I groped the walls in the semidarkness of the unfamiliar layout to turn on a light switch in the hallway leading to the bedroom. Once I found my way, I reached for the suitcase I had packed the evening before and laid out some of the clothes for the next day.
The silence and the emptiness made me uncomfortable. I wanted the comfort of my own home, and the warmth of Jake’s caress.
28
I couldn’t find the coffee beans in Jake’s kitchen when I got out of bed, shortly before seven o’clock. I showered and dressed, joining the team in the department car for the ride down to 1 Hogan Place. They let me out right in front of the building, and I bought us each some breakfast at the cart on the corner before going up to my office. Now that Wakim had been arrested I felt at least somewhat more secure.
The pile of unanswered correspondence on my desk was growing out of control. There was a stack of indictments on sex crimes cases that needed to be proofread and approved before the end of the August term, which was a week away. Phone messages from friends were taped to the computer screen; a request from Elaine to set a time to come into the Escada store to have the clothes I ordered from the fall collection shortened had been ignored; and solicitations for charitable fund-raisers collected dust on the far corner of the desk. It was still too early to find most people at their offices, so I busied myself in the review of grand jury proceedings to make sure the lawyers in the unit met their filing deadlines.
The first call was from Bob Thaler, the chief serologist at the Medical Examiner’s Office. It was not even eight thirty, and I was answering my own phones because Laura would not arrive for another hour.
“Sorry it took me so long for the tox on Omar Sheffield.” While autopsy results were available to us quickly, it frequently took weeks to run all the toxicological tests looking for foreign substances in the deceased’s brain, liver, tissue, or lungs.
“Find anything?”
“Just about everything. Omar might have been breathing when that train ran over him, but he wouldn’t have been aware of very much. He was loaded up with speedballs, more than enough to kill himself with if he’d been attempting to O.D.”
“And if someone else was trying to kill him?” Speedballs were a deadly combination of heroin and cocaine, usually mainlined right into the system.
“It’d work like a charm. Just keep pumping it into his arm.”
“But the cause of death, what have you put down for that?”
“Gross internal trauma. I mean, he died at the moment the train ran over his body, Alex. But in all likelihood the drugs could have done the trick by themselves. Somebody finds you in a hotel room in a coma, they can still get you to a hospital and try to pump the stuff out of you. Slim chance, with this amount of poison in his veins, but it might have been possible for him to survive. Run a few railroad cars over this perfectly inert body, it’s a sure thing he’s gone to meet his maker.”
“Thanks, Bob. Would you fax over a copy of the report to me?”
Lawyers were beginning to dribble into the office. I had my door open, listening for Pat McKinney’s arrival. The click of high heels on the tiles of the deserted hallway caught my attention. Pat’s office, like Rod Squires’s, was at the far end of my corridor. But there were no other women assigned to this executive wing of the Trial Division, so I stepped out to Laura’s desk to see who was walking by.
I recognized Ellen Gunsher from the back. She was junior to me, having been in the office for almost eight years. Bright enough and quite aggressive, she had taken to all of the duties of a prosecutor fairly well-except for the one that counted most. She had never grown comfortable in the courtroom and backed away from trying cases. Her surname lent itself to the unfortunate alias “Gun-shy,” and her colleagues teased her mercilessly about her retreat from the kind of professional battle that most of us relished.
Ellen had found a protector in Pat McKinney. As deputy chief of the division, he had taken her out of her trial bureau and created a special unit for her to supervise. Most of us recognized that it was a make-work kind of assignment-to serve as a contact with the NYPD’s Warrant Squad, to initiate and oversee active searches for the most dangerous of the thousands of defendants who failed to appear on their cases after bail had been granted. Many of the prisoners for whom Wanted cards had been issued were petty offenders who would turn up in the system before too long on charges of shoplifting or jumping a turnstile. Ellen’s job consisted of sifting through court papers and targeting the more violent offenders, then assigning Warrant Squad officers to make an active search for their return.
I believed that McKinney had manufactured that niche because Ellen was a decent lawyer and a nice person who was not otherwise a fit in our division. For two years I had ignored office gossip that they had been having an affair, but now the amount of time they spent together behind closed doors seemed inordinate for the nonessential nature of Ellen’s work.
I went back to my desk to gather the notes I planned to take in to McKinney to discuss the latest interviews Mike and I had done on the Caxton investigation. McKinney waved at me as he passed by my doorway. “We gotta talk.”
The case papers had outgrown a single folder. I pulled out the sheaf of reports we had worked from yesterday, took my thick legal pad including my to-do list, and headed down to the deputy’s office. I knocked on the heavy metal door.
“Come in,” Ellen called out to me. Not exactly the welcome I wanted.
She was standing by a hot plate at the far end of the room, boiling water for tea. She had opened a jar of honey and was holding two mugs. McKinney had his back to me and was talking on the phone. It was all a bit too domestic for my taste.
“How’s Mercer?” Ellen asked.
“He’s in rough shape. It was a very close call.”
“You must feel awful. I can’t imagine how you handled watching him get shot.”
