April didn't bother to comment on the likelihood of chubby George Dong marrying plump Dr. Lauren Cha anytime soon. This subject reminded her that she had spent part of last night with a Chinese ADA and liked him quite a bit. She wondered what her mother would have to say about a Chinese lawyer.
"Police say husband killed her because she make monkey business with best friend." In more operatic Chinese Sai changed the subject.
April sucked in her breath. "Who said that?"
"TV say police say."
April let her breath escape. "What show are we talking about?"
"Sarad Day."
April's heart beat furiously. She felt lightheaded with frustration, chewed on her bottom lip to keep from screaming back. Sometimes she actually had the evil thought of drawing her new 9mm on the dragon disguised as her mother and blowing it back to China where it belonged. "You're not talking about the news, are you, Ma?' '
Sai clicked her tongue with disgust, put the dog down on the floor, then stood to her full height. Maybe four ten on a good day. "TV say brack man kirr. What you say?"
April got it at last. "Merrill, her name was Merrill Liberty. Not Ericka Findley. Ericka Findley was a soap opera character, not a real person. Merrill Liberty was the real person, and we don't know who killed her."
"Brack man," she insisted.
"I'm going to bed."
"Spanish kirr girrs same." She was talking about jealousy. Now the dragon was really hitting close to home. "So, what you say now, ni?" Sai screamed.
April sighed wearily and let the fury go, if only for the moment. Another opportunity to slay the dragon passed without incident. Once again her mother won a battle in her own mind. April went back through the arch and headed home at last. "I say you watch too much TV," she called over her shoulder.
13
At 8:20 A.M. on Tuesday Daphne Petersen cracked open her apartment door and frowned at the Chinese detective who stood outside.
"You're from the police," she said, stating the obvious.
"Yes, that's what I told your doorman."
"What do you want? I can't see anyone now." The woman patted her lacquered black hair irritably. "Monica," she screamed. "Where the bloody hell are you?"
"I need to talk to you," April said.
"I just told you that isn't possible. I answered all your queries yesterday. That should do." Daphne tried to close the door. April's booted foot swiftly moved into the doorjamb to stop it.
The door whacked April's foot. She gave it a push, but the widow Petersen pushed back, determined to keep her out. Through the tug-of-war over the door, April could see a portion of Daphne's shiny silver-blue dress. "Look like silk," Sai liked to brag of her polyester bargains. Here the satiny sheen was very real. With some people, class and privilege made April feel humble and small, shy about asserting herself. This was not the case with Mrs. Petersen. The widow of a day didn't budge, and April felt the sneer behind her emphatic dismissal.
"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Petersen. Often people have to speak with the police more than once." She took the calming approach.
"I don't see why."
"These things take time. Please open the door. I don't want to hurt you." The woman was begging for a cross-body block.
"Why bother with me when it's clear who killed them?"
"Well, before we make that important arrest, there are still a few details that need clearing up."
"Oh, my . . ." Daphne checked the scene in the room behind her, showing off the back of the complicated hairstyle that featured two tightly sprung black coils dribbling down her back. ". . . It's absolutely not convenient right now. You'll have to telephone for an appointment at some other time."
April opened her bag for her identification. "I'm sorry to intrude on your grief," she said smoothly, "but we're in the middle of a homicide investigation here. That's a matter of some urgency, wouldn't you say? I don't have time to make an appointment."
"I know who you are, and I know what you're doing. And I'll have you know I'm just as concerned about this as you are. I happen to be involved with the issue at this very moment. You'll have to wait downstairs until I'm ready for you."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mrs. Petersen. I can talk to you here, or you can come with me to the station now."
"To the station? Who do you think you're talking to? I can't go to the station. Do you have any idea what's going on? There are people from the press all over the place."
April inclined her head. She hadn't noticed any in the immediate vicinity. "Maybe you can tell them you're helping the police with their investigation. I need to know a few things about your husband's habits, his schedule, and what you know about his driver."
"Wally?"
"Yes."
"Actually, I'm just giving an interview right now." The pressure on the door eased just a little. April gave the door another little shove, but by this time Daphne had made her decision and backed away, causing April to lose her momentum and fall into the room.
"What's going on, Daphne?" A large woman with bright red hair rushed to the door. "Sorry, didn't mean to abandon you, I was in the loo," the woman whispered. "Sick tummy." Then she gushed to April, "I'm Monica Abeel, who are you with and what can we do . for you?"
April showed her ID and pushed farther into the room. The thick ice blue living-room rug was now snaked with fat black wires for TV lights. Some of the furniture had been moved and a love seat had become the focus of an instant TV set. A crew of three lolled around on the furniture eating doughnuts and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. The interviewer, a dark woman in an unbecoming lemon yellow suit, was on the phone.
"Oh, my," the redheaded Monica said. "Didn't you tell the officer we're working here?' '
"She didn't want to listen. Deal with this, will you."
Daphne Petersen walked away.
April flashed to Steve Zapora and the mirror in Bed-Sty. You, in the slutty blue dress. You with the bad hair. Yes, that's right, you. Stop. She smiled and followed Daphne Petersen into the already crowded room as Monica Abeel clearly contemplated, then thought better of trying to physically detain her.
"Oh, my." Monica flapped after April, changing course toward the woman in the nasty yellow suit. "Oh, my. Cinda dear. Can you take a short break, darling? Daphne has just a tiny little chore to attend to in the other room. That's right, relax. Call out for some Chinese or something. Ooops. Come this way, Daphne, be a dear now and cooperate. This is all so difficult. Miss-"
"Sergeant—" April began. Across the room the TV crew looked alive.
"Never mind," Monica cried. "Come this way, dear."
"A cop?" The woman called Cinda drifted over.
Monica grabbed April's arm. "You're very pretty, aren't you? Do you have an agent yet? I've never seen a Japanese cop before."
April stared. "I'm Chinese," she said.
"Well, that wouldn't hurt sales either. Look, don't say a word to anybody without a contract." Her hand snaked into her pocket and came out with a business card, which she handed to April.
"I wouldn't dream of it," April murmured, taking it and thinking her mother would love this.
At 10
A.M.,
April was filling in her notes on Daphne Petersen's views on Liberty's violent temper, his abusive behavior to his wife, and Merrill Liberty's ten-year affair with her dead husband, Tor, when Hagedorn pushed open the door of her office. A huge grin transformed his pudgy face.
"Yeah, Charlie, what you got?" She glanced up at the detective and was reminded of a moon-faced bully she'd known in grammar school, who was now running half a dozen sweatshops in Chinatown that paid illegal immigrants starvation wages. The bully sweatshop owner had a complicated evasion system that nailed his partners every time there was a shutdown and allowed him to get richer and fatter every year.