Judging Time Page 2

  She waited, eyes slightly lowered in the Chinese pose of modesty and self-denial that she had learned at birth and had to unlearn over and over to be a good cop.

  Iriarte finished looking her over. "I won't say women can't be good cops," he said at last. "We happen to have a woman commander in this house. You might take your cues from her."

  "Sir?" April hadn't met the commander and was unsure what this meant.

  "It is not difficult to ascertain that men and women are not the same," Iriarte said. "They are very different . . . in fact."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want those differences clearly defined."

  "Yes, sir," April repeated, still uncertain where he was going with this.

  "I don't like women who act like men, talk dirty, and sleep in the men's dorms. We had one like that, claimed she was a professional and had a right to stay in the dorm. We got rid of her."

  April nodded. Uh-huh.

  "You can sleep in the women's dorm," he added.

  "I go home on my turnarounds," April told him.

  "Good. Keep to yourself and keep your femininity." The lieutenant folded his glasses and tucked them back in his pocket. He pointed at an empty office catty-comer to his. "There's your office, then. I run a tight ship."

  "Yes, sir. That's what I've heard."

  "I have a good feeling about this." He showed her the back of his hand in dismissal. That was six weeks ago. Since then she'd covered a couple dozen burglaries, couple of rapes, two homeless deaths from exposure. A "justifiable" homicide involving a cop apparently threatened by a suspect flashing a "knife" (shiny object). But who knew. She did the best she could. She was the one who had to explain the situation to the seven members of the dead man's family who came to the precinct to find out what had happened to him. They had arrived without knowing he was dead.

  In six weeks not a lot had changed. At 12:45 A.M. on the Monday that began the first full week of the new year, April caught sight of her new boss Lieutenant Iriarte through the window in the closed door of her first office. Lieutenant Iriarte exited his own exceptionally clean and tidy office wearing his dove gray (probably cashmere blend) overcoat. The commanding officer of the detective squad plopped his dark gray fedora on his head, tilted it rakishly, then crossed the squad room to the locker room where all the detectives except for April ate their meals. Lieutenant Iri-arte passed from April's view. A few seconds later he passed her door again, showed her the back of his hand without looking at her, and left the precinct house for the night. For the next fifteen minutes until 1 A.M. when she could go home, April was in sole charge of the detective squad. All was quiet. She sighed and started cleaning up her desk.

  At 1 A.M. she glanced at her watch. "Time to go," she murmured. No one to talk to so now she was talking to herself. She pulled on her coat, grabbed her shoulder bag, and left the squad room.

  She took the stairs to the main floor, where a uniform getting ready to go off duty was busily mopping into a single grimy film all the dirty puddles of melted snow and ice that had pooled in worn spots on the green linoleum floor. At the forbidding front desk the desk crew (not the most cheerful she'd known) worked the phones and signed in everyone who entered the building.

  Over the desk a sign, hand-lettered with red marker and decorated with gold garlands, read MIDTOWN NORTH WISHES YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR! On the wall nearby a cartoon showed a hand slipping into a jacket pocket with the words WATCH YOUR WALLET in several languages. Sitting at a table below the front desk, an irritated female uniform spoke rapid-fire Spanish to a sulking Hispanic male.

  As April headed for the front door, the bald sergeant at the desk put his hand over the receiver and called out to her. "Where you going, Woo? There's been two homicides at Liberty's Restaurant. Get over there ASAP or night watch will fuck it up." At two minutes after 1 A.M. April caught the call.

  The crime scene was at Forty-fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Midtown North was on Fifty-fourth Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. From the front desk April called the detective squad room upstairs for a detective to go with her. The only one still around was Charlie Hagedorn. April had nothing against Hagedorn, but nothing for him, either. Hagedorn was a white male, early thirties. Five nine, weighed about 190. Didn't appear to work out. His pale, light brown hair was baby fine and soft. It lay flat on his crown as if lacking the energy to stand up like a man's. His lips were thin and chapped, his nose was thin and red. He had chubby cheeks and brown baleful eyes.

