A Killing Gift

by Leslie Glass

  "Sergeant Woo." Her tired voice broke on her name.

  "Hey, it's Marcus. You sound bad."

  "Marcus. What's up?" April was glad to hear from him.

  "I've been checking on some of Bernardino's old cases. You know those two guys you and the lieutenant collared eight years ago in that sweatshop fire? They got out last week. I just thought you'd want to know."

  "Didn't they get fifteen?" April remembered the case. A nasty one. Two owners of a run-down Chinatown building had been running a pocketbook sweatshop with a couple dozen illegal workers. They'd boarded the windows and locked all the exits so the employees couldn't wander in and out during the day. An angry ex-boyfriend of one of the workers had set the place on fire and killed five people on the top floor who'd been trapped inside. An unexpected consequence was the jury's decision to convict the two building owners for criminal negligence in the deaths.

  "Yeah, white guys, they served eight," Marcus said.

  "I remember them." April did remember them. Slimy guys, Ridley and Washburn had said they'd get even, but dozens of people who were put away said that. By the time the scum got out, they usually had other things on their minds. "Good going. Have you checked where the pair were on Wednesday night?"

  "Well, it didn't have to be them. They could have hired someone," Marcus said. "But yeah, I'm all over it."

  "Thanks for letting me know."

  "How ya doin'? You sound like hell," Marcus said.

  "I'm doing great. Keep in touch on it, will you?" April didn't feel like socializing.

  "You bet." Marcus obediently rang off.

  April turned back to where she'd left her car. Ridley and Washburn were jerks, but jerks who'd killed by accident because they were greedy. They were hardly karate experts, trained to kill in public places. As she faced west, the air behind her stirred in an uneasy shimmer from another dimension, predicting more trouble to come. Goose bumps rose on the back of her neck. She'd experienced the same sensation many times before, and much as she wished it were just a breeze picking up, she knew it wasn't a breeze. It was a chilly warning to watch her back. The ghosts and devils from Bernardino's past were coming alive.

  Twenty-two

  Friday night passed in an anxious haze of yin uncertainty. Together again by eleven p.m., Mike and April talked very little about the case and held each other tight all night, each hoping the other would get a few hours' rest from the case. By seven a.m. Saturday morning, however, April was up again, padding around in a T-shirt and bare feet. The twenty-second-floor, one-bedroom apartment they shared faced Manhattan in the west, and the first thing she did every morning ever since 9/11 was to reassure herself that the beloved skyline was still aligned the same as it had been the night before.

  Today she opened the doors to the terrace, where the wisteria she had planted a year ago was now in abundant bloom. The flower sprays were her favorite color, huge and purple. They cascaded over the little trellis Mike had sunk into the pot for her. Neither she nor he had much interest in playing gardener, but the little time they'd spent on planting the cutting back then yielded a huge reward now. The magic of nature distracted her for a moment. She stepped outside into the chilly spring morning to smell her prize. Instantly the healing scabs tightened on her tender knees, and cold cement bit into her bare feet. She ignored the cold and leaned against the terrace railing to inhale the wisteria's sweet perfume. She was fully awake now, and despite her bruises and sore muscles, she felt clearheaded.

  She gazed out at her wide view of the jewel Manhattan so tantalizingly etched against the sky. From across the East River in Queens, it always looked so tempting, like a magical city. But right now within the island's twenty-one miles Bernardino's killer might well be sleeping, eating, still walking around unchallenged. Then again, he might be somewhere else, far from their reach. Or the killer could be as close as a relative. It was too soon to know. Finally the cold got to her, and she went inside to put the kettle on.

  As she waited for the water to boil, her brain began to gallop through the list. Bernardino was a retired cop, a Vietnam veteran, a father of two law-enforcement specialists, a recent widower, and the heir to a lottery fortune. Unconnected slivers of information bombarded her like parade confetti in a high wind. Where did the dots connect? She'd bet a year's salary the key to the murder was the fortune. But maybe it wasn't.

  If she had to examine every aspect of Bernardino's life leading back the last few days, the last few weeks, the last few months, the last few years of his life to find where Bernardino had been headed and who had crossed his path before he got there, she would do it. Anything to release his soul for a happy afterlife. She moved to the sofa in the living room to start with the computer files that she'd copied into her laptop.

  A decade ago, when April began working with Bernardino, he hadn't owned a computer, and neither had she. Then they'd done everything the old way. They'd taken notes by hand and banged out reports on manual typewriters. A couple of desks in the unit had been equipped with electric typewriters, but not the correcting kind. That had been back in the dark ages when they'd kept their files in boxes and stacked them up in corners because there weren't enough filing cabinets to contain them all.

