The Silent Bride awm-7 Page 17

  April also had to dig deeper to see if anyone else had died near a wedding date. Andrea's death could be a coincidence, but cops were suspicious. When it came to police work, April didn't believe in coincidences.

  Thirty

  T

  hunder rumbled over the city, and jagged shafts of lightning cracked the sky open like an eggshell. The clouds let loose, sending rain down in a long free fall, so heavy the water itself sounded like thunder and the thunder like artillery in a war.

  Prudence Hay had settled into a state of peaceful sleep Thursday night, knowing that rain was on the way and they were fully prepared for it. Her father, Terence Hay, was a Weather Channel aficionado. Throughout every day of his life he consulted it frequently. He checked the weather in the morning and afternoon before traveling back and forth to Long Island, and even before he left his office for lunch. He followed storms the way he studied the stock market, trying to keep out of trouble on both fronts.

  His concern about rain had affected his decision so many months ago to have a hotel wedding, not a tented affair out at the house where a heavy rain would dampen a good deal more than spirits. He had one daughter to give away, not five or six like his brothers and sisters. One beautiful girl, and he didn't trust the weather to do her proud. Although Prudence would have preferred to hold her reception at home among the spring flowers, her father was always right. The way he always took charge in so many ways had irritated her hugely when she was young. But now his planning contingencies for weather and other disasters made her feel safe. He always said she should let him do the worrying for all of them, so she did.

  That was the reason she slept well through the thunder and lightning. Her gown was in the apartment, perfect now. Kim had embroidered a little angel in it. White on white, so it was very subtle. A nice touch, she thought. Tomorrow afternoon they would have their rehearsal in the cathedral and stay for Mass. Then they would have their prewedding dinner. It didn't matter if it rained. Her father's careful planning would become part of the story in the toasts. No one's feet would get wet in the grass. The lunch would not be cold. The St. Regis would bloom like Hawaii indoors. The rain came and washed her doubts away. She was confident she and Thomas would live happily ever after just like they were supposed to.

  Thirty-one

  Thursday marked the fourth night that April slept alone in her empty family house. Her parents were still away, and not even the poodle was there for company. Mike was taking a hard line with her, probably hurting more from his injuries than he'd ever admit. And Ching was insistent about the maid of honor thing. Nearly a week had passed since Tovah's murder, and now there was just a week to go until Ching's wedding. This uncomfortable juxtaposition of events worried April.

  Two weeks—three weekends—meant they were almost in the mid-position of a triangle with tragedy on one side and great happiness for a loved one on the other. In Chinese philosophy numbers had a huge significance. To April, this mid-position of three was like the midsection of a hexagram in the I Ching in which things could change for the better or the worse, depending on the action or nonaction one took.

  Whether from Confucius or Mencius, the Tao, or the smiling Buddha, the underlying principles for the superior person (or state) in Chinese thinking were three: whether or not to take action, when to take action, and how to take action. The Tao's absolute favorite course of action was perseverance in complete passivity, a nearly impossible path to travel if one happened to be a cop.

  Since Mike's ultimatum about getting married and Ching's pronouncement that she was stubborn, April had steadily been taking stock of herself. She knew that people with whom she'd worked said she was inner-directed, like an ingrown toenail—frustrating and difficult to get to know. Such an assessment might well be in her record. And she knew it was there because she was neither fully Chinese nor perfectly American and couldn't be both at once.

  As much as she'd longed to be all reason, April had always been guided by less rational laws of the universe—those of her own gut instincts and the wisdom of the ancients. The homicide of a bride, when Mike wanted her to be his bride and Skinny Dragon Mother wanted her to be anyone else's, brought it all into sharp focus. Tovah's murder had aggravated Chinese superstition (her own, Auntie Mai's, Ching's), and she was stuck trying to sort out reality from feeling.

