A Killing Gift

by Leslie Glass

  "You can wait in here." The man got up and led him through a maze of detectives and desks to a room with a window. The blind on the window was up, and April Woo was in the room beyond. He could hear her talking with a man who was definitely not the person who'd attacked him. He was too big, too fat, and too old. Jack sat down, disheartened. He'd hoped it would be over.

  After a few minutes Mike Sanchez came into the room and shut the door behind him. "Thanks for coming in," he said. "How are you doing?"

  "I'm okay. It's not him."

  "Are you sure he doesn't look familiar to you at all?"

  Jack's memory of Wednesday night had jelled solid. It didn't vary with the time of day, and he didn't have to study the man sitting at the table in the other room to know he wasn't the one. The man he'd seen gripping April in the fog had been catlike, a dancer. The man in the room with her now had a soft belly that doubled over his belt. He was a bear with big flat feet and fingers like sausages. A bear crushes with his weight. Jack touched the cast on his arm. The man who'd attacked him had not been a bear. Not a polar bear nor a grizzly bear. He'd been snake thin, snake quick, and snake agile. Too fast to grab hold of. He shook his head.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm dead sure. Who is he?"

  "Someone who borrowed a lot of money from the deceased."

  Jack shifted his attention to Sanchez. "Why do you call him the deceased?" he asked.

  "Sorry. No disrespect intended."

  At that moment, a large woman in a red jacket went into the interview room and whispered in April Woo's ear. She got up and left. A few minutes later she joined them and nodded at Jack.

  "Thanks for coming. The traffic wasn't bad?"

  Small talk. "No, not bad. Thanks for the ride," Jack told her, smiling a little because she was so pretty, and pretty in a cop still surprised him. Call it male chauvinism. Sanchez was what he would expect. Sergeant Woo was something else. She acknowledged his smile with a little one of her own. She knew.

  "How are you doing?" she asked.

  "I'm doing okay."

  "Good. How about our pal in there?" The smile disappeared, and the sergeant's face went blank. It was kind of eerie the way she wiped it clean.

  Jack glanced at Mike, then shook his head. "You know it wasn't him," he said, studying her flat expression.

  She shrugged and repeated her question. "How are you doing?"

  "You already asked me that. What's going on?" Jack frowned.

  "Well, the case is coming together." The detective sat down and took out a notebook and a pen.

  Something about the way they were acting made him nervous. Sanchez sat down and took out a similar black-and-white speckled notebook. Now they were all sitting at the table. The notebooks were out. Jack had no idea what was happening, whether it was good or bad. His viable hand began to tremble. He wasn't doing well.

  Woo turned some pages, checking her notes, then looked up. "Last Friday when I visited you, you told me someone was calling you, someone whose voice and phone number you didn't know. Have you had any more of those calls?"

  He exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath. "No. No. That situation seems to have resolved itself. Why do you ask?"

  "Something odd came up this morning. I want to run this by you." That flat look was so unsettling.

  "What?"

  "There was a match between a number on the victim's caller ID list and yours."

  Jack's heart jumped like a fish on a chopping block. Now Bernardino was the victim. "What does that mean?" he said softly.

  "It means there might be a link between you and the killer."

  "What do you mean, might be a link?" The air in the room was so heavy Jack felt as though he were breathing through a thick wad of cotton. How could he know a killer?

  "It could be a coincidence, but we always work on the premise that there are no coincidences in police work." She said this with no expression.

  "Whose number is it?" he asked in a small voice.

  "It's a number in the York U phone system. Do you know anyone at York?"

  Jack inhaled, taking a moment to digest the question. "Well, sure. I'm an alum. I know lots of people there. Al Frayme, in the development office, Wendy Vivendi, the vice president. I know the president, too, Dr. Warmsley. Marty Baldwin. Some of my professors are friends now. Professor Callum is on the board of my company," he said slowly. "All kinds of people have my number. It's in the donor data bank. I get calls all the time. Whose number is it?"

  "The number comes from the School of Social Work."

