by Leslie Glass
April and Mike exchanged pleasantries with the sergeant on duty in the cage that kept people from wandering in and out with unauthorized materials. They submitted to a routine search, signed in, and were admitted. Inside, they threaded their way to the back of the building, where they knew Bernardino's car was in the loading bay.
"Anybody home?" Mike called out when they got there.
No answer, but the victim was a sorry sight. The late-model navy Ford Taurus was dirty and smudged from various fingerprinting and other tests. The trunk was open and the inside of it dismantled. The glove compartment was open and disassembled, too. The backseat was out of the car on the floor, and some car parts were missing altogether. Even the owner wouldn't have recognized his vehicle now.
The car had been parked several blocks away from the murder and was possibly unconnected to it, but it was being analyzed as part of the crime scene. Unfortunately, no one was around to enlighten them as to what clues, if any, it had given up.
Disappointed, April circled the wreck as if a visual tour alone could yield some useful information. "Let's go see if Duke is here."
"He's here," Mike said. "I called while you were in the shower."
She didn't say, "Thanks for sharing." She'd been afraid the trip was a waste of time. On their way back to the elevators they heard a familiar voice droning out a familiar lecture. They detoured down a long hallway to a classroom. There, Mike cracked open the door and saw Lieutenant Loeff of CSU doing his number with grisly crime-scene photos. He was challenging a roomful of people in plainclothes to guess how a bloody body in a kitchen told an exact story of how the victim had died. The audience could be anybody- uniforms who'd been promoted to detective, people from other agencies. A number of them turned around as Loeff pointed a finger at Mike.
"Yes, you over there. Thanks for stopping in. Catch you later."
Rebuked for interrupting, Mike nodded and closed the door.
"He's still using the same case," April remarked as they took the elevator up to Fernando Ducci's dust and fiber lab, with the million-dollar equipment that could help identify particles of just about anything except the wet stuff.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Mike touched April's hand and they moved out. As they started down the wide deserted hall, a deep voice thundered out at them.
"Fee fi fo fum, I hear steps of the pretty one."
"Oh, Jesus," April muttered.
"Fee fi fo fum!" The disembodied voice came again, sounding like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the giant in Jack in the Beanstalk.
April glanced at Mike. Fernando Ducci was not amusing even in small doses. He believed with complete certainty that he was at the very top of the food chain: the king of forensic magic, a true giant among men, maybe the most important man in the entire department. In fact he was small, shorter than April, and beefy from too many years of consuming half a dozen candy bars a day in addition to three sizable squares. Despite the weight, he was always dapper with his full, round choirboy cheeks, his fancy dress shirts in myriad combinations of blue and white, and his full head of slicked-down silver hair. If he wasn't already sixty, he was close to it.
"Pretty one, get in here and give me a kiss to brighten my day."
"What an asshole," Mike muttered. But pretty one smiled and shot back a response.
"Hey, Duke, stop that carrying on. You're going to ruin my reputation."
"You sound terrible. What's wrong with you?"
He didn't get up from his chair until she had passed through the outer room and was all the way into the inner sanctum. Then he was on his feet with open arms, blue-striped shirt with white collar, sleeves rolled up.
"Nothing catching." April crossed the space between them and gave him a quick hug.
"Is that all I get?" he complained. "Hey, Mike, thanks for stopping by." He thrust out a paw, and the two men shook.
"You're looking good, Duke. How's it going?"
"This is a terrible thing. Bernardino was a good man. What do you know?" Ducci tossed the hot potato right back.
"You first."
"Look, I don't know nothing. I get the clothes in a freaking box. Nobody says nothing about it. I have no death report. No briefing on what happened. What do you expect, miracles?" He lifted his arms with exaggerated exasperation.
"Absolutely. What do you have?"
He shrugged. "Not a lot. Dog hair mixed with the lint in his pants cuff. One grease spot and two coffee stains on his tie. Six grease spots on his jacket, shirt cuff, pants-right thigh. He must have been one messy eater. Or never changed his clothes.
"Let's see, oh, and a lipstick smudge on his shoulder. Might be yours, April. It's that Chinese red. I'm working on what kind. I think it's Revlon. His socks didn't match; that doesn't sound like him-"
"What kind of grease spots?" April interrupted.
"What happened to your manners, Pretty? I'm not finished." Ducci looked offended. "There's a long list here."
"We don't have a lot of time," Mike apologized for her.
"Bull-oney." He reached over and opened a drawer, then grabbed three Mars bars from the collection of candy bars stored in there. "Here, relax, have a snack. Didn't anybody tell you're going to have a stroke one day if you don't slow down?"
"Bernardino was my rabbi," April said. "And red is out this season. Nowhere near my color." Especially with the purple dress she'd been wearing. But why was she arguing? Ducci was playing with himself. Bernardino hadn't been killed by a woman.
"Go on, take. I insist."
"Thanks." Mike palmed the candy bar, opened the wrapper, and bit in.
April frowned at him. Ducci stared at her until she relented.
