by Leslie Glass
"Yeah, one other thing. Bernardino and his old partner had a falling-out last week. I didn't tell IA, but I thought you'd like to know."
"I do. Thanks. You got a name for him?" Mike asked.
"Harry Weinstein. Big talker, big with the horses. He's retired now."
April nodded again. She knew that.
"Oh, yeah. He was at the party. Tall guy, bald head, beard, yellow plaid jacket?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"What's his story?" Mike asked.
"Oh, he's a gambler from way back, had some scheme he wanted Bernardino to go into with him. I don't know the details. I just know that Bernardino blew him off, and he was pissed about it."
"Has anybody interviewed him, Marcus?"
"I wouldn't know, Mike. The file's in the Sixth. I'm down here in the Fifth. We're working in the dark here."
"Well, we're not keeping any secrets on this case, and we need all the help we can get. Go over there and tell Peter Ashley you have my blessing. He'll give you whatever you need. Good to have you on the team. I won't forget it. And let me know what time Weinstein left the party and who interviewed him."
"Thanks, I will."
The call ended. "Looks like Marcus has had an attitude change," Mike said.
"Definitely looking for a way in," April agreed.
"Good for him. What do you know about Harry?"
April snorted. "A real loser. He used to come and bug Bernie for betting money, years ago. Two dollars, five dollars. Never won much, never paid anything back." After a stoical afternoon, April's features finally came alive as the lightbulb went off. Harry was a gambler, chronically in need of money, and his old partner had won the jackpot. Here was another recipe for trouble.
"Did you talk to him at the party?" Mike asked.
"Not me, I keep my distance there. I don't like him. I don't think Bernardino talked to him much, either. Who was he talking to?"
"I wasn't watching. The chief wanted to reminisce. You know how that is."
"No, I don't know how that is. He doesn't reminisce with me." April laughed without much mirth, and Mike changed the subject quickly.
"What about Harry as our killer?"
"He's a big man, and he's a loser. But Jack Devereaux and I didn't lose a fight with a sixty-year-old. I don't care what's wrong with my memory. That wouldn't be it. But he knows how to yoke, and maybe he has a friend."
"What put you into this buddy thing?"
"You always have a sparring friend, a kind of a coach," she murmured.
"No kidding." Mike swerved into the exit lane. "I'm thinking we shouldn't go to Brooklyn right now."
April opened the passenger window as relief flooded through her. Good-even if Bill was their killer, she didn't want to search the house of an old friend's son. The day was heating up as the BQE took them to the Brooklyn Bridge, which dragged them into the worst Chinatown traffic of the week. Then north to the Village, where things weren't any better. Mike finally pulled up in front of the Sixth Precinct, where they spent the next three hours reviewing the file and time lines with detectives there.
As in every case, there were pieces of information that weren't shared with everyone. Mike didn't share the medical examiner's remark about the odor of spearmint on Bernardino's body or Ducci's finding Tiger Liniment, which contained oil of spearmint as well as eucalyptus oil, on his jacket. Neither mentioned Jack Devereaux's memory of smelling Icy Hot-which contained some of the same ingredients, but not all of them-on the killer. And absolutely nothing about the yoking cause of death. These bits were not for general release. They didn't want the details leaked. April put the mastiff with the chain leash on the table to assign a dog-fancier detective to track his owner down.
The case was a big operation. The hacker was still working on Bernardino's computer down at headquarters. Crime Stoppers was still driving around Greenwich Village with the van, hoping someone would come forward. At the end of the day, something else emerged. A check of all the people who had tickets for the party revealed that Harry Weinstein had crashed. Nobody remembered what time he had left and nobody had bothered to interview him. As usual, he'd been freeloading, and as a freeloader, he'd been overlooked.
Twenty-five
On Sunday, four days after Bernardino's murder, the story dropped to the back of the Metro section of the Times, and Harry Weinstein could not be located at any of his usual haunts. He wasn't at home, or his local beer joint, or any of the racetracks in the area, Yonkers Raceway, Belmont, Suffolk, New Jersey. And he wasn't picking up his cell phone, either. At least he wasn't picking up for private callers. Harry was out in the wind.