  "The School of Social Work?" Jack placed it near Washington Square. He passed by the building every night on his walk with Sheba. But not since the incident. Now, because of the reporters, they had a dog walker taking Sheba out. He shivered at the way the two cops were looking at him.

  "Do you know anybody in the social work school?" Woo's pen was poised for the answer.

  "No, not a soul. Whose phone is it?"

  "Dr. Foster."

  Jack shook his head. "I've never heard of him."

  "It's a woman. She's a professor, and she's been out of the country for several weeks. Ring a bell?"

  Jack shivered again. "No."

  Woo glanced at Sanchez. "We'll need a list of everyone you've been in contact with at the university, everyone you know. That okay with you?" he said.

  Jack nodded. "Of course, but I have a question-is it all right to ask? What was the connection to the… deceased?" His tongue faltered over the word. He hadn't been on the block where Bernardino had died. He didn't know him. How could there be a connection between him and a murder victim? Lisa would be terrified. Sheba wouldn't like it, either. His arm started to throb for the first time since the weekend. And April Woo was busy taking notes. She didn't answer the question.

  "The connection is just the fact that I was there when it happened, right?" Jack said, figuring that the murderer got in touch after he saw him on the news.

  People who appeared on the news were at risk; he'd known that from the get-go.

  "No, the number on your phone predates the murder," she said. Matter-of-fact.

  His eyes widened as he tried to absorb the possibility that a murderer knew him and maybe he knew a murderer. The detectives let it sink in, and he wondered how long they'd known. It was an eerie sensation, more than eerie. As he flushed under the unfamiliar feeling of real fear, his eye strayed to the man behind the viewing window. The man who looked like a bear was getting restless. He was tapping his huge feet, eager to get out of there. Jack wanted to flee, too. He glanced back at Woo and Sanchez. Their faces didn't tell him a thing.

  Twenty-nine

  Late Tuesday afternoon Bill Bernardino bowed under heavy pressure and finally agreed to allow a search of his house and car without a warrant because he didn't want the media attention that the serving of a search warrant would bring on him and his family. The Department had given his father a good send-off. He owed them. Mike and two detectives proceeded to his home in Brooklyn, where they took the spacious family house apart as neatly as possible.

  The three men did the search with a minimum of fuss and conversation, and Mike was the one to come across Bill's workout bag and sweaty gym clothes from which a strong odor of camphor and spearmint emanated. When he searched the inside pocket, he found a half-used bottle of Tiger Liniment. He seized it and a second bottle of Tiger Liniment, this one unopened, that Bill had stored in his medicine cabinet. Mike showed no reaction whatsoever to either of the other two detectives or to Bill about his find. But he was excited. They were a step closer.

  Of all analgesics for muscle pain, Tiger Liniment was about the messiest. It was packaged in little bronze-colored glass bottles for an old-fashioned look, and some of it had spilled out into Bill's gym bag. The oil seemed an unusual choice for a no-nonsense kind of guy like Bill. As Ducci had pointed out on Saturday when they visited him in the lab, the newer patches with some of the same ingredients were easier to use and j
ust as readily available. There wasn't a huge market for this.

  Bill watched them packing up the contents of his medicine cabinet with a puzzled expression but didn't say a word. They dumped his gym bag and unwashed workout clothes in a carton. Not a word. He started protesting when his laptop computer full of files on the cases he'd been working for the DA's office was removed from the house. Then, practically frothing at the mouth, he called the office from which he had been suspended to see what could be done about it. The answer came back-nothing. His boss was furious because he hadn't thought to cleanse the computer before he left.

  Thirty

  Tuesday afternoon while Mike was in Brooklyn nailing Bill, April played it safe and followed up on the phone call to Jack Devereaux from York U. It was a halfhearted effort. She didn't expect much when she paid a visit to the brick building that housed the York University School of Social Work. It was a former mansion just off Washington Square with a center hall and a lounge on one side, offices and classrooms on the other side. In the middle was a tall staircase leading to the second and third floors. Professor Foster's office was at the top of the stairs, first door on the left, where anybody could walk right in if the door were left open. But the door was always locked and Foster was away for the semester, so she was told.