  In many of April's cases, synchronicity played a part. One unconnected event after another suddenly connected unexpectedly in a brutal murder, in catastrophe, and these evils created chaos. The abrupt, dreadful occurrences that changed lives forever were often completely random. The victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The randomness, the luck of the draw in so many aspects of life even in the twenty-first century, was at the core of Chinese superstition and was in complete opposition to Western belief in causality and reason.

  What Westerners had always worshiped as cause and effect passed almost unnoticed in the Chinese mind, which was ever preoccupied with chance. The immense importance of serendipity could not be underestimated in Chinese thinking, and with good reason. For the ancients, no amount of foresight or precaution could possibly protect either the state or individuals against the vagaries of disease, war, politics, and natural disasters like earthquakes, floods, and famine. Throughout time, the best shot a human had was to remain as solid as the earth, accepting all with a steadfast heart and praying for the good luck of safety and good fortune.

  All her life, in the Chinese way, April had tried to avoid conflict with her parents. She didn't want them to lose face by her marrying a Mexican American. But this correct Asian passivity was highly incorrect and even considered self-destructive in Western culture. Self-destructive didn't even exist in Asian thinking, for the self was not regarded as a separate entity.

  In the wee hours of Friday morning, nearing the exact midpoint between tragedy and celebration, April resorted to the

  I Ching

  and her Chinese heart to get a reading on her life and Tovah's case. The I

  Ching,

  or Book of Changes, charts the movement of all things: the sun, the moon, fire, earth, water; human activities, qualities, emotions, and good and bad actions. Though obscure to the Western mind, the

  I Ching

  offers to the informed questioner judgments on when to persevere, when to stand back, when to speak, and when to remain steadfastly silent. It foretells danger and success and reveals the way to act correctly in all situations, to gain wealth and inner peace.

  As the rain let loose, April sat on her single bed and prepared to throw the coins—five pennies and a dime—to get the judgment of the ancient oracle as to who was Tovah's killer and what she should do about her crisis with the man she thought it would be bad luck to marry. Like a gambler at a craps table, she blew on the pennies, then threw them out. The coins fell on the flowered quilt three heads, then three tails.

  Three heads represented three straight lines one on top of another: heaven. Three tails represented three broken lines beneath the three straight ones: earth. Heaven over earth was the hexagram

  P'i

  (standstill or stagnation). The judgment was: Heaven and earth do not unite, and all beings fail to achieve union. Further, it said, The shadowy is within, the light is without. The way of the superior was falling. The way of the inferior was rising.

  April was crushed. Her dime was in the fourth position, third line from the top. That meant her personal message was: He who acts at the command of the highest remains without blame. What was willed was done.

  She was mulling over what it meant when Skinny Dragon opened her door without warning. Four days she'd been away and this was her greeting.

  "Ni

  (you), I have food; you eat."

  A wet Dim Sum ran into her room, yelping happily, and jumped on April's bed to lick her face. It was the middle of the night, but for once April was not unhappy to see her mother. Dragons had things they wanted to talk about, had trouble sleeping, wanted to be nice. And
look, Skinny was smiling. She'd brought a ceremonial gift of oranges. Hastily, April gathered up the coins and her fancy Princeton edition of the

  I Ching

  and hid them under her pillow.

  Thirty-two

  F

  riday morning Mike and April were working downtown in Bellaqua's office when Mike finally located someone at God's Goodness out in Minneapolis who personally knew the man they had under restraints in Bellevue. Daniel Dody came on the line just before eleven o'clock. Mike put him on speakerphone so April and Bellaqua could listen in.

  "Oh, yeah, Ubu Natzuma. I remember him. Big guy, real shy." Dody's strong Midwestern voice was cheerful. "Who are you again?"

  "Lieutenant Sanchez, New York City Police Department, Inspector Bellaqua, Sergeant Woo."

  "Three of you, I see. How can I help you?" The voice cooled down without losing its perkiness.

  "I gather you have responsibility for Mr. Natzuma."

  "Well, not exactly. We did sponsor him in a school program out here, but after his orientadon, he decided to stay in New York."

  "He decided to stay in New York? A real shy guy?"

  "He didn't want to get caught in the middle," Dody said slowly.

