'You will,' April assured her. Somehow they always did.
Sixteen
C
hing didn't watch Channel Twelve all day to keep track of all the terrible crimes that happened in New York City and April's role in solving them, but her mother Mai Ma Dong did. Mai followed April's career with avid interest, collecting the news clippings about her cases and recounting her successes in the police department to her daughter and anyone else who would listen. To Mai, her own daughter was a difficult rebel, but Sai's daughter was a real star. Sai, of course, felt exactly the opposite.
When they were little, the two best-friend mothers took turns dragging Ching and April to Chinese school on weekends to learn calligraphy and other Chinese arts. They'd taken them to martial-arts classes and taught them to cook traditional meals. Ching had incurred her mother's wrath by not being interested in any of it. She'd been the math genius and longed for escape from the narrowness of Chinatown. April had been the fighting beauty, the black belt who won all the matches—the stay-at-home who supported her parents and went to college at night. To Mai, who'd missed Ching when she was away in California for many years, April remained the loyal daughter and became the famous cop she saw on TV.
Mai was the one who sighted April and Mike during the coverage of the terrible shooting in the Bronx. They were coming out of the house of a murdered bride shaking their heads. 'No comment at this time.' And right away she called Ching at work to warn her.
'Bad luck,' she cried. 'Terrible luck to happen just before your wedding.'
This was the last thing Ching wanted to think about. 'It's the Bronx, Ma. A Jewish wedding. Nothing to do with us.'
'Poor April,' Mai wailed. 'Bad luck for her.'
'No, no, Ma. Don't say that.'
'Yes, yes, now she'll never get married,' Mai predicted unhappily.
'But this is her job. One thing has nothing to do with the other!' Ching argued.
'I don't know. Bad luck,' Mai insisted.
The reasoning was nuts. 'Come on, terrible things happen every day; that doesn't mean they'll happen to us.'
'You better call April,' Mai concluded. 'Tell her.'
'Tell her what, Ma?'
'No more murders before the wedding,' Mai said.
Ching groaned. Oh, sure, as if April could keep the whole city crimeless for ten whole days.
'Okay, Ma. I'll tell her.' She hung up and scratched the side of her mouth the way she did when she was troubled. Her mother was a management problem at the best of times. April was not so easy, either. All Ching wanted to do was keep her mother quiet for a few more days, and get April away from her work long enough to be her maid of honor. She wanted to have a happy wedding, and go on her well-deserved honeymoon to Venice.
Seventeen
Wendy checked her caller ID. When she saw it was Kim again, she smiled at the two detectives in her living room and dropped the ringing cell phone back in her pocket.
'I'm devastated to have missed the funeral. I called this morning to see what I could do to help, but no one picked up.' Wendy appraised the two cops. A Chinese woman, young, very attractive. No wedding ring. She noticed these things. A Hispanic man with a mustache like the other detective. No wedding ring either. Like the Bronx detective, these two were dressed in plain clothes and didn't look terribly intelligent. Wendy didn't know she was just slightly dulled with drink. She always felt she could talk her way through anything no matter how much hooch was in her. And she'd had plenty of experience with both cops and vodka.
'I had no idea they'd bury her so fast. It's so difficult with all these restrictions.' She hurriedly ticked them off on her fingers. 'No communication on Friday after dark until Saturday after dark. That's twenty-four whole hours of every week out the window. Believe me, that can be quite a hurdle when you have details that need attention. I had to learn all this. I've never done Orthodox before. You know anything about them?'
'No, tell us,' the Chinese said.
'No answering the phone when you're in mourning. Who would think of it? I can't imagine how the arrangements get done.' Wendy lifted her eyes heavenward. 'Not that I'm judgmental about customs. I work with all kinds of people,' she amended quickly. Now the phone rang in her office. She ignored it.
'How do arrangements get done?'
'I gather there's some sort of temple fellowship that takes care of everything so the family doesn't have to think about it. They don't allow flowers.' Wendy glanced at her watch, blew air out of her mouth to control her impatience.
'I asked the caterer to help. They're a very nice kosher couple, by the way. They wanted to know what to do with the food from yesterday. No one ate. Mr. Schoenfeld didn't want to
for it after what happened, so I told the Goldsteins to take that food right over to the house and set it up for the shivah.' Wendy was proud of this maneuver. The delivery of the food was done in the guise of kindness, and she knew Mr. Schoenfeld would have no choice about paying for it now. Luckily she'd learned a long time ago to take her own cuts up front and in commissions along the way. A lot of vendors could go unpaid for this kind of disaster.
'And the Goldsteins did it?'
'Oh, yes. Smart people always take my advice. Thinking ahead is the key to my business.' Wendy wanted to be alone and wondered what she should do to make these two cops happy and go away.
'Would you like something to drink, a glass of champagne?' she offered. She was longing for a glass herself.
'No, thanks.'
'Are you sure, April?'
Wendy was good at names. April Woo. She wouldn't forget it. Mike Sanchez. She wouldn't forget that, either. They were sitting there like two Do-bermans, waiting for a reason to attack. She could see the gun on one of them, but they weren't acting like any cop from any cop show she'd ever seen on TV, or like that Bronx detective who kept calling and harassing her just because she was out of sight for ten lousy minutes.
She glanced pointedly at her watch again. Nearly eight-thirty and she had fifty messages to return.
her smile said. No such luck. At the sound of her name the Chinese frowned. Wendy's agreeable expression didn't change. She knew that look. Chip-on-the-shoulder look.
All that garbage.
'Then how about a glass of water, Sergeant?' Wendy sweetened her tone, aware that she was taller than both cops, had good breeding, was well dressed. All that made her feel in control.
'Maybe later,' the sergeant replied.
Wendy smiled at the rebuff and crossed her legs for Lieutenant Latino, who was staring at her with undisguised interest. Wendy had good long legs. She was wearing a short skirt and beige-and-camel alligator pumps, good copies of the real Hermes ones. She thought of herself as a beautiful woman and sat at ease on her modern modular sofa. She'd had a few drinks to calm down after her fight with Louis. But not too many to lose her edge, she thought. Like her mother and father, she could hold her liquor. And then she'd opened her last bottle of Tovah's wedding champagne. Alcohol didn't bother her. She was still in control.
The telltale signs of her solitary tippling—the open bottle and empty crystal flute—were on the cocktail table, but they didn't bother her, either. She was in her own home; there was no law against having a glass of bubbly at the end of a long day.
She smiled again at the Latino wearing cowboy boots. 'How about you, Lieutenant?'
'Nice place you have,' he remarked.
'Thank you.' But Wendy knew it was just okay. She lived on Seventy-second Street and Lexington Avenue. Her five rooms were light and airy. Her wood floors were pickled white and her decor was modern. Beige was the darkest color in her decorating palette. But it wasn't Park Avenue. Not at all what she would have if she married