  April met with the dean in her office to discuss the matter of the telephones and the locked door. Diane Crease was a tall woman who looked a lot like the first female attorney general of the United States. A string bean with a pleasant expression, Dr. Crease wore no makeup, had short, wavy, graying hair, and was wearing a springy pink-and-black tweed suit. On one lapel was a stiff pink plastic rose with a black center.

  "What is this about, Sergeant Woo?" she asked, careful to see that the door was shut before she spoke.

  "I'm investigating the homicide near the university last week," April told her.

  "Ah, yes." The dean's eyes flickered. "Yes, I remember. A police officer, I believe. How can I be of assistance to you?" She stayed smack in the middle of her office, far from the safety of her desk.

  "We're trying to follow up on a phone call that was made from Professor Foster's office to the murder victim." April was tired. Out of loyalty to the family, she hadn't wanted to be involved with Mike's search of Bill's house. But this scut work of looking for some phone caller was hardly a satisfying alternative. She coughed to clear her dry throat.

  "Oh, my." The dean came to life with the cough. She turned her back on April to circle her desk for the carafe of water sitting on the credenza behind it. She poured out a glass and passed it to April. Then she sat down and gestured for April to do the same.

  "Thanks." April swallowed gratefully and sat.

  "This is very strange. Are you sure it was Dr. Foster's phone? She's been out of the country for several weeks. It couldn't be her. But I know she would be happy to talk with you when she returns."

  "Who has access to her office?"

  The dean leaned back in her desk chair. "I have no idea. I doubt if she would allow access to any of her students. But possibly her assistant might have a key."

  "Who is her assistant?"

  "I believe it's Margaret Eng. Dr. Foster's voice mail would have the contact number. Did you try it?"

  "Yes, she didn't call me back."

  "Well, she may have left for her internship. Classes are over for the term."

  "Would the maintenance staff be able to get in?"

  "Oh, of course they would." Dr. Crease frowned.

  "I'll need a list of names," April told her.

  "I can get that. We could also give you a list of classes and events that were taking place in the building on the day in question. Other people from the university do come into the building for meetings and talks and such. What day are you looking at? One day or more than one?"

  "Only the tenth of this month."

  "Okay. I'll check."

  "If you have a record of repairs made in the building, that kind of thing would be useful, too."

  The dean nodded. "I'll have my secretary work on this for you. But, you know, those locks are not very secure. Anyone could get in. There have been thefts in the offices in the past. But nothing serious." The dean was finished. April thanked her and gave her a card with her numbers on it.

  Later she was not gratified at all to find out that her instinct about Bill had been correct, and he was their killer. When they met back at the Sixth, the noisy strategy meeting for the next step went on for hours. They had a lot more work to do on Bill to make a solid case, many more answers to get. With dozens of people involved and many voices coming from the top, the conversation went on a long time. April and Mike didn't get to bed until late.

  Wednesday morning Beame called the apartment before seven. "I have her in less than twenty-four," he said. "Do I get the brass ring?"

  "Cherry Packer, good for you. Bring her in," Mike said sleepily. Here was a loose end that had to be tied up. For sure Harry was involved somehow. Bernardino had given him all that money, or he had stolen it. Mike wasn't going to let that go.

  Thirty-one

  At eight-fifteen Cherry Packer was full of bile, and Mike was there for her dramatic display of pique.

  "Just wait a little minute, will you? What's your freaking hurry?" She parked herself in the interview room of the Sixth Precinct, pulled a bunch of cosmetics out of her purse, then calmly began putting on her makeup in the mirrored viewing window as if this were something she did all the time.

  "Drag a lady out of her home before she's put together," she grumbled, casting a furious glance at Marcus, who sat next to her at the table. "What's your problem?"

  Marcus twiddled his thumbs and paid no attention, so she turned to Mike. "He pulled a freaking gun on me. I should put in a complaint on him. Police brutality. Your name's Beame, right?"

