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  At the desk a harried-looking woman with permed red hair saw the shields, then returned to her computer screen.

  "Where's the assault victim? Po-pes—"

  "Popescu. It's Romanian," the woman snapped. She kept typing and didn't look up.

  "Thanks, that's the one. Where is she?" She didn't glance at Baum.

  "She's in treatment in room three."

  "I'd like to talk with her."

  "She's unconscious."

  "How about the doctor?"

  "The doctor's with her."

  "You have any idea when I could talk with him?"

  "No." The woman returned to her typing, pleased to thwart. She filled out her uniform and then some, had angry eyes, and a patch of fiery red pimples on each cheek. After a pause, she added, "They've finished with the X rays. Shouldn't be too long now."

  "Thanks." April turned back to the rows of seats, occupied by a motley bunch that formed a little pond of human misery in the waiting room. She didn't want to think about the bacteria and viruses circulating the room. She recognized Duffy and Prince. Both were white, five ten or so, beefy, a few years younger than she, and not much for taking initiative of any kind.

  Duffy worked a wad of gum around his mouth without actually chewing. The two cops flanked the victim's husband in an informal kind of way. The obviously upset, dark-haired man sat on a chair between them, wringing his hands. She noticed that his tie had alligators on it, that his pink shirt had a white collar and the cuffs were stained with blood; and that his blue pin-striped suit looked expensive.

  "Mr. Popescu?" she said.

  His head twitched her way. "Yes."

  "I'm Detective Sergeant Woo; this is Detective Baum."

  He looked from one to the other. "Who's in charge?" he asked testily.

  "I am," April said.

  "What are you doing about finding my baby?"

  "A lot of people are working on it."

  "What about my wife? I want to see my wife," he demanded.

  "The doctors are with her."

  "I don't give a shit who's with her. She's my wife. I want to see her."

  "The doctors are with her," April repeated. Then she changed the subject. "What happened?"

  "I said I want to see my wife. You can't keep me from her." Popescu had a wide mouth and wide-set eyes as black as April's. The voice was cold, the eyes were on fire. He looked about to blow.

  April felt sorry for him. It wasn't uncommon for people to get crazy when someone they loved was hurt. "The doctors are checking her out. No one can go in."

  "But I don't

  want

  anyone to touch her without my being in the room. I'm her husband."

  "I understand, but—"

  "I won't have any emergency room doctor playing around with my wife." Popescu's panic screamed out of his voice. "I forbid them to do anything to her, working on her face—or, or . . ."

  "Can you tell me what happened, sir?"

  Popescu gave her a crazed look. "Somebody broke into my apartment and took my baby." His voice cracked. "He's only three weeks old."

  "How did you find out?"

  He looked surprised at the question. "I came home. I found her—"

  "What time was that?" April had her notebook out.

  "Three-thirty."

  "Is that a usual time for you to come home?"

  "What kind of question is that? I came home because I knew something was wrong."

  "How did you know?"

  "I called and called. When she didn't answer the phone, I knew something was wrong. And I was right." He pounded his fist against his hand. "I was right. Heather was on the floor. There was blood all over the place. At first I thought the blood was the baby's. Then, I realized the baby wasn't

  there

  —" His hands flew to his face. "Oh God, you've got to let me in to see her. I need to be with her."

  "They have to clean her up first and X-ray her for broken bones. It's procedure."

  "She's all right. I know she's all right. It's just a cut on her head. It bled a lot, that's all. These goons restrained me physically. That guy put me in a ham-merlock. I almost choked to death." Popescu pointed accusingly at the offender.

  April glanced at Duffy. He stuck the wad of gum in his cheek and gave his head a barely perceptible shake.

  No way.

  "I don't want her to stay here. I want her to come home with me. I'm sure she's all right." Popescu was raving. April figured him for a lawyer.

  She took some notes on her steno pad, frowned at

  Baum to do the same. The first things people said were often important. The new kid on the block, Baum, dutifully followed her example.

