immediate relief in a package of Marlboros. Unlike Liberty, she expressed no shock or denial. She almost seemed to have been expecting them. April wondered if the woman's detachment might be a cultural thing. From what she had read about the English in the newspapers, it was pretty obvious that they didn't care much about anything. April turned her expressionless face to Mike to see what he thought.
He was scratching the side of his nose, considering her list of suspects in her husband's death. Drugs, hit men. Jealous husbands. Interesting.
'Did you know who your husband was with last night?' he asked gently.
She shook her head. 'Who?'
'Merrill Liberty,' April said.
Daphne's breath caught on a gulp of smoke. 'Is she-'
April nodded.
'She's dead, too? Jesus!' She looked out the window.
Outside it was not yet light. The heat was just coming up in the Petersens' Fifth Avenue living room, which faced the fountain still ringed with Christmas trees in front of the Plaza Hotel, the huge menorah on the park side of the street with all its lights ablaze, and the section of Central Park bordering Central Park South. There were so many arresting views available that April hardly knew which way to look. Mike wasn't having any problems on that score. He was concentrated on the widow.
Daphne's breasts were several cups too large to stand up as high as they did with no visible means of support. April guessed they were not as nature had formed them. She also guessed the robe cost more than a sergeant's salary for several months. But there was no way of estimating the value of the ruby-studded, heart- shaped pendant the size of a plum that dangled from a heavy gold chain just above Daphne's cleavage. Mike raised his crooked eyebrow at April
April nodded imperceptibly as she watched Daphne stub out her cigarette and take a second from the package.
'What do you mean, jealous husband?' April asked.
'I don't know. I was being smart. I didn't know he'd get mad enough to
'Who?'
'Well, Liberty, of course.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'They were very close friends—it's hard to—'
'Liberty and your husband?'
'Well, the three of them. Tor was best man at their wedding.'
'Did you know where your husband was going last night?'
Daphne lifted a shoulder. 'I wasn't here when he went out.'
'Where were you?'
She tossed her head. 'In church.'
Mike hid a smile.
'Which one?' April asked.
'Saint Patrick's.'
'What time was that?'
'How would I know? I wasn't here.'
'What time did you go out, Mrs. Petersen?'
'Ten-fifteen. A.M.'
'And that was the last time you saw your husband?'
She nodded. 'How were they killed?'
'We don't have a cause of death on your husband yet,' April said. 'He may have died of a heart attack—'
'What? Really?' The woman blew a cloud of smoke out of her nose. Confused, she tapped the cigarette on the side of a crystal ashtray already full of butts. 'I thought you said he was murdered.'
'Did we?'
'Yes, you said—' She scowled at April. 'He wasn't murdered? Then what killed them—drugs . . . ?'
'Was your husband involved in drugs?' Mike asked.
'What do you mean 'involved'? You mean selling?' Daphne shook the curls. 'He was rich. He didn't need to.' She scowled some more. 'He did like his snow-flakes though, didn't he?'
'Your husband was a cocaine user?'
'Oh yes, and woman user, too.' Daphne fondled the heavy ruby heart between her breasts. 'He loved rubies,'. she murmured. 'What about Merrill? Did she have a heart attack, too?'
'She was stabbed in the neck,' Mike said bluntly.
'O000.' Shocked, Daphne clutched her throat. Then she inhaled with a wincing noise. 'O000.'
For the ten thousandth time April thought people were weird. First the well-dressed black man with the terrible headache. And now the trophy wife with the artificial boobs who reacted more to the death of Merrill Liberty than to that of her husband. Weird. April felt a tickle at the back of her throat and fought a desire to sneeze. The tickle didn't come from the cigarette smoke. It came from her suspicious nature.
Mike coughed delicately. 'Did you expect your husband home last night?'
Daphne shrugged. 'With Tor, one doesn't expect. One takes things as they come. Most of the time he does come home eventually,' she conceded. 'What time did he die?'
'Sometime last night.'
'I was here all evening, if you want to know. All night in fact. Anyway, I'm not powerful enough to give people heart attacks. But Tor was. He gave them all the time.' She stubbed out her cigarette, splitting the paper and shredding the tobacco.
'Would you mind identifying his body later today?' Mike asked suddenly.
'Oh, is that absolutely necessary? I'm afraid it would make me sick to my stomach.'
'You only have to look at his face through a window,' Mike told her.
'Couldn't you arrange something?' Daphne pleaded. 'Send his lawyer or something?'
April bristled as the cleavage became more pronounced. Of course they could. Mike would see what he could do. April rolled her eyes and made a note to kick him later. The two detectives stayed, asking the dead man's wife questions until the sun rose. Then they went out for breakfast.
6
Jason, the last thing in the world I want to do right now is go in that room by myself and lie down.' Rick Liberty shot Jason an angry look. 'What do you think I am?'
Emma saw Jason check his watch and gave him a pleading look not to abandon them.
'I think you've had a terrible shock,' Jason replied calmly. 'And you're going to have a really rough day.' He glanced at Emma to assure her he would stay as long as he had to.
'A shock! My wife and best friend go to my own restaurant with my own people all around. Now both of them are dead. No one can tell me what happened. And you want me to lie down!'
Dr. Jason Frank, psychoanalyst and professor of psychiatry, was a man well accustomed to hearing other people vent their grief and rage. He ached for his friend and didn't argue. His own wife was still alive. She sat on the white sofa clutching one of Merrill's sweaters and holding Rick's hand as if he were a child. Emma had been Merrill's best friend, a bridesmaid at her wedding. She'd left the two victims to come home to him only minutes before they were killed. He ached for Emma, too.
Jason stood with his back to the window and the dawning day. Over the years as a psychoanalyst, he had seen a lot of illness both physical and mental, and a lot of self-destruction played out in a wide variety of ways. He'd seen death come in many forms. The endless repetition of tragedies and sorrow that constituted the human condition had always affected him, but until a year ago he had never experienced the catastrophe of a vicious crime against anyone he knew.
He had grown up with a basketball in his hands, a street kid in the Bronx always looking for a pickup game. He'd carried a knife in his pocket and been in fights, but he'd never cut anybody and nobody had ever cut him. Until he was in medical school he'd never seen a gunshot wound or a knife wound or a battered body. Since then he'd seen a number of them, but none of the violence had been connected with him. He was a thirty-nine-year-old
