by Leslie Glass
April didn't dwell on the infraction as she drank her tea slowly and turned the week-at-a-glance pages of the last year of Birdie Bassett's life. Before her husband died, when the couple had been in New York, she'd spent her days mostly on maintenance. Once a week she'd had her hair and nails done and had visited Bliss Spa for aromatherapy and massage. She had standing appointments. Twice a week she'd played tennis at East Side Tennis in Queens, and three times a week she'd exercised at Pilates on Fifty-sixth Street. From time to time she'd visited doctors and had fittings for her clothes, some of which appeared to be custom-made. Why anyone would need to do that in one of the fashion capitals of the world, April couldn't begin to fathom. But the really rich were different.
In the evening, Birdie had attended benefits and dined out with her husband. During her winter in Palm Beach, the drill had been pretty much the same. The woman didn't appear to have many friends of her own, and her routine seemed set in stone. Some life for a woman not very much older than she was, April thought. She poured herself more tea and thoughtfully chewed on the soft, tasty buns, which were none the worse for the ice crust from the freezer. She reached the recent past in Birdie's life. After her husband died, her routine had changed. She abruptly stopped playing tennis and going to Pilates. New names appeared on her calendar. She'd lunched nearly every day.
On a legal pad, April wrote down all the names and dates, then turned to the list that Dr. Crease had given her. Not counting the as-yet-unknown number of students who had been in the building the day of the calls to Bernardino and Devereaux, twelve university staff members had been at meetings there.
The dean had categorized the list. Beside each name was a title and the location of the person's office in the university and their reason for attending a meeting. She was a thorough person. She'd also included a list of maintenance people who had access to the professor's office and the duties they'd performed the day in question. Diane Crease would have made an excellent detective.
As the sun rose, April began cross-checking names of people who'd attended the president's dinner, people Jack Devereaux knew at the university, names from Bernardino's private files, people who'd been in contact with Birdie Bassett after her husband died, and people who had been at both the meeting and president's dinner last night. Only three people had attended both the dinner and the meeting: Wendy Vivendi, the vice president for development; the dean herself; and Martin Baldwin, the head of alumni affairs. None of them had been in contact with Birdie Bassett. However, one person on the dean's list had been in contact with Jack Devereaux, and had spoken with Birdie Bassett many times and had had lunch with her only a week ago. His name was Al Frayme.
Forty-two
April and Mike were at Devereaux's apartment before nine Friday morning. A warrant check on Al Frayme had come up negative for past arrests. They knew where he lived and where he worked, but a deep background had not yet been done. So far he seemed clean as a whistle. Jack buzzed them up and opened the door before they reached the top of the stairs.
"It must be important if you're here yourselves."
"We wanted to be sure to get you," April said.
He laughed. "Yeah, as if everybody in the world doesn't know where I am."
"That's an issue."
"Tell me about it." He closed the door, locked three locks, two of which looked new, then led the way into the living room where a collection of cuttings from stories about him and his father was piling up on all the surfaces. It looked as if he was going off the deep end with his celebrity.
Mike raised his eyebrows. "How ya doing?" he asked, leafing through the top few clippings on his table.
"Oh, don't get me started. I'm going nuts with this. You have no idea. None of the facts about me and Lisa are true. Lisa wasn't pregnant with my baby. She never had an abortion or a miscarriage as a result of this. I'm not having a nervous breakdown over my crippling joint disease."
"You have a joint disease?" Eager to help, April flashed to ginger broth, good for rheumatoid arthritis.
"No. And although my mother did die of cancer, we weren't homeless my whole young life." Jack leaned over the back of the sofa and peeked his head around the curtain to see what was happening outside. Nothing. The fact that the press had moved uptown to Park Avenue didn't seem to reassure him.
"Well, don't take it to heart. Nobody gets the crime stories right, either." April saw two half-filled suitcases through the open door to the bedroom. He and Lisa were going someplace. That was great news.
"That's exactly the point. Look at those clippings. They say I'm a witness. You think I'm a witness. You got me under surveillance. He's killing other people right under your nose. How do I know I'm not next?"
April nodded. He was right. "Where's Lisa?" April asked suddenly.
"Oh, she's really pissed at me. She wants to get out of town." He waved his hand toward the suitcases in the bedroom. "She went to work. She works for a literary agent; did you know that?" Finally satisfied there was no one lying in wait for him on the street, Jack threw himself on the sofa. His big dog dropped to her hindquarters on the floor next to him, whimpering and nuzzling his knee. It reminded April that the detective working on dogs had not been successful in finding the dog she was looking for. Another tiny detail she was going to have to take care of herself.
"Frankly I'd go, but I don't know where. No mom, no dad to run to. It's inconvenient," Jack went on.
"You sound sorry for yourself," Mike remarked.
"I'm a little down. This second murder has pushed me over the edge," he admitted. "Now I know how women feel when there's a serial rapist out there. I have the same feeling. I can't help it. I think the press is targeting me for him, calling me a witness and everything. It may be silly, but I think that. Maybe the press wants me dead."
Suddenly he focused on the detectives. "Why are you here? Is there someone else you want me to look at?"
The small talk was over. April sat in the club chair beside the sofa and crossed her legs. Mike turned the desk chair around. They both took out their notebooks. When they were all settled, April took the lead.
"You told us the other day that you're an alum of York U."
He nodded. "Well, sure. 'Ninety-four."
"Are you a member of the President's Circle?" she asked.
"Ah, no. Should I be?" The question seemed to surprise him.
"Maybe. It's a club for people who give ten thousand a year or more to the university."
Jack snorted and glanced around his little living room, all the extra space taken by just three people and a dog. "Does it look like I do?"
"You're a rich man now. You might have started."
He shook his head.
"You haven't started giving yet?"
"No. I haven't even met the players," he said almost angrily.
"Who are the players?"
"At the Creighton Foundation? I have no idea… You know, real life is not like the movies."
"Gee, that's amazing to me. What's the difference?"
Jack snorted again. "Hello. In the movies, when the prince who grew up in a humble hovel never knowing he was a prince finds out he's rich, he collects his billion dollars that day, and moves right into the palace with no backward glance at his past.
"And guess what else, the press and his public adore him. He has no problems getting a fabulous beautiful princess whom he marries on TV. Then he rules the land in a benevolent manner and lives happily and wealthily ever after."
April's face didn't change as he spoke. "So what's wrong with that picture?" she asked.
"You don't get over the past so easily, for one thing. No one gets that. Not even Lisa. My father never spoke to me once in my whole life. When I was desperate for work I applied for a job at his company and got rejected. He probably didn't know it, but maybe he did. That's not the way dads are supposed to act. Now I'm not sure I want his money. I want to smash his face in. And he's dead, so I can't do it." He made a face. "And all these clipp
ings say I'm a weird phobic like Howard Hughes."
"So what?" Mike said. "What do you care?"
"There you are. Get over it. That's what I'm supposed to do. Shit, I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
"Because we're here," Mike laughed. "It's okay. Say whatever you want."
Jack cradled his cast with his good arm. "And then there's the little detail that some madman wants to kill me."
"How do you know he wants to kill you?" April this time.
He gave her a weird look. "You told me, remember?"
She shook her head. "I didn't say he wanted to kill you. I just said you got a phone call from the same person who called Bernardino. It could be a prank call, a coincidence."
"But now there's another murder." Jack exhaled, blowing air loudly out of his mouth. "I don't want to be paranoid, but it's freaking me."
Neither detective had a handy reply for that. "We wanted to talk to you about Martha Bassett," April said after a moment.
"I didn't know her," he said quickly.
"But you know Al Frayme pretty well, right?" April asked.
"Well, sure, he's the alumni guy at York. He called me to speak at the reunion." Jack cheered up at the mention of Al. "It was my first request."
"How much do you know about him?"
"I know he's a nice guy. After everything came out about my dad, he called to tell me my old buddies at York were thinking of me. A friendly voice from my old school. I thought it was a very decent thing to do."
"Then what?"
"Well, then we went to lunch a couple of times. York has been my family for years. You know how it is."
"What did you two talk about?"
"We have a lot in common. His dad abandoned his mom, too. Married someone else. The dad's rich, has a new family. He and his mom have nothing. He knows what I'm going through. He asked me to speak about my York experience at the reunion. He said a lot of people would be interested."
Mike nodded. "What about his private life? Do you know anything about that?"
"He mentioned karate a few times," Jack said, uncomfortable for the first time.
Mike and April locked eyes. Now they were cooking. "You didn't tell us that before."
Jack made an impatient gesture. "We were talking about stress and anger. He told me it's great physical training, and good for channeling anger. I didn't think anything of it." But he didn't look easy about it.
April put her notebook down and leaned forward in her chair. "Think hard, Jack; is Al the person who broke your arm?"
"Well, actually, I have been thinking about it. The whole karate thing made me think of him immediately. But that's because he's the only one I know who does karate."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"It seemed too far-fetched. I felt stupid raising the issue. There must be thousands of people who do karate… and I didn't want to implicate a friend." He looked as if he felt really bad about it even now.
Mike and April didn't show their feelings. Maybe if he had told them his suspicions sooner, Birdie would still be alive. But Jack was still equivocating.
"And I know what he smells like. He didn't smell like the killer."
"The killer was in karate mode. He would have been full of adrenaline. His personal odor would have been different, sweaty. You may have smelled fear." April tried to stay calm. Jack had edited his comments. Witnesses were not supposed to do that. The whole case against Bill had rested on his nose. The smell of Tiger. She felt like smacking him now. Instead she remained patient.
"What does he smell like normally?" she asked.
"Lime. He smells like lime. And I wouldn't say he's big enough to take me on."
"Size can be misleading in the martial arts," April murmured. Every judgment Jack had made had been wrong. "Could you say for sure it wasn't Al?"
"No. I just didn't think it was he."
"I'm going to ask you one last time. Don't hold back. Do you have any other thoughts on Al Frayme or anything else?"
"Yeah." Jack scratched his stubbly chin. "Am I next?"
"Let's put it this way. How do you feel about taking a little vacation?" April asked.
"You mean you'd like me to get out of here?"
"We would," April said softly. "Let us do what we have to do."
Mike nodded. "Go someplace only you know about."
Jack scratched his chin. "Okay," he said. "I hear you."
Mike and April were finished and got up together. It was time to rock and roll.
Forty-three
The alumni office of York University was housed on the second floor of the main administration building on Fourteenth Street, right next to Admissions. Beyond the small reception area, Albert Delano Frayme had a small cubicle without a window. When April and Mike arrived there at noon and flashed their gold, he was busy strewing his napkin-spread work space with crusty crumbs from a French-bread sandwich.
"Lieutenant Sanchez, Sergeant Woo," Mike said.
He took a moment to chew and swallow. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't have time for breakfast today. I was just taking an early lunch." He put the half-eaten baguette down and flashed an apologetic smile. "Marty isn't in right now. Is there something I can do?"
"We'd like to talk to Albert Frayme," Mike said, eyeing the name plaque on his desk.
"Oh. That would be me. How can I help?" Al smiled again, totally benign and relaxed.
It was a little disconcerting. He did not even remotely look like a killer. He looked like thousands of midlevel employees in companies all over the world. He had a soft voice without any discernible accent, wide shoulders on a slender build, a small head with a round face, a button nose, and an eager-to-please expression. His almost-blond hair was short in the back and long enough in front to dip into pleasant gray eyes. He looked like a very nice man, until he brushed away the crumbs on his desk and showed the flat, callused blades of his big-knuckled hands.
"We're investigating the murder of Lieutenant Bernardino last week." Mike's eyes flickered at the size of the hands, but Al didn't seem aware of their interest.
"What a loss. The lieutenant was a great guy." He shook his head and brushed his palms together.
"How well did you know him?" Mike asked.
"I wish I could offer you both seats." Frayme indicated the one chair in front of his desk. "I don't rate two chairs." He laughed.
"No problem. We can stand," Mike replied.
April didn't say anything. She was standing close to the door, inhaling deeply as if the air itself could tell her this was the man who tried to kill her. The space smelled of newly baked French bread, the citrus aftershave that Jack remembered, and something else, a rotten something.
"What did you want to know?" Al frowned as if he'd forgotten the question. He looked from one to the other with no apparent recognition of April. She would work on that.
"How well did you know Bernardino?" Mike repeated the question.
"Very well. He was an alum, of course. This is the alumni office. It's our job to keep track of them." Al shrugged.
"How do you do that?"
"We send out postcards for them to fill out their news for the alumni magazine. If they don't keep in touch, we go to their parents, ask their classmates. Then, of course, we have a press service. Every time the university name pops up in any kind of article, we get a clipping of it. Same with alums. When their names come up anywhere, we know it. God bless computers, right?"
"How did Bernardino's name come up?"
"Oh, his name has always been on the front burner. He's spoken here many times. He was a local hero, you know. Everybody tried to get him to fix their parking tickets." Al laughed again. "Not that he'd do anything to help," he added quickly. "But he was useful with security issues. He helped us out… and, of course, a few years back when that girl was murdered in Chinatown, we did an article on him in the alumni magazine."
April flashed again to her first big case, the one that had made Bernardino notice her. She'd been the l
ink to the family after the little girl was kidnapped by a neighbor for ransom. She was the only one in the unit who could speak Chinese.
"Then we had a theft here. It wasn't even Bernie's territory, but he helped us out with it. A real nice guy." Al Frayme nodded. "A good cop."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Oh…" Frayme scratched his chin. "Let's see. Hmmmm. I don't know that I saw him. I called him a few times."
"Why?"
He grinned. "His name came up when he won the lottery. He was a big winner. You knew that."
Mike shifted from one foot to the other. "And?"
"Well, it was a natural progression. He's always been a great friend to the university. My job is to make the ask. I knew him the best, so I was the one to make the ask."
"You called him up?"
"Oh, yes, several times."
"Where did you call him?"
"I called him at the precinct before he left. I called with my condolences after his wife died. Let's see." He pursed his lips. "I called a few weeks later to see how he was doing. We were going to have lunch, but-"
"How do you make the ask?" Mike broke in.
"Why do you want to know all this?" He looked bewildered by the interest.
"Two of your donors and personal friends were murdered. Struck with a karate chop." Mike demonstrated.
He laughed some more. "A karate chop? I don't think so."
"Why not?"
He looked at his hands for the first time. "From what I've heard it's not that easy. You might be able to disable somebody for a little while. But kill, no. Maybe a child," he amended.
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"I just use it for balance. Am I a suspect?" he asked, stroking the blade of his left hand.
April guessed he was left-handed. It was time to pin down the ME on which arm the killer had used to yoke Bernie. The death report hadn't come in yet, and not even the preliminary death report was in on Birdie. Gloss was being thorough. He had speculated on the scene that a blunt weapon, maybe the side of a hand, could have made the artifacts on Birdie's neck, but he wasn't sure. He wanted to photograph the bruises and try to make impressions of different possible weapons to see what matched. He hadn't speculated about which-handed the killer was.