Loving Time

padded jacket. Her hair was black as shoe polish, tightly curled all over her head. Her body was as thin as the toothpick still on steady exhibit in her husband’s mouth.

She glanced at April and snapped out something in Chinese.

“And this is my mother,” April said dutifully. “Sergeant Sanchez.”

Sai Woo looked him over, frowned a little at the leather jacket. “Why Sergeant? Why not Captain?” she demanded. She, too, sniffed the air around him, trying to get the hang of it.

“Mom!” April protested.

“You not pass test?” Sai demanded.

Mike scuffed a boot on the sidewalk sheepishly, like a kid confronted by an important teacher who was hoping to stick him with a D. “Ahh, I didn’t take the test,” he admitted.

“Mebbe next time take test. Betta for you.”

“Maybe I will. Thank you for thinking of it,” Mike muttered.

“Think of everything.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded at how good thinking was.

“Well, thanks for dropping by.” April jerked her head at Mike and headed down the walk toward his car.

“Where go?”

“Just over there to the car, Mom. Mike has to go.”

“Dmsm!” Sai said sharply.

“What?”

Sai pointed at the dog.

“Oh, and this is Dim Sum,” April said, enunciating carefully. “Remember Dim Sum, Mike?”

“Yes, I do. She seems very happy here.” He was breathing a little easier now that his rank in the Department was no longer an issue, patted the dog that jumped up on his leg again.

“Velly rucky dog.” Sai made a strange noise. Instantly the little dog let go of Mike’s leg and sat, cocking its head to one side for praise.

“Wow, it sat. I’m impressed. Good girl, Dim Sum.”

“Say good-bye, Mike.”

Figuring he’d accomplished his goal, Mike took a few seconds to say his good-byes and admire the tiny yard.

“They talked to me,” he said triumphantly when he joined her. “I was kind of worried, but it went great. What do you think?”

“Well, they may have talked to you,” April conceded. “But don’t get any ideas that they like you. They don’t like you. What’s up?”

“They have someone better in mind? Huh?”

“What’s up, Mike?” April tapped her foot irritably, one eye on her parents, both dead silent by the front door, watching them.

Mike waved at them. “Next time they’ll ask me in.”

“Trust me, they will never ask you in.”

“What makes you so sure, querida?”

“You smell too sweet for a man.”

He stared at them, smiling affably. They did not smile back. “That’s pretty bigoted.”

“Well, they have their own ideas about things. What are you doing here anyway?”

He shrugged and turned to her. She sounded annoyed but was leaning against his car with a smile that lit up her face and cut right through him.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and—” He shrugged. “You know, meet the family.”

“Well, you met the family. Happy now?”

He nodded. “Now maybe you’d like to come with me to check out this place I’m supposed to look at.”

The smile vanished. “Oh, come on, Mike. I can’t go looking at apartments with you.” April shook her head. “I already told you. You know I can’t do that.”

“It’s a house.”

“Oh, yeah? Aren’t you in the wrong borough?”

“It’s nice in Queens. I like it here. Come on, get in. It’ll only take a few minutes.” He opened the passenger door for her. “I need some expert advice. Come on, you know I’d do the same for you.”

April glanced at her parents, then down at her jeans and sneakers. It was about 9:20. They didn’t have to be at work until four. Mike smiled and tried to keep his mustache from quivering.

“Damn you,” she muttered. Then, after a second, she screamed something out in Chinese, shattering his eardrums.

“What did you say?” He banged the side of his head to stop the ringing.

“I told them there’s been a triple homicide and I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Good thinking, querida. But a triple homicide will take a lot more time to clean up than an hour.”

“True. I better get my bag.” April ran up the walk and into the house. The dog and her mother followed her, slamming the door. Two minutes later April was back with red lipstick on her lips and the handbag slung over her shoulder. By then her father had resumed his pruning.

thirty-two

Harold Dickey had until Monday morning to clear up this problem of Clara’s, and not a second longer. That meant he had two days—Saturday and Sunday—to sort through the hospital dirt. Dickey had been surprised that little Gunn Tram, who had always been so eager to be helpful whenever he needed information, suddenly got quiet when he asked about dissatisfied employees. After three decades of knowing every kink, every whisper of discontent from everyone on the payroll, Gunn suddenly could think of no one who had a problem of any kind with the Centre.

“Why are you asking?” she wanted to know.

“Because there’s some mischief going on, and I intend to find out who’s behind it. Have any ideas, Gunn?”

She shook her head so hard her double chins wobbled. “No, no idea. I haven’t heard a thing.”

Later, she actually claimed not to remember the tragic case the year before when a male nurse had given the wrong medication to a new inpatient and the patient had jumped off a terrace, impaling himself on the fence around a terrace several floors below. Harold remembered how angry the nurse had been when he was fired. His name was Bobbie something, and he’d been working at the Centre for many years. He claimed he’d been framed.

When Harold asked Gunn whatever happened to Bobbie, Gunn was almost hostile. “How should I know?” she replied angrily.

How indeed? The same way Gunn knew everything else. She was constantly asking questions and following up. She claimed it was her job to know things. She certainly must have known that Harold had had more than one run-in with Bobbie before the tragedy, when the Centre had had no choice but to terminate the man’s employment. Bobbie had a problem with authority, and probably with women, too. It was easy to imagine Bobbie harassing Clara. And Gunn didn’t want to hand over Bobbie’s file. To Harold, that was significant.

“Why won’t you leave him alone? He’s not even here anymore,” Gunn told Dickey. “How could he be the one you’re looking for?”

“All the same, Gunn …” Harold gave her a sharp look, and she quickly produced what he wanted.

On Saturday, Harold left Westchester before nine and was in his office on the nineteenth floor of the Centre by 9:45. He was fueled by the need to spare Clara the tremendous damage to herself that would result in her trying to force him out. Clara had made many mistakes. Harold knew he was loved and revered at the Centre, and Clara was not. If she foolishly tried to create bad feelings about him, there’d be a backlash. Clara would be the one to fall down like a house of cards, like a sun-dried sand castle hit by a tiny wave on the beach. He could not allow his own protegee to make a fool of herself and polarize the Centre in this way.

Harold carried up coffee from the cafeteria and began concentrating on the histories in the files Gunn had