  April's mother, Sai Woo, who was old Chinese to the core, would diagnose Hagedorn as "not in harmony," too much yin, not enough yang. A person in perfect harmony had to have the right amount of yin and yang. Yang was male—intellectually strong and action-oriented. Yin was female—passive, receptive, relaxed, pleasing, generous. Extreme yin, of course, made for a person who was passive and vague, physically soft and weak, emotionally anxious and vulnerable, intellectually indecisive and uncertain. A yin was not the kind of person you'd want in the alley with you when that 250-pound man (the one the males were always throwing at female cops to try and make the point they couldn't do the job) cornered you in an alley with a chainsaw and two assault rifles blazing. Could be April was wrong about Hagedorn, though, and just didn't know him yet. There were a lot of people around who said the same of her.

  Hagedorn took the time to wait for an elevator to carry his chunky body down the one flight of stairs to the precinct lobby where April was impatiently cooling her heels. One of the problems being a boss was you couldn't always move at your own speed or deviate from protocol, which was different from procedure. With protocol, in every situation there were about ten thousand or more things that one just couldn't do. In this case April couldn't go get a car. She had to wait for Hagedorn to lumber out into the lot for an unmarked unit to drive her to the location. What a sorry idiot. Turning the very first corner on old tires and a patch of ice he spun out the forest green Pontiac. In the passenger seat April held on and said nothing even though she'd probably have to take the blame if one of her men cracked up the unit while she was in it.

  Hagedorn said nothing as they pulled up to the address of the call and stopped behind a line of blue-and-whites where the first officers at the scene were not having a lot of luck securing the area. They'd taped off a hundred or so feet. of sidewalk on either side of Liberty's Restaurant, but already a half a dozen people were inside the tapes tramping around.

  Right away April started having a bad feeling about this. But that was not so unusual. Every time she went to a scene her skin tingled, almost as if she developed a whole new layer of antennae around her body to take in as much information through as many channels as possible. Sometimes, no matter how much evidence was collected by the Crime Scene Unit, or how many witnesses and suspects told their false stories about what happened, it was April's first impressions that led her through the maze to the true story.

  This was the time of yin in a new case, the time when the door to a puzzle of huge dimension—something new and altogether unknown—opened to a vast space of churning, primal chaos. And she had to enter it. Yin was the time of discovery, before the forceful action of yang must be taken. Hagedorn cut the motor. April felt anxious. Despite all the people around who were supposed to be on her side supporting her actions and authority, she knew she was alone. From the number of cars and the attitude of the people standing around, it looked as if this was going to be the Big One every detective both wanted and feared. She shivered, afraid of messing up.

  From the car she couldn't see the bodies. They appeared to be on a lower level, down two steps in a tiny yard enclosed by a row of dwarf conifers that twinkled merrily with dozens of white Christmas lights. A number of uniforms hung over the outside railing in a clot, stamping their feet and blowing steam as they looked down. Opening the car door, April was hit with a blast of killing winter air that felt even more penetrating than it had only a few minutes earlier. A single snowflake smacked at her cheek. Great,
it was beginning to snow.

  In the street, ice was crusting over the slush. On the sidewalk, snow powdered between patches of ice. These were the worst possible conditions for a crime scene. The temperature was dropping. And with a dozen people walking the area since the murders, it might well be impossible to determine if the perp had left anything of himself behind.

  The sight of the thickly padded uniforms brushing the snow off the railing and stamping the sidewalk to warm their feet gave April a flash to the mirror in the Bed-Sty precinct that had been her first house. The mirror had been inside a closet, was dappled with ancient grime, and had a jagged piece broken out of one corner. All the patrol officers had been complaining about her—the skinny Chink, probably a dike, talked so soft no one could hear her.

