'Well, what happened to Mr. Liberty's car then?'
Jefferson shifted his position. 'His inspection sticker was expired. Before he went to Europe he asked me to take the car to a service station and get a new one. I did that.' He shook his head. 'I left it there. The car was gone when I came back for it.'
'It only takes a few minutes to check a car out. How long did you leave it?'
'Three days.'
'You left Mr. Liberty's car at a service station for three days?' Mike said incredulously.
'I had the flu. Mr. Petersen can confirm that'
'No, he can't. He's dead. And Liberty was in Europe.'
'Well, Mrs. Petersen can confirm it.'
'Wally, where did you go last night after you dropped Mr. Petersen and Mrs. Liberty at the theater?'
'I took the car and drove home. I've been home with my wife since then. You can ask her.'
'We will ask her. Thank you, Wally. I want you to write down here on this pad the name of that service station where you left Mr. Liberty's car. Then I want you to sit here for a while and gather your thoughts about all the things-you've told us. Maybe your memory will improve a little over time. In a few minutes we're going to send in a detective to go -over all this with you again. We want you to make a full statement about the last few weeks, as well as the events leading up to the murders last night. You've got some explaining to do, understand?'
'The car was not in my possession when it was taken,' Jefferson said flatly.
'Well, Wally, I don't think a judge would see it that way. Liberty certainly doesn't.'
'But he didn't press charges against me, did he? And if he didn't press charges, I guess that proves I didn't do anything wrong.'
Wrong. April glanced at her watch. She'd had enough of this.
'And I was in New Jersey with my wife when poor Mr. Petersen, and Mrs. Merrill, were killed,' Jefferson went on. 'Bless their souls, I'll miss them.'
Feeling sick, April got up and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later she was on her way uptown in an unmarked unit. This time she'd decided to forget worrying about having someone drive her. Once again, it was dark outside and the weather was bad. All the way up to Jason's apartment, she worried about when his next patient was scheduled. Unless there was a major crisis, Jason would not cancel an appointment. That meant if she got there too late, he'd cancel her. What was it with these mental cases that made them so special that all life had to stop when they were with their shrinks? Jason's inaccessibility really annoyed her as she slid around ice-encrusted construction sites and skidding taxis, trying to keep calm behind the wheel. She did not think about her refusal to have diner with Mike because she had to get some rest, or about the problem that Wally Jefferson presented them with a wife as his alibi. He was clearly lying about a lot of things.
The only good thing about the lousy weather was the decrease in traffic. Problem was, the lousy taxi drivers from hot countries who didn't have any experience with snow or ice were the only ones left on the hazardous streets. Her parking effort was to ram the car into a snowbank in front of a hydrant. She knew she was going to have trouble getting it out later.
By the time she was in the cage elevator in Jason's building, jerking slowly up the five floors to his apartment, she was panting with anxiety. She swallowed, breathed eight counts in, held her breath for six counts, exhaled for eight counts, and did it again a few times to slow down her heart. Jason opened the door almost before she put out her finger to ring his bell.
'Hi,' he said, looking her over.
About to meet the famous Emma Chapman again, April felt shabby and double ugly in the new navy wool coat she'd bought only a few weeks ago, the long navy-and-maroon-printed scarf wrapped several times around her neck, and the Chanel-copy shoulder bag that Emma Chapman would certainly know she'd bought on the street in Chinatown but that was strong enough to hold anything April wanted to put into it.
'Hi. Sorry I'm late. I got tied up.'
Jason smiled as she removed her leather gloves and extricated herself from the scarf. 'No problem. Come on in.'
'Thanks.' She followed him into the hall where the table with the glass dome covering a large clock made to show its works was piled with unopened mail.
April didn't know any people who lived in apartments like this. The living room was large with windows facing Riverside Drive and the Hudson River. Many books and clocks covered every surface. Neutral colors on the walls and furniture were chosen to soothe, as were the large upholstered club chairs and sofa that April knew from earlier experience were deep and soft. She longed to sink in for a long winter's nap. From the dent in the sofa, it looked as if recently someone might have been doing just that. No sign of Emma now, though. She probably took off when she heard the downstairs buzzer ring.
April knew that Emma didn't like her and could understand why. Years ago, Ja Jien, April's best friend in high school, had gotten pregnant by a white guy. Her family had been murderously angry, had told Ja Jien she would die if she had an abortion. The doctor would blunder, he'd kill her, or do it wrong so if she lived, she wouldn't be able to have more children. At the same time they'd said—didn't matter if she lived, might as well be dead since she was ruined anyway. Ja Jien had the abortion, changed her name to Jennifer. Afterward she didn't want to see April, who had supported her during her ordeal. The two friends drifted apart. Later, when Jennifer became successful as a beautician and opened her own salon, she made it clear she didn't want to cut April's hair, didn't want her in the shop. Didn't ever want to know her again. April had seen Emma Chapman as a naked hostage, her whole body and face painted, her stomach in the process of being tattooed. Emma would not forget that.
Jason gave April one of his penetrating looks. 'You hungry, want something?' he asked.
She was starved. She shook her head. 'Not at the moment, thanks.'
'Yell when you want something.' He took her coat and hung it on a doorknob.
'Emma around?'
'Yes, she's coming.' Jason went through the opening into the living room. 'How's the investigation going?'
April ignored the question. 'Liberty mentioned your name when we went to inform him of the death. I gather you've spent some time with him since.'
'He's an old friend.'
'From the way he spoke about you, I got the feeling he was your patient.'
'He's not.'
'Oh, really, then you might be able to help us,' April murmured.
Jason nodded noncommittally.
April moved into the living room and picked the chair she'd sat in the last time she'd been in the apartment, sank into it gratefully. Her last visit had been in November before she'd made sergeant. She wondered if Jason knew about her promotion.
Emma Chapman strode into the room, wearing soft black trousers and a black sweater. Looked like cashmere. Probably was. As Emma took the chair opposite, April wondered what it would be like to have long legs, peach-colored skin and blond hair, to wear such expensive things, and walk with such authority and grace.
'Ah, Sergeant Woo, congratulations on your promotion,' Emma said with a brittle smile.
'Yes, congratulations,' Jason threw in.
'Congratulations to you, too, for your new play. I see your name in the top place at the theater every day. I'm downtown in Midtown North now,' April explained.
'Your new phone number confused me,' Jason said. 'Someone told me you're a supervisor now.'
'Yes, it's true.'
'Well, you'll have to come and see the play—and bring your friend. What's his name—Mike . . . ?' Emma made a face, trying to remember the name of the cop who'd saved her life.
'Sanchez,' April said softly. 'He's in Homicide now.'
'No kidding? Then who's left to take care of us in the Twentieth?' Emma asked lightly.
April thought of Aspirante and Healy. 'No one,' she said. Her stomach gurgled. She put a hand over it to silence it. Time to go to work. 'I'm sorry about your friends,' she began, taking her Rosario out of her purse.
'Thank you.' Emma twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. She glanced at the notebook, then at
