"Well, you told me to come back here with the photographs. I didn't know he was a suspect. Since when did he become a suspect?"
April licked her cracked lips. "You have to use your head, Baum. You have to be able to prioritize. Bringing me the photo of Heather Rose was not as important as documenting the fact that Popescu attacked you and bringing him into the station to probe the incident and his involvement in a homicide. Think about it: why would the guy freak out at your discovery of his family photo album? What was the meaning of it? Could he be a killer?" She was disgusted with herself for trusting Baum.
"Well, I have witnesses who saw him assault me. They can document that later."
"I don't want to hear any more." At the interview-room door, she stopped Baum with a look. She was going to make him pay for this.
With Baum put in his place, she rearranged her face into a benign expression that didn't change when she saw Heather's bad haircut.
Heather Rose was sitting at a table with her parents flanking her. "Hello. This is Lieutenant Sanchez," April said. "Mr. and Mrs. Kwan, Mrs. Popescu."
Heather's mother nodded. Her father stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
April smiled at Heather Rose. "Thank you for coming; it was the right thing to do," she said softly. "But we're going to have to go back uptown to talk. Have you had lunch?" "He told us the baby's mother is dead," Heather said.
"Detective Baum told you?"
"Yes. Where's Paul? He has no one now. I want him back."
Uh-oh. "Does this mean you've reconciled with your husband?"
"No."
"Heather, were you aware that the baby was sick?"
"What makes you think he's sick?" she asked anxiously. "Did something happen to him?"
"His mother had tuberculosis and herpes. Did you have him checked out by a pediatrician?"
Heather paled. "Of course I took him to a doctor. He was fine."
"Blood tests and everything?"
"Yes, I think so. I don't really know what they do."
"I'll need the physician's name."
Heather Rose looked down at her hands. "I thought he was fine," she said faintly.
"Heather, you're going to have to tell me everything."
The parents made some angry noises. It wasn't clear whose side they were on. April was upset. There were too many people in the room and no place to put them all. Mike had the photos of the dead girl. Baum had the photos of Heather. Anton was now upgraded as a suspect in her mind. She decided she wanted to be the one to talk with all three Popescu males. She glanced at Mike, who wasn't saying a word. He was respectfully treating her like the primary, so she pushed away her nausea and took charge.
CHAPTER 43
M
ike was preoccupied when he and April left the 5th Precinct. It was still a beautiful day, now over sixty-eight degrees, and the enticing aromas of Chinatown lunches issuing from dozens of restaurants charged the air with delectable temptations. Even as he prepared to go over the Popescus' building with a Crime Scene Unit, his mustache twitched at the odors of frying garlic and meats, baking pizza and calzone, and the outdoor fish and vegetable stands set up on the sidewalks. He wanted to get April fixed up and to eat something himself, but there was no arguing with her. April always had her own agenda.
The detective squad of the 5th had been responsible for a thorough crime scene investigation. The ME's death report made a mockery of the witness's statement and ruled out suicide or accidental death. Bernardino had caught the case, and the way it had been handled did not speak well for him. A more thorough search of the inside of the Popescu building was now a must. As was her wont, April was neither moaning nor complaining about what had gone wrong. In fact, she revealed no feelings about anything as she stared blankly up into the sun as if for guidance.
Mike had grown up with Latina girls who smiled and giggled,
mintiendo mas que siete,
sending a constant string of white lies up the flagpole for no reason other than to practice for the whoppers. He always got the feeling their intended purpose in life was to beat one system or another every day just to prove who was the real boss. Beating the system wasn't a goal for April. She rarely giggled and never lied. When she wanted to stay in control of a situation she just beamed out a don't-mess-with-me message, the way she was doing right now.
"iComo estas tu
?" Mike asked solicitously.
"No me preguntas, mi amor."
She was thinking in not too favorable terms about mixed marriages and the woe they could bring.
"Too bad, I'm asking."
She wasn't going to say how she felt about Baum's handling of the order she'd given him, or about their interview with Heather Rose and her parents, all three at odds with the man she had married. The Kwans and Heather were now being driven to Midtown North by the overreaching Baum to hang around some more while she took care of other things. Heather still would not identify Anton as her attacker in the kitchen.
"Where's the car?" April asked.
Mike pointed down the narrow street lined with stores selling trinkets, toys, clothes, foods, spiritual necessities, important antique porcelains, and other antiquities—all made yesterday in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore. April saw the red Camaro parked in front of the Chinese apothecary that her mother used.
"You want to stop off and see your friend?" he asked.
The pharmacist happened to be a well-known and venerable member of the community who often advised the police about tradition and neighborhood matters. Chan Wang was a wizened creature, hardly four feet tall, with three or four really long hairs sticking out of a few sites on his face and not a single hair on his head. He smelled of star anise and had begun stating his age as a hundred years back in 1968. Mike had met him twice.
April ignored the suggestion. She marched down to the car, then stopped. "I think we should split up," she announced.
"No, go ahead inside, find out what your mother poisoned you with. I'll wait for you." He leaned on the car, preparing to wait.
"Querido,
no one has talked to the people where the dead girl lived. I don't even have a name for her. I have to go over there." April looked past him, furious because he couldn't possibly understand what it meant to be her, with the parents she was trying to manage and the case she had to solve. Two of her countrywomen had been destroyed by men not of their culture, and her own mother would rather poison her than have her end up like one of them. How could she reconcile the love Skinny Dragon must feel for her with the destructiveness of her act?
"You have to take something," Mike insisted. He pointed to the filthy window display of nasty powders and roots. "One whiff and he'll know what to give you."
"I don't want any more nasty stuff. I'm going to get over it myself. I'll meet you on Allen Street." She gave him a look that dared him to challenge her.
"How are you going to get there if I have the car?" he demanded, wondering if this was the time for their first fight.
"I existed before you came along," she snapped. "I know how to get around."
He shrugged and got in the car, didn't say goodbye. Okay, he was hurt. Try to be nice and thoughtful and kind and what do you get? A smack in the face.
April's mother had tried nagging, tried whining, tried threats and dirty tricks; they didn't get her anywhere. Walking away was the only thing to do. He got in the car and didn't look back.
When he pulled up at the Popescus' building, the CSU van was already there, its back door open. Inside, Saul Bernheim, the skinny criminologist who claimed he never ate, was sitting cross-legged on the floor gnawing on a massive deli sandwich.