Skinny Dragon believed people owned each other. The dragon believed that because she'd given birth to April, she owned her daughter for life. But people didn't own each other. Tilings happened, they fell in love with the wrong people, got hurt, got sick, died. Shooting wasn't the only bad thing that happened.
"Yo rezo,"
he said curtly, as if reading her mind.
Well, she prayed also, just to different gods. His sudden Spanish made the point that in the Bronx he was home. And at home there were certain things you just didn't do in English. Praying and loving were two. April knew how it was. At her home the thing you didn't do was feel anything but guilt. Guilt was the operative feeling. You had to make money and save face, that was it.
Face
translated into Spanish as
macho,
and
macho
translated into English as
honor.
As far as April was concerned all of it made trouble.
"Next time, don't go to autopsies of brides in the middle of the night. Makes you morbid." She ended the conversation. He was tough, but it had gotten to him, no question about it.
Independence Avenue was only six blocks long, from 239th to 247th streets. It ran parallel to the Henry Hudson Parkway and the Hudson River, located halfway between the HH Parkway and the Palisades. Lining the parkway like soldiers in a parade were miles of luxury apartment buildings. Behind them was the old Riverdale, practically untouched. A real suburb only a few minutes from Manhattan, this area had narrow, hilly roads and gracious brick Tudor and stucco Mediterranean-style houses, overarched by the branches of venerable trees. Around them, landscaped yards with walks and arbors were studded with flowering shrubs and brilliantly hued spring flowers. The houses on the Hudson had the bonus of a majestic view of the mighty river and the green palisades of New Jersey.
"Wow." April whistled as they came to the tiny dead-end road of Alderbrook, a lane so narrow it didn't look wide enough for a moving van to get in or out. Tucked into a cul de sac th«t dated from early in the last century were six old houses. Parked cars and TV vans blocked the road and lined the roads around it. Mike had to backtrack and leave his unmarked vehicle in the circle of a giant apartment complex two blocks away. They plowed through a bunch of reporters who tried to get them to say something.
The Schoenfelds' house was at the end, in the curve of the U. It was a sturdy structure, built for a family just the size of theirs. It was pale gray-painted stucco with an orange-tiled roof and a covered veranda in the front. More reporters jammed the front lawn. Mike shook his head at them.
"You take the girl's family/' he murmured to April.
"Tovah," April corrected softly.
Tovah,
she repeated to herself as she rang the bell.
Less than a minute later Mr. Schoenfeld opened the door. He was a tall, heavyset man, at least six-two. He didn't appear to be in good shape, but he looked young for a man with a daughter of marriageable age. He had curly light brown hair on a big head, a Roman nose, a strong chin thickly packed into a roll underneath, angry blue eyes.
"This is not a good time. We're sitting shivah," he said curtly.
"We're sorry to intrude," Mike told him.
Schoenfeld glanced quickly at April, dismissed her. "That other detective was already here. Isn't that enough for one day?"
"We have a few more questions."
Schoenfeld blocked the door. "What exactly do you want to know?"
"We need information about the party vendors," April said, not wanting to get his back up about their looking into his daughter's activities in the last few months, weeks, days, hours of her life.
"My wife and my daughter would be the ones who dealt with the . . ." He hiccuped and closed his eyes, swaying on his feet like a big tree caught in a wind. April saw that he'd been drinking.
He blinked, recovered his focus and balance, pushed away the hand the Mike held out to him. "Come in," he said abruptly.
The smell of food twitched at April's empty belly as she followed him into the kind of home she'd seen often on Central Park West. The living room was furnished with many traditional chairs she recognized as antiques and fat sofas upholstered in heavy brocade. A thick, patterned carpet partially covered the wide-planked wood floor. Voluminous drapes with tassel fringe, crystal lamps, inlaid tables, and gilded mirrors on the walls, now obscured by a soapy film, finished the look. From another part of the house came the muted sound of children's voices. About thirty well-dressed males sat and stood around with plates of food in their hands.
In the dining room, a spread of party food was laid out on a huge slab of a table, a crowd of women were loading their plates, and a heavy woman with a blond wig was directing traffic. April had forgotten the Styrofoam head with Tovah's wig on it, but she remembered it now. Her mother had one, too.
"Suri, these detectives want to talk to you," Schoenfeld said to the woman. Then he returned to the living room, where the men were.
"We're sorry to intrude. I'm Sergeant Woo; this is Lieutenant Sanchez," April said.
The woman put her hand out to a smaller woman near her, wiry with steely blue hair and a hard expression. "My mother," she said faintly.
"I'm Belle Levine."
The two women led the way through the kitchen out of the house onto the back porch, where there was outdoor furniture, a large table, a love seat, chairs, and a glider. There Mrs. Schoenfeld started to cry. "Why would anyone do this?"
"Tell me about your daughter, Mrs. Schoenfeld,"
April said gently. Mike gave April a sympathetic look and went into the house.
"She was a beautiful girl. Eighteen years old, nothing but childhood behind her, her whole life in front of her. What is there to tell?" her mother said.
"What was Tovah like? Who did she know?"
"A girl who led a quiet life, didn't know anybody, never dated a single boy but Schmuel," her grandmother said.
"He was a terrible choice. I'll never forgive myself," Tovah's mother sobbed.
"A terrible choice?" April murmured.
Suri Schoenfeld stopped crying abruptly. "Are you Chinese?" she demanded.
"Yes," April told her.
"You people have arranged marriages, don't you?"
"Some do," April admitted.
"You see." Suri pounded the arm of her chair. "I wanted the best for my daughter. Who wouldn't?" A wail escaped her.
"Suri," her mother said sharply. "Don't blame yourself. Tovah chose
him."
"But I chose the family. Terrible family. Look. They won't show their faces here. It's a
shanda.
You should check those people. They're criminals, Russians with relatives in the mob."
"Suri, you don't know that," her mother said sharply.
"They took the ring off a dying girl's finger!" Surf's grief poured out. "What kind of people would do that? Now there's a curse on all my children. I'll never marry any of them. Murderers," she wailed.
"Tell me about the last two weeks," April said gently. "Tell me everything you did."
Suri wanted to talk. She told about Tovah's visit to the
mikvah
last Thursday, the ritual bath. April made a note to ask Jason Frank about it.
"And the wig maker to pick up the wig, also Thursday."
April finally had the chance to ask about the wigs. She opened her mouth to ask, but Suri Schoenfeld anticipated the question.
"We cover our hair after marriage," Suri said. "Modesty."
"Ah." April glanced at Suri's mother, with her own steely blue hair.
"Not all of us," Belle said pointedly, ending the inquiry.