  Marcus snorted comfortably.

  Mike smiled at her. "You look great. A woman like you doesn't need makeup. I'm sorry you were inconvenienced.''

  "That's putting it mildly."

  "We appreciate your coming in," Mike tried to soothe her.

  "Fuck you." Cherry eyed him from top to toe. "You're a nice-looking guy. What's your problem?"

  Mike straightened his tie. It was one of his many silver ones. He wore it over a dark gray shirt. Over that was a black-and-white tweed sports jacket. On his feet he had new black snakeskin cowboy boots. April preferred colors, but he liked a jazzed-up black-and-gray look. "My problem is I got a dead person to take care of," he said. "And that dead person is your boyfriend's ex-partner."

  "Jesus. That's not my fault." She squirmed a little in her chair as if her pants were too tight, then made a big show of putting her makeup back in her purse.

  She was quite a sight, pretty much what Mike would have expected in a girlfriend of Harry's. Cherry was a big blowsy blond with a bad haircut and a terrible dye job. She was built like a brick from shoulder to hip, with a shelf of bosom in front like two pillows on a four-poster bed, but her legs were as long and trim as those of the colts she supposedly trained. She definitely made an impression.

  "Mrs. Packer, what is your relationship with Harry Weinstein?" Mike asked.

  "He's a business associate." She pulled herself together on an expected question, extracted a pack of Marlboros out of her purse, and held it up. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Yes. Do you always sleep with your business associates?"

  She dropped the cigarettes on the table. "Look, don't make a big deal out of this. I've known Harry for a long time, like fifteen years, okay? Totally on the up and up. He helped me out when my husband died."

  "How?"

  Cherry's crumbling was a subtle thing, like a fault line in the earth that doesn't show on the outside until the earthquake strikes. She was not as tough as she looked. She put the cigarettes away and dug around in her purse for her glasses. When she could see, she made a horrified face. "What's that?"

  "Video camera," Mike told her.

  "Is it on
?" she demanded.

  "No."

  "Are you sure?" She regarded it suspiciously.

  "Yeah. How did Harry help you?"

  "It's a long, boring story." She took the glasses off and twirled them around her finger.

  "Well, I got time." Mike checked his watch. "Let's hear it."

  "Fine. My husband had gambling debts. He got in some trouble. You know…" She jerked her head toward the ceiling, as if the trouble were up there.

  "He got beat up." Mike finished her sentence.

  She nodded, clamping teeth onto her bottom lip. "Harry's been a good friend."

  "How did you meet him?"

  "We met at the track. Saratoga." A little smile came to her face. "We used to run a lot of horses up there… We had a good business." She lifted a shoulder. "You know how it goes."

  "No, how does it go?"

  "Things change," she said wearily.

  Mike guessed her husband had his weaknesses. Gambling and drinking kind of went together. "So how did Harry help you?"

  Up came the shoulder again. Cherry heaved a sigh, deep into nostalgia. "He talked to the guys. He fixed it for us." Clearly she was proud to have a friend who could do that.

  "The guys who beat Bobby? Or the guys he owed money to?"

  Cherry looked surprised that he knew her husband's name. "Whatever."

  Mike stroked his mustache, then started tapping two fingers on the table. This was an irritating habit he'd developed recently. He wasn't as patient as he used to be. He figured Harry was a gambler, so he'd probably known all the players. A cop, even one from down in New York City, could help out his friends. Maybe Harry had been involved in the gambling himself. He'd probably always had the hots for Cherry. And she must have looked a lot better fifteen years ago. But who didn't? He got the picture and nodded, then glanced at Marcus.

  Marcus had told Mike that Cherry had been hiding out in a crummy apartment in White Plains. He'd gone up there early this morning to get her. He didn't say who'd told him, and Mike didn't want to know. Marcus reported that she'd been sleeping when he knocked on the door and had tried hard not to let him in. Apparently they'd had some harsh words. Clearly Harry had his reasons for keeping his honey out of sight. Marcus was flush with accomplishing his mission under deadline.