A Clean Kill

He was the old guy, an associate who'd never graduated and moved on. Most DAs stayed for a few years, then moved into private practice as defense lawyers. Ben Hurd, however, had vowed to stay on as an assistant DA until he was kicked out. He was a legend, a short, nerdy, bald man, completely forgettable in the looks department, who knew every important case all the way back to New York City's dark ages. He was the historian of the office. Every new DA was treated to his long discourses on prosecuting the bad guys. When he came to the cops—which wasn't often because usually the cops came to him—he didn't say a lot. He just listened to the conversation with his head swaying from side to side, a little like a snake's. And as soon as the investigation got to a place where he was ready to go, he struck. He was a man with a reputation.

'I want to throw two more things into the pot here,' April said. 'First, Remy told the responding officers the shower was on when she found Maddy, and that she turned it off. This is important because of the effect the running water would have on the body and how it would affect the time frame. We need to take a careful look at that. And second, we need to know where Remy was during the hour and forty-five minutes after she left the house with Wayne and whether she could have come back forty-five minutes earlier.' That was it. April didn't have anything more to add at the moment. They moved on to other reports.

Twenty

All afternoon and evening the news was filled with the Wilson murder. Photos of Maddy Wilson at Fashion Week, at Restaurant Week, at social events that were immortalized in W and Town & Country, and all the foodie magazines, were shown everywhere. She'd been a skier and a fashion plate, a popular figure. Speculation was rife about what had gone wrong in the Camelot where she'd lived. Intermixed with the story of the murder on Beekman Place were clips of Wayne Wilson, when he'd been a celebrity chef during the first half of his career. He was the former husband of ballerina Jenny Hope, and the owner of four French bistros—an important person in the food world.

It was the story of the day, bigger on national news than strife in any war-tom country and more important —on the TV scale of importance—than suicide bombings in the Middle East, hostage situations in Africa, stock market misconduct, and the prostitution of young girls in the Far East all put together. The brick house, the roped- off street, the police vehicles clogging up the entire area. The body bag being carried out to an ambulance, CSI with their bagged and boxed evidence in hand as they hurried out to their vehicles. Images the public had come to know as well as the parade of movie stars in revealing dresses on award nights. Crime and celebrity were the candy the country craved. And here it was, if not with nationally recognizable faces, at least with people who were well- known and prominent in their city. It was a feeding frenzy and there was a lot of material to disseminate.

Mike and April got another taste of it when they left the station for dinner at eight. They were besieged by a half-dozen reporters the second they stepped outside.

'Is Mr. Wilson a suspect?'

'Was he having an affair with the nanny?'

'Is it true she was mutilated?'

'Were her nipples cut off?'

The questions flew at them, but April didn't look to see who was asking. Mike shook his head.

'Nothing more for tonight,' he said, taking her arm. Several reporters followed them down the street with the questions still blasting them like enemy fire. Then suddenly, they got to the end of the block, turned the corner, and became just two people walking to dinner. Mike gave April a quick hug and she clung to him, wishing they were already home in Westchester.

'What was that shower thing all about?' he asked.

Sighing, she let the embrace slip away. Overhead the sky was still NYPD blue, the deep, deep color that set off the stars in the early evening before the light was completely gone from the earth and night closed in on the city. 'Starlight, star bright,' she murmured. 'First star I see tonight.' She didn't make her wish out loud. The whole setup bothered her. Wayne and his affairs. Maddy and hers. The babysitter who claimed she wasn't a babysitter and was probably fired that morning by the murdered woman. What was it all about? What was under the surface? Who was trying to cast the blame on whom? She didn't have her usual clarity of vision. The fog all around her was lifeless. No whispers emerged from it to tantalize her. She didn't think the killer was Remy or Derek, but she didn't know exactly why. Wayne was a big question mark.

'What are you driving at?' Mike asked.

'I don't know. Wayne is a chronic womanizer. He kept his last wife about six years. Maybe Mad-dy's number was up, and he didn't want to pay alimony again.' She shrugged. 'It wouldn't be the first time something like this happened.'

'Is that what her friend suggested?'

'No, no. Alison is treading carefully with Wayne. What's your take?'

'I didn't question him, querida. I'm staying out of it.'

She laughed softly. 'Sure you are.'

Mike took her hand and squeezed it. Neither of them mentioned the honeymoon four days away. 'Te quiero, mi amor,' he said after a moment.

'That's nice.' April smiled. 'But if you have an affair on me, chico, I'll cut your nuts off.'

'Thanks for the warning,' he laughed. They walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.

Soleil was crowded at eight. With its wide windows, bright south-of-France decor, and famous competition— Lutece—closed down for lack of business, it was the new hot spot in the neighborhood. On that crisp June evening there was no sign that the wife of the owner had been murdered that morning. The long bar was jammed with people waiting for tables. The food aromas were enticing and votive candles flickered everywhere.

The girl standing at the podium with the reservation book was wearing a slinky black dress that showed off everything she didn't have. No ass, no tits, hardly any flesh at all. What an advertisement for a restaurant, April thought. The girl's hair was short and black and curly all over. Mike smiled at her.

'The name is Sanchez. We have a reservation,' he said.

'Oh, Captain Sanchez. I have a table in the corner for you. He's here. He wants to see you.'

'He?' Mike raised his eyebrows.

'Mr. Wilson. He's cooking tonight,' she added.

Mike looked surprised. 'Does he do that often?'

'On Danny's day off, or when he wants to escape. No one ever looks for him in the kitchen.' She picked up two menus and led the way to the only empty table in the place. It was in the back where the view of the action was good. 'He said you'd want to be in a quiet spot.'

'Thanks,' Mike said.

'How about a glass of wine on the house?' the skinny girl said expectantly. 'Anything you want.'

April shook her head. 'Hot tea,' she said.

'I'll have a Diet Coke,' Mike added.

The girl went away to pass along the order and April asked, 'Did you know he was here?'

'Nope. I thought he was at the Plaza.'

So much for surveillance. She spread her napkin across her lap, hiding the gun at her waist and her skepticism about Minnow's competence. 'It will be interesting to find out what the specials are,' she remarked.

Then she gazed at him with all her toughness gone because even though she might be unlucky in vacations, she was lucky in love. Mike studied the menu. He looked good in his silver tie and black shirt, his white, black, and gray nubby blend jacket and black trousers. This was the outfit he kept in his closet at work for occasions like this. Very West Coast. She couldn't help admiring what a fastidious dresser and extremely handsome man he was. At least she thought so. For a second she forgot about the Wilsons and glowed with love. Then the mood was broken.

'Bonsoir. I'm Jose.' A good-looking Hispanic placed a basket of warm minibaguettes on the table with such reverence they could have been newborn babies. With another flourish he added a plate of pink butter curls decorated with whole red peppercorns. 'I'll be your server tonight. Would you care for a glass of wine?' he asked.

'We've already placed our order,' Mike told him. They weren't drinking wine on the house or otherwise.