“Very nice,” he muttered. “Show off.” He cleared his throat, wondering if she wanted more love—just at this moment. And if he was up to it. Yep, his body indicated he was up to it.
But Emma was just kidding. She grabbed a shirt, tugged it over her head, and perched on her side of the bed. No panties. She crossed her legs. Now he was sweating.
“Is this
“Ah, it was L.A.,” Jason said modestly.
“Wants
Jason beamed. “You know. You remember. Darling, you’re still jealous.”
“And you’re still mine,” Emma said loftily. “Even with the beard.”
He scratched the beard, pleased she was taking it seriously. “Hey, nobody owns anybody, you know that.”
“So why did she come to you?”
“Clara? I have asked myself that question.” He did not think it wise to say Clara wanted to be his mentor and improve the quality of his life. He smiled at the thought of anyone but Emma succeeding at that.
“What’s the story? Is she responsible for this patient’s death?”
“This is the question his wife and insurance company might ask a jury to consider.”
“Malpractice.” She shivered and was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why?”
Jason shrugged. “Money.”
“What do
Jason shrugged again. “I have no idea. When Clara asked me to look at the file Wednesday, there was some doubt as to the cause of death—they thought it might be a homicide—and because of my ties to the police—”
“Ah. April Woo.”
Jason nodded. “April Woo. But now they seem sure it’s a suicide.”
“So what now?”
The first of many clocks started chiming eleven.
“I missed the clocks,” Emma murmured. “I didn’t think I would. But it was so quiet at night. Sometimes I thought of getting a grandfather clock.” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “But you know how they all have to be wound every five minutes …”
“I’m glad you came, Em. I missed you, too.”
The phone joined in with the
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He reached for the phone. “Dr. Frank.”
“Oh, Jason, I’m so glad you’re there. I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Clara Treadwell.”
“Oh, hello, Clara.”
“Oh, my,” Emma murmured.
“I’m sorry to call so late. But I have some bad news,” Clara said.
“Oh?” Jason glanced at his wife. Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. Harold Dickey died this afternoon.”
“What?” Jason was stunned. He’d seen Dickey only two days ago at the meeting in Clara’s conference room. He’d looked more than healthy then.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jason said. “He looked so well. It’s a shock.”
“Yes, well, a man over sixty … I thought you should know.”
“Thank you for calling. Can you tell me what happened?”
“It was very sudden, very sad.” Another long pause. “It happened in his office at the Centre. Massive MI. Now we’ll have to look for someone to take over his position.”
There it was, the offer of a staff position, coming less than a week after Clara had raised the subject as a vague possibility.
“Thank you for calling me,” Jason said again. He wondered what Harold had been doing in his office on a Sunday afternoon. Harold had never worked on Sunday, even in Jason’s day. He played tennis on the weekends, was known for it. Everybody knew he liked his booze and his tennis on the weekends. Jason thought about that.
“Of course, you had to know.… Jason—?”
“Yes?”
“Um, did you hear from the police about Ray Cowles?”
Jason was surprised. “Yes, late Friday. Didn’t they call you?”
“I’ve been out of town. Well—?”
“They’ve closed the case as a suicide.”
There was a pause. “That’s a real disappointment. Well, good night, Jason. We’ll be in touch.”
Clara hung up before he could say anything else. He put the receiver down thoughtfully.
“What’s going on?” Emma asked.
“Harold Dickey died of a heart attack this afternoon.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” Emma got up, heading for the bathroom, then stopped.
“Ah, are we heading toward a hospital appointment, or have you two”—she wrinkled her perfect nose—“just suddenly gotten very chummy for some reason?”
“God, you women are competitive. Clara’s sixteen years older than you.”
“And you rejected her once, Jason. Women don’t forget things like that. Maybe she hasn’t heard your wife is back.” Emma disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Distracted by the memory of something April had once said, Jason scratched his beard. April once told him that in police work it helped always to think dirty because very little in life is really clean. Suddenly, the back of his neck prickled at the recollection of an old rumor about Dickey and Treadwell. Not to mention the possible job materializing almost instantly. He heard the shower come on and Emma begin to vocalize in the steam. Without meaning to, he was beginning to think dirty.
thirty-six
“What kind of car is it, Mr …” April’s eyes dropped to the complaint on her desk, but her mind was on the two young women grabbed off the street and raped in empty classrooms at the university on Monday at six P.M. and that morning at ten-thirty.
It was two P.M. on Wednesday, November 10. At three, she had an appointment with Jason Frank, but for the third time this week she didn’t think she’d make it. Today she’d just spent two and a half hours in the emergency room with the second rape victim, an exquisite, espresso-colored, nineteen-year-old student from France. Nicole Amendonde had been raped, sodomized, beaten on the head, and bitten on the breasts and inner thighs.
A professor found the young woman naked and bleeding profusely and called for help. In the hospital, however, the girl refused to talk about what happened. She didn’t want the police involved, didn’t want her parents to know. She was terrified she’d be blamed for the attack and her parents would be angry at her. The hospital called the precinct for a female detective to come to the emergency room to talk to her.
April had encountered this kind of resistance before in Chinatown. She knew how to get Nicole to tell her what happened, and she knew how to persuade the girl to agree to let the ER doctor use the rape kit. Then, as soon as she’d gotten back to the precinct, before she’d even had time to grab a cup of coffee, Sergeant Joyce had sent her this clown.
“Dr. Lobrinsky.” The plump, deeply tanned little man sitting by April’s desk in a single-breasted camel hair coat buttoned all the way up was convulsed with rage. His yellow toupee, no longer straight on his head, had realigned his part so that now it seemed to originate from the top of one ear. Two tightly compressed fat lips busily worked their tension from one cheek to the other.
Absolutely furious at the perfunctory way he was being treated, the fat man thundered out his name in the crowded squad room as if it had the power to bring his case the deep respect he felt it deserved. No one, however, had ever heard the name, and no one turned a head in his direction.
The week had started badly and was getting worse. Sergeant Joyce had heard the rumor that she was about
