Tracking Time

resorted to English. 'Fifty dolla!'

April smelled the delicate aromas of soft-shelled crab bathed in sweet ginger sauce, the spicy lamb and scallions, the fried rice with just a touch of oyster sauce for flavor; and she thought: more like a hundred and fifty dollars. She played with the chopsticks, wishing she hadn't been so hard on Mike on the phone.

'Hey, no good worm, ni ting (listen you). Too much trouble, bring home on subway. Just for bu hao daughter. Eat.'

'Oh, Ma, I can't eat. I had a bad day.'

'Had good day. Lose bad yellow ghost. Now find China ghost. No cry,' she commanded in Chinese.

'You don't know anything, Ma.' Mike is a good man. Just too trusting.

'I know Spanish gui, bu hao.'

April sighed. The daughter was no good-nothing better than a worm. The Spanish ghost was no good. By Skinny's estimation nobody was any good. The Dragon tapped her head to show her knowledge lay beneath the awful dyed hair.

'Don't call him Spanish. His name is Mike. He's a good man.' With a soft heart that sometimes got him in trouble. But April didn't want to debate the matter with her mother.

'Eat,' Skinny demanded. 'You feel better.' April knew her mother meant well. She started eating to shut her up. As she ate, she was reminded what a good cook her father was. The crab was still delicious even after the trip on the subway, only a few stops to Astoria, not that far. She chewed on a yummy crab leg, weighing her options. She'd put in a number of years with Mike. He'd been her supervisor, but had acted more like a partner, teaching her how to think and how to operate with different kinds of people. Before she'd worked the Two-O, she hadn't personally known anybody who lived in buildings with staff to open the doors and announce visitors and take out the garbage and fix the toilets when they didn't work. She'd never known that apartments could be bigger than houses, or known people who wore suits and coats that cost more than she earned in a month. She'd never had a sip of white wine in her entire life until she'd had it with Jason and Emma just before baby April was born. She'd never had sangria or a margarita until she had it with Mike last winter. Her heart did a little dance as she thought of how giddy she got when she had only a little bit to drink and how funny Mike thought she was when she lost her inhibitions. She didn't like to think how he'd been with Carla when he lost his.

He was the opposite of her in every way. She was reserved, nervous about everything, and quiet. He was expressive, not worried about much of anything, and occasionally wild. She had no doubt that he would come over and make a scene. He'd come in the middle of the night. He'd insist on being let in. She'd feel like shooting him dead but wouldn't do it because killing a cop was a big no-no for career development. He'd be sweet and cajole her into letting him in. He'd tell her how much he loved her. April knew just how the scenario would go. She'd let him in to show her mother who was boss and, even more important, to prevent Mike from losing face with her family. And whatever he said, she'd go with the flow. She'd already lost face by running away from an unpleasant scene. That had been weak. Now she had to restore her face and his by listening to what he had to say.

While she waited for Mike to turn up, she went to bed. But neither Mike nor sleep came. She started brooding about Maslow and the mistakes she'd made in the case. She wished she could start all over again. After a few minutes, she got up and went into the living room for her important address book that contained the names of all the sources she'd ever used. John Zumech was the very last name in her book. She dialed his number. It was way after midnight, and he took four rings to pick up.

'Zumech,' he said in a deep gravelly voice. 'Hi, John, it's April Woo. I'm sorry to call so late.' 'It's okay. I wasn't sleeping.'

'How's that dog of yours?' April came into the subject sideways.

'Peachy's great. What's up?'

'How are you, John?'

'I'm great, too. How about you?'

'I have a teeny problem.'

'You need me?'

'I do. In normal circumstances I wouldn't be calling so late. Missing p. Last seen heading into Central Park in jogging shorts.'

'You know I'm not going out at night on a cold lead.'

'Oh yeah, I know.'

'You got a missing doctor. I saw you on TV. What can I do that my friends in K-9 can't?'

'Yes, well, you always told me that Sid Slocum was an idiot.'

'Did I say that?' John laughed. 'Yeah, you always told me you gotta trust your dog. Slocum didn't seem to get what his dog was doing.'

'What was she doing?'

'Looking for a place to take a dump. How do I know? I'm no tracker. Anyway, I met some friends of yours. They suggested Slocum was an idiot, too.' 'Really, who?'

'Couple of kids. Brandy Fabman and David Owen.'

'No kidding, I used to know those two pretty well. They're camp friends of my daughter. What are they up to?'

'Guess what, they turned up this afternoon and talked their way into the park. Seems they saw the search from the girl's apartment and wanted to offer some advice on tracking.'

John made a honking laugh. 'Those kids! Ha ha. City rats. I never saw kids so turned on to tracking. I did some exhibitions up at their camp two years ago. They were so excited they came out to visit us during the winter. A couple of weekends, they came out for a day, helped me do some training.' He chuckled some more.

'One time I took them out to the beach at Montauk. God, you wouldn't believe how much those kids were into it. How are they?'

'Well, they're into something else now.'

'Oh, yeah?' Zumech's voice became a shade less hearty.

'They were high as kites, John.'

His tone sobered. 'That's too bad. They were good kids. Are you sure, April?'

'Yeah, John, I'm sure.'

He was silent for a moment. 'Well, what can I do for you?'

'I'd like you to try again, with Peachy.'

Long silence. 'Why?'

'The missing man is a friend of a friend. I'm afraid we might have overlooked something.'

'What could you overlook? I saw clips of people mucking around in the rowboat lake. It's not very deep. If he was in there, you'd have found him. We're not talking great wilderness tract here. If he were somewhere in the bushes, any dog, even Slocum's, would have found him.'

'I know, that's what Sid said, but I want to try again anyway.'

'Ridiculous. The scent's been scattered by now. Hundreds of people have contaminated that area. You know the facts of life on tracking, April. A good dog can do a lot if you get going in a few hours, up to ten. But this guy went missing-when?'

Facts. April didn't want to hear any more facts of life tonight. 'Last night. That's not so long.'

'April, this is a city. Millions of people.'

'So what?'

'There's nothing left of your guy for Peachy to smell.'

'Unless he's dead,' April argued.

John sighed. 'What makes you think he's dead?'

'It's just a possibility, is all. We have a mental patient on the loose. Come on, help me out.' She was exaggerating about Allegra, but it worked.

'A mental patient?' John whistled. 'I didn't hear anything about that.'

'It's not out yet.' April didn't want to say more.

'You have anything with his scent on it?' he asked. She could hear him getting interested.

'Hers.'

'Hers? A girl mental patient?'

'Yeah, and we don't have her scent. What are you doing tomorrow?'