Worked out of the Sixth Precinct, the Bernardino homicide was taking on that air of workmanlike organization that always settled in when a case was in for the long haul. Half a dozen major lines of investigation were being followed at the same time. Bank and brokerage canvasses searched for accounts. Neighborhood canvasses continued. The hacker in Bernardino's computer searched for the files that had been scrambled in its hard drive. Bernardino's military record had been obtained, and all the people he'd known back then were sifted through. The list of black-belt members and teachers in martial-arts schools, including the one Bill frequented, were scanned one by one. There seemed nothing unusual about him. He was a popular guy. The case file thickened with interviews that didn't go anywhere and tips that had to be checked out. One by one, people who had known and worked with Bernardino, his friends and associates, were being ruled out. There was still no luck with the dog.
Only a few members of the task force knew about the missing lottery millions, and they were told they'd lose their jobs if it leaked to the press, so it didn't come out. The lid was on the pot, but inside the water was on a hard boil. A deep probe was also prying into Bill Bernardino's personal and business life. And now, despite his size and age, Harry Weinstein was moving up the list of suspects. He had a motive.
On Sunday morning April called Bill and caught him just as he was leaving for the open house at the funeral home where his father's wake was still in progress in Westchester.
"I'm in a hurry. What's going on? Anything new?" he asked.
"Just following up on a few things," April told him. "Tell me about Harry."
Bill was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Harry who?"
"Harry Weinstein, your dad's old partner."
"Oh, Jesus, that crook. I haven't heard the bastard's name in years. Frankly, I was surprised that he showed his ugly face at Dad's party."
"He crashed," April said.
Bill blew air out of his mouth. "Cheap asshole."
"Yeah, well, what happened between them?"
"Christ, who remembers? Guy's a thief. He'd take money out of your back pocket while you're taking a piss. Anything, steal the shoes off your feet if you nod off. Dad gave up on him years ago. Why are you asking?"
"Just looking at everything, Bill."
"Jesus-Harry?" Bill sounded puzzled. Then he was silent for a long time, suddenly not in such a rush.
"What do you know, Bill?" April asked.
"Nothing. Not a thing. Look, I've got to go. You coming today?" He sounded almost hopeful.
"No." April wasn't superstitious or anything, but one viewing of a dead body was enough for her.
"How about the funeral tomorrow?" Bill was actually reaching for civility.
"I wouldn't miss it," she told him.
Later she tried Harry's home. His wife, Carol, answered the phone promptly.
"Mrs. Weinstein. It's Sergeant Woo. Harry isn't picking up his cell. Do you know where he is?"
She laughed. "Never. Harry could be in Florida, or out west, for all I know. People were out here this morning looking for him. What's going on?"
"What people?"
"Cops. Not anybody I know, though. What is it this time?"
Oh, so there were other times. "Didn't they tell you?" April asked, playing with the phone cord.
"No. It isn't about Bernardino, is
it?"
"Yes, it's about Bernardino."
"Poor Bernie; he was such a nice guy." Carol's sympathy gushed out in a powerful Long Island accent.
"Yeah, he was. What time did Harry get home Wednesday night?"
"Oh, God, they already asked me this. Oh, I don't know when he came in. In time for breakfast Thursday, I think. Or maybe lunch. I don't remember. I told him first thing. Why are you asking this?"
"You told him about Bernardino?" April was surprised.
"Well, you know. Harry doesn't sit in front of the TV like I do. I always turn on the news first thing when I wake up to see if someone killed him in the night. Ha ha." She paused for a laugh but didn't get one from April.
"Harry, I meant. Not Bernie. See, I was shocked anyone would hurt Bernie. He was such a straight arrow, a real family man. Let me tell you, I can vouch for Harry. He didn't know a thing about it. Another cop was attacked at the same time; who was that?"
