Hanging Time (35 page)

“Dogs make great companions. Have you always had one?”

Camille responded to this by covering her whole face with her thick mane of tangled hair. She didn’t answer.

He tried a different tack. “What about Bouck? I guess he didn’t mind about Puppy after all.”

Behind her hair, Camille giggled. “Not after the break-in.”

What break-in? Jason made a mental note to come back to the break-in. “How does Puppy feel about being here?”

“She’s okay as long as I’m here.”

“Oh, that’s good, because if she has to stay around here too long, she may get bored.” He paused, waiting for Camille to relax again. “How do you feel about being here?”

Camille started swaying from side to side, so the curtain of hair in front of her face swung back and forth. “It’s a horrible place. I hate it. I want to go home.”

“I can understand that. How do you feel about talking to me? Would you rather the officer stays, or waits outside?”

Abruptly Camille pushed her hair back and sat up, looking around as if she were upset about forgetting the officer in the corner.

“She can leave.”

Jason nodded at Goldie. “It’s okay if you wait outside.”

The officer hesitated, then got up and left.

Jason processed Camille’s response. He saw it as a healthy thing that she trusted him with her dog, then felt
there was enough of a relationship between them to allow the guard to leave.

“What happened?” he asked as soon as the door closed. “How do you come to be here at the police station tonight?”

Camille shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him. “They do that to people sometimes. Tonight it was my turn.”

“Did something happen to make it your turn?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me about what you’ve been doing the last few days.”

“What about them?”

“Oh, like how you spent your time the last few days before you came here to the police station. What’s your routine? What are your days like?”

Camille thought for a long time. Then she said: “I’m decorating the house. That takes a lot of time.”

“Is that the house where you live?”

“Yes.” Camille looked down at Puppy. Puppy was lying limp in her lap. Camille stroked her.

“Who lives there with you?” he asked.

“Puppy.”

“Anyone else?”

“Bouck does.”

“Tell me about Bouck.”

Camille shook her head. “He told me not to.”

“Bouck told you not to talk about him?”

She was silent.

“Is Bouck the reason you’re at the police station tonight?”

“No, Bouck hates the police. He says the police don’t protect anybody. We have to protect ourselves.”

“Does Bouck protect you?”

“Oh, yes. We have locks on all the doors and Bouck won’t let me go out unless I’m feeling just right. And he tells me how I have to be careful on the street.”

“The city’s a pretty dangerous place,” Jason agreed. “Have you ever been attacked or followed?”

Camille looked at him shrewdly. “No,” she said flatly. “Have you?”

He made a tiny noncommittal motion with his head and went on. “Do you ever feel people on the street are dangerous?”

Again the shrewd look. “Anybody can be a mugger.” Camille played with her hair. “You never know.”

True enough. The woman wasn’t stupid.

“What about salespeople in the grocery store or restaurants? Do you ever think they mean you ill, like they’re out to get you?”

Camille laughed. “That’s crazy. Do you think I’m crazy?”

She seemed lucid, didn’t appear to be delusional. He went on without answering. “Sometimes people can hear voices when no one else is around.”

“That’s crazy, too.”

Jason smiled. She was shrewd, didn’t want to appear crazy. “Tell me about the last few days,” he repeated. His stomach growled. Very discreetly he glanced at his watch. Ten hours had passed since he’d had something to eat. He remembered that April had promised him food. He wondered if she was out getting it for him.

T
he door from the kitchen to the hall was open. April saw a big man crowd Lieutenant Braun, trying to push him out. The man’s cheeks were red and blotchy, his eyes wide with shock and fury. He was thick around the middle and had the threatening gestures and loud, hectoring voice of a bully.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, looking like someone who would have no trouble punching a cop.

“Lieutenant Braun, Homicide, NYPD.” Braun held out his badge.

Bouck didn’t look at it. “Get out of here.”

April glanced down at the bundle of Maggie Wheeler’s clothes on the top basement step, her heart racing. The man was probably their killer. And he was up on something, really high. She’d seen guys like him so high, they didn’t feel pain, couldn’t be stopped by half a dozen officers with stun guns, or even a .38 slug. She was scared.