  Steve Zapora had been her supervisor at the time. About six foot four, red-faced, the size of a minivan. Every day in roll call this red-faced giant yelled at her that her hair was too long, had to be higher than her collar. Insisted that she shave her neck and personally checked to make sure it was done. And every day he took her downstairs. He made her stand in front of the stupid filthy mirror and he made her growl like a dog, made her raise her voice saying, "Hey you, there on the stairs, stop. Hey you in the red jacket, stop. Hey you, stop over and over until she could say stop loud enough to command attention.

  Then Zapora got the biggest guy in the house and told her to take him down. April took the guy' down so fast he was on the floor before he was aware she'd made a move. Then, like a complete idiot, she'd put her hand to her mouth and said, "Gosh, I'm sorry." Things changed for her in the house after that, though.

  April got out of the car. Her breath made great clouds of steam. Right in front of her two guys with black knit caps were busy rigging spotlights out of a van. "What are they doing here?" she demanded.

  Hagedorn shrugged. "TV crew. They must have picked up the call. I know these guys. They hang out around here." Five networks had studios in the area. Hagedorn's baleful eyes were full of scorn that his new supervisor didn't know that.

  "I know what they are," April snapped. "Get them out of here."

  "Huh?" He looked shocked at her change of tone.

  "Now." She ducked under the tape, hating him for making her have to act like one of them. The clot of uniforms turned around to stare. One said, "Lady, you can't come in here."

  Then they caught sight of Hagedorn, who jerked his head at her. "Sergeant Woo," he explained.

  April nodded brusquely to them. "Anybody ever tell you what the procedures are for protecting a crime scene? Would you like me to tell you now?"

  No one said anything. The uniforms just edged away to let her take over, as if they were glad there was someone else to take command of the situation. April moved into the other space in her mind, began to concentrate on al the things she would have to remember when she was back in her office and had only photos to remind her of what she'd seen. Her former boss, Sergeant Joyce, had not always bothered with a notebook. She'd relied on other people's notes; but old habits were dying hard with April. She pulled out her regulation steno pad that the DAs always called Rosarios and began taking everything down. Who was there when she got there, what they had done so far, what they were doing now. She would follow the sequence for the rest of the night, noting the times from that moment through the Crime Scene Unit's work, the investigator from the ME's office pronouncing the deaths, right up to the end when the bodies were bagged and everybody went home for what was left of the night.

  She leaned over the railing, her fingers already so stiff from the cold she could hardly hold her pen. The front yard of the brownstone that housed Liberty's Restaurant was about twelve feet square. Partially camouflaged by the twinkling hedge on the side closest to the steps, as if they had been caught while leaving, a man and a woman lay, eyes open, on their backs. The man's muddy hands were palms up on either side of his blond head. He looked puzzled, as if he had raised them with a query and then died before he had a chance to frame the question. His camel-colored coat and black sport jacket were flung open on a nubbly gray turtleneck sweater. Like his hands, his face and hair were scum-streaked, but there appeared to be no blood on him, no sign of an injury that might have killed him. Could be something under the hair, April thought.

  The violence done to the woman was an unnerving contrast. In the twilight of a thousand tiny shimmering lights, inky-looking blood streaked her hands, her face, her long blond hair, the front of the tan sweater dress she wore, and the cuffs that peeked out beneath her fur-lined, black suede coat sleeves. All April could see was one small hole piercing her throat. Unless there were other stab wounds she couldn't see, somebody had known just where to strike. April studied the shocking sight from above, not wanting to add her own footprints to the mess below. Her teeth began to chatter.

  Sometimes she could tell right away what happened. She could see in the arrangement of the scene how the preceding events must have played out. A mugging gone wrong, guy got scared and used his knife, used his gun. Over in a second. Sometimes he got away with a few dollars. Sometimes he didn't get away with anything. Or a guy killing his woman. There were always precipitating events. You could find out what they were. But this was ambiguous-looking, hard to tell what had happened. It was creepy. Two well-dressed people dead in front of an expensive restaurant where plenty of people must have been passing by, even late on a freezing January night. Except for the hole in the woman's throat, they didn't look as if they'd been interfered with. The woman's clutch bag was closed, wedged under her right foot. The scene didn't feel right. For what reason would someone have taken such a chance in such a public place?

