She gazed out at her wide view of the jewel Manhattan so tantalizingly etched against the sky. From across the East River in Queens, it always looked so tempting, like a magical city. But right now within the island's twenty-one miles Bernardino's killer might well be sleeping, eating, still walking around unchallenged. Then again, he might be somewhere else, far from their reach. Or the killer could be as close as a relative. It was too soon to know. Finally the cold got to her, and she went inside to put the kettle on.
As she waited for the water to boil, her brain began to gallop through the list. Bernardino was a retired cop, a Vietnam veteran, a father of two law-enforcement specialists, a recent widower, and the heir to a lottery fortune. Unconnected slivers of information bombarded her like parade confetti in a high wind. Where did the dots connect? She'd bet a year's salary the key to the murder was the fortune. But maybe it wasn't.
If she had to examine every aspect of Bernardino's life leading back the last few days, the last few weeks, the last few months, the last few years of his life to find where Bernardino had been headed and who had crossed his path before he got there, she would do it. Anything to release his soul for a happy afterlife. She moved to the sofa in the living room to start with the computer files that she'd copied into her laptop.
A decade ago, when April began working with Bernardino, he hadn't owned a computer, and neither had she. Then they'd done everything the old way. They'd taken notes by hand and banged out reports on manual typewriters. A couple of desks in the unit had been equipped with electric typewriters, but not the correcting kind. That had been back in the dark ages when they'd kept their files in boxes and stacked them up in corners because there weren't enough filing cabinets to contain them all.
When she'd copied Bernardino's files, April could see that he hadn't been one of those older guys who hung onto carbon paper and Wite-Out and hated technology. Quite the contrary, Bernardino even had his PalmPilot hooked up to his Micron, so both his address book and schedule came up on his computer screen. April wasn't this meticulous. Her precious address book was a small fat loose-leaf that contained the phone numbers and addresses of nearly every person she'd ever used as a source, people from all over the country. She'd never gotten around to copying all of it. Periodically she'd forget where she'd left it and tailspin into a panic.
Bernardino was on the other end of the spectrum. He'd taken all the precautions. He also had Quicken, the accounting software that showed his deposits and itemized all his expenses. This degree of organization was initially surprising to her, because he'd always seemed like a sloppy kind of guy, not that disciplined. He'd eaten anything he fancied, didn't mind what hours he worked or who was inconvenienced by his schedule, and when he was investigating a case he'd been like an octopus. The tentacles of his mind had reached out in all directions.
Looking at his work more slowly now, April saw that organization had been his strong suit. His list of notes, detailing everyone he'd talked with and everywhere he'd gone every day, said it all. But the last three days of his life showed a change in this habit. Whatever activities he'd had, he hadn't recorded by this method. Or else someone had erased them.
She scrolled through his list of folders and found Jupiter, West Palm, Venice, Fort Myers, Bradendon, Sarasota. West-coast-of-Florida cities. Opening them one by one, she saw that he'd been corresponding with real estate agents. The files contained dozens of photos of Mediterranean-style houses with exotic-shaped pools on canals and golf courses. The gorgeous-looking places listed at four, five, six hundred thousand dollars. That would be an unthinkable amount for Mike and April to spend, but much less than Bernardino could have afforded with his millions.
His correspondence with brokers showed that he'd been planning a trip to check out the towns and houses on his list. If his heart truly had been as broken as Marcus Beame had intimated to Mike, it certainly hadn't stopped him from planning his new life. April clicked to Quicken and scrolled through his checks. Not surprising, there had been a lot of medical bills. After the lottery money came in, he'd stopped playing the insurance game and simply started paying for private rooms for Lorna's hospital stays, for the lab tests, second opinions, private duty nurses. The list went on and on. The costs added up to such a large number that April began to wonder about Kathy again. Kathy was beginning to look way too naive for an FBI agent.
And then there was Lorna's funeral. Bernardino had put out some major bucks on that. April checked through to the funeral costs. Here was another surprise. Lorna had been cremated, an unusual thing for a Catholic. Another entry showed that Bernardino had bought a plot in a Queens cemetery. Calvary. But did Catholic churches accept cremated remains? She'd have to ask.
Another thing puzzled her. Would Bernie bury his wife up in Queens if he planned to sell the house and move away? The bank statements themselves were missing. This seemed inconsistent with his character, as did the mess in his house. It seemed highly likely that someone had erased at least some of the files they were looking for. But that was not a problem for a techie. The computer had been removed from the house. Their experts could find whatever had been in there. Crooks were often dumb. Their dumb moves always nailed them.
At ten past nine April heard the toilet flush, then the water in the sink run. A few minutes later Mike wandered in, shirtless and bleary-eyed, his face still wet from washing.
"You left me," he murmured. "Why couldn't you sleep in for once?" He came over to the couch and took her chin in his hand to review the bruises on her neck. He made no comment at the deep purple not yet beginning to yellow.
"I couldn't sleep."
"You sound bad. What are you doing for that?"
"Te quiero," she said softly.
"Well, thanks. But that's not a response, froggy." He sat down beside her and followed her gaze to her computer screen. "What do we have here?"
"Bernardino's Quicken."
"You copied his files?" He looked impressed.
"When I went out there Thursday. Looks like some stuff is missing."
"I need a minute to wake up." He gave her a quick kiss and disappeared into the kitchen.
She heard the refrigerator door open and close, the coffeemaker percolate, the teakettle begin to sing. He returned four minutes later with a mug of coffee and a mug of tea. He was a nice guy.
"Thanks." She took the tea gratefully, put her face into the steam of her favorite brew. There was nothing in the world as wonderful as a useful man and a good cup of tea.
He drank his coffee thoughtfully, then got up for more. When he returned from the kitchen the second time, he was ready. "What have you got?"
She shook her head. "Nothing close to a clear picture of what was going on in Bernie's life. While Lorna was alive he paid her medical bills but made no other big purchases that are recorded here. It doesn't mean he didn't buy anything, though. The Quicken software only has his Chase account recorded in it. He bought a cemetery plot in Queens, not here. He paid for a funeral. He was looking for a house in Florida. It's weird."
"What?"
"Just this little thing. Would you bury me up here if you were moving away?"
Mike snorted. "No, I'd take you with me in a little jar. Keep you in the car, and drive you around with me." He combed his mustache with his fingers, laughing at the idea of April in a jar.
"Thanks. That's what I'm guessing. He had her cremated. He was taking her with him. I'll bet there was nothing buried in her plot. Just the marker. But why would he do that?"