"Gee, that's amazing to me. What's the difference?"

Jack snorted again. "Hello. In the movies, when the prince who grew up in a humble hovel never knowing he was a prince finds out he's rich, he collects his billion dollars that day, and moves right into the palace with no backward glance at his past.

"And guess what else, the press and his public adore him. He has no problems getting a fabulous beautiful princess whom he marries on TV. Then he rules the land in a benevolent manner and lives happily and wealthily ever after."

April's face didn't change as he spoke. "So what's wrong with that picture?" she asked.

"You don't get over the past so easily, for one thing. No one gets that. Not even Lisa. My father never spoke to me once in my whole life. When I was desperate for work I applied for a job at his company and got rejected. He probably didn't know it, but maybe he did. That's not the way dads are supposed to act. Now I'm not sure I want his money. I want to smash his face in. And he's dead, so I can't do it." He made a face. "And all these clippings say I'm a weird phobic like Howard Hughes."

"So what?" Mike said. "What do you care?"

"There you are. Get over it. That's what I'm supposed to do. Shit, I don't know why I'm telling you all this."

"Because we're here," Mike laughed. "It's okay. Say whatever you want."

Jack cradled his cast with his good arm. "And then there's the little detail that some madman wants to kill me."

"How do you know he wants to kill you?" April this time.

He gave her a weird look. "You told me, remember?"

She shook her head. "I didn't say he wanted to kill you. I just said you got a phone call from the same person who called Bernardino. It could be a prank call, a coincidence."

"But now there's another murder." Jack exhaled, blowing air loudly out of his mouth. "I don't want to be paranoid, but it's freaking me."

Neither detective had a handy reply for that. "We wanted to talk to you about Martha Bassett," April said after a moment.

"I didn't know her," he said quickly.

"But you know Al Frayme pretty well, right?" April asked.

"Well, sure, he's the alumni guy at York. He called me to speak at the reunion." Jack cheered up at the mention of Al. "It was my first request."

"How much do you know about him?"

"I know he's a nice guy. After everything came out about my dad, he called to tell me my old buddies at York were thinking of me. A friendly voice from my old school. I thought it was a very decent thing to do."

"Then what?"

"Well, then we went to lunch a couple of times. York has been my family for years. You know how it is."

"What did you two talk about?"

"We have a lot in common. His dad abandoned his mom, too. Married someone else. The dad's rich, has a new family. He and his mom have nothing. He knows what I'm going through. He asked me to speak about my York experience at the reunion. He said a lot of people would be interested."

Mike nodded. "What about his private life? Do you know anything about that?"

"He mentioned karate a few times," Jack said, uncomfortable for the first time.

Mike and April locked eyes. Now they were cooking. "You didn't tell us that before."

Jack made an impatient gesture. "We were talking about stress and anger. He told me it's great physical training, and good for channeling anger. I didn't think anything of it." But he didn't look easy about it.

April put her notebook down and leaned forward in her chair. "Think hard, Jack; is Al the person who broke your arm?"

"Well, actually, I have been thinking about it. The whole karate thing made me think of him immediately. But that's because he's the only one I know who does karate."

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"It seemed too far-fetched. I felt stupid raising the issue. There must be thousands of people who do karate… and I didn't want to implicate a friend." He looked as if he felt really bad about it even now.

Mike and April didn't show their feelings. Maybe if he had told them his suspicions sooner, Birdie would still be alive. But Jack was still equivocating.

"And I know what he smells like. He didn't smell like the killer."

"The killer was in karate mode. He would have been full of adrenaline. His personal odor would have been different, sweaty. You may have smelled fear." April tried to stay calm. Jack had edited his comments. Witnesses were not supposed to do that. The whole case against Bill had rested on his nose. The smell of Tiger. She felt like smacking him now. Instead she remained patient.

"What does he smell like normally?" she asked.

"Lime. He smells like lime. And I wouldn't say he's big enough to take me on."

"Size can be misleading in the martial arts," April murmured. Every judgment Jack had made had been wrong. "Could you say for sure it wasn't Al?"

"No. I just didn't think it was he."

"I'm going to ask you one last time. Don't hold back. Do you have any other thoughts on Al Frayme or anything else?"

"Yeah." Jack scratched his stubbly chin. "Am I next?"

"Let's put it this way. How do you feel about taking a little vacation?" April asked.

"You mean you'd like me to get out of here?"

"We would," April said softly. "Let us do what we have to do."

Mike nodded. "Go someplace only you know about."

Jack scratched his chin. "Okay," he said. "I hear you."

Mike and April were finished and got up together. It was time to rock and roll.

Forty-three

The alumni office of York University was housed on the second floor of the main administration building on Fourteenth Street, right next to Admissions. Beyond the small reception area, Albert Delano Frayme had a small cubicle without a window. When April and Mike arrived there at noon and flashed their gold, he was busy strewing his napkin-spread work space with crusty crumbs from a French-bread sandwich.

"Lieutenant Sanchez, Sergeant Woo," Mike said.

He took a moment to chew and swallow. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't have time for breakfast today. I was just taking an early lunch." He put the half-eaten baguette down and flashed an apologetic smile. "Marty isn't in right now. Is there something I can do?"

"We'd like to talk to Albert Frayme," Mike said, eyeing the name plaque on his desk.

"Oh. That would be me. How can I help?" Al smiled again, totally benign and relaxed.

It was a little disconcerting. He did not even remotely look like a killer. He looked like thousands of midlevel employees in companies all over the world. He had a soft voice without any discernible accent, wide shoulders on a slender build, a small head with a round face, a button nose, and an eager-to-please expression. His almost-blond hair was short in the back and long enough in front to dip into pleasant gray eyes. He looked like a very nice man, until he brushed away the crumbs on his desk and showed the flat, callused blades of his big-knuckled hands.

"We're investigating the murder of Lieutenant Bernardino last week." Mike's eyes flickered at the size of the hands, but Al didn't seem aware of their interest.

"What a loss. The lieutenant was a great guy." He shook his head and brushed his palms together.

"How well did you know him?" Mike asked.

"I wish I could offer you both seats." Frayme indicated the one chair in front of his desk. "I don't rate two chairs." He laughed.

"No problem. We can stand," Mike replied.

April didn't say anything. She was standing close to the door, inhaling deeply as if the air itself could tell her this was the man who tried to kill her. The space smelled of newly baked French bread, the citrus aftershave that Jack remembered, and something else, a rotten something.