"I'd prefer one of those," she said meekly, pointing to a Baby Ruth. She wasn't a fan of sugar but she was a sucker for those peanuts.
"Sure, sure. Whatever you want. Keep both, I have plenty… Now, what do you want to know?"
"The grease stains. Where and what were they?" April watched Mike devour his Mars bar. Then she handed him hers. There you go, piggy, her face said.
"Marinara sauce on the underside right sleeve near the cuff of his shirt. Matching stain on the shirt cuff. He must have put his arm in it. Splatters of olive oil here and here." He touched his chest where his tie would have been, then lower down on the stomach.
"Tiramisu." Right shoulder. "Oil of spearmint." Left shoulder. Ha ha. He was making the sign of the cross.
"What about that oil of spearmint? Where did that come from?" Mike asked, deadpan.
"I'm still analyzing it. My guess is Tiger Liniment."
April caught her breath as the long-winded explanation began.
Two hours later, April and Mike joined the large, sober group that had gathered around an open coffin in the white-painted colonial funeral home to which Bernardino's body had been released late Friday by the medical examiner's office. Many of the mourners looked like neighbors. Some were clearly cops with their spouses. It was always a tragedy when a cop was killed, but this group was still in mourning for Bernardino's wife, Lorna. Everyone who'd known Bernardino had expected him to remain a fixed figure in their firmament, a grumpy but steady friend, for years to come. There were some teary faces.
Kathy broke away from the family group as soon as she caught sight of April. She looked better today. She'd cleaned up for the company, was wearing a crisp white blouse under a dark gray suit that showed off her figure. Her hair was shiny and brushed, and her makeup had been carefully applied.
"Thanks for coming." She kissed Mike and April on both cheeks, very polite, then asked, "Are you working or paying your respects?"
"Half and half," Mike replied, already surveying the crowd.
"Well, thanks for helping out with the funeral. He would have appreciated it." She followed his eyes and helped him put names to faces. "A lot of Mom's family is here. That group is her sister's family." She pointed to an ancient woman with a stoical expression. "And that's her mother, my grandma.
"Much better," April croaked. She was watching Bill deal with a six- or seven-year-old girl who was hanging onto his leg. A cute kid. He was talking over her head and patting her on the shoulder at the same time. Kathy caught his eye. He detached from the child and stepped over.
"Thanks for coming up," he said, and then closed his mouth to discourage any further conversation.
"We need to talk," Mike told him.
Bill gave him a look. "How about later tonight? I'm busy now."
"Sorry, it can't wait."
Bill made an impatient noise and looked around for his wife, a pretty, worried-looking blond. Her eyes were already locked on his. He gave her a signal, then detached the child. "Okay. Let's go outside."
Mike and April followed him out of the room, out of the somber lobby, out of the building, and he didn't say a word until they hit the sunshine. Then he blinked as if he'd come into another world.
"Look, I'm sorry if I was rough on you the other day." He looked them straight in the face. Man-toman. And woman.
"No problem," Mike said smoothly.
"Well, it is a problem. Somebody's causing trouble for me. I've been put on leave from my office. You people are hounding me. It has to stop." He marched down the sidewalk so fast and furious that April almost had to skip to keep up.
Mike glanced at her, but all that showed was her stone face. All expression had gone to ground while she studied the subject.
"I was home by nine o'clock. My kids had the flu. They still do. Kitty has a fever. She should be home in bed right now. My wife has been questioned half a dozen times already. What do you want from us?" He stopped abruptly and let his body slump against a parked car.
"It's a complicated situation," Mike said, pulling on his mustache.
"What's complicated? My father was murdered at one of your parties. Why are you looking at me?" He addressed at April as he said it.
"You know why," she said softly. And he bit.
"Because I'm a black belt?" he said, exasperated.
"Hey, we're on your side," Mike interrupted. "We both are. No one's pulled a warrant on you. No one's brought you into the station. No one's searching your home. Come on, play ball. All we're trying to do is clear a few things up."
"Look, don't talk warrant to me, okay? I know what you're trying to do." Bill clenched his fists, trying not to lose it.
"Bill, we've had over a thousand calls to Crime Stoppers alone. That's a lot of tips. The street canvass has pulled in more leads than we can handle. Believe me, we're looking into every single one. But face it, this is no stranger murder; you know that. And we're going to find your dad's killer. You can take that to the bank."
Bill's eyes flickered at the bank reference. "No matter who it is?" he said challengingly.
"You bet," April said softly. "No matter who."
He turned to her as if she were an alien, not a longtime friend of his father's. "I don't know."
"Hey, if you want to get off the hook here, you're going to have to help." Mike prodded a little more.
"I was at home. I'm not on the hook," he responded angrily.
"Then let's talk money."
"I can't believe this." Bill pushed off the car.
"We're just looking for a motive here, and fifteen million is a lot of motive." Mike smoothed his mustache and smiled. "People kill for less. A lot less. For a dollar, a pair of sneakers. You prosecute them. You know."
Bill's jaw worked in tandem with his fists. He couldn't argue the facts. "I just can't believe this," he muttered angrily.
"What can't you believe?" Mike asked him softly.
