Leslie Glass - A Killing Gift

"Good night, Jason. Thanks for everything," April said.

Jason grunted and got out. "Keep me informed," he said.

April's heart was racing. "We need to talk to Hammermill again," she said excitedly as soon as Jason was out of the car. "If we could just nail the dog down, we'd have something solid. If the dog I saw on the street when Bernardino was killed and the dog Hammermill saw when Birdie was killed are the same dog, we have that accomplice. This is coming together."

"Maybe if we showed him some photos it would help," Mike suggested.

"He told me it was a brown dog."

"There are a lot of big brown dogs, querida. Labs, all the sheepdogs and shepherds, retrievers. Weimaraner. Dozens."

"Weimaraners are gray," she said, "and I know it wasn't a German shepherd or a Doberman or a rottweiler. But photos would help me, too." She plucked her phone out of her purse and dialed a number, then put the cell on speakerphone so Mike could hear. "Woody, it's me," she said. "Get me some flip charts on dogs."

"And hello to you, Sergeant. It's one in the morning; where am I going to get that kind of thing now?"

Mike shook his head.

"Not now. In the a.m., Woody."

They heard him sigh. "Okay. What do you need?"

"I need dog pictures."

"Can you narrow that down?"

"All the big brown ones."

"Yes, sir. And Sergeant, Frayme was at the funeral."

"Bernardino's?"

"Yeah, his picture came up several times in the crowds. He was at the cemetery."

"Thanks, Woody." She hung up and turned to Mike. He was talking softly on his phone while she dialed another number. Now they were cooking.

"Jack, am I waking you up?" she asked.

"Who is it?" came a sleepy voice.

"April Woo."

"Oh, Jesus, April. What time is it?"

"Sorry to bother you so late. This dog question is still really bothering me. Did you give any thought to other dogs when you were walking Sheba in the square that night?"

"Jesus, there are always other dogs."

"I know, but we have to nail this down. Sheba was barking. What was going on before you became aware of me?"

"Gee, do I have to do this now, April?"

"It's important."

"Yeah, there was somebody with a big dog. The dog barked at Sheba, but I got distracted when I saw you. Listen, Al called me a while ago. What's going on?"

"What did he say?"

"He said you interrogated him all day, and he's helping you with the investigation. Is he cleared?"

"Did he say anything else?"

"He was upset that I told you about the karate thing. He said he'd told me about it in confidence. It caused trouble for him, but it's all cleared up now, and everything is fine. Is that true?"

"Did he say anything else?"

"No, he was very open about the whole thing. He told me he was treated like a suspect, everything but the fingerprints and the lie-detector test."

April snorted-another stupid criminal. They got the fingerprints and the DNA (should they need it) from his water bottle. Only the molds of his handprints were left to do, and they wouldn't do it until the ME told them they had a mark on the body they might be able to match with it. "Was he disappointed about that?" she said.

"No. Completely secure in his innocence. He was excited. He wanted to make a lunch date to tell me all about it."

"What, at midnight?"

"He sounded a little high, April."

"Interesting."

"It was a little creepy. He didn't seem to mind being a suspected murderer."

"Well, people like attention," April told him. "What did you say about the lunch?"

"I don't know where you're going with this, but I can't be sure he didn't break my arm, so I said no to the lunch. I told him I was going out of town for a couple of weeks."

"Good. I'm going to want you to look at some dog photos in the morning. See if you recognize any of them from the neighborhood. What time are you leaving?"

"Noon. Can I go to bed now?"

"Sweet dreams."

"Help me out, querida," Mike said when she hung up. "I told Marcus we need the list of martial-arts studios in a twenty-block radius of Fourteenth Street, especially the ones on the East Side with professional sparring partners and non-Asian masters. He wants to know what system Frayme favors-karate, tae kwon do, judo, tai chi, kickboxing, hapkido, kung fu. There's a mess of them."

"Put him on speaker. Marcus, hey. The serious practitioners learn more than one system. Bear with me while I fill you in. The Chinese claim that karate derived from kung fu. They're both unarmed methods of combat with all parts of the body used to punch-strike, kick, or block. Karate itself means 'empty' or 'China hand.' Judo, jujitsu, and go ti are wrestling forms and considered the art of the gentle. That's out. Tae kwon do is the Korean method-probably the most popular form of martial arts these days, called 'way of the hands and feet.' There are tournaments for all the systems, but the belt grades and many terms derive from the Japanese. And everybody has to learn the kata, the moves and maneuvers. Kenpo may be what Frayme favors, since he's a fist man. Kenpo comes from Hawaii and the Americas, introduced by a guy called Ed Parker. Most people learn several mix-fight methods, bits and pieces of several systems."

"Can you narrow this down a little?"

"Frayme probably goes to a place called Tiger Strike, or Praying Mantis, or Silent Warrior-as you said, no Korean or Japanese or Chinese name. Maybe U.S. professional, something macho without a particular accent." April lifted a shoulder.

"That's what I told them. What about the brick thing?"

"Okay, my take on this is he doesn't break bricks at all. That's too old-fashioned. A clumsy party trick. He was talking about doing it for balance. That means not standing there and pounding something but moving. That means he'd be working with kick mitts and striking pads, coaching pads. I believed him when he said he did that at home. You can get sandbags and platforms and various kinds of striking pads to practice at home, but it wouldn't be enough. He certainly had the ridge hand of a fistfighter, which means he could fight without a protective mitt, but I wonder if he was wearing one when he killed Birdie."

Mike slowed in front of the precinct, where they had to switch cars. It was one-thirty. "We need to clear this up with Gloss. This may be what was bothering him. The bruise on her neck might be wider than the blade of a hand," he said. He turned off the headlights.

"Want me to call him?" April asked as he went inside to return the keys.

"I already did. He's not picking up the page." "Well, he'd better get to it if we want to resolve it before the funeral." April yawned and got out of the car. She could hope, couldn't she?

After April and Mike switched cars and drove home, it was both a long night and a short one: long on worry, short on sleep. Bernardino's case was a little like lightning. The one strike sent down more than one deadly streamer and left some unresolved issues. Even if they indicted Frayme for the murder, four million dollars was still missing, and Harry Weinstein had briefly been in possession of two hundred and fifty thousand of it. So far there was no trail that led to Bill or Kathy. But for Bernardino's sake, April was not going to be able to let go of that. Launching further assaults on a tough old cop was not going to be easy. More important at the moment, though, their only really viable suspect was still walking around, making late-night phone calls and working out with his unregistered weapons. Mike and April were too wired to calm down.

April was up again at five-thirty, drinking hot water and scanning the yellow pages for martial arts. She was not surprised to find some of the names that had come to her on the spur of the moment. Silent Warrior would be a natural. It was there. So was Praying Mantis. She was also attracted to the strongly American typeface of Professional Prepare at Twenty-second Street and Broadway.