  Years ago, when April first joined the department and worked in Chinatown, she'd jotted some Chinese characters along with her notes in English on the steno pads the DAs called Rosarios. The DA on the case had gone nuts when he asked for her Rosario and saw the Chinese characters she'd written there. He told her nothing she wrote in Chinese counted and not to do it again. Now her notes were pretty much in English even though she missed the calligraphy practice.

  Husband reports wife didn't answer the phone. He went home to check on her. When he got home at 3:30, his wife was unconscious and the baby was missing. The stains on his shirt are probably his wife's blood.

  He would have tried to revive her, of course. Unless he'd injured himself and some of the blood was his. She kept her face blank; she didn't want to let him know she was wondering what kind of man kept such close tabs on his wife that he had to go home when she didn't answer the phone.

  April and Baum saw the red-haired lady signal them. April tried to distract Popescu. "You want some coffee or something, Mr. Popescu? Officer Duffy could get you something while you're waiting."

  "Where are you going?" he demanded.

  "Detective Baum and I will be right back," she told him.

  Popescu tried to follow them, but Duffy and Prince blocked the way. Their size and the clanking police equipment hanging on their hips convinced him to stay where he was. April didn't wait to hear what he had to say to them.

  CHAPTER 4

  T

  reatment room 3 was guarded by another uniform. A woman carrying a clipboard and wearing a white coat over blue scrubs came out before April could question him. Mary Kane, M.D., the woman's name tag said she was. The plastic picture ID clipped to her coat read the same. Dr. Mary Kane had a square jaw, blunt-cut wheat-brown hair, and the kind of eyes April's mother called devil eyes—washed-out blue without lashes or much expression. Dr. Kane looked about twelve, but April couldn't complain about that because both she and Woody did, too.

  April showed the doctor her own identification. "I'm Sergeant Woo; this is Detective Baum. What can you tell me about Mrs. Popescu?"

  Dr. Kane shook her head. "She's unconscious." She glanced quickly at Baum, then looked April up and down. "Maybe you can help."

  "How badly hurt is she?"

  "She has contusions, couple of cracked ribs. He must have kicked her. Lump on her head. Her skull isn't fractured. But she's bruised all over. Weird."

  "What's weird?" Baum asked.

  April gave him a look.

  "Some of the bruises are fresh. Others look like they're a few weeks old. And we have a chart on her. She's been here before."

  "Did she have her baby here?" this from April.

  Dr. Kane shook her head.

  April pulled out her Rosario. "What was she here for on previous occasions?" she asked. Baum knew not to interfere this time.

  The doctor checked the chart. "A third-degree burn. A cut—fifteen stitches on her arm. Sprained an ankle twice. She seems to fall down a lot." She recited the list with a face devoid of emotion.

  April wrote some more. "Anybody call the police to check it out?" Heather Rose Popescu wasn't so lucky; but maybe April Woo and Woody Baum would get lucky and there'd be no kidnapped baby in this case. Maybe the mother hadn't been feeling well, had given the ba
by to a relative for the afternoon, and the assault had come from the husband.

  The doctor's square face took on a belligerent expression. "I couldn't say anything about the follow-up. The chart indicates they were localized injuries— one site each time, nothing major. Not the pattern we would associate with abuse. I'm not aware of any requirement for reporting a cooking burn, a sprained ankle, that kind of thing. There's a note in the file that Mrs. Popescu has a neurological problem being dealt with by a private physician."

  "Was it checked out?"

  "Not if she wasn't admitted. Look, you're the detectives, we're ER. You want to try talking with her now?" It seemed as if Dr. Kane was one of those doctors who didn't like cops.

  "In a minute. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

  "I don't know." Finally she focused on April. "Maybe we've got a mental case here. If she's self-destructive, that would explain the previous injuries

  on her chart. She could have made up a story about a baby."

  "Then her husband is a mental case, too. He says there was a baby this morning, and now it's gone."

  "Maybe the baby was adopted," the doctor went on.

  "They put it up for adoption? This morning?" April frowned.

  "No, the woman here

  adopted

  the baby." The doctor was getting annoyed, as if April were really thick.

