Hell Gate

by Linda A. Fairstein

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “But Ethan hasn’t stepped down yet.”

  “He may try to ride this one out a few days like Eliot Spitzer did, but it won’t fly. Even that congressman from Staten Island tried to do that a few years back—you know who I mean?”

  “Vito Fossella.” Fossella had shattered a promising political career when his late-night drunk-driving arrest led to his admission about a second family he had sired in D.C.

  “Yeah. Fossella. Well, Ethan’s affair, the accident, the drinking, maybe his strong streak of ambition has him believing it will blow over in a week. I don’t think he realizes that Moses Leighton himself has somebody lined up to keep the congressional seat warm. A dead girlfriend? Murdered? People won’t let Ethan Leighton get away with that.”

  “Get away with it?” I asked. “You have the facts to convince me that it’s Ethan who killed her?”

  Vin Statler squared off and faced me. “What I’m suggesting, Alexandra, is that you focus on why somebody is dragging this crap to my doorstep. I don’t know how deep Ethan’s problems run. He set the girl up, he knocked her up—”

  The mayor paused for a breath. I didn’t want to tell him yet that Salma, in all likelihood, had not actually given birth to a child. “What else, sir?”

  “Moses Leighton was his son’s power broker. He’s been living to see that kid fulfill all his own unrealized dreams. Heaven help the person who threatened to undermine that, and if it was the girlfriend, don’t put anything beyond what Moses would be willing to do to get rid of her.”

  “You’re just speculating.”

  “You don’t know the man. He’s hired thugs to break voting machines on Election Day, he’s paid off the opposition with millions of dollars when they’ve been hungry enough to take it, and he wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to have one of his goons slit this girl’s throat.”

  “So that’s what you’d like me to tell the district attorney?”

  “Your boss isn’t known for doing stupid things, Alex,” Statler said. “But Thursday night was an exception. Charged in on me with—what’s that guy’s name?”

  “Spindlis. Tim Spindlis.”

  “Charged in to tell me they absolutely had to announce the City Council indictments then. That moment, that night. The damn grand jury’s been sitting on the case for four months. Why’d he do that?”

  “Again, sir, I don’t know.” This wasn’t the time to reveal my own suspicions about Spindlis.

  “I’ll tell you why. Kendall Reid is nose-deep in whatever the Leightons are cooking up. He’s dirty, Alex, and for some reason, Battaglia didn’t want to wait to see where that road led him. If there are more bodies, Kendall Reid knows where they’re buried.”

  Statler was flailing about. “Your colleague—Mr. Spindlis. You trust him?”

  “I do. Of course I do. I’ve worked with him for years.”

  “Tell Battaglia to watch his back,” Statler said, getting to his point. “Rod Ralevic is going down, you know. People won’t stand for that pay-to-play approach. He’s out on a limb and I think it’s about to get cut off by the feds. And the story I hear is that your man Spindlis goes down with him.”

  THIRTY

  “Hold your mouth till we get down the steps,” Mike said.

  “Why’d we have to come out this way? The wind is blowing off the river and it’s freezing.” I pulled on my gloves and stiffened the collar of my jacket.

  “Just hang out here for a few minutes,” Mike said, walking past the yellow crime-scene tape that enclosed the area of the well and folding his arms as he leaned on the wrought-iron fence. “Don’t tell me the Seine looks any better than this.”

  He turned around to talk to me, but I knew he was really checking to see if the mayor or his men were watching us.

  “You like the sculpture?” he asked.

  Bloomberg had encouraged the Museum of Modern Art to loan the mansion some of its finest pieces. The wide expanse of lawn that rolled down to the river was dotted with impressive works by notable artists—Frank Stella, Isamu Noguchi, Louise Bourgeois.

  “I like it all,” I said. “I’d move in tomorrow.”

  “He’s nervous.”

  “Statler is a no-nonsense guy. He’s pretty miserable with all this stuff swirling around him. It’s killing him that Salma’s body was found here at Gracie Mansion, so he’s taking shots at everyone else.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He’s pointing fingers everywhere. Obviously, tracks this whole thing back to Ethan Leighton. Says what we all know—that Moses Leighton is ruthless and has the money to carry out whatever plans he wants.”

  “Who else?”

  “Kendall Reid,” I said, while Mike stared back at the tall windows of the library. “Anybody looking?”

  “Walk with me, Coop,” he said, leading me to the yellow crime-scene tape that was crisscrossed over the wooden cover of the well. “What does he say about Reid?”

  “That he’s the Leightons’ lackey. That he’d pretty much do their bidding. The mayor’s really unhappy with the way Battaglia crashed that indictment Thursday night,” I said.

  Mike pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his watch.

  “Statler thinks Ethan’s going to try to tough this out and hang on to his congressional seat.”

  “Lots of luck.”

  “Set up a political battle between the Leightons and Ralevic, who’s already put a price tag on the congressional seat.”

  “Stoop down for a minute, Coop. Pretend you see something significant in the dirt.”

  “Who’s watching?”

