Iriarte rolled his tongue around in his mouth. "Is that significant?"
"It sure is. At the hospital the doctor told us Heather Popescu had not given birth to a baby."
"What?
But there is a baby, right?"
"Oh, yeah, there's a baby. Doorman said Mr.
Popescu left at eight-thirty
A.M
., as usual; the man's like clockwork. Mrs. Popescu took the baby out soon after that, a little after nine—"
"Did he see the baby?"
"No. He said he heard the baby crying. He knew it was the baby because newborns sound like kittens."
Iriarte rolled his eyes. "So—either the baby was alive this morning, or the baby was dead and the woman went out with a kitten. And, by the way, it wasn't her baby."
"Yes," April said.
"What about when she returned? Was there a baby or a kitten with her then?"
"No one remembers seeing her return."
"Did you talk to the relief doorman?"
"Yes. He didn't see her."
"What about the service entrance?"
"Security in the building is pretty tight. What I'm wondering about is the stroller. The doorman says it was more like a carriage, not one of those little fold-up jobs. She went out with it. It wasn't in the apartment when we got there. Where is it?"
Iriarte sat back and made a steeple with his fingers. "This whole thing sounds fishy to me. Let me see a picture of the baby." He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers as if he knew she had one.
Indeed, April had gotten a photo from Popescu before she left his apartment. She dug around in her purse and pulled it out. She glanced at it before handing it over to Iriarte. Baby Paul had a full head of dark hair and blue eyes. He was wrapped up in a blue blanket, caught by the camera with a serious expression.
Iriarte shook his head. "Cute. This baby doesn't look Chinese. The so-called mother, who is also the last person seen with it, is Chinese." He gave April a piercing look. "You're the primary on this case and I want you to clear it tonight."
April kept her face calm, but inside, panic rose like a flood tide. How could she do that?
"You hear me? I talked with Popescu. He neglected to mention the fact that the baby isn't theirs. You talk to him. Get a birth certificate. Find the birth parents. Maybe they have him."
"Yes, sir."
Scowling, Iriarte looked at the photo again. "They've got all the specialists in on this. And the baby may be out with a sitter, with a friend of the family, or with its real parents." He fixed his eyes on her as if she weren't paying enough attention. "You hear me?"
"Yes, sir. I'll get on it."
He dropped the photo on the desk, turned his palms up, and changed tack suddenly. "So who beat up the woman? Could she have gotten beaten fighting to keep the baby?"
"Anything is possible." April looked down at her hands.
"What do you think of the husband?" Iriarte gave a small whistle. "What's his problem? Is he the beater?"
"Anything is possible," she said again.
He handed her back the photo. If Paul Popescu had been a two-year-old or a five-year-old he'd have told her to blow up the photo and send it out on the streets.
Have you seen me?
But that was impossible with an infant.
Iriarte stared at the ceiling, musing.
"The doorman said she walked toward the park."
The special units were already headed there with their sniffers.
"Keep on the husband, and don't let anyone in to see the mother. You know." He shook his head. The last thing they wanted was for her to wake up and have her lawyer husband there to help her with her story. He swiveled away from her. That was it. He'd finished.
"Who's the ADA on this?" April asked.
"I don't know. Mayers, Meyers, something like that. Someone we don't know. Check out the legal aspects of this one." He consulted his watch and sighed deeply. "Find the baby alive and get a straight story. Otherwise you're out of here." Iriarte's color improved after he threatened to fire her.
Outside in the squad room Baum was holding up a wall, sulking over his notes and glowering at the fat detective who was sitting on the corner of his desk and dropping ashes on the phone. April came out of Iriarte's office and waved him over. "Let's go."
CHAPTER 7
A
nton Popescu left Roosevelt Hospital after his evening visit, burning with humiliation. A nurse built like a Hummer had kicked him out of his wife's room. When he tried to talk her out of it, she cut him off mid-sentence.
"Hey, don't raise your voice at me. Sick people are trying to sleep here," she said softly.
"I didn't raise my voice," he insisted.
"You're yelling at me now."
"Oh yeah? You're crazy."
The cop, who'd been away from his chair outside Heather Rose's room when Anton arrived, suddenly came swaggering back. He hiked up his heavy belt with the gun and the club on it. "What's going on?"
"Mr. Popescu was just leaving," the nurse said coolly.
"I don't think so." Anton bunched his fist at her. He couldn't believe this was happening.
The cop didn't like the body language. "You heard the lady. Nobody goes in." He was a young, powerful Hispanic, heavily muscled, mean-looking, and not small enough for Anton to take on. He repeated himself a few times, then took a macho pose with the billy club.
"Jesus!"
This was another in a brutal collection of confrontations Anton hadn't been able to win that day. After six hours of incitements, he'd become a dazed bull, helpless and exhausted. A bunch of little people in uniforms had been pushing him around. In the ambulance, they'd kept him from Roe. In the hospital, they'd taken her away and wouldn't let him see what they were doing to her. When he'd complained, more cops restrained him.
Worst of all, the group of detectives, including a lieutenant and the Chinese sergeant, questioned him as if they thought he might somehow be involved. How could they think that? He, steal his own baby! Hit his own wife! What kind of person would do that? The fact that the police suspected him hurt him deeply. It enraged him further that the Chinese sergeant had been allowed into Roe's room and he had been barred. It was then that the sergeant told him about the Crime Scene Unit working at his apartment. He'd never given permission for criminologists to enter his apartment, they'd just taken over.
They'd tapped his phone.
Even now two detectives were sitting in his living room waiting for the phone to ring. And he couldn't find a way to protest. Not only that, two grubby-looking guys who looked like bums off the street had trashed his place. Crime scene!
They
were the crime, touching his things without his consent, moving them around, taking photographs of everything, vacuuming the carpets with their own portable vacuum cleaner. They cut a hole in his rug and took away the garbage cans. He actually saw them shine weird lights on the walls and floors—looking for what? They'd made sketches of the blood splotches on the kitchen floor and left gritty fingerprint powder everywhere. He didn't think the place would ever be clean again.
And all the while different detectives kept asking him questions, a thousand and one questions about his life, his wife, people she might have given the baby to or who might have come and taken him. He had no idea how to answer. The detectives were asking about private stuff that was none of their business. About the beating, they didn't ask very much. That really scared him. They'd taken his fingerprints and asked about his in-laws. But he didn't know what they were thinking. He had a right to know what angle they were following. That part was his business, his wife, his missing
baby.
He had a right to know what they were looking for. After most of the detectives left, two had stayed behind in the apartment to man the phones, and this made Anton feel doubly victimized. He and Roe were in danger now, and he no longer remembered why he'd gone to the police in the first place. Later, when he went back to the hospital, he was certain a plainclothes cop had followed him there.