  "Why do you say that?" Baum asked.

  Dr. Kane pointedly consulted her watch, showing the two cops that she'd given them enough of her time. "She doesn't appear to have a postpartum body."

  "Did you give her a pelvic exam?" April asked.

  "For head injuries?"

  April glanced at Baum. "What's a postpartum body?" she asked.

  "There are changes that occur in a woman's body after childbirth." The doctor gave April an amused look.

  April flushed. "What are they?"

  Dr. Kane slapped her clipboard against her hip impatiently. "The breasts become engorged with milk. The skin on the belly is loose. The belly itself is soft, enlarged. Not all of the excess weight would have come off yet—a lot of things." She glanced at Baum. He was writing it all down. Probably didn't know a thing about women. But apparently, neither did she.

  "And Mrs. Popescu?" April asked.

  "No engorged breasts, no soft, distended belly. She either didn't have a baby, or she sure got her figure back fast." Clearly the doc didn't think that was possible. "Her body looks like yours," she added.

  April was a little over five five, well-proportioned and willowy. She had an oval face with rosebud lips and lovely almond eyes, a slender neck but not the hollows and protruding bones of a truly skinny person. She also had clearly discernible breasts, though not really ample ones by American standards. Her hair came down to the bottom of her earlobes. When she was away from her boss, Lieutenant Iriarte, she hooked her hair back around her ears so her lucky jade earrings would show. Mike Sanchez kept telling her she was more beautiful than Miss America, and the thought of an Asian Miss America always made her smile.

  At the moment, though, she wasn't amused. She didn't see how Dr. Kane could tell anything by

  her

  body, since it was covered by loose, nubby-weave slacks, a thin sweater, a silk scarf, and a cropped whis-key-colored jacket. Except maybe, if she was looking really hard, she could tell that April was carrying a 9mm at her waist.

  "Maybe she'll come to soon and you can get something out of her," Dr. Kane said as she walked away. April would not have liked to be one of her patients.

  "I'll handle this," she told Baum. Then she opened the treatment room door.

  Heather Popescu was lying on a rolling hospital bed, covered up with a sheet so that only the shoulders of her blue-flowered hospital gown showed. The sides of the bed had been put up so she wouldn't fall off, but she wasn't going anywhere. One eye was covered with a cold pack. Her lip was split and already puffed. Her extremely long, inky hair spilled off the pillow. April was startled, then recovered fast. The unconscious woman, Heather Rose Popescu, was Chinese.

  No wonder Iriarte had ordered her here immediately. Iriarte hated her. He'd never voluntarily give her a big case. He'd sent her here because the victim was Chinese, and it would look better to have a high-profile Chinese detective on it. April flashed to the husband standing out in the waiting room. A belligerent Caucasian. Oh man, was she in trouble. She didn't like this one bit. Skinny Dragon would think this was a warning just for her. She was going to shake her finger at April over this. "See what happens," she'd scream. "Mixed marriage, woman beaten to a pulp. That's what you can expect when you marry

  laowai"—

  shit-faced foreigner.

  Oh, man. Suddenly April wished Mike, her mother's nightmare, were here with her now. He could take this case in hand. Woody Baum was too inexperienced to be of any help, particularly with the husband. If Popescu beat his wife, he wasn't going to like having April as his interviewer. April needed the expert partner she'd had in Mike, then lost on purpose because she hadn't wanted to mix business with pleasure. So much for integrity and scruples. She was on her own. Thank you, Lieutenant Iriarte.

  April studied Heather Rose's battered face. Where were her parents, her protectors? "Heather? Can you hear me?" she said softly. "I'm April Woo. I'm here to help you."

  No answer from the unconscious woman.

  "Heather, we need to find the baby. Where's the baby?"

  Heather did not stir. April felt the cold brick of fear in her belly. "Come on back, girl. We need your help here."

  It was no use. Heather wasn't coming back.

  April tried in Chinese. "Wo

  shi, Siyue Woo. Ni neng bang wo ge mang ma?"

  No response.