That would be me, April didn't inform her.
"What did you say your name was?" Carol asked.
"Sergeant Woo."
"Sounds familiar. Are you that famous Chinese?"
"I worked with Lieutenant Bernardino," April said smoothly.
"Well, it's a terrible thing. What do you want Harry for?"
"We're hoping that he can fill in some blanks for us about Bernardino's last few weeks."
"I wouldn't know where to look for him. I'm the last to know anything."
"Mrs. Weinstein, did Harry tell you when he was coming back?" April asked.
"No, he didn't even tell me he was leaving."
"Is that usual for him?"
"Well, he's been working pretty hard lately. We're moving to Florida, you know." She said this proudly.
"No kidding. I love Florida. Where are you going?" April wondered what Harry's hard work was, and if Bernardino's Florida files tied in somehow.
"Real soon. He could be there now, for all I know."
"When did your husband leave for Florida?"
"Friday or Saturday. I never said he went to Florida."
"Saturday was yesterday. Did he leave yesterday?" April persisted.
"Could be. The days all run together for me now. I'm in a holding pattern." She sounded as if she'd been in a holding pattern for some time.
"Look, when you hear from Harry, tell him I'd like to talk to him." April gave the woman her name and numbers.
"I'm sure he'll go to the funeral. He wouldn't miss that. Honey, you should do something for that cold," Carol added. "Your voice sounds terrible."
That Sunday was a quiet day for some people, but nobody working the Bernardino case. After April's early calls from home, she felt well enough to start running again. Forest Hills wasn't as much fun as Astoria. Here the expressway cut through the neighborhood, and there weren't as many stores to look at, just blocks of brick apartment buildings and houses that she and Mike couldn't afford. For a little while she turned her mind off and let her body take care of itself. Mike had left early for the gym. It was a cool day, a beautiful day. She ran four miles. Mike returned about the same time as she. They showered together and fooled around just long enough to remind each other there was life after murder. Then they got dressed and drove into the city.
Mike went to the Sixth, where dozens of detectives were working overtime. April went to the tae kwon do studio on University Place. It was in an old building that smelled of ancient plaster, not unlike a police precinct. Up a steep and sagging staircase with green linoleum treads the door was open to more than one activity.
Early Sunday afternoon had a step class going on in one room and ballet going on in another. Females mostly, in a variety of ages and shapes. It certainly didn't look as if this were the place a serious empty-hand fighter would come to bulk up or spar.
A skinny girl with a long rope of dark hair, a red bindi between her eyes, and a piercing in both eyebrows sat at the front desk. She was reading a book and seemed oblivious to the disparate music coming from opposite directions.
"I'm interested in tae kwon do," April told her. "How many members do you have?"
The girl gave her a blank look. "Gee, I couldn't give you a number. It's pretty busy. The classes are always filled."
"Do you have sessions every day?"
"I'll have to check the schedule." She riffled the pile of papers that covered her work space.
"How about advanced classes?"
The girl gave up the search. "Jooooe, need you," she called.
The sweet classical music ended and the ballet class broke up. The pop music in the step class thundered on. April turned to watch an overweight, middle-aged male with a jiggling tummy struggle with the moves.
"Well, hello. What can I do for you?" Joe was a buff male of the Dudley Doright school-six feet tall, a hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. His profile was godlike, his hair was blond, and his eyes were a striking azure. April preferred dark-haired men, but why quibble? He was grinning at her, and she felt the heat.
"I'm interested in martial arts," she said. "Do you have an active membership?"
"We have whatever you want. Would you like my credentials? A demonstration? Are you a beginner?"
April smiled. "No, I'd be interested in your advanced classes," she said. "How much practice can I get in?"
Joe nodded. "You want some juice or something? We could set something up for you."
"That would be nice. And I'd like a little background on the styles of all your best practitioners."
"You're really into it," he said.
"Oh, yes, I am. I'd like their names and addresses, too."
