His options were to ring the super's bell and, if the super was there, have a conversation with him about letting. them in. Mike could ring Rosa's bell, ask her to ring them up, thereby alerting her to their presence. Or he could wait for some other tenant to open the door for them. Apparently none of those options appealed to him. He didn't look at April as he casually popped the lock open with a tool from his pocket.
April brushed past him, got into the elevator, hit the button marked six. "Nice and easy," she cautioned again as they moved slowly upward after a few introductory bumps. She realized she was afraid of Rosa.
The elevator door slid open. Mike moved out into the narrow hall first. April followed. Five apartments on the floor; 6B was in the middle of the hall, just opposite them. April took the center position. She glanced at Mike's face, taut now. When he lowered his chin, she rang the bell. She knew he didn't like her position. He preferred to be the target in front of the door, liked her to be the one covering him from the side. She smiled. Macho man. Rosa wasn't going to hurt them.
A crack of light showed under the door, but the occupant was in no hurry to open up. April rang the bell again. Maybe she had company.
Finally a low voice came from within. "You have the wrong apartment."
"It's Sergeant Woo," April said, then added, "and Sergeant Sanchez."
"It's late. What do you want?"
"We want you to open the door." This from Mike.
Rosa didn't reply. She took some time rattling the chains and turning the locks. When she finally opened the door, she was gazing past April at the elevator door. The window in it showed that the elevator was not there. It had returned to the first floor. Rosa stood in front of the entrance to her apartment. "What's up?"
"We need you to come uptown with us." April took in the fine white sweater, the gray trousers, and gold chain belt the doctor wore. The gold earrings and gold watch. The doctor's hair was washed and set, not wispy now. Her lips red. She looked good.
"This is my day off," she said.
Mine too, April didn't say. "Are you going to let us in, or do you want to talk in the hall?"
Rosa's face showed no sign of tension as she backed away and let them enter her surprisingly gracious apartment. The foyer had a parquet floor and a black-painted fence that ran the width of the sunken living room except at the entrance in the middle where two small steps went down. Recessed lights gave the yellow living room a warm glow. Trees and plants lined the windows facing Hudson Street. Two maroon sofas and two club chairs had a comfortable look. A large square coffee table placed between them was laden with books. The focal point of the room were the French windows that opened on the narrow balcony Mike and April had seen from below. Now that they were up here, April could see that the French windows were cracked open.
Dispassionately, Washington watched them examine the place. "You want to sit down?" she asked, inviting them down the steps into the sunken living room.
Mike checked his watch. "We're in kind of a hurry," he replied.
April could see he wanted to get moving. When they'd entered the building, she'd unbuttoned her coat, just in case. Now it was very hot in the apartment even with the French doors not fully closed. If they didn't get going immediately, she'd have to take the coat off. It didn't look as if Rosa was ready to come with them. The woman moved to the sofa closest to the windows and sat down. April considered her options in the coat department, but Rosa started speaking before she had time to make a decision.
"I saw that Liberty was arrested. Good job."
"Yeah. A real stroke of genius," Mike said sarcastically.
"What's the problem?" The doctor looked puzzled.
"You'11 hear everything uptown at the station." Mike checked his watch again. "They're waiting for us."
Rosa didn't ask who. She scowled and turned her attention to April. "I took you guys into my confidence. The least you can do is fill me in."
"It's your turn to fill us in," April said softly.
"About what?"
"Oh, a few things need clarifying."
"What things?"
"Your relationship with Tor Petersen. Your relationship with Daphne Petersen."
"Hey, hey, hey. I have no relationship with that bitch."
"She called you on the phone the day her husband died. What did she want?"
"She wanted to know when the body would be released. "
"Before she knew the cause of death? Come on, Rosa, the game is up. You have to come clean about this. We know about you and Petersen."
"Well, I can't do it this way," Rosa snapped. "I'm a doctor. I don't go to the precinct. You can send someone to my office tomorrow."
"Doctors come to the precinct to talk all the time," April told her. "Tomorrow is too late. We have to do it now."
"It's been a hard week. I don't work on the weekends," Rosa said stubbornly. "My position requires some respect."
"Rosa, none of us get respect in murder cases. Don't make this hard for yourself." April pursed her lips. She glanced at Mike, standing by the door. He was sucking on his mustache.
Rosa glanced at him nervously. "All right, I may have made a mistake about Petersen," she admitted suddenly. "Let's let it go at that."
"People make mistakes," April said, neutral.
"I thought I could get away with it. We were so careful."
"You and Daphne?"
"I told you I had nothing to do with her," Rosa said angrily. "It was Tor I knew. Isn't that—?" Her face flashed horror as April's mo
uth dropped open: Rosa Washington was Petersen's secret lover!
Mike picked up instantly. "Guess you weren't careful enough."
"We only met here. Can you believe that son of a bitch wouldn't even take me out to dinner?" Rosa glared at them. "He was afraid his wife would find out and steal his money." Her breath came short. "Oh, he was some piece of work."
The trocar that only doctors knew how to use, Rosa's hair on Petersen's body—on his sweater—the mink coat that Emma saw at the scene of the crime— all Rosa's. That was Ducci's message. Rosa hadn't missed the cause of death; she'd murdered the victim.
Mike opened his jacket and placed himself between Rosa and the door. He jerked his head at April to get out of the way. She moved toward the window. "Why?"
Rosa's face distorted with rage. "No way I'd let him tie me up and beat me. Not for all the money in the world. Once was enough." Her mouth twisted. "I don't let nobody trick me and hurt me like that." She sniffed back angry tears.
"What about Merrill Liberty, did she hurt you, too?"
"I'm a doctor. You understand? I'm a doctor." Rosa didn't move. "I'm a doctor. You can't treat me like this."
"I don't understand, explain it to me. He hurt you, so why didn't you just break up with him?" April asked.
Rosa shook her head. "He wouldn't let go."
April shot a look at Mike. Now one of them was at each end of the room. It occurred to April that Rosa might be crazy enough to try to shoot them. But where was the gun? Not on her person. Maybe behind the pillows in the sofa. Once again Rosa's hands were folded in her lap. She'd calmed down. Now she looked both dangerous and helpless at the same time. Spooky. This was a woman who killed her lover, then coldly dissected him as part of her job. All the pieces that hadn't fit before came together. Rosa had access to Petersen's body in the morgue. She had removed his T-shirt with the tiny hole in it and used waterproof makeup to disguise his wound. Rosa had been so cool when Ducci picked it up during the autopsy. She must have figured, as ME, she was in control. Only later, when April kept picking at it, did she feel threatened. April took off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair.