Stealing Time awm-5

by Leslie Glass

  Stealing Time

  ( April Woo Mysteries - 5 )

  Leslie Glass

  With her mastery of police procedure and unflinching take on race relations, Leslie Glass is one of today's most original female suspense writers. April Woo's investigation of a child's disappearance in New York's Chinatown takes a nasty turn when suspicion falls on the wealthy parents. The father is hostile, the mother is unconscious, the police are without a lead, and all the pressure is on April. The facts don't add up and April's only hope of cracking the case is to find the child's real mother. Everyone involved is clearly hiding something, but is bound to silence by fear or guilt or both. With the reporters, her superior officers, and her own mother pressuring her, April is stuck in the middle of the kind of high-profile case most cops despise-- the kind of case perfect for cool-headed Sergeant Woo.

  Praise for the novels of Leslie Glass

  "This series [is] a winner!" —

  Mystery News

  "Detective Woo is the next generation descended from Ed McBain's 87th precinct."

  —Hartford Courant

  "I'll drop what I'm doing to read Leslie Glass anytime." —Nevada Barr

  "Fast-paced, gritty . . . [April Woo] joins Kin-sey Millhone and Kay Scarpetta in the ranks of female crime fighters." —

  Library Journal

  More Praise for Leslie Glass

  "PSYCHOLOGICALLY RICH . . . builds to an explosive climax as unpredictable and surprising as April Woo herself. A fresh, engrossing read."

  —New York Times

  bestselling author Perri O'Shaughnessy

  "An intense thriller. . . . Glass provides several surprises, characters motivated by a lively cast of inner demons and, above all, a world where much is not as it initially seems."

  —Publishers Weekly

  "Deft plotting and strong characterization will leave readers eager for further installments."

  —Library Journal

  "Glass not only draws the reader into the crazed and gruesome world of the killer, but also cleverly develops the character of Woo . . . and her growing attraction for partner Sanchez."

  —Orlando Sentinel

  More ...

  "Sharp as a scalpel. . . . Scary as hell. Leslie Glass is Lady McBain."

  —New York Times

  bestselling author Michael Palmer

  "If you're a Thomas Harris fan . . . looking for a new thriller to devour, you'll find it in

  Burning Time." —Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  "A suspenseful story in which those who appear to be sane may actually harbor the darkest secrets of all." —

  Mostly Murder

  "The plot is clever . . . and the ending is a genuine surprise. Woo is so appealing a protagonist that Leslie Glass can keep her going for a long time." —

  Newark Star-Ledger

  ALSO BY LESLIE GLASS

  Judging Time

  STEALING

  TIME

  LESLIE GLASS

  ©

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  First Signet Printing, February 2000

  Copyright © Leslie Glass, 1999 All rights reserved

  For my brother, Stephen, and for Hallie, Lacy, Marilee, Sara, and Tessa

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all the psychologists in my ken, particularly everyone associated with the Glass Institute who contributes so much to the field and to my own life and work. I partake of your books and articles and wisdom daily, borrow your ideas with complete abandon, enjoy your company, and relish your every triumph. To my friends at the Middle States Commission of Higher Education I owe a debt of gratitude for enrichment of many kinds.

  As always, special thanks to the thousands of New York City police officers who walk, pedal, ride, fly, swim, and cruise their particular beats, man the special units, supervise the uniforms, train and work the dogs and horses, crunch the numbers, and face the terrors of Comstat Wednesday and Friday mornings—everyone who works so hard to make New York City a safer and more enjoyable place to live and visit. I use bits and pieces of this enormous department, writing entirely as a novelist. I relocate important New York City landmarks and other geography, changing the names of streets and restaurants and even police policy and procedure at will. The errors I make may be intentional, or unintentional, or both, but they are entirely my own. Any resemblances to living persons working at any of the precincts I mention are pure coincidence. Thanks to the staff and trustees of the Police Foundation for all the good work they do, and to New York University Law School, especially the Criminal Justice Department, for a never-ending deluge of information and stimulation.

  Special thanks to my agent, Nancy Yost, and editor, Audrey LaFehr, for believing in me (and for much more), and to all the people at Dutton/NAL in production, promotion, marketing and sales who work so hard to make the magic happen. And to Alex and Lindsey, my anchor, inspiration, and joie de vivre, three cheers!

  Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and, till action, lust Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so: Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme: A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well. To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

  —William Shakespeare Sonnet 129

  CHAPTER 1

  The morning Heather Rose Popescu finally resolved to set her life in order, she lost her baby, ended up in the hospital, and became the subject of an intense police inquiry. This result was no less than she expected because of the remedy she'd used to purge her troubled soul. And by noon, like a person condemned, she was already preparing for the end of her life as she knew it. In a state of terrified purpose, she set about her domestic tasks. For beauty, she put an arrangement of magnificent pink peonies on the table in the living room. For taste, she was preparing her husband's favorite dinner, roast duck. In her panic, she remembered the duck in the freezer and seized on it at the last moment as a possible appeasement.

  She was well aware of the basic things that were certain to infuriate Anton, but there were also those other little things that she couldn't predict. She never knew what was going to set her husband off; and frequently, in the afternoons, she cast about helplessly for something to please or divert him so he wouldn't get started on her. Today, she knew the duck was a hopeless gesture, but it was defrosting in the kitchen sink, anyway.

  The catastrophic event was triggered at half past two, earlier than she expected. She hadn't finished her preparations. She wasn't ready. When the doorbell rang, Heather Rose had just taken a broom from the closet to sweep the kitchen floor. She jumped at the deceptively innocent sound, terrified of what would happen when she opened the door. But, as with everything else in her life, she had no choice. She had to open the door. The difference this time was that, after years of the deepest suffering, she was finally doing what she thought was right.

  The day had started just like hundreds of others in Heather Rose's marriage. She had awakened with the intense desire to atone, to address her shortcomings, and to finally receive the understanding and forgiveness she craved. Above all, she wanted Anton to be kind, to accept and love her.

  "How can I love you when you're constantly hurting my feelings, putting me down?" was his angry response. Daily, he told her that the punishments she received came as a result of her own failings. No matter what she tried, she just couldn't get anything right.

  For many years it had been Heather Rose's deeply held secre
t that one day she would somehow correct all the wrongs that Anton had done to her in the name of his hurt feelings, and somehow she would become whole again. Since he was more powerful and dangerous, however, she did not know how she could possibly accomplish such a thing. And every morning, the will to exorcise the demons from her existence melted away with the four teaspoons of sugar she added to his breakfast coffee.

  Like many people trapped in destructive relationships, Heather Rose had become convinced by her partner that she was a bad person. Anton had an endless catalogue of her faults that he recited often. And the worst fault of all, the one that dogged her daily, resulted in the most painful disciplines, and shamed her most deeply, was that she did not love him as much as she should. In her wedding vows, she had promised that she would love him no matter what. Anton reminded her of it continually and made her pledge her allegiance over and over.

  This pretense of unconditional love turned out to be a greater ordeal than any she could have imagined. He tricked her again and again, and the lies at the center of their marriage were the poison that made the burden of keeping her promise an impossible task, a war she fought with herself daily but could not ever hope to win. Often she had longed for a release from life altogether.

  At the sound of the doorbell, she glanced at the clock. Two-thirty. Anton always rang the bell. Whatever time he arrived home he expected her to be there for him, to open the door and greet him with a drink and a pleasant smile. But he rarely came home this early.

  Oh God, now it begins,

  was her first thought. Anton had a sharp eye. She hadn't changed her clothes; she hadn't cleaned the last dirty diaper out of the pail. What would he criticize first? She wanted to get the diaper out of the apartment. But then the bell rang a second time, and it hit home that today none of the little things mattered. Trembling, she moved to open the door.

  "Hello, gorgeous."

  She couldn't stop her eyes from registering shock. "What are you doing here?" Reflexively, she stepped back. But he moved with her, and she couldn't avoid an embrace.

  "Come to see my sweetie. Any reason why I shouldn't?" Big smile on his face as he enveloped her in the Big Hug.

  "Hey, not today."

  "Huh?" He drew back, looked at her with mock suspicion, hugged her again, squeezed her bottom, pressed her to him again, this time tangling his fingers in her hair. The whole ritual made her weak with terror. He wasn't a good man; he didn't like her at all. Everything was a sham. She'd be found out. Someone would be murdered. All this went through her head. Finally, he moved away and looked around.

  "You look great. How's the baby?"

  "Sleeping," she lied, knowing he knew.

  "The place looks great," he said, following her as she fled into the kitchen. "You, too."

  She didn't say anything. She was wearing tights and a sweater. Her hair was a wreck and she had no makeup on. She didn't look great at all. He knew everything.

  "Hey baby, I missed you," he said to her back. "How about a quickie?"

  The suggestion startled her. It was the last thing she'd expected. "Absolutely not." She turned around to be sure he understood, but before she could say anything more his arms were around her again, his hands taking inventory of her body in his very practiced way. His face was in her hair. She could feel his excitement.

  "No." She tried to get away.

  "Hey, don't do that. You're my honey."

  "Come on, come on." She struggled in his arms, trying to cajole, trying not to panic.

  "You smell so great," he murmured.

  "No, don't, I mean it."

  "With you no is yes. You want me as much as I want you. You're dying for me, baby. I can feel it." His fingers writhed their way into her tights.

  "No." It was all she could think of to say. He knew, and he was angry. She could feel it.

  "Yes." He drew back and found her lips, kissed her hard on the mouth, bruisingly hard. He tasted like beer.

  The beery taste meant he was mad

  and

  drunk. Today, however, she wouldn't take it. She pushed him away. "I said no."

  For a second his arrogance was replaced by surprise. He looked at her, amazed. Then he exploded. "Who do you think you are? You can't tell me no."

  "I'm telling you no." She said it so softly she could hardly hear the words herself. She was almost afraid to breathe. Her back was pressed against the counter. Behind her the knives were stacked in their block of wood. The broom was propped against the refrigerator. She could see confusion in his eyes. He hadn't expected resistance. For a second he laughed, not believing she could act like this after what she'd done. But she didn't care. That morning she had resolved to be a good person, to draw the line in the sand and stop the lies, all the bad things that had happened since she'd married Anton with such hope and excitement—and been betrayed in so many ways.

  This man was the worst. She could see his expression change from laughing at her, to disbelief, to anger. He was still, very still, as he considered her.

  The first punch came as a complete surprise. He punched her in the stomach. She didn't have time to scream; she just doubled over, the air knocked out of her. Her falling down that easily made him mad. He thought she was faking, so he straightened her up and punched her in the mouth, then in the eye to teach her a lesson. When she finally hit the ground, he kicked her in the ribs. Luckily for her, she'd already passed out when he tired of using his feet and his fists and then saw the broom.

  This event happened on a sunny spring afternoon when the temperature hit seventy-three degrees in Central Park and the sky was the color of cornflowers. When Anton Popescu called 911, he said he'd come home from work early and found his wife of five years bloody and unconscious on the kitchen floor and their infant son gone from their exclusive Central Park South apartment. The police arrived en masse within minutes.

  CHAPTER 2

  A

  t the same time down in Chinatown, Lin Tsing, a newcomer to America, a seventeen-year-old illegal alien, lay on an old blanket under the living room window, as far away from the other occupants of the tiny tenement apartment as they could put her. She hadn't been well, and now she was acting spooky, like a woman possessed. She had come home early from work, spoken to no one, and wouldn't answer questions. She had a glazed and empty look on her face, as if she had entered another world since morning. And they didn't like it one bit. She lay there in a stupor, listening to them argue about her.

  They were afraid she was sick; they wanted to put her out. She could hear them discussing this. The men kept their distance. The women hovered around her, covering their mouths and noses to protect themselves from whatever ailed her.

  It was not so easy for them to get her out, however. She had enemies and no friends. Their problem was how to go about getting rid of her without bringing trouble from many directions upon themselves. No one made any effort to hide the nature of their dilemma. Lin could feel the women huddling together, not too close to her, afraid of everything, not knowing what to do.

  Mei, with the shrill voice, said Lin was bad luck and they should put her on the street. This woman was shushed by the others for being so outspoken even though everyone, except the two aunties, believed that if Lin were put out on the street, an ambulance with sirens going and lights flashing would magically come and take her to the hospital. They were sure of this because they believed that the authorities in New York did not like to have sick people on the streets. The discussions intensified during the late afternoon when Lin would not speak and get up again, even to relieve herself. She could have been deaf for all they cared. The two aunties gave her a few aspirin, but they had no other medicine to give her.

  Lin let herself drift, welcoming the emptiness in her head. She had been sick before and gotten well before. In the part of her head that was still aware and could think about things, she'd decided that being sick was a good way out. If she was sick, she did not have to work. She did not have to show herself on the
street or have anyone ask her questions, threaten her, or get her in trouble. Now her troubles were over. She would rest, and she would recover.

  In recent weeks she had been telling herself a story about survival: She was feeling bad because being sick kept her safe from other dangers, the real dangers that terrified her even more than having a slight fever. As long as she had a fever, she was safe. After her fever left her, she would get better and then she would escape. Today, she'd seen her stupid cousin Nanci Hua, and Nanci had hurt her again, hadn't even tried to save her. Still, she would do what she had to do. If she didn't get better in a few days, she would swallow her pride. Once again, she'd call that cousin who hated her, and who was probably hating her even more now that she knew how bad Lin really was. This was Lin's plan. All this time, she had avoided telling the stuck-up Nanci Hua her troubles. Now Nanci would come to this apartment and take her away as soon as she bowed low enough and swallowed the shame. Lin wasn't stupid. In the end she would bow. She would do what she had to do to survive.

  When Lin heard the women muttering about the bad luck that would come to them from keeping her, she wanted to say something to stop it. But her head was separated from her. She was in a place where speaking made no sense. In the end, she didn't have the energy, and she didn't care.

  She had been in this place with Mr. and Mrs. Wang and the two aunties for ten months and had never let Nanci visit once. Other people lived there on and off—two people, three people, whole families. They went to work, came back, cooked over a hot plate in the living room because the Wangs did not allow them to use their two-burner stove. They shared a toilet and sink in a dirty cubbyhole, and a tub by the refrigerator. For two months of her stay there had been three young children in the place, bringing the number of occupants in the two-room apartment to ten. That had been the worst. The children had cried often and been scolded. The scolding reminded Lin of her mother, who had died in a country hospital in China almost two years ago. The memories of her mother made Lin want to leave the apartment and go to Nanci, but the aunties said she owed them after all they had done for her. Lin had stayed, and later when she didn't feel well, she was afraid to go to a hospital where she was sure to die, just like her mother.