"I want to leave a message for Sergeant Woo. It's Dr. Frank. Please have her call me." "Your number?"
"She has it," Jason said. Then he printed out Liberty's message and sent his reply.
36
Saturday was supposed to be April's day off. She had promised to take her mother to see Uncle Dai in the hospital, so Skinny Dragon could use her power to rally Dai's spirit and save his life. He was in a coma now, and needed al the help he could get. But April's day off was canceled. Naturally, Skinny had to scream at April and remind her for the ten thousandth time that she had no sense of honor, no sense of duty to her family and ancestors. Skinny had to threaten that every ancestor would send April bad luck every day of her life and afterlife until the end of time as punishment. No offer of taxi money for the trips to the hospital and back, and no amount of April's explaining that there was more than one kind of duty in life and the police department didn't take no for an answer, could stop Sai Woo's rage at her.
April drove into Manhattan with a bad headache. It got worse when she sat down in her office and saw a message from Jason Frank, who no doubt also intended to punish her for the rest of her life for his run-in with Iriarte yesterday. Meanwhile, the lieutenant must have been waiting for her because she hardly had her coat off when he walked by, aimed his finger like a gun at her through the window in her door, and ordered her into his office with his chin.
April didn't think she was afraid of him, generally speaking, but the curse of her ancestors, lasting until the end of time, was no small thing to have hanging over her head. She had no doubt bad luck was on the way, and he was the one who'd deliver it.
Iriarte began in a hurt voice. "What do you think you're doing, Woo?" He looked at her with sad and puzzled eyes.
"What, sir?"
"I asked a simple question." The hurt took a sharp tum to anger fast, the way hurt usually did.
"I'm investigating a homicide, sir." April tried a simple answer.
"No, you're dancing on hot coals. You want to know how many complaints I got about you last night? You seem to be making quite a name for yourself downtown."
"Did I offend someone, sir?"
"You know who you offended. You can't accuse the medical examiner of God knows how many blunders and expect the thing to pass unnoticed."
"We had some conflicting evidence, sir. I just wanted to clear—"
"The medical examiner said you interrogated Dr. Washington's technicians, accused her of tampering with evidence, even malpractice."
"What?" Iriarte's words struck April's throbbing head like a hammer. She was appalled. How could she accuse Dr. Washington of malpractice? Wasn't malpractice for patients who were alive? Tampering with what? And she hadn't even seen a tech at that hour. They'd all gone home. April stared at her boss. All she'd done was to ask a few questions straight out, the American way, the way she'd been trained and was paid to do. What was going on? What was the big deal?
"Is that all you have to say?"
"No, the DA's office also put their two cents in about my little interview with Dr. Washington last night. Either the woman's nuts, or the ME's office has something to hide."
April stood in front of Iriarte's desk, waiting for him to speak up and defend her. But the man wasn't happy. His face was purpling with rage. Maybe the case was getting to be too much for him. Maybe he'd have a heart attack like Uncle Dai, who wasn't anybody's uncle, or Tor Petersen, who'd sniffed too much coke. On the other hand, maybe the lieutenant would just snuff her out with a stroke of his pen.
"Woo, I'm beginning to worry that you don't have a brain. Don't you know you're looking for trouble here?"
"It was completely inadvertent, sir. I didn't intend to offend the ME. All I did was ask how the toxicology reports were leaked to Petersen's widow before they got to us. I also wanted to tell Dr. Washington about the dust and fiber lab's finding that the bloodstains on Petersen's overcoat indicate that Petersen died before Merrill Liberty. It puts her homicide in a different light. Since Petersen's death report gave a heart attack as the cause of death, it just doesn't—"
"I know, I know," Iriarte said impatiently.
"I wondered if there could be any other possible cause of death in Petersen that might have been overlooked in the autopsy. The body was cremated with unusual speed, sir. I just wondered . . ."
Iriarte rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Woo, your job is to wonder in here, understand? You don't go wondering all over the place with your mouth flapping."
"Yes, sir." April felt like casting her eyes down in the direction of her feet but refused to let herself do so.
"I'm disappointed by your lack of professionalism, Sergeant. I don't care how smart Lieutenant Joyce and Captain Higgins say you are. At this rate you may have a very short career with us."
April knew the fire-belching Gods of Messing Up, summoned by her ancestors all the way from old China because of her lapse in respecting Uncle Dai on his possible deathbed, had arrived to destroy her life. She shuddered. "I'll take care of it, sir," she said softly about the angry ME.
"Good. Do that." Iriarte stuck his arm out and waved her away.
So much for the legendary loyalty of the department to its own. April slunk back to her office with a great deal of guilt heavy on her mind. Only yesterday her greatest fear had been of handling Liberty all wrong. Instead of getting him to crack, as the ADA Kiang had told them to do, they'd threatened him too much and made the suspect run. Yesterday morning Iriarte had said they'd mishandled Liberty. Then Jason had suggested the same thing last night. Now the lieutenant was saying she'd mishandled the as well.
Everybody knew what happened when someone in the department messed up or became a political liability. A few weeks would go by and suddenly that somebody who'd messed up would be offered a nine-to-five Monday-to-Friday job working for a borough, the most boring work on earth with no hope of overtime and no way to get out because, like the Chinese, the police never forgot or forgave. The bosses would laugh their heads off the minute the guy was gone because they'd gotten rid of the asshole. April would not forget what Iriarte had said about the one other woman they'd had in the detective squad before her. "She was here for a while. She went into Special Victims up in the Bronx." Then he'd laughed. "We got rid of her."
And April felt bad about Jason. They'd worked well together, had trusted each other as much as a cop could trust a civilian or a shrink could trust anybody. But Iriarte was CO of the unit; he was her boss. If he wanted to talk to someone, he would talk to someone. If he wanted to mess up one of her important relationships, he would do it. Why? Simply because he could. Rank was power.
"You hear me, Woo?"
"Excuse me, sir?" April looked up.
Iriarte stood outside her door. "Just for your information, the tox reports came in on the Liberty woman. She had high levels of cocaine in her blood, too. So nobody was out there trying to kill either of them with bad shit."
"Thank you for telling me, sir." There went one theory.
April still had a strong suspicion that Petersen had not died of a heart attack, but clearly no one else wanted to think along those lines. The discovery of Liberty's car and the hunt for Liberty himself were now the focus of attention.
Mike tapped on the doorfrarne, came in, and took the vacant chair, scowling. "I heard your boss carrying on. What's up?" He didn't call her querida and wasn't even calling her April.
She was hurt. "Estoy a mal con todo el mondo," she muttered, her face copying the Spanish sulk she'd seen so often on the girls in high school. She was in trouble with everyone.
"Muy bien."