  When she'd copied Bernardino's files, April could see that he hadn't been one of those older guys who hung onto carbon paper and Wite-Out and hated technology. Quite the contrary, Bernardino even had his PalmPilot hooked up to his Micron, so both his address book and schedule came up on his computer screen. April wasn't this meticulous. Her precious address book was a small fat loose-leaf that contained the phone numbers and addresses of nearly every person she'd ever used as a source, people from all over the country. She'd never gotten around to copying all of it. Periodically she'd forget where she'd left it and tailspin into a panic.

  Bernardino was on the other end of the spectrum. He'd taken all the precautions. He also had Quicken, the accounting software that showed his deposits and itemized all his expenses. This degree of organization was initially surprising to her, because he'd always seemed like a sloppy kind of guy, not that disciplined. He'd eaten anything he fancied, didn't mind what hours he worked or who was inconvenienced by his schedule, and when he was investigating a case he'd been like an octopus. The tentacles of his mind had reached out in all directions.

  Looking at his work more slowly now, April saw that organization had been his strong suit. His list of notes, detailing everyone he'd talked with and everywhere he'd gone every day, said it all. But the last three days of his life showed a change in this habit. Whatever activities he'd had, he hadn't recorded by this method. Or else someone had erased them.

  She scrolled through his list of folders and found Jupiter, West Palm, Venice, Fort Myers, Bradendon, Sarasota. West-coast-of-Florida cities. Opening them one by one, she saw that he'd been corresponding with real estate agents. The files contained dozens of photos of Mediterranean-style houses with exotic-shaped pools on canals and golf courses. The gorgeous-looking places listed at four, five, six hundred thousand dollars. That would be an unthinkable amount for Mike and April to spend, but much less than Bernardino could have afforded with his millions.

  His correspondence with brokers showed that he'd been planning a trip to check out the towns and houses on his list. If his heart truly had been as broken as Marcus Beame had intimated to Mike, it certainly hadn't stopped him from planning his new life. April clicked to Quicken and scrolled through his checks. Not surprising, there had been a lot of medical bills. After the lottery money came in, he'd stopped playing the insurance game and simply started paying for private rooms for Lorna's hospital stays, for the lab tests, second opinions, private duty nurses. The list went on and on. The costs added up to such a large number that April began to wonder about Kathy again. Kathy was beginning to look way too naive for an FBI agent.

  And then there was Lorna's funeral. Bernardino had put out some major bucks on that. April checked through to the funeral costs. Here was another
surprise. Lorna had been cremated, an unusual thing for a Catholic. Another entry showed that Bernardino had bought a plot in a Queens cemetery. Calvary. But did Catholic churches accept cremated remains? She'd have to ask.

  Another thing puzzled her. Would Bernie bury his wife up in Queens if he planned to sell the house and move away? The bank statements themselves were missing. This seemed inconsistent with his character, as did the mess in his house. It seemed highly likely that someone had erased at least some of the files they were looking for. But that was not a problem for a techie. The computer had been removed from the house. Their experts could find whatever had been in there. Crooks were often dumb. Their dumb moves always nailed them.

  At ten past nine April heard the toilet flush, then the water in the sink run. A few minutes later Mike wandered in, shirtless and bleary-eyed, his face still wet from washing.

  "You left me," he murmured. "Why couldn't you sleep in for once?" He came over to the couch and took her chin in his hand to review the bruises on her neck. He made no comment at the deep purple not yet beginning to yellow.

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "You sound bad. What are you doing for that?"

  "Te quiero," she said softly.

  "Well, thanks. But that's not a response, froggy." He sat down beside her and followed her gaze to her computer screen. "What do we have here?"

  "Bernardino's Quicken."

  "You copied his files?" He looked impressed.

  "When I went out there Thursday. Looks like some stuff is missing."

  "I need a minute to wake up." He gave her a quick kiss and disappeared into the kitchen.

  She heard the refrigerator door open and close, the coffeemaker percolate, the teakettle begin to sing. He returned four minutes later with a mug of coffee and a mug of tea. He was a nice guy.

  "Thanks." She took the tea gratefully, put her face into the steam of her favorite brew. There was nothing in the world as wonderful as a useful man and a good cup of tea.

  He drank his coffee thoughtfully, then got up for more. When he returned from the kitchen the second time, he was ready. "What have you got?"

  She shook her head. "Nothing close to a clear picture of what was going on in Bernie's life. While Lorna was alive he paid her medical bills but made no other big purchases that are recorded here. It doesn't mean he didn't buy anything, though. The Quicken software only has his Chase account recorded in it. He bought a cemetery plot in Queens, not here. He paid for a funeral. He was looking for a house in Florida. It's weird."

  "What?"

  "Just this little thing. Would you bury me up here if you were moving away?"

