A Killing Gift

by Leslie Glass

  "How did your husband die, Mrs. Packer?" Mike asked.

  "You can call me Cherry; everyone else does." Cherry sniffed.

  "How did Bobby die?"

  "He had a heart attack," she said flatly. "They killed him anyway."

  "He had the attack at the time of his beating?"

  "No, about a month later."

  "That's too bad. When was that?"

  "Five years ago." She teared up and reached for a tissue.

  "All right, so Bobby died. Then what happened?"

  "Look, I didn't kill anybody. I don't even know who died. What does he have to do with me?"

  "Do you know what an accessory is, Cherry?"

  "Yeah, hat, bag, belt. Necklace." She laughed at her own joke.

  "No, the other kind, when you help someone who committed a crime. You don't tell the cops something important because you don't want to hurt someone who helped you out a long time ago."

  "I don't know anything, and that's the truth. I don't know why you want to talk to me. I have nothing to say."

  "You know, if you're an accessory to a crime, you can go to jail for almost as long as the guy who did the crime. The law says you're a crook, too." Mike tapped his fingers.

  "Harry's a good guy," she said softly. "He wouldn't kill anybody. He told me that."

  "Then what were you doing in White Plains, honey bee? Why did Harry call you and tell you to get out of your house?"

  "He didn't. I went to visit friends."

  "Oh, yeah, what friends?"

  "Her brother got sick. He had to go to the emergency room." Cherry looked at herself in the viewing-window mirror, not at Mike.

  "What are you talking about? You're not making sense. Come on, you're heading into the racing season, and you left your horses to visit imaginary friends in a run-down dump? Nobody shows any respect for my intelligence."

  "It was tough. We'd already lost a lot of business. We had a few horses left. I wanted to keep the stables."

  Mike frowned. Where was she going now? "Whose stables?"

  "Mine. Well, they were my dad's. He passed on in 'sixty-eight. They've been mine since then." She heaved another sigh.

  "Cherry, you're digressing." Mike checked his watch again.

  "I'm not undressing," she said angrily. She didn't have much of a vocabulary. Mike suppressed a smile.

  "Harry gave you some money." He tried to lead her back.

  "He didn't give me any money. He invested in a very promising three-year-old," she said defensively. "He's going to get it back in spades."

  "I'll bet. Did Harry tell you how he got the money?"

  Cherry squirmed a little. "No, of course not."

  "Oh, come on. He's been your close friend for fifteen years. He's helped you out of trouble-I'm guessing here-over and over these past fifteen years."

  She lifted a shoulder.

  "Then suddenly out of nowhere he comes up with the money to buy one of your horses and doesn't tell you where he got it? Harry, who's always a little short himself? Come on, you can go to jail for lying to me."

  "Look, he told me a friend won the lottery."

  "Cherry, that friend was murdered last week. Your boyfriend is linked. We need answers to tie him in or let him go, understand?"

  She nodded. "I do. But Harry didn't give me the money last week. He gave it to me a month ago, before Harry's friend died."

  "A month ago?" Mike was flabbergasted. If that checked out, then Harry was telling the truth. A first!

  "Yeah. What's the matter?"

  "How about some breakfast, huh? Marcus here will get you whatever you want, okay? See you later."

  Mike was out the door before she could say another word. A month ago. The money had changed hands almost as soon as it had come in. That meant Bernardino had given it to his friend, but why? The rest of the day April and Mike worked on Harry and Cherry, trying to get at why so they could eliminate Harry as a suspect, but Harry and Cherry weren't saying. With Bill still the prime suspect, maybe the why didn't matter. Maybe it was just one of those things: Bernardino got generous; Harry got lucky. End of story. April didn't believe it. Mike didn't believe it either.

  Thirty-two

  By the time Birdie Bassett's York U dinner came up, she had already lunched with the president of the Museum of Modern Art and the chairman of Lincoln Center, both friends of Max's, who were suddenly eager to acknowledge her as a friend. People were moving on her fast, and she was getting a sense of how the giving game was played. If she had five million a year to give away, that made her a very desirable acquisition to anyone's donor list. She was getting a crash course in having the power to decide where a lot of money was going to go. It meant jobs and careers and programs, prestige, and it was entirely a personal thing, just as Al Frayme had told her it would be.