  "In the middle of what?" Mike asked.

  "The country. A big landmass. He gets upset when he's frightened, so we didn't try to force him."

  "He was upset, so you left him here?"

  "Well, no, we didn't just leave him. We gave him some names and numbers, found a place for him to stay and a school for him."

  "I need those names and numbers," Mike said. The notebooks were out.

  "Uh, sure. I'll have to look them up, though. It may take some time. What is this all about?" Dody sounded a little less sure about those names.

  "A woman was shot here in New York last week at her wedding. Mr. Natzuma may have been involved," Mike said flatly, doodling in his notebook, not glancing at April or Poppy.

  "Oh, no. Not that one I read about in the paper? That Jewish girl?" The voice flattened out a little more.

  "Yes, Tovah Schoenfeld. How does Mr. Natzuma feel about Jews?"

  "Oh, goodness. I can't even imagine. I know he may have some primitive ideas, but I'm sure Ubu never even met a Jew."

  "Tell me about him."

  "I don't know where to begin. He experienced some real deprivation when he was very young. Malnutrition, abuse, just like almost everyone in his country. I don't know if you know anything about Liberia's wars, but he was in the middle of it. Landlocked and also trapped between warring factions, one of which killed his parents. He may have witnessed that." Dody ran out of steam.

  "Do you have any dates on this?"

  "Gee, let me think. We're pretty sure he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven or twelve, but before that he lived with a gang of boys, hiding out, for several years. His parents may have been killed when he was nine or ten. It's hard to put dates on anything. We can only piece together their histories from their own accounts. If he's eighteen now, we might be able to correlate events in his village nine years ago."

  "Did you hear any accounts of an attack during a wedding? Maybe someone from his own family?"

  Something he might be reliving a world away,

  Mike didn't say out loud.

  "Gee, I wouldn't know, but two of his brothers are with us out here. Maybe they would know."

  "What about violence?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You said he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven. I assume that doesn't mean he was a mascot."

  "Ah, Lieutenant, we try to rehabilitate them; we don't ask them to relive their tragedies."

  Very preachy. Mike glanced at April and Poppy. Their faces showed their dismay.

  "You don't do any psychological testing before you let potential killers loose over here?"

  "I don't like the sound of that. We don't take that view. Let me remind you that soldiers throughout the ages have returned to normal life when their wars were over. Our mission is to help these people do that through Jesus Christ."

  "You think of Mr. Natzuma as a retired soldier then."

  "A kind of solider, yes. As he was a member of a rebel militia group, we know he was a witness to the torture arid killing of dozens of civilians on many different occasions. But as a participant... ?"

  "But he can shoot a gun," Mike interrupted.

  "Oh, that, certainly. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "Oh, yes, this is just the beginning. We need to pin down if he shot any of those civilians, if he witnessed, or participated in, violence at a wedding. And if he hates Jews."

  Dody was silent for a while. "He's had a sad life."

  "Does that translate into a man too violent to take with you to your church in Minneapolis?"

  "No, no, not violent, more like a management problem."

  "Why didn't you send that management problem home?"

  Dody was silent for a longer time. "We don't think in terms of sending them home. Our mission is to get them out. Bring them to safety, teach them the ways of Christ, our Lord."

  "Mr. Dody, will you get those names and addresses for me? We're going to be sending someone out there to talk to you and Ubu's brothers. We'll be following up on this immediately."

  Mike recited the squad number and his cell phone number and said, "Thanks, we appreciate your help," before hanging up.

  He tried to frown and winced as his stitches pulled.

  Thirty-three

  L

  ouis the Sun King knew the drill. For the Hay wedding, St. Patrick's would be closed to the public for only two hours. He would not be allowed to work after the doors were closed for the night or before they were opened in the early morning. In fact, he was not allowed to work there at all. All he could do was deliver finished product. Same thing with the St. Regis. There was an event in the ballroom that night, so he couldn't get in there undl Saturday morning.