  Mike snorted. "No, I'd take you with me in a little jar. Keep you in the car, and drive you around with me." He combed his mustache with his fingers, laughing at the idea of April in a jar.

  "Thanks. That's what I'm guessing. He had her cremated. He was taking her with him. I'll bet there was nothing buried in her plot. Just the marker. But why would he do that?"

  "He probably didn't. There wasn't an urn in the house. What's your point?"

  April sipped her delicious tea. "Just picking up strange vibes. Bernardino didn't mention any of this to me." She shrugged. Not that they'd been that close. She shook her head, sorry now that she hadn't asked a few more questions.

  "What else?" Mike asked.

  "He donated some money. Nothing big. I'm not all the way through it. A little here, a little there. If he hid big money in offshore banks or in Switzerland, those records aren't in here. And you didn't find any in the house. He was a fastidious guy. Where are they?"

  Mike added a new point. "We located a bunch of files from old cases. It looks like he made copies of the ones that interested him."

  "No kidding, which ones?" April was surprised. They weren't supposed to do that.

  "We took about a dozen boxes of paper out of there. No recent bank stuff. You can take a look."

  "I'd like to." She could probably guess which cases from her time with him continued to niggle at him. But she returned to the money question. "Why move cash out of the country if he was relocating to Florida?"

  "There's an explanation for everything. We've got Stevens working on the computer. He'll recover whatever was in it."

  But that took time, a lot of time. April changed the subject again. "I went to see Jack Devereaux last night. His girlfriend gave me chicken soup."

  "Always full of surprises. You didn't mention it."

  April smiled. "I must have forgotten."

  "Uh-huh. Did he give you anything?"

  "Just that he had the impression the killer was shorter than him, and young."

  "What about you? Has your memory come back with your voice?"

  "No." She looked down at her hands. "Lo siento," she said softly.

  "Too bad." Mike's face remained neutral. He didn't say that sorry wasn't good enough. He leaned over and doodled on her bare thigh with one finger and didn't have to say what he was thinking now. April ignored it. There was going to be no love this morning. She felt terrible. How could she not remember almost dying? And they had work to do.

  "Who's watching them?" she asked about Jack and Lisa.

  "McBeel. He's good."

  "Well, whoever he is, I didn't see him. If the killer thinks Jack got a look at him, he's at risk."

  "I know," Mike said. "You, too."

  "I carry a gun." April dismissed it. "Listen, this is important. Someone's been calling their house, bothering them."

  "On what subject?" Now Mike was interested.

  "Something about a promise."

  "What kind of a promise?"

  "Jack told me they have an unlisted number, so it has to be someone who knows them. So let's get started on the phone numbers right away."

  "We're working Bernardino's phone, too. How about you? Anybody funny calling you?" he asked, draining the last of his coffee.

  "No. You're unlisted." April finished her tea. "And Jack did remember one other thing. He told me the killer smelled like Icy Hot."

  "What?" Mike let the mug clatter on the coffee table.

  "It's like Tiger Balm, you know, that liniment for sore muscles. Watch that mug; it's going to go over."

  Mike clapped his hands. "Oh, boy." He jumped up, almost knocking the mug over a second time. "Oh, boy. Get dressed. We're going to the labs."

  "What about the viewing?" They'd planned to waylay Bill Bernardino at the funeral home.

  Mike brushed it aside. "When I talked to Gloss, he told me that Bernardino's body smelled like spearmint. So we've been looking for a chewing-gum connection. We checked his house, everywhere. We needed to nail that odor down, see how it fit. Way to go, querida!" He patted her shoulder.

  "Why didn't you ask me? I could have told you that Bernardino didn't chew gum." Bernardino used to stick an unlit cigarette in his mouth and suck on the filter for hours at a time. A disgusting habit.

  "Icy Hot is eucalyptus, camphor, that sort of smell. Spearmint is something else," she said slowly. She didn't want him distracted. He promised they'd take aim at Bill and Kathy at the viewing, try to get on the money trail.

  "He's a medical examiner. His sniffer's probably all messed up," Mike said.

  April lifted a shoulder. Bernardino's body smelled of spearmint. The killer smelled of Icy Hot. Were they the same? She herself remembered camphor emanating from the skin of an old opponent over twenty years ago, when she was a little girl and regularly got slammed to the mat. That odor mixed with the intense feeling of shame at being knocked down again and again became her symbol of resolve: one punch, one kill. Memory of the karate mantra prickled the back of her neck.

  "This may be our break," Mike urged.

  "Okay." Even in the cleanest crime scene the killer nearly always left something of himself behind. It was worth a try. She took the mugs into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink, reminding herself to tell him they had to do a lot more to find that mastiff walker. And they had to start checking the dojos for
people who liked to hurt. They had to get on it right away.

  Twenty-three

  They 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.