  Much of the time grant making was about connecting with the person who made the ask, and not about the cause itself. Since all kinds of people were bothering her with their impassioned requests, Birdie couldn't evaluate whose cause really appealed to her. People were pushing her in all directions, and it was a little scary. Voice mail was a step away from the human voice, but that didn't afford much of a buffer. On the computer, the list of begging e-mails grew every day.

  "How do these people find me?" she wailed when Al called her over the weekend.

  "People read the obits," he told her. "They target the heirs."

  "But why do people give?"

  "Cultivation. It takes time to break down a natural resistance." He laughed. "What's funny about it?"

  "Everybody wants to be loved, Birdie. And believe me, rich people feel guilty about being rich. They need to unload some of their good fortune."

  Birdie knew that Al had been cultivating her for years, hoping for some of that Bassett money. "Giving money away responsibly is not as easy as you might think," she'd murmured, aware that she sounded a little like Max, just a little pompous.

  "Whatever happened to loyalty, Birdie? You know it wouldn't hurt you the tiniest bit to send a few mil our way." Al's response came in a flash of anger.

  She wasn't surprised. The truth was, all fund-raisers felt that way. It wouldn't hurt her, so why didn't she just do what they wanted? Well, in this case, she just didn't believe that York U needed money as badly as Al Frayme said it did. So there. She knew the university was very well off. With all the prime real estate it had, she was sure her alma mater was doing just fine. And the truth also was that something about Al Frayme had always annoyed and irritated her. And because of that, she'd decided that ten thousand was quite enough for the university-enough to get her into the President's Circle, where dinner was served on a regular basis. It was personal, after all: She just didn't want to give it to him. But she didn't tell him that on Wednesday morning. She'd told him the ten was all she had at the moment. He tried to talk the figure up, but she remained firm.

  "Nothing more for this year. We'll see how it goes. Maybe next year."

  He seemed to take it graciously, but now it was evening, and he hadn't come to the dinner. She thought his behavior was just plain rude. Ten thousand wasn't chicken feed. She kept looking around for him. She'd expected to sit next to him, but he wasn't there among the company in the special dining room that consisted of a number of potential heavy-hitting donors, alums like herself, various members of the university's board of directors, the new president, John Warmsley, his new vice president, Wendy Vivendi, several old deans and two new ones: Diana Crease of the School of Social Work and Michael Abend of the Law School. Wendy Vivendi, who turned out to be the head fund-raiser of the university, was gracious and unreadable. But Al himself was simply not present.

  After a glass of wine Birdie found herself not minding that much. She was with the kind of expensively dressed people she'd come to know and understand in her years of marriage to Max. This group conversed earnestly about important subjects like their summer traveling plans. No one talked money. They talked possessions-houses, boats, trips. Name
brands, but never money.

  As coffee was served, President Warmsley stood up to lecture long and passionately about all the admirable contributions the school had made to the city and the world, and all the new contributions it would make in the future with support from the donors in the room. Birdie was seated next to a tall, slender gentleman called Paul Hammermill, who was impeccably dressed in a navy double-breasted, pin-striped banker's suit, a pale yellow shirt, and a Ferragamo tie with tigers on it. He was not wearing a wedding ring and seemed interested in her. She couldn't help feeling just the tiniest bit gratified.

  From the moment they'd sat down he'd started talking nonstop into her ear as if he'd known her all his life. He talked while the salad was served, while the wild salmon and garlic mashed potatoes were consumed, and all during the president's speech. Although Birdie was certain they had never met before, Paul was certain they had. When coffee was served he was still playing the where game.

  "Are you sure you don't go to the Hamptons?" he asked.

  "Absolutely." She sipped her decaf daintily.

  "Martha's Vineyard?"

  "Not there, either."