She stayed there for quite a while. She checked out what they had in the way of training equipment. They didn't have a lot. No Scoreboard, either. It didn't look like a killer's playground, but you never knew. Joe was happy to talk about the personalities of his members and didn't have a class until four.
"Do you know anyone with a mastiff?" April asked her last question.
Joe laughed. "You do dogs, too?"
"Very funny."
After April identified herself as a detective, the girl with the bindi gave her the names and addresses of ten black belts. All of them lived in the neighborhood. None of them were women. Frank and Fred from the Fifth hadn't been there yet. Score one for April, but who was counting? She was out of there.
Twenty-six
On Monday morning Bernardino's funeral was covered by all the papers and TV stations in the area. With all the family secrets still in the freezer, the Department came through with a full police blowout, a bagpipe unit, the chief of police, chief of detectives and all-if not the actual police commissioner himself, who was with the mayor in DC on NYC business.
Four detectives from Bernardino's unit helped carry the coffin with his son and nephews. Some walked with the family, and some surreptitiously photographed every mourner in attendance. Nothing unusual about that. Investigators always photographed the crowds around crime scenes and funerals. Some killers became attached to their victims and returned again and again to relive their triumph. Others hung around to offer help. And a surprising number came to their victims' funerals to say a last good-bye.
Harry Weinstein's wife was right about his being sure to come to his old friend's funeral. April was the one to spot him at the cemetery. The same mustard-colored jacket he'd worn to Bernardino's retirement party stood out against a sea of gray headstones and the smaller throng of diehards wearing black and gray who'd taken the extra time to follow the hearse to Bernardino's final resting place in Queens right next to Lorna's brand-new mound that didn't have grass yet. Harry had missed the pomp and the eulogies up in Westchester, but was there to see his friend's coffin lowered into the ground.
April skirted the sad flock and caught up with him as he was sidling away. "Didn't you get my messages, Harry? I've been trying to reach you all weekend."
"Hey, April. How ya doin'?" Harry gave her a quick once-over the way cops do. Arrogant, checking t
hings out.
"Not so great." April had a new trick. She could make her voice crack whenever she wanted to. She did it now.
"What's the matter with you? You got a cold or something?"
"Yeah, feels like someone tried to choke the life out of me. What about you? You hiding from something?"
His wide shoulders climbed up his neck. "I lost my cell. You know how it is… What's on your mind? You're not on the case…?" The question hung in the air as he gave her a sly smile that showed off big nicotine-stained teeth.
"Oh, I'm just trying to track a few things down for the family. Kathy and I go way back," she said.
"She's a good kid." Harry turned his head to stare out at the stalled traffic on the Long Island Expressway nearby.
April followed his gaze to nowhere. "What did you do after you left the retirement party?" she asked.
Harry's eyes snapped back to her in surprise, as if this were the very last question he expected to hear from her. "Me?"
"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she rasped. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mike approach.
"Hey, what's going on?" Harry looked at Mike, who nodded for April to continue whatever she'd been saying.
"Harry's been out of the loop. He doesn't know we're looking for a killer," she told him. "Funny, huh?" She scrutinized the old-timer and didn't make the introductions.
Harry was six-two, a hulking guy, slightly hunched over. He moved like a turtle, but bulk on an old cop could be deceiving. They were used to moving when they had to. Harry didn't smell of camphor or spearmint. He smelled like a bundle of very old clothes that had spent a century or two in a trunk full of cigar butts.
"I had some business out of town." Harry lifted one side of a long, untamed eyebrow at Mike. Who are you? it demanded.
"Lieutenant Sanchez, Homicide task force," Mike introduced himself without offering his hand.
Harry nodded, friendly. "Okay. I'll talk. But I'm hungry. Want to buy me lunch?"
Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a grungy pizza place in Elmont. Harry didn't want to go there, so he placed a defiant order of a meatball hero even though it wasn't on the menu. The waiter wrote it down without blinking. Mike ordered an everything pizza. April rolled her eyes because Mike refused to believe she didn't like cheese. She asked for hot tea.