“Just calm down,” Braun said. “We have a warrant to take a look around.”

The guy had no intention of calming down. “Oh, yeah, what for?” he demanded belligerently.

“A woman in the shop across the street was murdered. We’re investigating the case.”

“Are you nuts? What does that have to do with me?”

“Like I said, we’re investigating the case.”

“Oh, no, you’re not. Not in here.” Bouck spun around. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Sergeant Roberts,” Roberts’s voice replied.

Now two detectives were in the hall. There were five in
the house. Where were the others? Adrenaline pumped through April without showing her the job to prepare for. She needed to tell Braun and Roberts what she’d found, to warn them, but they were jammed into the narrow space of the hallway. She didn’t want to provoke an incident. Where was Mike?

“You can’t just bust into innocent people’s houses in the middle of the fucking night. Are you nuts?” Bouck screamed at them.

“Unh-unh,” Braun said conversationally. “We have reason to believe someone from this house may be involved in two homicides.”

“You got to be crazy. No way,” Bouck said furiously. Then as if surprised by the thought, “Who? Jamal?” That stopped him. For a few seconds, while he thought it over, he had nothing to say. Then he got his voice back. “No way.”

He looked from one cop to the other. “Where’s Camille?”

Braun didn’t say where the woman was. His voice got cold and his confidence came back. “You want to see Camille?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Then do what we tell you to do. Got it?”

Wrong thing to say. Bouck stuck out his arm and tried to push past Braun. “I want to see her now. Get out of my way.”

“Hey, watch that.” Braun stood his ground.

“I want to see Camille.”

“Fine. Come with us to the precinct. You can see her there.”

“You took that sick woman out of my house?” Bouck’s voice rose to a shriek.

The three of them were in a tight space, two without much patience and the third walking off the deep end. April’s thoughts whirled. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know Braun and Roberts, didn’t have the language developed with them to say the man they were so busy provoking was probably their perp. Ducci had suggested the killer might be a cross dresser or a transvestite. Bouck was clearly the one in charge here, kept his girlfriend in a restraint
in the maid’s room. Maybe he was the shopper, wore the clothes on the racks upstairs. Maybe he signed Camille’s name in The Last Mango’s guest book.

April didn’t have many options. She didn’t see how she could warn them without making matters worse. If she just came out of the kitchen with the bundle, Bouck might freak.

Calamita, the detective who had been searching the living room, made the choice for her. He pushed into the hallway.

“Shit, what’s that?” Bouck spun around and hit the banister.

“We have a few more officers here,” Braun said. “So don’t get excited.”

“Jesus Christ. Gimme that!” Bouck screamed.

“What is it, Calamita?”

April stepped forward to see it. It was then she saw Mike at the top of the stairs. No,
stay where you are
. Now there was a fourth. Four against one, and the guy was going to resist anyway. Suddenly April realized that the bulk at Bouck’s waist was not all fat. He had a pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Shit.

Bouck grabbed for the open box in Calamita’s hands. Inside was a 9mm Colt All-American. Fifteen-round magazine and 3¾ barrel brushing kit. One automatic, two barrels.

“Stand back,” Braun told him.

“What is that? Where’d you get that?” Bouck’s rage escalated.

“It was behind a false back in an old desk, sir,” Calamita replied.

“Would everybody stand back, please.” Braun’s voice was tight. “Put your hands out,” he said to Bouck. “I want to see your hands in front of you.”

Bouck ignored him. “You brought that in here. You brought it in,” he screamed. “I never saw it before. I don’t even know what it is.” He reached for it.

Calamita moved back.

The top stair creaked. Bouck turned his head and saw Sanchez. “Whaa—”

Instantly April was out the kitchen door, gesturing to Mike and Lieutenant Braun that Bouck had a gun.

“This is a frame,” Bouck screamed at the sight of two more detectives. “You’re going to be history. You took a sick woman out of here. You’re threatening me—I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t do anything.”

