A Killing Gift

away to thank him and let him know they were both off it now. Kathy Bernardino had left two messages. What could she say to Kathy?

This is the story, Kathy. Al Frayme may have killed your father; just a little mission killing, nothing personal. But-either your brother stole your dad's money, Harry Weinstein stole it, or your dad hid it very well. April didn't think any of that would go down well. Another call she wasn't going to make.

She considered revisiting the missing-cash possibilities and decided that Harry most certainly knew where the money was. Getting him to give it up was another story. Maybe he was waiting for everything to blow over to retrieve it for himself. But how could she get to him now that surveillance on him had been lifted? She debated driving out to Westchester to check out that house again. Maybe she and Kathy could come up with something no one else had thought of. I'm smart, she thought. I cracked this case. I can crack that one. She pondered the number four million-minus a quarter. She didn't want to go home. She wanted to accomplish something.

She was feeling really whipped when Woody climbed in beside her. 'Where to, boss?' he said.

She shook her head at herself. No, she was definitely not up to telling Kathy that she'd landed in the same boat as Bill. In exile, excluded. And four was a problem number, not a lucky number to the Chinese. Chinese lucky numbers were three, five, seven, uneven numbers. She wouldn't look at Woody. Her impulse was to smack him for following orders of the enemy, her former almost husband. The best she could do was ignore him for a moment longer. Oh, well, she decided she needed an ally. And what the hell, she was hungry. She'd go home and get some food. Skinny Dragon would be happy to see her. 'Astoria,' she said.

'Yes, ma'am.'

For once Woody had the good sense not to share his feelings. He drove in silence without automatically cutting off all the other drivers on the road whose cars he didn't like. Or even a bus or two just for fun. He took First Avenue and cruised almost slowly up to the bridge. Then he took the upper level, which was flowing pretty freely outbound at this time of the day. Off the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge ramp, he followed the signs to Northern Boulevard. Nice and quiet and smooth as could be. April didn't feel any less jiggy out of Manhattan, though. In fact, she felt worse the farther away they got.

The Woo house was a few blocks south of Hoyt Avenue, the Queens-side exit of the Triborough Bridge. Woody turned into her block and everything was copacetic here, too. But why not-Queens didn't have a lot of crime, like sections of Brooklyn and the Bronx. There were plenty of stores and commercial enterprises in Queens and both airports, but essentially it was a residential area. April's qi was as low as it got. She'd done good, but Mike was angry at her. Her ego and dignity were wounded. She didn't know which was worse, hearing his disapproval for her taking independent action, or feeling hurt at being kicked out like a cowboy cop. Frankly, she wasn't sure how they could recover from this.

Out of habit she checked the street for trouble. Saturday afternoon was quiet. She didn't know why people didn't sit outside around here, but they didn't, certainly not in the front yards of their houses. Nobody was gardening, hauling groceries inside. There were plenty of parking spaces and no sign of anything wrong anywhere.

Woody knew which house it was because he'd taken her there before when she'd been stranded without a car. Blood-red azalea bushes lined the walk to the front door. They'd burst into bloom since April's last visit. An arch of purple wisteria around the front door was blooming, too. The botanical display was a nice touch for a family that wouldn't upgrade the plumbing. But it didn't cheer her up. She couldn't banish the feeling of paranoia. Something was wrong.

'What?'

'Nothing.' April's heart hammered out a warning.

'You okay?'

She frowned. Her street looked normal, but her house did not. Skinny Dragon was like a dog that knew at least an hour before its owner showed up that the master was on the way. Skinny had yelled at April to be there at three. It was after two-thirty now, and her mother's frizzy-haired head was not framed in the window. Where was she? April shrugged off the feeling that something was wrong. There could be a million explanations. Skinny could be in the bathroom, the kitchen, even the backyard. April got out of the car.

'You want me to take you somewhere?' Woody asked.

April considered the shopping trip to Flushing her mother had requested. She considered asking Woody to drive her over to Forest Hills to get her car. Why hadn't she thought of that on the way? She needed the car. What was wrong with her? She shook her head.

'You sure?'

Something was bothering her. Maybe it was the way Mel didn't know where Rick Leaky was. Maybe it was the fact that everyone was so casual about Frayme's status. She wished she could make sure that Lisa and Jack Devereaux had gotten on that plane and were gone. She wanted to call Mike and make sure-absolutely sure-that Albert Frayme was exactly where they thought he was: pinned down in his office on the second floor of the York U administration building. If she were in charge, she'd make sure, but she wasn't in charge.

It wasn't her problem. Mike was the head of the team, and it wasn't up to her to second-guess him. Skinny would say her qi was low, all yin and nervous for no reason. And she was not used to the feeling. She could have told Woody to wait, to drive her and her mother anywhere they wished. But she was demoralized and just wanted to go home.

'Thanks for the ride,' she said.

'No problem, boss.' And Woody drove off.

Fifty-six

April took the house key out of its zippered pocket in her purse and did not look back. She walked slowly to the front door of the brick house. By then it was nearly three, but the Dragon was still not waiting for her in the window. April turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. From the kitchen came no sound of Chinese TV. All was quiet until she closed the door and the dog came alive, barking its head off as it ran out to meet her.

'Shi wo,' she called. It's me.

'Wa wa wa wa!' the dog yapped excitedly. April dropped her purse on one of the uncomfortable carved wooden Chinese throne chairs and squatted down to pick up the dog.

'Hey, baby, where is everybody?' She put her nose in the apricot coat that was still puppy-soft, and the dog went nuts, wiggling in her arms, licking her face. Then abruptly she wanted to get down again. April put the dog down and headed into the kitchen. 'Ma!'

'Shhh.' Skinny Dragon came out, waving a dish towel like a matador with a red cape. She looked like a Chinese version of those overdone Hollywood stars on the People magazine worst-dressed list, a crazy lady in plaid trousers-brown and yellow and black-with a psychedelic twinset with a design of red, purple, and pink flowers on it. Whoa. With the furious expression and the inch-too-long, ink-dyed, freeze-dried hair sticking out of her scalp like a fright wig and new oversize purple glasses, Skinny was quite a sight.

'Ni hao, Ma,' April said.

'Bu hao,' Skinny replied angrily.

'Oh, yeah, what's wrong?'

'Dad has upset stomach. Not up yet,' Skinny scolded in Chinese. The dog jumped up on those awful pants. Skinny picked her up and patted her furiously. The dog didn't seem to mind the rough treatment. Like April, she was used to it.

'Oh, the usual,' April said. A hangover. In that case she didn't have to go in and say hello.

Skinny rattled on cantankerously in Chinese. Lots of things were wrong in her world that she had to report. 'People calling for you all day. Don't they have your number?' she complained.

April felt a chill. All day? 'Who called?'