Thirty

Tuesday afternoon while Mike was in Brooklyn nailing Bill, April played it safe and followed up on the phone call to Jack Devereaux from York U. It was a halfhearted effort. She didn't expect much when she paid a visit to the brick building that housed the York University School of Social Work. It was a former mansion just off Washington Square with a center hall and a lounge on one side, offices and classrooms on the other side. In the middle was a tall staircase leading to the second and third floors. Professor Foster's office was at the top of the stairs, first door on the left, where anybody could walk right in if the door were left open. But the door was always locked and Foster was away for the semester, so she was told.

April met with the dean in her office to discuss the matter of the telephones and the locked door. Diane Crease was a tall woman who looked a lot like the first female attorney general of the United States. A string bean with a pleasant expression, Dr. Crease wore no makeup, had short, wavy, graying hair, and was wearing a springy pink-and-black tweed suit. On one lapel was a stiff pink plastic rose with a black center.

"What is this about, Sergeant Woo?" she asked, careful to see that the door was shut before she spoke.

"I'm investigating the homicide near the university last week," April told her.

"Ah, yes." The dean's eyes flickered. "Yes, I remember. A police officer, I believe. How can I be of assistance to you?" She stayed smack in the middle of her office, far from the safety of her desk.

"We're trying to follow up on a phone call that was made from Professor Foster's office to the murder victim." April was tired. Out of loyalty to the family, she hadn't wanted to be involved with Mike's search of Bill's house. But this scut work of looking for some phone caller was hardly a satisfying alternative. She coughed to clear her dry throat.

"Oh, my." The dean came to life with the cough. She turned her back on April to circle her desk for the carafe of water sitting on the credenza behind it. She poured out a glass and passed it to April. Then she sat down and gestured for April to do the same.

"Thanks." April swallowed gratefully and sat.

"This is very strange. Are you sure it was Dr. Foster's phone? She's been out of the country for several weeks. It couldn't be her. But I know she would be happy to talk with you when she returns."

"Who has access to her office?"

The dean leaned back in her desk chair. "I have no idea. I doubt if she would allow access to any of her students. But possibly her assistant might have a key."

"Who is her assistant?"

"I believe it's Margaret Eng. Dr. Foster's voice mail would have the contact number. Did you try it?"

"Yes, she didn't call me back."

"Well, she may have left for her internship. Classes are over for the term."

"Would the maintenance staff be able to get in?"

"Oh, of course they would." Dr. Crease frowned.

"I'll need a list of names," April told her.

"I can get that. We could also give you a list of classes and events that were taking place in the building on the day in question. Other people from the university do come into the building for meetings and talks and such. What day are you looking at? One day or more than one?"

"Only the tenth of this month."

"Okay. I'll check."

"If you have a record of repairs made in the building, that kind of thing would be useful, too."

The dean nodded. "I'll have my secretary work on this for you. But, you know, those locks are not very secure. Anyone could get in. There have been thefts in the offices in the past. But nothing serious." The dean was finished. April thanked her and gave her a card with her numbers on it.

Later she was not gratified at all to find out that her instinct about Bill had been correct, and he was their killer. When they met back at the Sixth, the noisy strategy meeting for the next step went on for hours. They had a lot more work to do on Bill to make a solid case, many more answers to get. With dozens of people involved and many voices coming from the top, the conversation went on a long time. April and Mike didn't get to bed until late.

Wednesday morning Beame called the apartment before seven. "I have her in less than twenty-four," he said. "Do I get the brass ring?"

"Cherry Packer, good for you. Bring her in," Mike said sleepily. Here was a loose end that had to be tied up. For sure Harry was involved somehow. Bernardino had given him all that money, or he had stolen it. Mike wasn't going to let that go.

Thirty-one

At eight-fifteen Cherry Packer was full of bile, and Mike was there for her dramatic display of pique.

"Just wait a little minute, will you? What's your freaking hurry?" She parked herself in the interview room of the Sixth Precinct, pulled a bunch of cosmetics out of her purse, then calmly began putting on her makeup in the mirrored viewing window as if this were something she did all the time.

"Drag a lady out of her home before she's put together," she grumbled, casting a furious glance at Marcus, who sat next to her at the table. "What's your problem?"

Marcus twiddled his thumbs and paid no attention, so she turned to Mike. "He pulled a freaking gun on me. I should put in a complaint on him. Police brutality. Your name's Beame, right?"

Marcus snorted comfortably.

Mike smiled at her. "You look great. A woman like you doesn't need makeup. I'm sorry you were inconvenienced.''

"That's putting it mildly."

"We appreciate your coming in," Mike tried to soothe her.

"Fuck you." Cherry eyed him from top to toe. "You're a nice-looking guy. What's your problem?"

Mike straightened his tie. It was one of his many silver ones. He wore it over a dark gray shirt. Over that was a black-and-white tweed sports jacket. On his feet he had new black snakeskin cowboy boots. April preferred colors, but he liked a jazzed-up black-and-gray look. "My problem is I got a dead person to take care of," he said. "And that dead person is your boyfriend's ex-partner."

"Jesus. That's not my fault." She squirmed a little in her chair as if her pants were too tight, then made a big show of putting her makeup back in her purse.

She was quite a sight, pretty much what Mike would have expected in a girlfriend of Harry's. Cherry was a big blowsy blond with a bad haircut and a terrible dye job. She was built like a brick from shoulder to hip, with a shelf of bosom in front like two pillows on a four-poster bed, but her legs were as long and trim as those of the colts she supposedly trained. She definitely made an impression.

"Mrs. Packer, what is your relationship with Harry Weinstein?" Mike asked.

"He's a business associate." She pulled herself together on an expected question, extracted a pack of Marlboros out of her purse, and held it up. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Yes. Do you always sleep with your business associates?"

She dropped the cigarettes on the table. "Look, don't make a big deal out of this. I've known Harry for a long time, like fifteen years, okay? Totally on the up and up. He helped me out when my husband died."

"How?"

Cherry's crumbling was a subtle thing, like a fault line in the earth that doesn't show on the outside until the earthquake strikes. She was not as tough as she looked. She put the cigarettes away and dug around in her purse for her glasses. When she could see, she made a horrified face. "What's that?"

"Video camera," Mike told her.

"Is it on?" she demanded.

"No."

"Are you sure?" She regarded it suspiciously.

"Yeah. How did Harry help you?"

"It's a long, boring story." She took the glasses off and twirled them around her finger.