  “Either Statler or his boys. Very interested in what you’re looking at.”

  I bent over, picked up a stone, and handed it to Mike, so that he could continue the charade.

  “I can almost hear the curtains rustling,” he said, examining and pocketing the ordinary piece of rock. “I just like toying with their brains.”

  Mike looked back at the house and waved, then started to lead me around to the rear. When we reached the driveway, he steered me left, instead of right out to the street.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Stay with me, kid.”

  “It’s cold, Mike, and I’ve got things to do.”

  The wide path ran behind the redbrick wall that separated the mansion from the acres of beautiful park that ran along the river.

  “I bet you’ve never seen Negro Point.”

  “Mike—”

  “I’m not being politically incorrect,” he said.

  Several joggers and dog walkers passed us from both directions, but the cold seemed to have kept most of the babies whose mothers and nannies favored this popular children’s park off the stroll.

  He was walking toward the wide promenade that bordered the river, below the wrought-iron fence of Gracie Mansion.

  “That southern tip of Ward’s Island, see it? For hundreds of years, on every official map ever made, that used to be called Negro Point. Right there.”

  I followed him past the benches to the river’s edge. The swift swirling current looked as unwelcoming as the cold slabs at the morgue. “No more?”

  “Just a few years ago the parks commissioner complained. Renamed it Scylla Point, and there’s a playground in Astoria called Charybdis. You go through that dangerous passage in a boat? It’s like managing the Straits of Messina. So now it’s named for the monsters of Greek mythology that guard Messina.”

  “Okay, Mike. You’re right. I should know these things. Let’s come back in the spring.”

  “One more you gotta know about. The General Slocum. Eighteen ninety-one. A passenger boat, a steamship that caught fire during a Sunday church excursion. The waters were so rough, more than one thousand people died right within reach of where we’re standing. Some burned to death, the rest drowned.”

  “I know that story. The city’s greatest loss of life in a single day—until September eleventh,” I said. “I get your poin
t, Detective. This—this death zone is aptly named.”

  I was listening to Mike, staring at the rough water in the distance, and was so distracted that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Lem Howell.

  “Somehow, my dear Counselor, I always thought we’d meet at Hell Gate,” Lem said.

  “Tricky of you, Detective Chapman,” I said, barely able to hide my anger at Mike for arranging this meeting. “Tricky, transparent, and probably more treacherous than this current.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “What’s the last thing you said to me last night?” Mike asked me in mock surprise. “You’d give your right leg to corner Ethan Leighton to talk to him, but Lem would never allow it now.”

  “Stop right there,” I said. “Enough about what I said.”

  Lem walked back and sat on one of the long wooden benches. “C’mon, Alex. Mike was right to call me. What reason would I have to stand in your way?”

  “Your client. And your client’s father.”

  “Holy Moses,” Mike said, trying to make light of this encounter he’d set up. “Now, there’s a guy I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.”

  “Moses isn’t driving this train, Alex. I promise you that.”

  “I don’t want to be rude to either of you, but I’ve got work to do,” I said, taking a few steps away from the river.

  Mike grabbed my arm and swung me around to face him. “I tried to arrange something to please you, Coop. To help the case. Now, sit down and listen to Lem.”

  “When was the last time you were sucker-punched like I was by Lem when I stepped into his limo? Either one of you? I’ve got an office and working phone lines and still prefer doing business during regular hours. What’s the part of that you two don’t seem to understand? What’s this about?”

  Lem patted the spot on the bench next to him and I sat down.

  “The developments in this case are moving as fast as these waters. Slow it down with me and smooth it out, okay?”

  I fidgeted with my gloves while he talked.

  “Ethan Leighton may have acted like a fool on a personal level, but he’s an extremely smart, exceptionally talented young man. You knew that once, didn’t you? You partnered with him on a big case.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “Keep your perspective. That’s what I’m asking you to do.”

  I could see Scylla Point in the distance and was trying to find Charybdis. I had the feeling I was destined to be crushed on the rocks in between.

  “What’s Ethan charged with right now?” Lem went on. “Driving while intoxed. Leaving the scene. Hell, first offender with a strong record of public service, I’ll get these charges reduced and dismissed. A third-year law student could get the same result.”

  “Salma Zunega’s dead,” I said. “Remember her?”

  “It seems to me you’d never heard of her until I mentioned her name.”

  “Till you told me she was crazy. You seemed to be the first to know that, too, Lem. Well, maybe you’ve heard she wasn’t quite as crazy as you wanted me to believe. Salma was murdered. That’s good to keep in mind.”

  “Ah, murder,” Lem said. He got to his feet, raising a finger in the air. “Now it becomes clear, Alex. That’s your plan? To use the m word every time Ethan Leighton’s name comes up?”

  “I don’t have a plan, Lem. It’s up to Mike, to Mercer, to the NYPD, to solve this.”

  “This? By this you mean Salma’s death as well as the shipwreck? You think they’re connected?”

  I glared at Mike.