  "Nantucket?" He cocked his head, flirting.

  She shook her head.

  "You must go somewhere in the summer," he prodded.

  "Maine when my husband was alive," Birdie said, lowering her eyes with sudden genuine distress because he was no longer her protector.

  "Ah, yes, so sorry." Paul waved over the server to pour her some more wine to bolster her spirits. When she demurred, he requested a refill for his own glass even though the wine-drinking part of the dinner was long past.

  "And the winter, I believe you were in Boca?"

  "No, Palm Beach." Under the table she checked her watch. It was time to go home to her empty Park Avenue apartment. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by her loss and had a powerful feeling of having to swim alone with sharks that could eat her alive if she wasn't careful.

  "I know a lot of people in Palm Beach." Paul smiled, leaning farther into her space. "This has been very pleasant. Can I give you a ride home?"

  She knew he was a lawyer in a prominent firm. He seemed to know a great many people, seemed to like her. Even though he'd had a bit to drink, he was still quite attractive, and lawyers could be useful at times. But she wasn't in the mood. Tomorrow she would meet with Jason Frank, Max's psychiatrist friend.

  Then she'd learn more about Max and, she hoped, the reason he'd left her in such an unpleasant situation with his children.

  "Thanks very much. I have a car," she murmured.

  "Maybe another time," he said.

  "That would be nice." She rose quickly. People were beginning to leave, and she didn't want to talk to anyone. Without seeking out Wendy Vivendi, or any of the deans or the president, Birdie slipped out of the room. She hurried down the stairs and out of the building. It never occurred to her that anyone might be interested enough in her to follow her. She didn't watch her back.

  Outside on the edge of Washington Square, the night was wrapped in a warm and heavy mist. Fog had grabbed hold of the city for the second Wednesday in a row. Birdie was touched by the beauty and mystery of it. Then she was annoyed by the empty space where the black limo should have been waiting for her. Briefly she searched up and down the street but didn't see it. Other limos were dotted along the curb, but not hers.

  "Damn." She didn't want anyone to catch her floundering, or have to accept that ride from Paul Hammermill.

  She crossed the street and entered the square, teetering a little on her high heels. It occurred to her that since she had put in two orders for a car, and not requested that the first one wait for her, a different driver might have mistakenly parked on the wrong side of the square. Or worse, the second order might not have been processed at all. It had happened before. She resolved to get a new car service, one that didn't leave her stranded whenever the weather worsened. Max hadn't believed in keeping his own car and driver. Too much trouble, and often he'd preferred to walk. Birdie buttoned her jacket and glanced up at the sky. It looked as if any minute the fog would give way to rain.

  Her heels drummed the sidewalk as she marched deeper into the square. The street people were pulling up their sweatshirt hoods. The chess players had long since gone home, and the dog walkers were scattering. The square was nearly empty.

  "Come on, Junie, you're done for tonight." A dog walker opened his umbrella and urged his huge dog off the grass.

  She listened to him as she peered ahead of her, searching through the fog and the trees for the car that was supposed to be waiting for her. More than halfway across the square, she heard the first clap of thunder and set her feet to sprint. The dog, on the other hand, chose to stand still. She heard impatience clip the owner's voice. "Junie! Hurry up. It's going to rain."

  Birdie's last easy thought was that the dog was not unhappy out there. Dogs didn't mind the rain. Then a hand dropped on her shoulder and without any warning she lost control of her limbs. She was in a spin, an inexplicable free fall. She didn't have time to protest or defend herself. She hit the ground and was stunned by the jarring impact. The man reached for her arm to pick her up.

  "Sorry, my mistake."

  "Oh, Jesus, what'd you do that for?" Fury sounded in Birdie's voice.

  "Oh, come on, don't be like that." He hauled her to her feet, looking contrite. "I couldn't help myself."

  "Junie!" The big dog began to howl. "Quiet!"

  "Let go. What's the matter with you?"

  "You didn't keep your promise."

  Birdie tried to move her feet to get away but couldn't. It wasn't funny. "That's ridiculous."

