The man screamed as his feet left the sidewalk and he landed hard in front of their parked car, splashing filthy water on Daphne Petersen's leopard-topped boots.
Daphne stamped the boots on the sidewalk, yelling at April. "Are you mad?" Her piercing English shriek drew the doormen out of the Pierre.
"What's going on?" The one with the top hat tried for some authority.
Daphne ignored him. "Are you mad?" she continued screaming at April, who stood next to her, a little surprised by her ability to send a six-footer flying into the gutter.
"What do you think you're doing? You scared me to death. Giorgio, honey, are you all right?" Daphne put out her hand to the man with his butt in the street but did not advance close enough to touch him or get her feet wet.
He was sputtering in some foreign language as Mike. pulled him to his feet.
"Ow, beetch, crazy beetch."
"Hey, watch that, buddy," Mike said. "You just assaulted a police officer." He rubbed his wet gloves together, then smacked one against the other. "You could go to jail for that."
"No way. I didn't do nothing." The man held his hands palms up. "She—"
"You assaulted a police officer. I saw you."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Daphne Petersen turned to Mike. "The woman practically jumped on me. We thought she was one of those antifur people."
"What-?" April demanded.
"Can't you hear? We thought you were going to throw red paint at me."
"Crazy beetch." The handsome man didn't have much of a vocabulary. He was combing his fingers through his hair, managing to appear both peeved and injured.
Daphne shot him a scathing look. "Oh, shut up, Giorgio."
"Who's he?" Mike jerked a thumb at the bronze hair.
Daphne sniffed. "Just my trainer."
Mike stroked his mustache speculatively. "Nice job."
"You need any help?" the doorman tried again.
"Police," April said. "We're fine." She nodded him away.
"You're blocking the street," the doorman pointed out.
"That's what we're paid for," she told him.
"All right, you ruined my boots, you practically killed my friend. What are you doing here?"
"We're investigating a homicide."
"I had nothing to do with it. I hardly knew the woman. Let's go, Giorgio." Daphne turned away.
"Mrs. Petersen, would you mind getting in the car?" Mike said.
The widow swung back, stunned by the request. "What for?"
"We want to talk to you."
"You talked to me before." She eyed April now.
"You didn't tell me anything I wanted to know," April said evenly. "Now we're really going to talk."
"But I don't know anything," she protested:
"Funny, that's not what you said on TV."
The woman's face reddened. She glanced at her friend. "You'd better go now, Giorgio."
He peered at her as if he'd never heard such a command in his life. "Where?" he asked dumbly.
"Wherever you want, honey. You're a big boy."
He gave her a pathetic look, a hunk deprived of purpose, then scowled at the two cops. "Huh?"
"Go," Daphne commanded impatiently.
Giorgio looked at her again, saw that she was determined, then sloped off downtown, his shoes squishing on the sidewalk.
She turned to them angrily. "I don't know where he kept the stuff or who he got it from. I know that's why you're here." She leaned toward them on the
sidewalk, speaking passionately. "It's not my problem. I told you he was a cocaine user. I warned him it would kill him one day if he kept drinking the way he did." Her cheek glistened in the light. She raised a white-gloved hand to wipe away the single tear that teetered on the curve.
April couldn't help herself. She glanced at Mike.
"Where were you the night your husband died?" he asked.
She gestured to April with the gloved hand. "I already told her. I was at home watching a movie. I talked on the phone. I have a list of people who dialed my number."
This was the first April heard of that.
"Tor died of an overdose," Daphne went on. "I hadn't seen him since—oh, I don't know, a couple of days." She started shivering inside the heavy coat.
"Who told you that?" Mike asked.
Daphne looked at him as if he were retarded. "Don't you people talk to each other? That's what they told me."
"Who told you?"
"Some woman from the police called and told me the toxi . . ."
"Toxicology," April prompted.
"Yeah, those reports came in, and Tor was just"— Daphne shook her head—"chock-full of cocaine and alcohol." She swiped at her face again. "That's what killed hini. I asked her to keep it on the QT, you know. It doesn't help to spread that around, does it?" She looked yearningly at her building. "Can I go home now?"
"We'll come with you, make sure you're all right." Mike's face was impassive at the news of more official blundering.
Daphne made a face and hurried inside.
They left the car where it was on the street and took the elevator up to Petersen's apartment where the TV cables were gone, but plants and bouquets of flowers covered all available surfaces. The flowers were mostly lilies, April noticed. Many of them looked dried or hung over, as if the advice on the accompanying card, "Water me," had not been heeded.
In the living room, which overlooked the park, Daphne opened her fur coat and threw it on a chair. Underneath she was wearing exercise clothes—white tights and a pink body suit with a thong. She threw herself into a deep sofa, careful to keep the boots off the silk.
"You know Tor's death was his own fault. So why are you bothering me?"
"Because you haven't told anybody the truth about anything. That makes a problem for us." April tried not to stare at her body. "Let's start with your original statement. You told us you'd seen your husband the morning he died."
"Well, I didn't." The widow looked at them defiantly, tossing her hair. "I didn't know what the story was. I felt silly, you know. He'd spent the night somewhere, and I felt—awkward."
"Awkward?" April cocked her head. The woman's husband had been murdered and she felt awkward.
Daphne checked her nail polish. "One doesn't exactly enjoy being a jilted wife, you know. I was pretty certain I didn't have much time with him left, and I just—you know, I didn't say anything. I hoped it would blow over. Sometimes they do, you know. It's my own fault, of course," she added.
Mike was sucking his mustache. April could almost hear him think.
"What's your fault?" she asked.
"Marrying him, thinking it would last. Silly me."
April glanced around the lavish living room, full of silk chairs and shiny tables, objects of art from countries and centuries she could not have identified if her life depended on it. Silly Daphne didn't turn out to be so silly. Her straying husband with the dangerous habits was conveniently dead, and she was his final wife, after all. April unbuttoned her own coat and considered the chair possibilities.
"Do you mind if I take my coat off?"
Daphne flicked her a glance that didn't take anything in. "No, of course not."
April took her coat off and sat in a wing chair covered with red leather that sat at an angle to the sofa where Daphne was displaying the sweat stains in her crotch to Mike, who sat in a similar chair opposite her. Lovely girl.
"So, your husband was a cocaine user. What about you?" Mike asked.
"I'm a strict vegetarian," Daphne said, sullen now. "I must respect the divinity in myself."
Uh-huh. "Earlier, you told us you warned him that his substance abuse was serious enough to kill him." Now April.
Daphne didn't answer. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
"All the drinking and cocaine use must have made him pretty difficult to deal with," April went on.