  A warm animated voice made April turned around. "Well, this looks like my first double of the year. Know who they are?"

  The black woman peering over April's shoulder was taller than she, probably over six feet with the three-inch heels she wore, heedless of the snow. Only a wisp of the woman's hair had escaped her severe French twist that showed off her perfect jawline, the white even teeth behind her magnetic smile, her nose more Caucasian like than April's, and eyes both curious and bold. Large gold earrings glittered with major red stones in her ears, a black mink coat draped her body, and a frothy cut-velvet-and-silk scarf swathed her shoulders. More than just stunning and dramatic, she had presence. Even in the treacherous snow, April could feel the strut in her walk. She had seen the woman before and thought at first she was one of the famous models that appeared on the covers of magazines. Until the woman introduced herself.

  "I'm Dr. Washington. Are you in charge here?”

  "Yes. I'm—Sergeant April Woo." It took April a few seconds to remember she wasn't just a detective anymore.

  "I've heard of you," Dr. Washington said.

  April had heard of her, too, and was surprised to see her there. It wasn't common anymore for the deputy medical examiner to come to crime scenes. They'd changed things in New York. Now most of the time an investigator from the ME's office who wasn't even an MD came to the scene. Dr. Washington cocked her head inquisitively at the two corpses, then at the black sky overhead now whitening with snow. "If CSU doesn't get here pretty soon, those bodies are going to be covered with snow in the photos. We better go take a look. Know who they are?"

  A tall black man with a down jacket thrown over his shoulders who'd been talking quietly with a uniform just outside the restaurant door started to wail. "Of course I knew who they were. I knew right away who they were. They'd just left, mon. It's Liberty's wife and his best friend. The owner's wife, I'm telling you. Of course I tried to help them. Why wouldn't I?"

  The officer said some things that April couldn't hear, causing the man to protest even louder. April shook her head and went down the steps to calm things down.

  "I'm Sergeant Woo." April introduced herself to the agitated black man being badgered by an officer half his size whose uniform tag identified him as Matthew Hays.

  The officer drew himself up and spoke first. "This is
the man who found the bodies. Apparently he moved them around quite a bit."

  The tall black man responded angrily. "They'd only been gone a few minutes. I thought they might be alive." His face was wet with tears. He swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

  April dug into her shoulder bag for a tissue, handed him the package, then waited while he blew his nose.

  "Are you Chinese?" he asked softly after he'd done so, carefully avoiding the eye of Officer Hays.

  April nodded, gathered he was asking if she was in charge.

  "I've never seen a Chinese cop."

  "Well, I was born here." She didn't say most Chinese would rather iron shirts than walk a beat in this system.

  The man thought over her country of origin and didn't appear to understand how that should enlighten him. He glanced at Hays, then turned to April again, revealing his confusion over whom he was supposed to address—the white man in uniform or the Chinese woman in plain clothes.

  It happened all the time. April gave him a smile of encouragement. "I'm the one in charge. You can talk to me."

  "I'm the manager of the restaurant," he said grudgingly.

  "And your name is?"

  "Patrice."

  "Patrice what?" April was shivering but didn't want to go inside yet and leave the bodies.

  "Patrice Paul," the man replied impatiently. "Please let me go inside. I have to call my boss and tell him— he has to know."

  "Who is that?"

  He pointed at the sign. "Liberty. You know who he is? Don't you?"

  April hesitated, unsure of exactly who he was. She didn't want to lose face in front of a possible witness if the victim's husband was someone any educated person should know. Since leaving the 5th Precinct in Chinatown, not a single day went by when April wasn't made painfully aware of all the things she had never even considered until she came uptown. At the moment she had all the credits for a college degree and would graduate in June from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. But she was beginning to suspect that one degree didn't prove a thing and was not going to be enough in the long run.