Gloss grunted angrily. "Look, it's not that easy to kill someone with a hand. Arm yoking, absolutely. Break their neck, easy as pie. You have to be strong, but a lot of people are strong. Crushing a spinal cord with a hand"-he clicked his tongue-"that's another story… but on the other hand, if he had used a pipe why not just bash her on the head? You see, it's not such an easy call."
"His psychology is the key to this."
"Whatever makes the case."
"If he's a kung fu nut, he'd want to use the hand in the traditional way. Are you telling me it wasn't a hand?"
"All I'm saying is, it could be. We're still trying to get an impression, work backward."
"What about a protective mitt?"
"No, a mitt would have spread out the bruising."
"All right, can you tell me which hand the killer used?"
"Oh, that I can tell you. The killer was facing her. The blow was on the left side of her neck. That makes him left-handed."
"And Bernardino?" Mike said excitedly.
"Bernie was yoked from behind. Pulled from right to left. The guy's still left-handed."
Mike whistled. "Thanks."
"Well?" April asked when he hung up.
"A lefty, just like Ducci predicted, and he wasn't wearing a mitt."
"A purist. That son of a bitch Ducci. Amazing how somebody who never even saw the body could be so sure."
"He saw the photos. Home sweet home, carita."
They pulled up in front of the Sixth, where Woody was waiting outside in the sunshine, turning the pages of a book.
"Look at these cuties," he said when they parked the Camaro and got out. "I used to have one like this." He pointed at a little white hair ball with two black ribbons on its crown. A real man's dog, with a fringe so long its paws were covered.
April glanced at the photo. "Jesus, Woody. A Maltese?"
"Did you locate Hammermill?" Mike asked.
"Yeah, he's out in the Hamptons. Want me to drive out with the pictures?" he asked hopefully. It was a nice day for a drive.
April took the book out of his hand. It still had its Barnes and Noble price sticker on it. Woody had done things the easy way, as usual. He'd paid thirty-five dollars for Choosing a Dog for Life, and would put in for the refund. Still, it had good pictures of 166 breeds. Should do it. They went inside where the task force was assembled for the morning meeting.
Fifty-one
Breakfast was Krispy Kremes. A couple dozen detectives gobbled them up as if there were no tomorrow on fat, talking the case and drinking extra-large cups of coffee. The ones who never learned were smoking, too. April studied the dog book, something she should have done in a much more focused manner a week ago.
"You want me to run out to the Hamptons and interview that guy Hammermill?" Woody whispered in her ear. As usual, he'd do anything to get out of that room and out on the road.
"Not right now, Woody." She turned some pages, hoping some canine posture would loosen up her blocked memory.
"That's a cute one." He pointed to a bloodhound. "He's got a nose like Harry's. Ha, ha. Get it, a nose for money?"
"Is that a Jewish joke, Woody?"
"Of course not." Woody was Jewish, so he looked offended.
She noted that bloodhounds were twenty-six inches tall, a pretty standard size for lots and lots of brown, and tan-and-russet, and black-and-tan dogs. How could she remember which one she'd seen among all these haulers, herders, hunters, chasers, retrievers, sniffers, swimmers, guiders, and savers? There seemed to be a dog bred to do just about anything. She wanted to stand up and measure how high twenty-six inches was but didn't have a tape measure with her. She was pretty sure it was a mastiff, but there was more than one kind. She smiled. Shown at different stages of maturity, these dogs were pretty much all cute. It was hard to look at them and pay any attention to the task force meeting.
The big boss had been right when he'd said back at the get-go that this case was too personal for her. Right now she was ahead of everybody else in her thinking, so she couldn't even pretend to be interested in the catch-up going on. Charts up on boards showing the last twenty-four hours in the lives of the victims and the suspects. Albert Frayme, Harry Weinstein, Bill Bernardino, the Bassett siblings. What they'd been doing then. What they were doing now. None of that was important now.
When it came time for the playback segments of Frayme's taped interviews, she gave up and went to the ladies' room. She'd heard almost all of it before and didn't want to revisit Frayme's Asian phobia. He didn't like slants. He'd said it when she was sitting right next to him, as if she didn't exist. How to win friends and influence people.
In the ladies' room, she gazed at herself in the mirror, then washed her hands and her face and reapplied her makeup. She had to prepare for war. When she was ready she went downstairs, took out her cell, and listened to her messages. She wasn't going back into that room. Mike could yell at her later. She didn't care. She was going to find the place where Frayme trained. In the end, she always had to do everything herself.
She listened to her four messages. Skinny Dragon, Devereaux, Marcus Beame, and Charlie Hagedorn. Skinny Dragon wanted to be taken out for a ride. Saturday was her shopping day, and Astoria where she lived didn't have the best stuff. The dragon wanted worm daughter to pay attention to her, take her to Flushing. April called Skinny back and told her she couldn't play chauffeur; she had to work.
"Half day enough. Your father don't feel good." Skinny stuck in the knife. "Better come at three."
The parry struck home. Did her dad have a big hangover or did they need a lightbulb changed? "We'll see how it goes, Ma." April had learned a long time ago never to give her mother an absolute no. Then she called Devereaux.
"Are you coming over or not? We're getting ready to leave," he said the minute she identified herself.
"Yeah, I'll be there before noon, promise. Where are you going?" she asked.
"Lisa's parents have a house on Martha's Vineyard."
"Nice place, I was there once." She was relieved he was still determined to get out of town. She was just finishing up with Devereaux when Woody appeared with the dog book.
"Where to, boss, the Hamptons?" he said, looking relieved to have found her.
"No, not the Hamptons. What took you so long?" she demanded.
"What am I, a mind reader?" He gave her a look, then opened the precinct door for her.
At least he'd learned some manners. Outside he opened the passenger door of the unmarked vehicle from Midtown North that he'd brought for her. She was gratified that old dogs could learn new tricks. As soon as he'd closed the door for her, she ignored him the way her bosses always ignored her.
She strapped herself in and dialed Hagedorn. "Sergeant Woo," she said when he came on.
"Finally. Okay, I got the skinny on Albert Delano Frayme. Frayme took his mother's name after the divorce, so I went back and found the court records. His father's name is Alberts. His birth name was Albert Delano Alberts, Junior."
"A. A.," April said.
"Is there some significance to that?"
"Only that the two victims were B. B.s."
"Okaaay. So I checked further. Frayme has a double identity with credit cards and a social security number in the name of Albert Alberts. You want me to subpoena the credit card records?"
"Very good, Charlie!"
"Is that a thank-you?"
"That's a dinner at your favorite eatery."
"Check. What about the subpoena?"
"Go for it. Everything you can get on him."
"Anything else?"
"That's peachy for the moment," she said.
"Where to, boss?" Woody was playing with the car keys like a six-year-old.
"Devereaux's home," she told him.
Then she dialed Beame. "Sergeant Woo."
"Hey, April. Mike isn't picking up. You wanted likely dojos, right? I got Praying Mantis. It's 16 East Thirty-second Street. Professional Prepare is on Twenty-second Street at Third Ave. I have three more. You want addresses? You were right on the Silent Warrior call, but it's too far uptown."