  Coordinadng the two sites took master planning. Louis had to get the ten thirty-five-foot, gardenia-plugged dcus trees in place in the cathedral, the massive arrangements down at the altar, and the ribbons and baskets along the pews as soon as the cathedral doors were open Saturday morning. The trees had to be brought in by cherry pickers. The cherry pickers had to disappear, then reappear as soon as the bride and groom walked back down the aisle and out of the building. Everything related to the Hay wedding had to be out of the cathedral before two o'clock, then delivered immediately to the designated not-for-profit for the tax deduction.

  What it meant was that the ten ficus trees had to be plugged with five thousand blooming gardenias. Twenty-five giant seashells filled with perfectly blooming Hawaiian Sunset cats and other tropical and marine-type fauna. Twenty-five large umbrellas decanvased, palm fronded, and set with twinkling lights. Four arrangements for the altar and the baskets and ribbons for the pews had to be constructed. All this had to be done before nine. Saturday. The umbrellas had been done before the rain started. The police had stopped bugging him, Wendy was off his case, and he was feeling better.

  Louis loved the magic of the party and missed the old days when only the richest people in the world could have what anyone could have now—masses of hlies, roses, lilac, orchids, tulips, hydrangea—anything at all any time of the year. Twenty years ago only the designers had real access to the growers and shippers and suppliers. He felt his business had been destroyed by Martha Stewart do-it-yourselfism coupled with the excessive wealth of the 1990s.

  These days it was tough to make events truly unique when anyone could get what he could get. Rower growers had fields all over the world. FedEx flew in every day. Bloom-a-Million on the Internet. Call 1-8OO-FLOWERS. Roses of every hue, six dollars a dozen at every corner Korean market in the city.

  At one time Louis's former partner had employed forty-five people full-time. Back in the day more than a hundred people might be involved in an event for hardly more than a hundred people. All that was
gone forever. Now everything was canned, nothing was new. He'd done this before. He was bemoaning his difficulties made worse by the rain when his buzzer rang and he saw that the two detectives were back.

  Groaning, he buzzed them in and pushed through the crush of extra helpers he'd hired for the day. "Morning," he said. "We're a little crowded in here today."

  The Chinese nailed him with a look. "Ubu didn't really come home with you in the truck last Sunday, did he, Louis?" Respectful of his shop, she stood dripping on the doormat.

  "I don't know what you mean," he said.

  "Yes, you do. Three of you went to Riverdale, but only two of you came back."

  Louis closed his eyes, then shook his head slowly. "He didn't want to be in the back of the truck. He wanted to walk home."

  "You left him there, up in Riverdale all alone, a stranger to New York? How did you expect him to walk home to Brooklyn?"

  Louis sighed. "It's complicated. We didn't just leave him on Independence Avenue. We took him to the subway. I told him, van or subway—you can't walk to Brooklyn. He chose subway. I haven't seen him since." He grimaced at the lieutenant's purpling cheek but didn't ask how he got it.

  "Why didn't you tell us this before?"

  "We left the synagogue before three. He didn't know the area. He couldn't have gotten back in time anyway. Why complicate things for everyone irrelevant?" Louis argued. He patted his hair nervously. He was sorry, okay.

  "Does Andrea Straka complicate things for everybody, too?" the Chinese said suddenly.

  "Jesus." Louis stopped being sorry and took a deep breath. This was getting out of control. "I've never been on a subway in my life. I didn't have anything to do with Tovah's death. You now know everything I know. If you want to arrest me, arrest me. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have a wedding to do."

  Thirty-four

  I

  t rained all Friday night, and it rained Saturday morning. A stranger sat in St. Patrick's, warm and dry at the long information table piled with pamphlets touting Catholicism in different languages. The long table, skirted with green felt, was set back far behind the front doors in the space before the pews began. A TV screen was mounted on a column nearby. Throughout the year different countries had their chance to disseminate at this coveted spot. Now it was the Philippines. Sometimes nuns in gray habits sat at the table with laywomen. Sometimes no nuns. Today there were none.