“Stop that,” Igor said crossly from across the room as April moved toward the counter.
“You did this already,” she murmured, peering into the open money drawer.
There was a fair amount of money in it. Apparently robbery had not been the motive. Sometime during the day one or more customers had bought something with a hundred-dollar bill. There were several of them stacked in the drawer, along with a thin pile of tens and twenties and a number of credit card receipts. At least there were names on those. April would have to find everyone who came in throughout the day on Saturday, and for weeks before that. The receipts for items bought were dated Saturday, two days before. Mrs. Manganaro had told April the store was closed on Sunday. The girl must have died on Saturday. It looked like the time of death should be later than that. The body was in very good condition for the middle of summer. But it was very cold in the storeroom. Maybe she’d been refrigerated.
April checked the girl’s handbag. Her wallet was in it, some pieces of paper, an address book, a five-dollar bill zipped into a small pocket. A pink lipstick, not the plum that was on her face, no other makeup. A medium-size Swiss Army knife. An inhaler. Ventolin—prescription medicine for asthma. Maybe Maggie died of an asthma attack. Sure.
Igor bagged the purse. He had laid out all his kits for fluid samples but hadn’t had any use for them. There was no blood or other fluids to collect. The dead girl had her underwear on. It seemed unlikely that she’d been raped. Rapists didn’t usually dress their victims up afterward.
“Igor, was she dressed like that before or after she was killed?” April asked.
“No spots on the floor. You tell me.”
No spots on the floor under the body indicated someone had taken the time to clean up. In death, the bladder and lower bowel evacuated. There was a toilet in the storeroom. The murderer could have cleaned up with the paper towels in there, and gotten rid of them down the toilet. Murderers didn’t often do that. What kind of killer was this? Cleaned the floor, put oversize clothes on the corpse, and messed up her face. April had the strange feeling she was trapped in the shop with a crazy person who wouldn’t speak. What had happened here? What was the message?
Until they had started going over it and dusting the place with gray powder, the tiny boutique had looked incredibly tidy. It looked as if someone had wiped it clean and carefully vacuumed up after the murder. But there wasn’t a vacuum cleaner in the place. April shook her head. She had forgotten to ask the owner who cleaned, and when.
“How do you kill somebody, change their clothes, put makeup all over the face, and get out without leaving any traces? Whose makeup and where is it?” she muttered.
“I just collect,” Igor said.
“And where are her own clothes?”
Igor didn’t bother to answer. If her clothes weren’t there, whoever killed her took them away.
April crossed to the front door and looked at it again. No signs of forced entry.
“Did you find anything here?”
Igor carefully pulled some fibers out of the rug and put them in a plastic bag that he neatly labeled with the location the sample came from as well as its source. He moved across the floor to do the same in front of the door.
“Not on the outside. There’s a partial on the inside, and of course a ton of prints in here. Lot of them probably hers.”
He spoke with a trace of an accent from one of the Slavic countries that didn’t exist anymore. April liked him more than the other crime-scene people she had met uptown. Igor was a small person with a large head covered by a rarely mowed field of wheaty hair. He had big jaw, wide set, arresting blue eyes, and a slight list to one side from an injury he had received several years before in the line of duty.
“Don’t touch,” he said again as he got to his feet. He picked up a hemplike piece of fiber with his tweezers and studied it.
“I’m not touching,” April said. He was almost finished anyway.
There was a thin film of sticky powder all over the place.
“Did you see the fluff on the ring?” she asked.
“I saw it.”
“What about the fingernails?”
Igor bagged the girl’s hands with brown paper bags. His partner had already photographed everything, both with and without measuring tapes to show distances and heights. They never knew what they were going to need in court when they got the guy who did it. As well as photographing, he also sketched everything, including views of the building, the sidewalk, and the trees in front.
“You know I don’t touch the body,” Igor told her.
“You took a look, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I
“Can I sit here?”
She indicated the stool by the money drawer. Polished wood. It had already been dusted and still had a fine layer of gray grit on it. Lots of prints, as Igor had said.
Igor glanced up. “Yeah.”
April sat on the stool. This was where the girl must have spent her free time, where she wrote up the sales slips. A stool with no back. From her first encounter with Mrs. Manganaro, April gathered Elsbeth was the kind of boss who wouldn’t want her salesgirls comfortable. There was no way anyone could catnap on this stool without falling off. Nice.
Two ambulance people wheeled in the gurney. It was an awkward maneuver in the small shop. Five or six people were crowded in the back room, including someone from the M.E.’s office who had arrived to pronounce the body dead. April could hear a discussion going while the girl was finally taken down from the chandelier.
April had asked Mrs. Manganaro if the door was kept locked during the day. She told April there had been some trouble a few years before with high school kids. Now the door had an automatic latch. It appeared the girl had let in her own killer. April looked out at the street.
With the ambulance, a number of unmarked cars, and the crime-scene tapes all over the place, it was hard to imagine what it must have been like for the girl looking out from this stool on Saturday. Who had seemed safe to Maggie Wheeler? Most likely it was someone she knew.
April thought of her own Saturday. The past week had been unlucky for her. Saturday was her day off. She had wanted to study all day. But Sai Woo, her skinny dragon mother, had bullied her into attending her cousin Annie Chen’s wedding. Annie Chen was five years younger than April, a bank teller, and not even her real cousin. So April hadn’t exactly been dying to see her celebrated and feasted. And her mother didn’t make it any easier.
“No mistake Annie’s Chinese name Rucky Girr,” Sai Woo had remarked. “Sometimes gods smile and sometimes don’t,” she added grimly.
“Very profound,” April muttered. So chubby Annie, who still had a number of zits on her face, married a postal worker from Brooklyn. What was so lucky about that?
Her mother poked her in the ribs with the toothpick she was still using to clean spare-rib gristle out of her teeth.
“Nice boy, good steady job, that’s what’s so rucky. But not so good food.” She frowned at the spare-rib gristle clinging to the toothpick before depositing it on her plate.
April agreed. All that luck, and the food still wasn’t good.
Maggie Wheeler had a worse Saturday. She was murdered and hung up in the storeroom sometime on Saturday. Now it was Monday morning. April looked out at the street.
Columbus Avenue was two parking and three traffic lanes across. The shops were so far apart, you couldn’t really see what was happening in them. How well did people in these shops know each other? Out in Astoria, where April lived, everyone in the neighborhood knew everyone. Same in parts of Chinatown. But it was a different story up here. Affluent. Indifferent.
Mike walked out of the back room with Sergeant Joyce, supervisor of their detective squad. April had a feeling Sergeant Joyce didn’t like her and would rather not have her around. Sergeant Joyce was thirty-eight years old, the mother of two young children, and had already passed her test for lieutenant. She was waiting for a big enough
