Judging Time by Leslie Glass Read Free Book Online

side of the front door was a topiary that looked like a lollipop with Christmas lights. Green letters on a white canopy importantly declared the building's name: PARK CENTURY. Race came back to mind again as April wondered how many other blacks lived in this building, how many Latinos, how many Asians. Cops were trained not to make assumptions. In the department they were supposed to be all one color, blue. On the street they were supposed to look at everybody the same. But they didn't. In confusing situations, black cops in plain clothes who ran with their guns unholstered in pursuit of bad guys risked getting shot in the back by their white colleagues.
    At 4:12 A.M. Sergeants Sanchez and Woo entered the Park Century, where Liberty had shared the penthouse with his wife Merril. The doorman was a large sleepy-eyed man who smelled of cigarettes and didn't like the sight of them.
    "You're sure Mr. Liberty is here?" Mike asked after identifying himself and April and hearing that the former football star was at home.
    "Of course I'm sure. I got to write everything down, don't I? Mr. Liberty came in before midnight." A black pin on the doorman's jacket gave his name as Earl.
    Earl checked the clipboard on his porter's desk under the intercom board. "But Mrs. Liberty is still out. Is that what you're here about?" He wore green and gold livery even this late on the graveyard shift. A gleaming black top hat sat on the credenza along the wall. "Is she all right?" Earl suddenly looked concerned.
    "Would you ring the apartment for me?" Mike asked.
    "Mr. Liberty won't like it."
    No one ever did. Mike jerked his chin at the intercom. It wasn't his problem.
    April pursed her lips. Instantly they'd fallen into their usual routine. Mike being the authority figure. The man. She would have been more conciliatory with the doorman because they would need his cooperation later. But hey, who was complaining? Mike always got the job done.
    Three minutes later they got out of a gleaming, dark wood-paneled elevator on the twelfth floor. There was only one door on the floor, but they wouldn't have confused the apartment anyway. The famous quarterback who'd been known as Liberty (and whom April recognized now that she saw him) stood there bleary-eyed in his doorway. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he was dressed. He wore a pair of gray slacks and was pulling a gray cashmere sweater into place as he frowned at them.
    "What's going on?" he demanded.
    "I'm Sergeant Sanchez. This is Sergeant Woo." Mike pulled out his ID, but Liberty turned his head away without looking at it.
    "Do you mind if we come in?" Mike asked.
    The impression he gave was not one of alarm. Liberty looked wary, eyed them with distrust. "All right," he said evenly. "Come in here." He led the way across a tan marble floor, then hit the light switch in the living room, stunning the two detectives with its splendor.
    For a second, Liberty seemed shocked by it also, for he gripped his forehead, shielding his eyes from the great expanse of room and windows heightened by lengths of soft white sofas, white throws, miles of textured white rugs on a white marble floor, and white gauzy curtains, all of which were offset by many pieces of striking African art. Chieftains' stools served as coffee tables. Masks hung on the walls and were suspended above ebony columns by long metal rods. Ceremonial objects, cups, tobacco boxes, brass figurines were arranged on shelves. Particularly arresting were several large wooden statues of women with out-sized breasts and men with outsized penises. Some were decorated with small shells, colored cloth, raffia, and many bits of mirror. April knew the contrast of primitive and ultrasophisticated decorating was done for a particular purpose. She didn't want to guess what it was.
    Liberty waved his hand at one of the spans of sofa but didn't go so far as to invite the two detectives to sit. April noted his demeanor carefully. The man was clearly annoyed by