Loving Time

April lifted a shoulder. Thanks.

“So what’s his interest?” Mike demanded.

“Jason’s? I’m not entirely sure.”

“And what’s the relationship, huh? What does he stand to gain here?” Mike again.

April shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“So, Dr. Treadwell is seeing a U.S. Senator. Whew.” Joyce blew her nose loudly. “And what about the threatening letters?”

“Apparently, she didn’t take them seriously.” April spread out her hands, palms up. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

“And now I guess she’s changed her mind.”

“Now she thinks Dickey was murdered by the guy who’s been harassing her.” April didn’t add that Clara was responsible for involving the FBI.

“Uh-huh. Does Treadwell have a name for this guy?”

“Yeah. Boudreau, Robert Boudreau. He was a former nurse, fired last year after the death of a patient—a young guy who jumped off a terrace.… ”

Joyce’s eyes were wide. She chewed on her lip with dismay. “I remember the case. This is real sketchy stuff, April.”

April nodded. “It has a strong odor,” she agreed.

“And why did Jason Frank tell you all this?”

“I guess Dr. Treadwell doesn’t trust us. She told Jason she’s having the FBI take over the case. Maybe he’s afraid we can’t handle them,” April murmured. “But then again, maybe he likes me.” She smiled.

“Likes you!” Sanchez exploded. “Likes you? I’ll break his fucking head.”

“Shut up!” Joyce screamed, then went into a coughing fit.

“You want some water?” April asked evenly.

“I’m fine. Ghhhh.” Joyce cleared her throat and spit. “So Treadwell had a pretty strong motive for killing Dickey. And let’s not forget that she was with him when he died.”

“Let’s not forget it,” Mike said. “And maybe the Feebs are here to help her cover up.”

Joyce started plucking at her hair again. “So this mischief may be a fairy tale. Anyone see the threatening letters?”

“Well, the condom sighting is legit—”

“That’s a fucking fairy tale, too. What are we supposed to do with that? Why did Frank take the condom? Why did he give it to you? Give me a break.”

“Look, Jason says all Treadwell wants is to have the thing tested to see if the blood type matches Boudreau’s. Then we can nail him.”

“Who the hell is this Boudreau?” Joyce screamed. “How does he tie in? What do we nail him with? Shit, the victim died. Either his death was a suicide, an accident, or somebody offed him. For all we know, Treadwell could have balled this guy Boudreau a week ago and held on to the happy results for just this purpose. The woman kept it for a week. Give me a break, April. This whole thing stinks.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“Check it out. Check it all out, every piece. Every scrap. I want to know the story here.” She sniffed toward Sanchez. “What about you? You get anything?”

“Only one tiny thing.” Sanchez shrugged. “The Amitriptyline was in syrup form. The in-patients get it in a little cup. They call it bug juice. It comes from the pharmacy on the third floor, but every floor has its own supply. Dickey apparently drank his with the scotch. There were traces of both scotch and Amitriptyline in his empty glass.”

“Dickey was a doctor. He must have known that mixing the two would be dangerous.… Suicide?” Joyce said hopefully.

Mike shook his head. “Remember, there was no bottle of scotch, no container of the drug on the scene. No note.”

Joyce tore at her hair again. Then suddenly she threw up her hands. “Get out of here. Fill in the dots by four—and get me some chicken soup for this damn cold.”

forty-eight

The bean burrito and guacamole sat heavy in April’s stomach as she headed out into the field after lunch. Lunch with Sanchez when it was his turn to choose—and he chose Mexican always—made her want to get into bed and sleep it off. Aside from the earthy spices and thickness of food in her mouth, she had to be on her guard with him all the time. He was as hot as the small red chilies on the plate you weren’t supposed to eat, and there was always another meaning to everything he said. April had no background for this kind of banter.

Playfulness was against everything Chinese. Severe punishment as a spur to improvement was the hallmark of her culture. There was no such thing as positive reinforcement. Compassion was something she’d learned on the streets of New York. And sex—well, as her Italian supervisor in Chinatown used to say, “Get outta here. Forget about it.”

Out of sight, out of mind was the Chinese philosophy on sex. Better if you didn’t have it, but if you had to have it, you didn’t talk about it. April had never heard her father refer to the physical aspect of married life. On the rare occasions Ja Fo Woo chose to say anything about anything, his remarks were limited to what children owed their parents, what wives owed their husbands, and what courses should be served for dinner. Occasionally, he had some things to say about his digestion. He had no sense of humor in two languages. Likewise her mother.

As for her former boyfriend, Jimmy Wong, forget about it. Jimmy used to tell April she didn’t love him enough (and didn’t do enough for him) to make her insecure about her ability to please him and motivate her, like Avis, to try harder.

At lunch Mike had reminded her of the Latinas in high school, with their pushed-up breasts and glued-on pants, the can of hairspray whipped out in the girls’ room. Always talking, laughing, teasing, spraying their hair, getting ready to hit on boys.

“You see Carlos over there? He es sooo cool. The way he look in those tight jeans—so good. You see hes bike, so low. Esta noche I take heem. Vealo usted mismo.”

Mike kept telling her that kind of thing was normal, that she should lighten up and enjoy it. It seemed an impossible assignment What if she lightened up about him and he decided he didn’t like her after all? What if he opened the wrong door and some bad guy’s Glock blew him away? It didn’t seem worth the trouble.

“Querida. Hey—wait a minute.” Mike hurried after her.

She ignored him. There wasn’t an unmarked unit available, so she was debating taking her own car over to the Psychiatric Centre, where she had three interviews lined up. The trouble with taking her own car was the Centre’s parking garage was nearly two blocks away from the Centre and the wind was fierce over by the river. But if she left her car on the street, someone might try to steal her radio.

Mike caught up with her and took her arm. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

“You know.”

“Oh, come on, can’t you take a joke?”

“Don’t play with me, Mike.”

“Oy, querida, playing is life. What else is there? Dios, I pity the guy who gets you. Can’t do this. Can’t do that.”

She punched him lightly on the arm. “Knock it off.”

“Some life he’ll have. With your sulks all the time, and never any play, I bet his cojones will shrivel up and die.”

April laughed in spite of herself. “Eat your heart out, Mike.”

“I am,” he admitted, then, “What’s the matter? I thought we had a good time at lunch.”

“Maybe you were having a good time. I don’t like the secrecy and games. If you know something, tell me.”

“If you don’t like secrecy and games, then you’re in the wrong business, baby. Go into hairdressing.”