I slowly moved my head back and forth, biting my lip. I had no intention of telling her anything about how I felt, and was boring my eyes through the back of McKinney’s sweaty T-shirt as though it would somehow get him off the phone faster.
“Want some tea?” she asked, holding up a third mug with a photo of McKinney’s kids under a Christmas tree emblazoned on its ceramic side.
“No thanks,” I said, raising my cardboard coffee cup at her.
“Any new leads?”
“I’ll wait until Pat gets off the phone.”
“Been up to the Vineyard at all?”
“Uh huh.” When you’re ready for full disclosure on your personal life, I’ll be happy to give you an update on my own.
“You really look whipped. Ought to try a little concealer for those circles under your eyes. Maybe you should take the next couple of weeks off. Stay up there until after Labor Day.”
Women in the workplace, I sighed to myself. Why is it that Mike Chapman could tell me how bad I looked and I could acknowledge it, but when Ellen eyeballed me and said the same thing, it sounded bitchy? Maybe I could take two weeks in the country if I was as expendable around here as you are, I thought. “I’m fine. I’ll take it easy next weekend.”
McKinney finished his conversation and sat down opposite me at his small conference table. “I want to talk to you about the case, Alex-I mean, the whole matter. I’ve been thinking that maybe the best thing-”
“Pat, would you mind if we just do this one-on-one?”
Ellen had poured the water and was squeezing the tea bags now.
“You mean Ellen? She’s a unit chief in the division. What’s the problem?”
“This discussion is between you and me. I know you’ve called a meeting for ten o’clock this morning to which I wasn’t invited. I’m planning to be there.”
“That’s a stupid idea, Alex. In fact, I’m not even sure it makes any sense for you to stay on the Caxton investigation.”
“Ellen, would you mind leaving the room, please?”
She placed the mugs on the table, and instead of ans
wering me, she looked at Pat, who was looking directly in my eyes.
“I’m not having this conversation in Ellen’s presence. Last I knew,” I said, trying not to let my temper take over my response, “no one in this case had jumped bail, failed to appear, warranted out on a misdemeanor, or otherwise done anything to invoke the awesome power of Ellen Gunsher’s irrelevant little unit. This is between the two of us, Pat. You have no business talking about it with Ellen. And don’t you dare even think about taking me off the Caxton murder. I’ll go right to Battaglia and-”
“I’ve already done that, Alex.”
Ellen’s head was snapping back and forth between us like it was on a spring. I was infuriated that Pat had spoken to the district attorney about removing me from the investigation.
“I’ll bet he told you to stick it. He has absolutely no problem with the work I’ve been doing.”
It was a bluff, but a successful one. McKinney’s moment of hesitation revealed to me that although he had raised the issue with Battaglia, he had not been given a green light to take the case away from me.
I pushed my chair back and walked to the door. “I’ll be in Battaglia’s office. When you and the Lipton Tea lady finish your morning tête-à-tête, feel free to come in, by yourself, to get a bulletin on the case. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to the important matter of how many of yesterday’s token suckers failed to show up in AP 17.”
I doubled back past my office, across the main corridor, and used my magnetized identification badge to buzz myself into the executive wing. Secretaries to the administrative assistant, the first assistant, and the chief assistant were setting up their desks for the day and greeted me with interest and concern.
Rose Malone was already at her word processor when I approached her desk. She was the last to leave the building most nights-sometimes with Paul Battaglia, but never before him. And she was always the first one in place the next day.
She didn’t even turn her head to speak to me. “He’s not here yet, Alex. There’s a community board breakfast meeting in East Harlem.”
“Do you expect him before ten?”
“No. He’s going from that one directly to the Midtown Court. There’s going to be a press release about the new computer system that will track bench warrants in all the borough courthouses and police precincts.”
Great. A new technology that will make Ellen Gunsher completely obsolete. “Will he call in from the car?”
“I expect so. Shall I transfer him over to you?”
“Please. Especially if you get him within the hour, okay?”
“Anything wrong?”
“Was Pat McKinney alone with him for any period of time yesterday?”
Rose stopped typing and looked back at Battaglia’s date book, as though trying to find a way to remind herself of the day’s meetings.
“I know he called and asked if the boss would see him. They may have spoken for a minute or two, but Paul was tied up most of the afternoon with the accountants who’ve been working on that welfare fraud case. It couldn’t have been much of a conversation.”
I thanked her and walked back to my office. As much as McKinney may have wanted me off the Caxton case, I was still alive. I needed to sit down and go over what the rest of the week might produce for us, knowing that any kind of evidentiary break would help cement my position on the team.
I could hear Chapman serenading Laura as I went back to my office. What had probably started as a cross-examination of what she knew about my relationship with Jacob Tyler had segued into an impromptu version of Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” As I turned the corner he grinned at me and continued singing. “Don’t make a mistake, Jake. Just let yourself go.”
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I growled.
“People to talk to, places to go, subpoenas to get. Let’s start with the latter. What happened to your manners? What about ‘Good morning, Mr. Chapman. How are you today? Thank you for bringing me another cup of coffee,’ huh? I’m even going out on a limb for a ‘Don’t you look lovely today, Miss Cooper. Could be you had a good night’s rest at long last.’ ”
“Thanks. But I’ve already been told by Ellen Gunsher that even makeup can’t help me in my current condition. Pat’s trying to knock me off your investigation.”
