April slowly realized the hair of the woman in the parking lot was a wig, and one that happened to be not so different from the wigs strippers wore in bare bars. A big and brassy wig. Short but wide and high, and definitely sassy. April was further astonished that this woman's wig wasn't the only one. Lots of women were wearing them. She wondered if there was some cancer epidemic among them, and they'd all had chemotherapy.
The woman's chin jutted defensively at April's scrutiny. April turned away, sorry that curiosity and surprise had shown in her face. She didn't want to be disrespectful. Forget the wigs. She had a job to do. She made a big show of searching in her purse for her notebook. She had long been in the habit of taking extensive notes. Every stage, every interview in an investigation, required reports called DD-5s. Some people found the writing a chore, but April was addicted to correctly documenting information so that later she could recover her process accurately. This was a requirement of the job, but she was even more thorough than most. She had private notebooks for her own private thoughts.
On the operative level she worked for the DA and the court case that came down the road. Her particular investigative nightmare was not the squirmy stuff, finding the bodies, even touching them when she had to—although Chinese feared the ghosts of corpses and avoided contact with them as much possible. April's nightmare was more along the line of many months, even years later, having some defense lawyer cause her to lose face by losing the case in front of the DA and the jury. So she wrote everything down, even the tiny details of crucial first impressions that often got lost in an avalanche of information that came later when the parameters of an investigation invariably widened.
Now she wrote down her time of arrival, who and what vehicles had been on the scene. It was Sunday. What was the significance of Sunday? The daughter of restaurant workers herself, she considered not only the cops on the scene, and the guests, but also the staff. How much of a staff did this temple have? Who was here today? Maybe some individual who worked here had a grudge. She knew that Jews hired non-Jews to work on the Sabbath, turn on and off the lights, lock and unlock the doors, clean up. What about them?
Mike was still talking. "The other two injured individuals are both males. Possibly by bullets that went through the victim. This guy knew what he was doing. Hey, Ken, Artie, how ya doin'."
Detective Kenneth Souter, a short, dark-haired, broad-chested, mustached thirty-eight-year-old with an intense expression showed up with Arthur Hayle, known as Bacon because of his large size, not his views or habits. Each carried two heavy black suitcases that contained the equipment. Ken particularly had received a lot of attention after he'd lifted a partial thumbprint from the back of a bench in Central Park. That partial was entered in the computer bank in Albany, and a match popped up of a guy who'd been arrested and printed for turnstile jumping. The print led to the arrest of the killer of four individuals in unconnected cases. Zero tolerance for quality-of -life crimes had led to printing everyone arrested for anything. It worked wonders to shake real criminals out of the trees and enraged everyone else printed for the small stuff.
Mike finished his account. The commander and three CSU detectives immediately donned Tyvek overalls that covered them from head to foot and went into the building to evaluate the scene before a team of two would get down to work.
The brass had finished their look-see and were getting ready to leave. One caught Mike's eye to call him over. A few minutes later, they were heading for their cars, and Mike jerked his chin at April.
She moved to his side, and he touched her hand, sending a shiver up her arm. "The rabbi has some concerns. The chief wants you to work with him until Poppy gets here," he said.
"Okay." April's face was unreadable, but she was surprised. Inspector Poppy Bellaqua was commander of the Hate Crimes Unit.
Mike gazed over her shoulder. "You're on it. We'll get organized later."
Usually April loved getting out of her Midtown North precinct detective unit for a high-profile case, but this one felt like a curse leveled at her. A young bride murdered in front of her husband-to-be, her parents, brothers and sisters, and friends. All reason rejected a crime so cruel. She didn't want anyone she loved to be tainted by it. Superstition! She shook off the selfish reaction and obeyed the command to work with the rabbi.
"I'm Sergeant Woo. I'll be working on the case with Lieutenant Sanchez," she introduced herself a minute later.
Rabbi Levi was a small, ascetic-looking man in black robes. He did not look at her or respond.
"Anything you need, any questions you have about procedure, I'll do my best to help," she continued politely.
"Are you the liaison they were talking about?" He tilted his head as if the wind, not a person, were speaking to him.
"For now, yes. Anything you need, you can run it by me and I'll see what can be done."
At this the rabbi separated himself from the other men and gestured with a finger for April to follow at a short distance.
"I do have some issues I told the officer—I don't know your ranks. Not the precinct commander. The heavy ... I think he was a chief." He waved his hand impatiently at his memory, letting the identification go. "Can we talk in my study?"
"No, we can't go in. Crime Scene is not finished with the building yet," April said apologetically.
"What kind of investigation is this?" he demanded.
"It's routine," she assured him.
"The killer came into the lobby, that's all. He shot through the door. I was there. Everybody was there. What routine could take the police into my study?" he asked softly.
"I don't know that they will go into your study, Rabbi Levi. It's more a question of preserving the integrity of the crime scene."
"Is that a cruel joke?"
"Sir?"
"You're telling me about integrity?"
April rephrased. "They don't want people walking there, touching things until they're finished with it."
"Everybody walked there," he said angrily.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, there is a side entrance. Can I use that?"
"As soon as they say so."
"And how long will that be? We have evening prayers... . The caterers want to clean up."
"The reception was here?"
"Yes, the party is always here."
Ah. Then there were caterers, too. "I understand. Is there a particular time you need to pray, and if necessary is there another place you could pray tonight? This will take several hours at least." Maybe several days. She didn't want to tell him that now.
"How many hours?"
"It's a large space. Sometimes it takes as long as five hours. Sometimes longer."
"Why so long?"
"The Crime Scene Unit is very thorough. It can make a difference later."
"What kind of difference? The harm's already been done." Then he threw up his hands in another gesture of impatient compliance and changed the subject.
"That chief told me there is no way to prevent an autopsy."
"No, it's the law with homicides."
He managed to keep his eyes focused inward. "No way to oppose it?"
"No. I'm sorry. I know how difficult it is. If it's any solace to you, the autopsy may help us find Tovah's killer. I know you want that as much as we do."
"We have our laws, too."
"I understand."
"Our laws say she must never be alone. She must be cared for by us. Her father and mother want to stay with her. Her body must not be defiled. We must have her back today. We will bury her tomorrow."