Leslie Glass - A Killing Gift

Mike parked his dirty red Camaro in a no-parking spot on Elizabeth Street, walked into April's old precinct, and climbed the steep, old-fashioned staircase to the detective unit on the second floor. He found Marcus at his desk, talking on the phone. Here it was quiet. At just before nine p.m. on a Thursday night there was no one in the holding cell. Two broad-faced Chinese women were talking loudly to a Chinese detective who chewed on a toothpick. Two other detectives, neither Chinese, were yakking into their headsets. Everyone else was out. The CO's office was empty. A quiet night.

Mike entered the CO's glass-enclosed office with its window that overlooked Elizabeth Street. Unlike Mike, who stared at four solid walls and had no glass in his office door, Bernardino had been able to view the comings and goings of a busy Chinatown street. For fifteen years he'd watched the uniforms arriving and leaving the precinct, vendors going in and out of their stores, residents doing business on that block every day, and the tens of thousands of visitors who traveled to Chinatown from the tristate area and beyond on weekends to shop.

Every time he came in here, Mike couldn't help being reminded that April had grown up only a few blocks away, had gone to school and high school here, and had returned as a patrol officer after eighteen months in Bed-Stuy. She'd been promoted to detective here, and stayed more than six years. Those facts swam in and out of his thoughts, as everything about April did: where she came from, what she was doing and thinking, her health at the moment. April was the sun and moon that waxed and waned around him. She was his yin and yang. He thought about her all the time, the way some people obsessed about work, and he knew that she was pissed off at him. She wanted to be there right now. Too bad. She needed a rest.

He was bone tired, too. Day one of the investigation was gone, and they didn't have a clue who Bernardino's killer was. Some maniac out there in the wind didn't know that April couldn't remember his face. That was too close for Mike. He was glad she was living with him, where she was safe. Not even insiders knew that address. While Mike waited for Beame to get off the phone back in the bigger room, he took a look around Bernardino's old office. The usual precinct business was posted, but there were no personal photos on the walls or surfaces. He checked the desk drawers one by one. Some used tissues, pencil stubs, forms. But no computer disks or notebooks, nothing resembling the stack of important calling cards-the bigger the better and in two alphabets-that were so prevalent and necessary in Chinatown. Bernardino's stuff was gone.

Mike sighed again. The old wooden desk that was centered right in the window over Elizabeth Street that Bernardino had occupied for nearly fifteen years no longer housed a single item he'd owned. The desk chair was also a relic. A wooden rock-and-roller. Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. The chair creaked noisily. After a few minutes Beame came in.

"How ya doin'?" Mike said before he opened his eyes.

"Okay."

Reluctantly he opened them. He was the one who'd been up all night, going on thirty-six hours without sleep, but Marcus was the one who didn't look good. Mike noted the bad color, kind of graying out, as if Beame had been pickled. His skin sagged around the eyes and chin. No tone at all, and his meager lips looked thinner than usual. Mike frowned at the wrinkled tan shirt, the knot of his tie pulled down to the middle of his chest. Beame's tawny sport jacket was still hanging on the back of his chair. He hadn't bothered to clean up for the interview.

He settled in the chair opposite Mike, thrusting out his pelvis and legs. Already defensive. Mike didn't like the show of disrespect.

"You don't look so great," Mike observed. Neutral.

"Four hours of interrogation, you'd look a little ragged yourself," Beame shot back.

Mike sniffed. "So?"

Beame lifted a shoulder. "They've got everything I know."

Mike let go of a small smile that couldn't be seen under his mustache. "That's good. That's very good." He made a steeple with his fingers, rocking in Bernardino's creaky chair. "Let me in, Marcus. You were the last to hear Bernardino speak. What did he say?"

"All he said was he couldn't take any more nostalgia. Period. He was out the door."

"Anything else?"

Beame wagged his chin, then glanced down at the desktop where Mike was twiddling his thumbs. "I'm way behind here." He was chewing gum, showing his teeth. Being a shit.

Mike wondered if the gum was a cover for beery breath, and looked closer at Beame's face. His blue eyes were bloodshot, sheepish. Maybe he was a drinker. But maybe it was guilt about something else.

"What do you have?" Beame asked after a moment. It was clear his four hours with Internal Affairs hadn't yielded him any information. Too bad.

Mike put his index finger to his lips as if he were considering sharing. He stroked his mustache. A lot of cops had good mustaches. Mike had a great one. Not too bushy, not too in-your-face with the machismo. He trimmed it every day for discipline. He had a good strong mustache over the kind of nice, full, smiling lips that made women feel safe and didn't threaten men.

"A canvass of the area hasn't come up with much," he said slowly. "We're waiting on the COD." A lie. "When did Bernardino clear his stuff out?"

Beame lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. One day last week."

"What day?"

"Maybe Thursday or Friday. I was off."

"Who was here?"

"You can check with Patti."

"That the secretary?" Mike pulled out his notebook, found a clean page, and started scribbling in it.

"I wouldn't call her that. She does what she can, goes home at six. Her number is posted." He jerked his head at the clipboard where it might be found.

"What about ongoing cases? Anything specific to Chinatown?"

"Small stuff. You can go through it. They did."

IA again. Mike nodded.

"Don't you guys share?" Beame demanded.

"Sure we do." Mike changed the subject. "Was Bernardino working anything on his own?"

"Look, I liked the guy. He was tough, but I liked him. I knew him for years, okay?" Beame said. Now he was washing his hands of it.

So what? They all liked him. Mike prodded a little. "What was he into? Come on, was it gang stuff?"

Beame shook his head. Over the years there was always a variety of criminal activity in Chinatown. Extortion and protection, both Chinese and mob-related. Illegals working in sweatshops and restaurants. Back in the early nineties an influx of immigrants from Fu-jian had brought in unusually vicious gang members who didn't play by Chinatown rules. After a shooting in a restaurant, the unofficial officials of Chinatown stopped it. Chinatown had its own way of dealing with things. Mike was looking for a connection, a string leading anywhere.

"You're interested in the karate. Well, they don't kill that way down here. Gang members cut with big knives, shoot with big guns. They need a lot of blood to send their messages. What was the message here, huh?"

"Anything…" Going on ten p.m. Mike was getting impatient. And it didn't have to be a karate thing. Bernardino was yoked. Any cop, anybody in the military, any corrections officer knew how to do it.

"I'd say nothing, Mike. But what do I know?"

"You were close to him. You saw him last," Mike reminded him.

"Yeah, but after his wife died, it was like someone pushed his off button. He went somewhere in his head." Beame twirled his finger around his ear.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he was treading water here. Grumpy-old-man shit, didn't have a good word for anyone. He'd lost his fight, know what I mean? He was going through the motions. Just did the administrative stuff. He wasn't investigating shit."