Leslie Glass - A Killing Gift

That was news. So that was the reason for their lunches and talks. They went way back. Frayme hadn't mentioned it. "Did he come in on Thursday, seem normal?"

"He was upset. We all were."

"Was she one of his targets?"

Baldwin stared. "I don't know what you mean."

"As a giver."

"Oh. Yes, I guess so." He looked down as the phone rang. April shook her head.

"Did you talk about her?"

"Well, sure. We talk about everybody. They all promise to come up with the big bucks as soon as they have something to spare. With her husband out of the way, Al thought the time was now with Birdie. He's not a violent man, if that's what you're asking. Once a mouse got in his desk. He couldn't even kill that. He caught it and gave it to Maintenance."

"Thanks for the anecdote. But maybe he didn't hate the mouse," April remarked.

"I don't think he hated anyone," Baldwin said angrily.

"How long has he been with you?"

"Well, let's see. I've been here for three years. He started here after college, a decade before that."

"How come he didn't get your job?"

Baldwin checked the ceiling. "I wouldn't know that."

"Take a guess."

He lifted a shoulder. "He's great at what he does, but he's not a closer. He oversells, and that makes people nervous."

"That must be death in the getting world." April made a note of it. "Tell me about Wednesday night."

On safer ground, Baldwin exhaled and began describing the dinner. He'd left the office at four-thirty to set up the cocktail hour and talk place cards with Wendy Vivendi. It took forty-five minutes to get through it. Except for the president, they were the very last ones to leave. He was not able to verify Frayme's whereabouts on Wednesday after four.

"Thank you, Mr. Baldwin. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else about that night, would you give me a call?" She left him a card with all her numbers. On the way downstairs Woody spoke.

"When the maintenance man came by to lock up the building Wednesday night, Al was in his office. They close down at eleven," he said.

"Anybody see him between eight and ten-thirty?" April asked.

"Not yet. Where to?"

"Wendy Vivendi," April said.

"She's on the fourth floor," he said.

Ever since April's visit, Jason Frank had been thinking about Max Bassett's first wife. Cornelia had been a spoiled narcissist with an arctic temperament and a scorched-earth policy toward her husband and children. She'd frozen them out of her heart, then ignited their jealous rage with her other passionate relationships. Brenda's and Burton's characters had been formed in the cradle of their mother's volatility. Neither had ever worked or ever wanted to. Neither could love or connect with anyone. And Birdie, his second wife, who'd come from a loving middle-class family and had made their father happy for the first time in his life, had been their nemesis.

One thing about Birdie's murder was crystal-clear to Jason: Her killer was organized, and the two siblings were not able to plan anything. Burton had been missing doorways and walking into walls all his life. Burton couldn't remember his own phone number and was too pickled most of the time to keep track of movable objects like his wallet and credit cards. For Burton, optimism, not regrets and rage, lived in the bottle. Drinking had never made him want to kill. For Brenda, happiness could come only in the form of a wealthy man who would love and tolerate her as her daddy had loved and tolerated his wives. Her revenge would be in making such a match. So far she hadn't been able to do it, but she was an aggressive seeker. She didn't have time to kill her stepmother.

Jason was screening his calls when April phoned late in the afternoon. "Do you want to meet someone?" she asked when he picked up.

"I haven't even located my notes yet," he said. He had his opinion, but he wasn't ready to make pronouncements. He wanted to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

"Are you free?"

"For ten minutes. What's the story on Birdie's will?"

"Don't have it yet. The lawyers have not been responsive. It's not clear she had one," April said.

"How about Max's will? Does Birdie's legacy revert to his children upon her death?"

"It's early days, Jason. I don't have that yet."

"Well, I haven't had time to do a profile on your killer," he said slowly.

"May not matter now. We have a lead. Will you come down to talk to him?"

"Who is it?"

"A fund-raiser. Looks like a nutcase to me. I want you to talk to him."

"Why me? Why not your people?"

"I have my reasons," she said.

"They are?"

"You're not threatening. I have a theory."

"A lot of people aren't threatening."

"Okay, you're not one of us."

"What else?"

"Three more things, Jason. This is between us. I want to know if he recognizes me. I want to know his feelings toward Jack, if he was targeted. But I can't go there directly. Jack is freaking out already. Maybe you could talk to Jack, too. He doesn't want to be rich."

Jason sighed. "That's it?"

"Well, one more little thing. From a psychological perspective, could this squirrel do two such bold killings on his own? Or did he have someone with him-not actually doing the kill, but serving as a kind of commander or validator? You know what I'm saying?"

"That's very interesting, April. Ah, tonight I have a meeting at the institute until nine-thirty," he said slowly. "But for this I can cancel."

"Well, that's not necessary. Ten will be absolutely perfect. I'll send a car for you."

"Don't make it a squad car." Jason groaned. He hated traveling in a blue-and-white.

Al Frayme had to pee. Mike could see it in his face. He was sealed away in the same small room where they'd parked Cherry Packer for two days while they'd tried to nail either Harry or Bill Bernardino. Cherry was back upstate feeding her horses. She had orders not to flee. Harry was home with Carol, still on warning, too. Neither was deemed a flight risk at the moment. And Al Frayme was all alone in the hot seat.

Two teams of detectives were taking turns with him. A confession would be preferable to the thousands of man-hours it would take to make a case, but Al wasn't the scaredy-cat type. So far he hadn't had any trouble containing his temper or his bladder. He'd refused soda and coffee, but spent the afternoon guzzling bottles of sparkling water without any concern about volume. Only now was it looking as if his full bladder was getting to him. That was good. Detectives came and went from the room, had their sandwiches and cigarette breaks. Frayme's requests to take a piss were ignored. He was beginning to get the idea.

When April returned from three interviews at York and caught up with Mike outside the viewing room, she was starved. "Have you eaten?" she asked.

"Hours ago. It's practically dinnertime now. What do you want?"

"Club sandwich," she said.

A uniform took the order and went away to have it filled. As they waited for it, they sat outside the viewing room watching the suspect squirm in his chair.

"How's he doing?" April asked.

"He's had about four quarts, so we know he's got a lot of control. You first."

April opened her notebook and turned the pages. "Wendy Vivendi doesn't have this guy on her radar screen. He's a nonentity as far as she's concerned. He isn't asked to any of the important functions, doesn't know the president to shake his hand. The big donors are not even handled through the alumni office. Two independent teams work the donors. Under a hundred grand is the development office. Over a hundred is handled on the executive level. Vivendi does it herself. If she knew that Bernardino was a target for fund-raising, she certainly didn't tell me. Same with Birdie. Jobs are on the line for sure, but it turns out Baldwin is the one on notice. He's got the quota to fill."