When Mike got close enough he saw that Patrice had surprising golden flecks in his eyes and was afraid. "Sergeant Sanchez," Mike said, identifying himself. "Mind if I come in for a minute?"
"I was just having a cup of tea, would you like some?" Patrice Paul's voice was low and musical.
"Uh, sure." Mike was startled. It wasn't the reception he'd expected. He went into the apartment first.
It was a three-room apartment that had been decorated with a lot of thought. The living room had a number of Caribbean-type throw rugs: Two were thrown over the highly patterned sofa. Two fan-top chairs like the kind in the restaurant. Probably came from there. Through the kitchen door, utensils for fancy cooking were visible on the wall and stove. Two doors on the other side were closed. One was probably a closet, the other a bedroom. A pottery teapot sent fragrant jasmine tea steam up into the air above the coffee table that was positioned in front of the sofa. Beside the teapot were a matching milk jug, a plate of large round yellow cookies studded with macada-mia nuts, and two cups as if someone had been expected. Their eyes met.
"Sorry to interrupt," Mike said.
"It doesn't really matter." Patrice looked anxiously at the bedroom door. "There's no hurry."
So, Patrice was the one who was gay. Mike hadn't picked it up the night of the murder. He opened his leather jacket without taking it off and sat awkwardly on one of the fan chairs. Usually, he felt kind of peculiar when he was alone with a queen, but Patrice was so demure and resigned that he suddenly had a wild feeling of elation, as if he'd cornered the squirrel who'd killed Merrill Liberty, or the squirrel was behind the bedroom door. Nah, couldn't be.
Patrice lowered his bottom to the sofa and drew his knees together as if to protect his manhood from the policeman's violation. Then he carefully poured the tea without spilling a drop.
"You know about Liberty's missing Lincoln?" Mike asked.
Patrice looked surprised. "I think I heard something about it. Liberty was upset."
"He's going to be more upset now. Do you know where he is?"
Patrice looked worried. "No, he didn't call me last night. Why will he be upset?"
"We found the car."
"I don't think he cares much about the car anymore."
"He may now. Somebody died in it."
Parice made a face and crossed himself quickly. "How, mon?"
"He was shot in the head."
"Aww that's bad."
"You know where Liberty is?" Mike demanded.
Patrice shook his head. "This is really bad."
"We need to find him before he gets hurt, you know what I mean?" Mike picked up his teacup, looked at it, then put it down. He looked toward the closed bedroom door, was going to have to go in there and check it out.
"Is he in danger, mon?"
"He knows a lot of things he hasn't told us about. Now three people are dead. You don't want him to be next, do you?"
"No, mon, I don't."
"Then give me some ideas where I might find him." Mike took a cookie and bit into it, looking away as Patrice teared up.
He ate another cookie. Patrice shook his head, didn't want to tell, then slowly he nodded.
29
A blue-and-white squad car pulled up in front of the precinct as Jason was trying to pay his taxi fare. Two chunky white cops got out of the front seat, opened the back door, and began encouraging their passenger to get out of the car. When the passenger didn't get out, they resorted to a team effort. It took both of them to wrestle out of the backseat of the car a struggling black man covered with blood, who jerked back and forth as if electrically charged.
"Fuckingpig, fucking pig. You know I didn't do nuthin'. Fuck you, fucker! Geez, man, whatchu doin' this for?"
"Come on, Harry, be a good boy, you don't want to fall down and hurt yourself, do you?"
"No, fucker. I'm not goin in there." He was a tall, thin man, emaciated even, wearing pink-and-green-plaid pants with oily-looking stains in the seat and crotch. Navy zip jacket, its front shiny with freshly spilled blood. The man leaned away from the two cops, who were both smaller than he. He braced hard against their tugging like the kind of tree that doesn't bend in the wind, the kind that gets uprooted in a bad storm.
"Jesus, first he stinks up the car. Can you beat that, and now the turd is trying to break a leg. Now stand up, Harry. You're resisting a police officer."
"Fucking pigs, fucking pigs." The man's voice rose to a wail. His wrists were cuffed behind him and his whole body leaned away from the two uniforms as if he could become a rubber band and extend himself across the street. When that didn't work, he suddenly let his knees crumple under him. He sank to the sidewalk, trying to lie down and scrape his face on the cement. The two cops didn't let him get that far.
"I'm not goin' in there," the man wailed.
The cab was stopped for a long time as Jason fumbled with singles and quarters. He nervously watched the two cops haul the bleeding, screaming man to his feet. He tried to concentrate. The fares had gone up recently, but even so the numbers on the meter seemed very high, almost double the price it used to be. He didn't come to Fifty-fourth and Eighth Avenue very often, wasn't absolutely sure what the fare should be. He frowned as the meter jumped another thirty cents after he was sure the driver had already pushed the button.
"Yo hurtin' me, assholes," the black man screamed. And then, as he was dragged across the sidewalk past a number of bored-looking uniformed officers by the door, his blurry eyes focused and met Jason's. "You a witness," he screamed. "I gonna call you as a witness. Lookit all this blood. Police brutalitee."
"Aw shut up, Harry, a dozen people saw you stab your best friend."
"Never saw the fucker befo," Harry muttered as an obliging uniform opened the precinct door and they disappeared inside.
Jason slammed the taxi door on the Arab driver who, all the way down from the Eighties, had performed a loud sing-along with prayerful screeches coming from a recorder placed on the dashboard. Jason was sure the driver had doctored the meter. It was three minutes past six. He had to be back in his office for his last patient at 7:30. So far the trip had cost him twelve dollars and thirty cents and a very bad case of heartburn. The anxious feeling he'd had all day had intensified until now he was almost shivering inside. His chest burned. He checked his watch. It was now 6:04, and he wanted to run from this spot just like the guy with his wrists cuffed behind him and blood on his jacket. If he felt anxious and threatened coming to the police station, it was no wonder Rick Liberty would do anything to avoid coming here.
Jason reached inside his coat and straightened his tie before following the prisoner through the door. Two uniforms noted the gesture and glanced at each other. For a second Jason had a feeling that they might tackle him. But he was feeling paranoid.
Inside, a banner read, MIDTOWN NORTH WISHES YOU A HAPPY AND HEALTHY NEW YEAR. Jason announced himself at the front desk, which was high enough to make him feel short.
"Dr. Frank to see Sergeant Woo," he told the pale-faced man in uniform sitting there.
The man drew the corners of his mouth down and glanced at the two people sitting up there with him. They drew the corners of their mouths down as if they had never heard of such a person either. Jason waited, tapping a foot as they discussed it. It was dark as deepest night outside, and the temperature had dropped again. The bloodied suspect had already disappeared. It was quiet. The uniform at the desk finally punched a number on the kind of old black telephone that hardly anyone outside of third-world countries used anymore. There was more discussion and some shaking of heads as the phone rang unanswered.