“Give me your gun.” Lieutenant Braun’s voice was soft now. “We don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

Bouck froze.

April let her breath out.

“Come on, let’s let the boys finish up in here.”

“Unh-unh. You can’t do this.”

“Come on. Give me the gun. Don’t you want to see your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I do. Why don’t you go outside and wait for me? I’ll come out on my own.” Bouck’s voice turned cunning.

Braun shook his head. “It’s not happening that way. You give me the gun and we all go out together.”

Bouck tried something else. “What, are you nuts? I don’t have a gun.” He reached his hand across his body.

Roberts moved forward to grab him. Everybody changed position, moving in, moving back. Bouck’s pistol was out. Someone shouted. Roberts lunged at it.

Two shots exploded in the small space. Bouck crumpled, shot in the back. Braun sagged against the banister, screaming that he’d taken a hit. Blood poured out on the floor from a neat hole in his right shoe. Braun slid to the floor. More people began crowding in.

“What happened?” Penelope Dunham, the assistant D.A., running late, plunged through the front door with the two cops who’d let Bouck in without stopping him. She skidded in a puddle of blood on the floor. “Dear God …”

For an instant Mike and April stared at each other. Then Braun pointed at them, told them to stop gaping and get the hell out of there.

I
t sounds like you’re under a lot of stress right now,” Jason said. His notepad rested on his knee below the level of the tabletop. He made a quick note.

Camille lowered her head and nodded. “I’m worried,” she said softly.

“Sometimes when people get tense and nervous, their ears play tricks on them. They hear things when no one’s there.”

Camille nodded again.

“Have you ever heard people telling you things when no one’s there?”

“No.”

“What are you worried about?”

Camille glanced down at where she’d bitten her arm. She was silent for a long time.

“I’m worried about Bouck,” she said at last. “I’m worried about my relationship with my sister.” She looked up at Jason. “I’m worried about my future.”

“You sound blue.” There was nothing quite like stating the obvious. It usually worked.

Camille’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head fiercely. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Sometimes when people get depressed and worried they feel they don’t want to go on living. Have you ever felt like this?”

“Yes.” Camille mouthed the word.

“When?”

She shrugged.

“Within the last forty-eight hours?”

“No.”

“Have you ever felt life was not worth living?”

She bristled. “I already told you that.”

“You said yes. Did you ever try to end your life?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

“Who told you that?”

She shrugged again.

Uh-huh. “You mean you did try to end it?”

“Nooooo, I mean I never went all the way.” She brushed her red hair away from her face, looked defiant. “I could do it. If I tried, I could do it.”

“So you went part of the way? What does that mean?”

Camille kissed the dog. “I have my baby to live for.”

“Yes.” Jason looked at the bloody marks on her arm. “But you can hurt yourself. You bit your arm.”

“I got nervous. I was upset. I don’t know why I did that. I feel better now. I don’t think I’ll do it again.”

“What else do you do to hurt yourself, Camille?”

She glanced at the pocket where Jason’s key chain with the knife on it was. “I cut myself. I burned myself.” She chewed on her lips. “I break things.”

“What about Bouck?”

“What about him?”

“Have you ever hurt Bouck? Or your sister? Have you ever hurt Milicia?”

She looked shocked. “No. How could I?”

“Anybody else?”

“What?”

“Have you ever hurt anybody else?”

She shrank back from the table. “You’re just asking me that because I’m in the police station. You think I’m crazy.”

Jason didn’t say anything.

She gnawed on her lip.

“Have you hurt anybody else?”

“No. Only myself,” Camille said firmly.

Okay. “You said you were worried about your relationship with your sister. You want to tell me about that?”

Camille shuddered. “My sister is making me sick.”

“How is she doing that?”

“Ever heard of voodoo?” she whispered.

“Your sister is making you sick with voodoo?”

“Yes, you got it.” She nodded vigorously.

“How does she do that?”

“It happened a long time ago, and she won’t stop. That’s why Bouck has four locks.”