"Don't you guys talk?" Bill demanded.
Mike shook his head. "Let's not get into politics here. I'm not asking what you told IA or anybody else. We're the primaries in this case, and for us the cash is a factor. A big factor. It may be missing, but it's not going away."
Bill was not an ugly bruiser like his dad. He was five-eleven, stocky, close to forty. He had a prosecutor's irritability in his stance, almost as if he carried a gun in his pocket. But his anger died away as he said, "I just don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? You don't know your dad had four million dollars in cash in his possession? Or you don't know where it is?"
"He got strange after Mom died."
That wasn't an answer. "What's strange, Bill?" Mike asked.
"He was distant, secretive." Bill looked away.
"How about sad? Would sad describe it?" April cut in.
"Did you go into the house Thursday morning?" Mike changed the subject.
Bill blinked. "You know I did. So what?"
Mike glanced at April. Now they did.
"What for?" she asked.
He didn't answer. "Maybe I should get a lawyer. Everyone says I should. I don't know what I'm waiting for."
"What did you go to the house for, Bill?"
He shook his head. "You guys are real shits; anybody ever tell you that?"
"Imagine that. We're the shits, and we're the ones on your side. Come on, what did you go to the house for-the files, the money. What?" April demanded. Her jaw was beginning to ache. A new pain.
"I went for Weenie," he said. His angry face erupted in a smile.
"Weenie?" Mike frowned.
"Oh, Jesus." April looked down at her feet. "Weenie was Bernardino's dog."
"I didn't see any sign of a dog," Mike said.
"Well, you don't see a lot of things." Bill snorted.
"What time did you go for the dog?" April asked.
Bill made some breathing noises. "I don't know. I remembered him sometime in the middle of the night. I went to get him early in the morning."
April considered the story for all of two seconds before rejecting it. "You know what it sounds like to me? Sounds to me like you got a lot of money from your dad, and maybe your sister didn't know about it." She watched his hands. He was a prosecutor, for God's sake. He knew how to tell a story.
"My sister was in California," he countered.
"Maybe she was going to get her share later." April gave him the benefit of the doubt.
"What are you saying? What are you implying here? It was Dad's money. He'd already paid taxes on it. Whatever he did with it was his business. Why can't you leave it at that?"
"Gee, Bill, we would have. But somebody killed him," April said flatly.
"I'd like to see Weenie," Mike said.
"Fine, toss my house. You're not going to find what you're looking for." His fist hit the car.
"How do you know what we're looking for?" April asked.
The prosecutor's face revealed that he'd been thinking money. He didn't know about the Tiger Liniment. For a change he was out of the loop. He didn't know what they were looking for. "Fuck you," he said softly.
Twenty-four
Marcus Beame called on Mike's cell phone at four-fifteen. "How ya doin'?" he asked.
Mike and April were in the Camaro, heading to Brooklyn to take a look at Weenie and collect some of his hair to see if they matched those Duke had found in Bernardino's cuff. Also to check on Bill's medicine cabinet and sports bag for muscle analgesics. They were supposed to be treading softly. If they tossed the house of an ADA while he was at his father's wake, they'd break every rule in the book. They'd been talking about it for the last hour. April was close to Kathy. That complicated things, too. Frankly, they needed a warrant or Bill's blessing, or both, to do the search, and April wanted to stay far, far away from it.
"Hey, Marcus. What's going on?" Mike asked, then put the cell on speakerphone so April could hear it.
"We're working about fifty tips down here, and we're not even on the task force. Everybody here is on it. How about you?" Marcus's voice was animated. It sounded as if the second whip in the Fifth Precinct had had a battery charge since
they'd talked last. Maybe his hangover was gone.
"Same," Mike said.
"We've checked out Ridley and Washburn," he reported.
"Who?"
"April suggested we look at old cases. Those two went down for criminal negligence in five fire deaths back in-"
"Oh, yeah, I remember. What about them?"
"Bernardino handled the case. They just got out of the can last week and always said they'd get back at him. Is she with you?"
"Yes, Marcus, April is with me." Mike glanced at her. She didn't say anything.
"Well, tell her they've been in the Bahamas on vacation with their families since the day after they got out. We're still going with old cases, but we've got two people working the dojo angle."
Mike glanced at April again. "Who's on it?"
"A couple of guys in the unit are into it big-time- with the martial-arts magazines and the training equipment. The whole nine yards. They're taking the lead here."
"Were they at the party?"
"No, sir. They were working that night. I know the case they were working. I'm their supervisor."
"Names?"
"Wagner, Francis. Angelino, Fred. April knows them."
She shrugged and nodded. They were okay. "Hey, Marcus, tell them to check out where Bill Bernardino trains and who he spars with. Tell them to be discreet, okay?"
"Will do."
"And tell them you're looking for someone who has a reputation for hurting his opponents."
"You know something?" Marcus asked.
"There's always somebody like that. Maybe one of them went over the edge to see if he could get away with it. It's just a guess," April croaked.
"Good point. I'll tell them."
"Anything else?" Mike asked.