“What kind of suicide mission is he on?”
“There’s a meeting at ten to assign one of the senior trial counsel to Mercer’s shooting. And since I’m a witness to that, he wants to take me off the whole thing and set one of his pets up to handle it, before Rod Squires returns from vacation.” My back was to the door as I reached across my desk to replace the case papers on top of the folder. “I’m trying to get a call into Battaglia before this morning’s caucus on the subject.”
“Speaking of carcass, what’s up, McKinney?”
Mike warned me that Pat had appeared in the doorway, and I spun around.
“Now I’d like to talk to you alone, Alex. Why don’t you wait down the hall, Mike?”
“Battaglia gave me strict orders that she’s to have police protection around the clock, Pat. No can do.” Mike sat behind the desk in my chair and lifted his feet up on my desktop, one at a time, making the statement that he was not about to move. “We got some breaking developments on Caxton you might want to know about.”
“Take a walk, Chapman. C’mon.”
Mike checked with me before he slowly removed his legs, then stood up and started for the exit. “Be sure to give my best to your wife and kids, Pat.”
The intercom buzzed and I could hear Laura calling my name.
“Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman downstairs who wants to talk to you. His name is Frank Wrenley. Can he come up?”
I exchanged glances with Chapman, who had stopped in the doorway, and he nodded at me in response. “Keep him down there for ten minutes while I make a few calls. Maybe he can clear up some of this business about his relationship with Marina Sette. I’d like to find out exactly where she is right now.”
I told Laura to have security hold him there until Mike could go to the lobby to escort him in. “This isn’t a very good time to talk, Pat. Might as well go ahead with your ten o’clock meeting. I can’t make it anyway.”
29
“I just woke up the housekeeper in Santa Fe. She doesn’t expect Ms. Sette back there for another week. Laid on a heavy Spanish accent, says I must have misunderstood her when I called on Sunday. I’m telling you, Alex, I swear that woman told me Sette had just flown back home the other day. This is Mercer’s life, for chrissakes. It’s not anything I would have made a mistake about. Today when I press her about where I can get in touch with Sette, all I get is that the housekeeper doesn’t know. ‘ La Señora ’ is traveling.” Mike was fuming.
“All right, relax. Let’s just make a plan.”
“You know why I like it better when I’m working on something where everybody’s poor? ’Cause the friggin’ perps can’t go too far. One guy’s maybe got a mother in Queens, next one chills out at his brother’s place in the Bronx, another sleeps on the rooftop. None of this Airborne Express crap that the rich can pull. That mope I locked up for the triple homicide in the Polo Grounds projects two weeks ago? Gave me more trouble than any of ’em. His sister told me he lived in a mobile home. In New York City? No way-we don’t have ’ em here. Took me days to figure out she meant the A train. He just moved his plastic bag of worldly goods into the subway and rode from one end of the system to the other and then back, night after night. It should happen to these people. What if it actually was Marina Sette who left the message for you and Mercer to meet her?”
“Then she either has something to do with the killings or she’s on the run because she’s truly terrified of something or someone.”
“When are you gonna get results on all the subpoenas for telephone records?” His impatience was palpable.
“I call every day, and every day they tell me that the volume is t
remendous and I’ll have what I need as soon as possible. The only ones back were in yesterday’s mail. Omar Sheffield’s phone calls made while he was in jail. I had Maxine and one of the other paralegals go through them to check for calls to Denise Caxton. Not a one.”
“How can that be?”
“I checked with the warden. You’ll love this one. There’s a foolproof way for inmates to place untraceable calls now. They buy those prepaid telephone cards and then use the cards to make the calls from prison pay phones. All you’re left with is a record of a call to the company that issued the card, but no link at all to the number actually dialed. Max says Omar’s phone-privilege time slots-you know, the half hour each day he had access to the booth-show lots of activity in the period that would fit with the dates after Deni started to get letters from him, but all the outgoing ones he made just reflect the number of the calling card company in Brooklyn.”
“Damn. And no word on when you’ll have the incoming calls to the Caxton house or the galleries?”
“That takes longer. I’d guess we’re at least a week away from that stuff.”
“Let me go downstairs and get Wrenley. After he tells us why he’s here, I’ll move it to talk about Marina Sette, okay?”
I walked to my desk to find my file notes on the antiques dealer and review them. Laura stuck her head in the doorway and asked if she could borrow an emery board. I pointed to my handbag, which I had left on the leather armchair in front of the desk. “Just fish around in there. I know I’ve got a few on the bottom.”
“Would you mind if I take the day off tomorrow?” she asked tentatively.
I guessed that was the real reason she had come into the room in the first place. “As long as you can get someone to cover the phones. They’ve been wild since this started. And help Mike with the subpoenas he needs you to type up this morning.” We were short staffed because of the normal summer vacation schedule, but the pace of the investigation didn’t correspond with the seasonal slowdown. “Any luck in finding Rod Squires?”
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