  "Don't call me ridiculous."

  Birdie was less than a dozen paces from help. She reached out to the barking dog. "Help!"

  Thunder drowned out her voice. The dog strained against its leash, but its master was the one controlling the choker collar. The dog obeyed the command for quiet as it disappeared into the downpour.

  Then Birdie was really scared. He had her by the throat. Her heart felt as if it would burst with fear, worse than when she'd heard that Max was dead. She tried to knee him in the crotch, but he just caught her foot and twisted it until she yelped. Then he caught her before she fell.

  "Don't play like that, and I won't hurt you. I promise. Let's dance. You like to dance."

  The rain started in earnest as he spun her around, brushing the soles of her shoes against the pavement, then lifting them off again. Men had been doing that to Birdie ever since she was a little girl-lifting her off the ground-but never in a way that prevented her from breathing.

  Her eyes bulged. Okay, I'll keep my promise. Fireworks exploded in her eyes as she fought against her own weight. His hands were around her neck, choking her. Her own weight was killing her. Panic rose with the agony. She kicked again and missed again. As she sank into darkness, her thoughts drifted to Max. He'd left her to swim with sharks. She lost consciousness.

  She was almost gone when her feet touched the ground, and air suddenly came in. She sucked it in, saved. Thank you. She was breathing. Saved. Thank you.

  "I'll keep the promise." She gasped.

  "Too late!" The powerful strike at her throat came so fast she didn't see the hand retract, then fly at her like a launched missile. A sharp crack sounded on impact as the cartilage gave. Like Bernardino, Birdie was dead before she hit the ground.

  Thirty-three

  At ten-thirty-five on Wednesday evening Mike and April returned home from a long and unsettling day that ended with a hamburger dinner at the Metropolitan, a heavily cop-frequented restaurant close to headquarters. The energy level was rock bottom among the bosses gathered there. Ebullience at having resolved a sticky case within the week had turned to bitter disappointment late in the day when the Manhattan DA won the first round in the game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

  No one in the Department wanted to hang a prosecutor for a cop murder, especially if the prosecutor happened to be the s
on of the dead cop in question. But between the two possible suspects on the table- a prosecutor and a retired cop, working alone, with each other, or Harry working with an unknown third party-the most comfortable choice was the prosecutor and no third party. The Tiger Liniment in his gym bag and on the victim was good enough for them.

  Marvin Cohn, the Manhattan DA, however, wasn't buying. "I don't fucking care where you found stink oil. I don't care if it matches the oil on the victim's shirt and jacket. I don't give a shit. This isn't physical evidence. This is madness." He'd gone ballistic.

  "Listen to what you're telling me! Nothing! We already know Bill had been in contact with his father that evening. The two men could have hugged. Traces of the oil could have rubbed off on him at the party, or at some earlier time. Drop it, unless you can do a lot better. What are you, stupid? Are you crazy? You have nothing but circumstantial. And that's fucking nothing."

  And he'd said worse things to just about everybody. Bill's wife had confirmed that he was home at the time of the murder, and she passed a lie-detector test. That would be tough to fight in court.

  "Give me a fucking break," Cohn had shrieked. It was the same thing that Bill himself kept saying.

  Avise didn't like Cohn's attitude, which he considered nothing more than politics. But without the prosecutor's green light, the task force was back to Harry, working with a third party, because Jack Devereaux wouldn't ID Harry himself as April's attacker. There was no question that Harry was in deep, was connected somehow. According to Cherry and her bank records, he'd given her two hundred and fifty grand at least two weeks before Bernardino was murdered.

  Harry had received the money right after Lorna died, just about the time four million was withdrawn from Bernadino's brokerage account. How much more of that Harry had come away with was anyone's guess. For all they knew, the two hundred grand might be just a drop in the bucket. If Harry didn't have the rest of it, maybe he knew where it was. He was It now. Every corner of his dusky life was under the microscope. Mike figured if he had more dough, he'd be spending it somewhere. They were checking Harry's every known associate for leaking money.