  Finally, April turned to leave the room. "Whoever did this to you, I'll get him," she promised.

  Back in the waiting room, Heather's husband was standing in front of his chair. Baum was talking to him and writing down what he said.

  "I want to see my wife."

  April gave him a look. "She's unconscious."

  "That's what you say. I want to evaluate her myself."

  April studied him, this man who kept tabs on his wife and felt qualified to evaluate her himself. She made a note to herself to keep tabs on

  him.

  Popescu's cheeks were gray, like a dead man's. He glanced at the two cops who'd stuck by his side since he'd come in. Duffy and Prince lounged against a wall as if they were used to hanging around for long periods of time with nothing to do. A baby on someone's lap on the other side of the crowded waiting room started to wail. She was trained to think like a cop: when faced with a mystery, think dirty. She was thinking dirty about Anton Popescu.

  Then another brick hit her. If the baby wasn't Heather's, whose was it? Who was this man Heather had married, and why was he lying about why he went home at the early hour of three-thirty?

  He caved abruptly. "Fine. If I can't see my wife, I want to go home now."

  "We'll take you," April said. There wasn't anything they could do for Heather here.

  CHAPTER 5

  O

  n the return trip to the apartment, Baum and April sat in the front seat of the unmarked Buick. Popescu sat in the back. At Central Park South, two uniforms were out directing traffic. Roadblocks were up on Seventh Avenue, and only one lane was open to cars. The noise of honking horns and cursing New Yorkers was phenomenal. It was now 6:45, the height of the dinner and pre-theater hour. Thousands of people in taxis and limos were stuck on their way to Lincoln Center to the west and Carnegie Hall to the south.

  "Oh Jesus!" Popescu cried when he saw the jam of police cars, emergency vehicles, and press vans parked in front of his building, clogging Seventh Avenue all the way down to Fifty-seventh Street. The uniform at the neck of the bottle opened traffic for the Buick and waved it through immediately. Woody sardined the car in the driveway and turned off the motor. As April got out, a strong perfume from the garden confused her senses.
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  Looking dazed, Popescu emerged from the car.

  Somebody among the crowd of media hacks and gawkers shouted, "Who's that?" and the press with cameras was galvanized. People ran at the car with minicams and still cameras, yelling questions over the blasting horns. Several uniforms came forward to contain them. Baum took Popescu's arm and hurried him toward the building. The cameras rolled and clicked for the late news deadlines.

  "Oh shit. Oh Jesus." The blood had returned to Popescu's cheeks and nose in a rush. Baum propelled him into the lobby. He stuck up his hand to hide his face, and that was how he appeared later on the eleven o'clock news, his arm raised as if warding off blows.

  Looking terribly important, Lieutenant McMan was talking on his radio to uniforms and detectives and managing the crowd of disgruntled tenants who couldn't get home. He wagged a finger at April as soon as he saw her. She moved toward him, glancing at the doorman, who was now back at his post. The man's name tag read Carlos. Carlos was a skinny Latino who had greasy hair and a thin mustache. Even with his fancy red livery coat with gold braid and buttons, he had the sly look of a gambler. April knew that look. Her father, Ja Fa Woo, had it.

  "How is Mrs. Popescu?" Carlos asked eagerly as he opened the door for them.

  Popescu ignored the question. He looked stunned by the throng of vocalizing neighbors—suddenly quieted by his arrival—and so many armed men sporting bulletproof vests and carrying rifles into his lobby. Two of them had huge German shepherds on thick leads. "What the hell—" The dogs really seemed to spook him. Baum touched his arm to restrain him when April crossed the lobby to talk with Lieutenant McMan.

  "What's happening?"

  "Nothing yet. A lot of people have different stories of what went down here today. No sign of the baby," McMan told her, keeping his eyes on the men and women moving through the lobby. "There are cameras on the front elevator. A log is kept of visitors coming up and down the back elevator. No cameras." He snorted. "No access to the back elevator from the front hall. Fire stairs only."

  The units were finishing up in the building and trickling in, grim-faced officers and detectives with their blue-and-yellow