Skinny Dragon Mother would say April wasn’t much of a detective. And it was true she didn’t know what to make of Spanish women. One writing letters to her husband in heaven because she didn’t want to keep him waiting for the news. One thinking she could get there on a technicality, pretending she hadn’t violated her sacred vows by leaving her husband. What kind of God would put up with tricks like that?
In trouble, though, Mike’s hand moved up to his neck, where the small gold cross hung on a chain. She had seen it once after they had a scuffle with two thirteen-year-olds who’d robbed a corner store, shot the owner in the chest, and then led them on a chase down a crowded play street, through an open fire hydrant. By the time they and three uniforms stopped the kids, the gun was long gone, people were shrieking on the street, and everyone was soaked. Mike had shoved his wet tie in a pocket and opened his collar.
It was then that April saw for the first time a small portion of dark and hairy, barbarian chest and the cross. She had thought it must be easier with only one God to worry about, because she didn’t want to think about the hair on Mike’s chest and how sexy she thought it was.
The whole thing had made her sweat—the cross, the chest. The chase, the stinging cold water from the fire hydrant.
Jason didn’t buy shift change as the cause of her tension. “Where’ve you been?”
April turned to take him upstairs to the squad room. “Out in the field,” she said vaguely.
“Something must have happened. You don’t look so, ah, great.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you about it. How are you doing with Camille?”
“Oh, I’m about finished for now. I’ve sent the officer back in with her while we talk.”
Jason followed her upstairs to the squad room. He’d been there before.
It was after midnight. No one was around. April glanced at Sergeant Joyce’s closed door. She wondered if Mike was still in there with her, giving his statement. If that was the case, hers would be next.
She sat down at her desk, trying not to think about it. She had been working six different cases when the Maggie Wheeler thing came up. All of them had been put aside. They were sitting there on her desk, the folders untouched in a week. Everybody cared about his own case and wanted it dealt with right away. Quite a few message slips had accumulated. The pile looked a little messy, as though someone had gone through it.
April took a sidelong glance at it. The name on the top pink slip jumped up and startled her. George Dong had called at nine o’clock. Hastily, she shoved the slips under a folder.
Jason lowered himself into the visitor’s chair beside her desk, grimacing as if everything hurt. “I’m really hungry, and I’m really tired, and there’s blood on your shirt. What happened?”
“It’s mole,” she replied quickly, closing her jacket around the stains. She couldn’t decide what to tell him, so she hedged. “You want food first or the story first?”
Jason smiled bleakly. “Why don’t you tell me the story while we’re waiting for the food?”
60
We got a warrant to go over the house where Camille lives,” April began. “Her boyfriend came back before we were finished. There was a confrontation. He shot a Lieutenant from Homicide, and a detective shot him.”
“What?” Jason’s California tan turned a little green. “You mean the boyfriend, Bouck, had a gun? He shot a cop?”
April nodded. “And a cop shot him. In the back.”
“Jesus, is he alive?”
“He was alive half an hour ago. He’s probably in surgery by now.” She checked her watch. It was really late.
Camille’s friend got shot. Jason looked stunned.
“In the back?” he said faintly, not understanding how that might have happened.
“Yeah, well, the Lieutenant was in front of him and the Sergeant was behind him. When the Sergeant saw him going for his gun, he fired to protect his boss.”
Jason thought about that for a moment. “A real gun?”
“You mean Bouck’s? Oh, yes, it was very real. We found three guns, none registered.”
The sandwich came. Jason unwrapped the paper plate, then stopped and regarded it doubtfully, like suddenly he didn’t feel so hungry anymore.
“Go ahead.” April nodded at the food. A huge pile of crispy french fries took up more than half the plate, so the huge triple-layer turkey club on white toast hung over the side. “That should keep you for a while.”
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “Thanks.”
She watched, amazed, while he added five packets of Sweet’n Low and a full cup of milk to the half cup of coffee he had ordered in a large cup. Interesting ritual. She wondered what Freud would think of it.
“Want some?” he offered.
April shook her head even though the french fries looked pretty good. “No thanks. I’m on duty.”
“You can’t eat when you’re on duty?” Jason took a bite of the sandwich.
That was her attempt at a joke. She shook her head again. The plate had a lot of food on it. It would take a while before he could talk. She looked away, letting her thoughts wander around in the fog of this case.
In the office were Mike and Sergeant Joyce, either talking to each other, or Captain Higgins, or somebody who outranked Higgins. In the hospital were Braun and Bouck. April’s thoughts drifted to Albert Block, their first suspect. It occurred to her that Block was a B word, too. Block, Bouck, Braun. All B words. What did that have to do with it? Nothing. She told herself to get focused.
She pulled out her pad and made some notes. Check handwriting in guest book. Bouck’s. Camille’s. They could get handwriting samples out of the house. April had taken the hairbrush from the room. They could match the hair from the hairbrush with the hair on Maggie’s dress. It might not be Camille’s hair in the hairbrush, but might be Camille’s hair on the dress. Maybe both Bouck and Camille wore the clothes at different times.
Jason finished the french fries, pushed the plate away, and picked up the coffee. “Thanks for the food,” he said again, and seemed to make a decision about something.
“I want to review the whole case with you, and I want to talk to Camille again. But not now. I think for now I should give you my reading of Camille and wrap it up for the night.”
April frowned. She was the detective. He was the consultant. He wasn’t supposed to tell her how to manage the case. She told herself to lighten up. “So what’s your reading?”
“At this point I can’t give you a complete diagnosis, but I can tell you what she isn’t.”
“Fine.”
“She isn’t delusional. That means she doesn’t hear voices. She’s not hallucinatory. She doesn’t see things that aren’t there, at least not at the moment. She’s not psychotic. She can tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. She’s not paranoid and not violent.”
April frowned. What was he talking about? The woman tried to eat her arm.
Jason smiled. “I know. You’re thinking if they act crazy, they probably are. Camille is certainly very troubled, very frightened. But except for the rages she directs at herself, she’s a gentle, nurturing person. She could not hurt anybody else. I don’t think she could kill a spider.”
Judging from the state of the kitchen, she couldn’t wash a dish either. April thought of the straitjacket.
“The clothes of the first murder victim were found in the basement of the house where Camille lived,” April told him.
Jason shook his head. “Poor woman.”
April nodded. “It was a—pretty unhealthy scene. The place is a mess. Her room was upstairs. Looks like he kept her in a restraint at least part of the time. We found a lot of sedatives, sleeping pills, that kind of thing, in his medicine cabinet.” She shuddered and fell silent.