"I don't have them yet," April admitted. For sure she didn't have
any
shoes that would go with this! The dress was formfitting, very constricting, but now very much back in fashion. She hadn't worn a cheongsam in a long time, and never for Mike. Critically, she examined herself in the mirror.
"Just right!" Ching squealed. "Look at her, perfect."
April took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She looked surprisingly good in their little-girl fantasy of ultimate elegance. It was like Cinderella, Chinese style. Ching's choosing this dress sent a strong message April couldn't ignore. Even on her special day, Ching wanted April as visible as she and in a starring role beside her. How many real sisters were that generous?
"Ching, you're too much. Thank you." April couldn't help grinning at herself as she twirled around on the pedestal, high off the ground for fitting long evening gowns. She looked tall and slender in the dress, almost like a movie star. Small waist, small but well-rounded bottom. Long neck. Good legs. She had to admit it. She looked good. She lifted her eyebrows at herself as she kicked the slit open. It was high; every step would show her whole leg. Everyone would look. Generous, generous Ching. How could she repay? April shook her head, tearing up just a little. It had been an emodonal week.
"Beautiful." Even the grumbling, overworked women in the shop admired her as she went to change.
"Ching, thank you for the dress, thank you so much. Got to go to work." In seconds April reappeared in her slacks and jacket, her red blouse for luck. She grabbed the precious package that was all ready to go.
"Same old, same old. No time for lunch," Ching complained, but for once her reproach had no bite.
Thirty-six
A
t noon, the rain still hammered down. The wind had kicked up several notches in the last several hours, driving hard from the north. It slammed water sideways at the long red canopy that covered a slash of sidewalk from Fifth Avenue and traveled all the way up the steps to the very doors of St. Patrick's. The canopy did not fully protect Prudence Hay's party-dressed guests as a steady stream of them emerged from limos starting at eleven-thirty.
Under a poncho that was gray as the stone of the cathedral, Tovah's killer saw a mess. Umbrellas moving this way and that, like in a movie, tilted against the wind. Across the street a sparse crowd huddled out of the rain under the awning at Saks Fifth Avenue. The disparate group, unsettled by the weather, had stopped to watch the parade of fancy people fighting their unruly umbrellas as they scurried to get out of the wet. It was a mess. In a big black slicker a uniformed cop stood on the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth. Just stood there doing nothing. Another was on the corner of Fiftieth Street. Both like statues getting pissed on.
The rain was bad luck for Prudence. She would get wet when she got out of her limousine. Her expensive veil would blow off her head. Her white-beaded pumps would get spattered. Nothing could stop it. The rain was bad luck for Prudence, but why not good luck for a killer? The picture was already spoiled; why wait for later?
The killer thought of how perfect Tovah had been for her march down the aisle straight to heaven. Tovah was an angel in heaven now, not a slave in a bad marriage. Why wait? The gun was under the poncho. The poncho hidden by an umbrella. Umbrellas were everywhere. Channel Thirteen umbrellas. Museum of Natural History umbrellas. Chase Bank umbrellas. Black ones, red ones, even American flag ones, touting patriotism.
Ha.
The killer didn't return to the church, and didn't walk away, either.
Prudence hadn't arrived yet. Every second felt like an hour. On Fifth Avenue, the line of limos was a lot longer. The cars were queued up along the block two deep with the windows closed and all fogged up. The killer watched even more cars arrive. The groom arrived. But no Prudence. Things must have gotten stalled by the weather.
Finally!
The family and the bridesmaids arrived. The drivers got out to help the old people and the twelve girls in their colorful gowns and feathered headdresses. So gaudy and tasteless.
Suddenly chaos. The girls were running. They were running to the church, everybody was running. Tovah's killer emerged from the side of the cathedral as Prudence got out of the car.
All in white, no raincoat or anything, Prudence was supported by her portly father and the driver, both wearing tails. One was on each side. They were trying to hurry her along. But Prudence was being careful of her beaded shoes, of the train secured around her wrist by a satin-covered elastic band. She was holding back for her mother and the flurry of squeaking girls in their fluffy chiffon parrot dresses to all get inside first. She had a serene expression on her face despite the rain, as if she knew she was going to a better place. The killer's umbrella went down to hide the gun. Then went up when the shot was fired. It happened in seconds. The first shot grazed Prudence's neck, but it hit an artery and blood bubbled out.
She looked surprised. She stumbled, but was held aloft by the two men on either side of her. Still a good target. The next two shots hit her in the eye and chest. One of the men went down with her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the screaming started. Prudence's killer had slipped away and war was back.
Thirty-seven
T
he phone on Bellaqua's desk rang. The task force was busy so she let it ring. Seconds later a detective from the Hate Squad hurried in.
"Inspector?"
"Yeah, Rudy, what you got?"
"There's been a shoodng at St. Patrick's. Another bride is likely."
Likely
in police jargon meant likely to die.
"Oh, no." April put her hand to her heart, couldn't help herself.
Oh, shit.
They'd missed something.
"Jesus Christ!" Bellaqua swore. She reached for her purse. Mike said nothing. He was already on his feet. They were out the door.
Down in the garage, Inspector Bellaqua and her driver headed for her four-by-four. Mike wiggled his finger at April. She got into a shiny Crown Vic with him, and they followed the inspector out. Bellaqua's driver, a former helicopter pilot, drove like a maniac, occasionally popping the siren for a few seconds to get through a clot of stalled traffic.
April was quiet as Mike turned on the police radio. It crackled with other matters, the airwaves already shut down tight. As Mike wove the unit through traffic, she studied his tense profile.
"Spooky," she murmured.
"More than spooky." He didn't look over at her.
"Connected?"
Tovah's murder was supposed to be like every homicide, a tornado they couldn't have predicted. A second one was a disaster. April's stomach knotted as if it were all her fault. She shouldn't have slept in, shouldn't have gone shopping this morning, shouldn't have been thinking about herself.
Mike's voice came as a surprise. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Could be a copycat. Could have nothing to do with it."
"Hmmm." She could tell by the furrows in his forehead that he didn't think so, and the instant call to Inspector Bellaqua meant no one else thought so, either.
Ordinarily, no connection would be made between a homicide at a synagogue in the Bronx and a homicide at a church in Manhattan a week later. The fact that the victim was another bride on her wedding day yanked them and Bias right back in. It was a bride case, a certainty now that someone was killing brides. It wasn't religious. It wasn't personal. The trigger was the bride herself. Sick.
Mike got off the drive and headed across town to Fifth, where traffic was already showing the strain. Fifth Avenue was closed between Fifty-third and Forty-eighth streets. Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets were closed between Fifth and Madison. Cars and buses were all snarled up on Madison. News vans with their satellite dishes had already begun to assemble, trying to get as close to the action as possible. Mike hit his siren to get through, then clipped his shield onto his jacket pocket for the two uniforms at the barricade on Fifty-third. April did the same.