her
body, since it was covered by loose, nubby-weave slacks, a thin sweater, a silk scarf, and a cropped whis-key-colored jacket. Except maybe, if she was looking really hard, she could tell that April was carrying a 9mm at her waist.
"Maybe she'll come to soon and you can get something out of her," Dr. Kane said as she walked away. April would not have liked to be one of her patients.
"I'll handle this," she told Baum. Then she opened the treatment room door.
Heather Popescu was lying on a rolling hospital bed, covered up with a sheet so that only the shoulders of her blue-flowered hospital gown showed. The sides of the bed had been put up so she wouldn't fall off, but she wasn't going anywhere. One eye was covered with a cold pack. Her lip was split and already puffed. Her extremely long, inky hair spilled off the pillow. April was startled, then recovered fast. The unconscious woman, Heather Rose Popescu, was Chinese.
No wonder Iriarte had ordered her here immediately. Iriarte hated her. He'd never voluntarily give her a big case. He'd sent her here because the victim was Chinese, and it would look better to have a high-profile Chinese detective on it. April flashed to the husband standing out in the waiting room. A belligerent Caucasian. Oh man, was she in trouble. She didn't like this one bit. Skinny Dragon would think this was a warning just for her. She was going to shake her finger at April over this. "See what happens," she'd scream. "Mixed marriage, woman beaten to a pulp. That's what you can expect when you marry
laowai"—
shit-faced foreigner.
Oh, man. Suddenly April wished Mike, her mother's nightmare, were here with her now. He could take this case in hand. Woody Baum was too inexperienced to be of any help, particularly with the husband. If Popescu beat his wife, he wasn't going to like having April as his interviewer. April needed the expert partner she'd had in Mike, then lost on purpose because she hadn't wanted to mix business with pleasure. So much for integrity and scruples. She was on her own. Thank you, Lieutenant Iriarte.
April studied Heather Rose's battered face. Where were her parents, her protectors? "Heather? Can you hear me?" she said softly. "I'm April Woo. I'm here to help you."
No answer from the unconscious woman.
"Heather, we need to find the baby. Where's the baby?"
Heather did not stir. April felt the cold brick of fear in her belly. "Come on back, girl. We need your help here."
It was no use. Heather wasn't coming back.
April tried in Chinese. "Wo
shi, Siyue Woo. Ni neng bang wo ge mang ma?"
No response.
Finally, April turned to leave the room. "Whoever did this to you, I'll get him," she promised.
Back in the waiting room, Heather's husband was standing in front of his chair. Baum was talking to him and writing down what he said.
"I want to see my wife."
April gave him a look. "She's unconscious."
"That's what you say. I want to evaluate her myself."
April studied him, this man who kept tabs on his wife and felt qualified to evaluate her himself. She made a note to herself to keep tabs on
him.
Popescu's cheeks were gray, like a dead man's. He glanced at the two cops who'd stuck by his side since he'd come in. Duffy and Prince lounged against a wall as if they were used to hanging around for long periods of time with nothing to do. A baby on someone's lap on the other side of the crowded waiting room started to wail. She was trained to think like a cop: when faced with a mystery, think dirty. She was thinking dirty about Anton Popescu.
Then another brick hit her. If the baby wasn't Heather's, whose was it? Who was this man Heather had married, and why was he lying about why he went home at the early hour of three-thirty?
He caved abruptly. "Fine. If I can't see my wife, I want to go home now."
"We'll take you," April said. There wasn't anything they could do for Heather here.
CHAPTER 5
O
n the return trip to the apartment, Baum and April sat in the front seat of the unmarked Buick. Popescu sat in the back. At Central Park South, two uniforms were out directing traffic. Roadblocks were up on Seventh Avenue, and only one lane was open to cars. The noise of honking horns and cursing New Yorkers was phenomenal. It was now 6:45, the height of the dinner and pre-theater hour. Thousands of people in taxis and limos were stuck on their way to Lincoln Center to the west and Carnegie Hall to the south.
"Oh Jesus!" Popescu cried when he saw the jam of police cars, emergency vehicles, and press vans parked in front of his building, clogging Seventh Avenue all the way down to Fifty-seventh Street. The uniform at the neck of the bottle opened traffic for the Buick and waved it through immediately. Woody sardined the car in the driveway and turned off the motor. As April got out, a strong perfume from the garden confused her senses.
Looking dazed, Popescu emerged from the car.
Somebody among the crowd of media hacks and gawkers shouted, "Who's that?" and the press with cameras was galvanized. People ran at the car with minicams and still cameras, yelling questions over the blasting horns. Several uniforms came forward to contain them. Baum took Popescu's arm and hurried him toward the building. The cameras rolled and clicked for the late news deadlines.
"Oh shit. Oh Jesus." The blood had returned to Popescu's cheeks and nose in a rush. Baum propelled him into the lobby. He stuck up his hand to hide his face, and that was how he appeared later on the eleven o'clock news, his arm raised as if warding off blows.
Looking terribly important, Lieutenant McMan was talking on his radio to uniforms and detectives and managing the crowd of disgruntled tenants who couldn't get home. He wagged a finger at April as soon as he saw her. She moved toward him, glancing at the doorman, who was now back at his post. The man's name tag read Carlos. Carlos was a skinny Latino who had greasy hair and a thin mustache. Even with his fancy red livery coat with gold braid and buttons, he had the sly look of a gambler. April knew that look. Her father, Ja Fa Woo, had it.
"How is Mrs. Popescu?" Carlos asked eagerly as he opened the door for them.
Popescu ignored the question. He looked stunned by the throng of vocalizing neighbors—suddenly quieted by his arrival—and so many armed men sporting bulletproof vests and carrying rifles into his lobby. Two of them had huge German shepherds on thick leads. "What the hell—" The dogs really seemed to spook him. Baum touched his arm to restrain him when April crossed the lobby to talk with Lieutenant McMan.
"What's happening?"
"Nothing yet. A lot of people have different stories of what went down here today. No sign of the baby," McMan told her, keeping his eyes on the men and women moving through the lobby. "There are cameras on the front elevator. A log is kept of visitors coming up and down the back elevator. No cameras." He snorted. "No access to the back elevator from the front hall. Fire stairs only."
The units were finishing up in the building and trickling in, grim-faced officers and detectives with their blue-and-yellow
POLICE
vests. The Emergency Services people looked like the Airborne in their jumpsuits. April ignored the mounting tension. "How many building staff?" she asked.
"Five."
"Who's talking to them?"
McMan gave her a funny smile. "Major Cases. The CO and your boss are upstairs. What about the mother?"
"She's still unconscious." April glanced at Popescu, who appeared to be arguing with Baum.
"You figure the husband for a killer?" McMan asked, following her gaze for the first time.
"We're addressing the question," April said tersely. The elevators were operational again. She gestured to Woody. They were going up.