  “You don’t want to tell me how. I get it,” Lem said. “You can’t do this to Ethan. You can’t tar him with this crime while he tries to get his good name back.”

  Now I was following a tugboat’s progress downstream. “How well I remember standing next to you during one of my first arraignments on a felony case, Lem. AR-three, night court. The judge was Irving Lang. The defendant had drugged and raped a woman and I was requesting substantial bail. His lawyer started screaming at me—how could I do this to his client?”

  Lem cocked his head and squinted, like he was trying to remember the event.

  “Don’t you hate screamers in the courtroom? Well, that guy was really wailing at me about how I was hurting his client. I remember the sharp tone of his voice as clearly as I can still see the perp’s monogrammed shirt and his rep tie, stained with blood.”

  Mike and Lem were walking back and forth in front of me, both trying to get me to make eye contact. But there was enough going on in the river to keep me engaged while I talked.

  “I must have been at a loss for words that night, Lem. Never your problem, is it? You were supervising me and you stepped in and gently pushed me aside. Made this wonderful record for me, about how the prosecution didn’t ‘do this’ to that jackass standing before the court. You described how the defendant himself plotted the evening, selected his victim, bought the drugs, sprang for an expensive bottle of wine, and then spiked the drink,” I said. “Well, I haven’t done anything to Ethan Leighton. He seems to have created his problems all by himself. His greed, his infidelity—”

  “People don’t go to jail for infidelity, Alex. Half your colleagues in the office would be behind bars.”

  “Just let me slap the cuffs on Pat McKinney myself when that day comes,” Mike said. “Don’t give me that look every three minutes, Coop. Stop rolling your eyes.”

  “We’re talking a car accident, Alex,” Lem said. “Have you lost your focus? Keep that separate and apart from the murder case.”

  “I guess this is about the Ethan Leighton press conference that you’re undoubtedly scheduling, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve got to get him in front of a microphone before the weekend’s over. He needs to speak to his constituents and assure them that he’s ready to apologize and put this all behind him.”

  “So, you responded to Mike ’cause you’re hoping I’ll tell you that when the reporters run from your office to Battaglia’s, the DA doesn’t say that the newly repentant congressman is the prime suspect in our murder case.”

  Lem smiled. “That would be helpful.”

  “We’ve got an office pool, Lem. I hate to cheat, but I can be the big winner if I bet them all that Claire Leighton will actually stand by his side through this, sunglasses covering her tear-filled eyes. Do the forgiving wife thing,” I said facetiously. “We’re just dying to know.”

  “I was working with Claire this morning when Mike called. I’m trying to get her there, but don’t bet all you’ve got on it.”

  “Go me one better. Tell me she was in on the plot, Lem.” I said. “And her father-in-law? How much has Moses offered her to hang tight?”

  Lem slapped Mike on the back. “You’re spending too much time with Chapman. I’ve never heard you be so cynical, my dear.”

  I buried my hands in my jacket pockets. Mike’s hair was blowing wildly in the strong wind, catching the occasional spray as water splashed against the seawall. Lem was ramrod straight and serious, his coat belted tightly around him against the chill.

  “What do you know about the baby?” I asked.

  “I understand you, Alex. You’re not giving me anything without a ‘get.’ ”

  “Did Ethan believe that he had fathered a child with Salma?”

  “He wasn’t happy about it. He denied it at first. Salma actually left New York for almost five months. That’s when she gave birth, somewhere in Texas. He made her do DNA testing, of course, at some lab near Brownsville. When that proved he was the father, he flew her back to the city and bought her this apartment.”

  “Did it ever occur to him that the whole baby thing was a scam?” Mike asked.

  “What do you know that I don’t?” Lem asked.

  Neither Mike nor I answered.

  “I see. Not my turn to ask questions today, is it? Ethan’s quite distraught about the child’s disappearance. I assume you know the Leightons have posted a huge r
eward for information about the little girl.”

  I was glad that Mike apparently had not told Lem about Salma’s autopsy findings.

  “You must know something about Salma’s background,” I said. “Was she trafficked into the country? Who brought her here?”

  “Don’t know, Alex. I don’t know.”

  “Come back when you do,” I said, getting up from the bench. “I’ll see you guys next week. I’d like some answers, Lem.”

  “I can do better than that, Alex. If you come with me into the park right now, I can give you a second chance. You can get them from Ethan Leighton.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “She does stubborn better than anyone,” Mike said to Lem. “Relax, will you, Coop?”

  “There’s a proper way to do this.”

  “And that would put more pressure on both you and Leighton than either of you needs, Alex,” Lem said. “I’ve always had your trust. Queen for a day—right here, right now.”

  “No, Lem.”

  “I can’t walk Ethan into the District Attorney’s Office. The press would be all over him—and all over you. ‘What did he say, who did he implicate, why’d they make a deal?’ You have my word—whatever you want. Talk to him, Alex. Get a sense of the man.”

  “I heard him snap at you in the car the other night. I felt his eyes cutting through me like lasers. And I saw Salma Zunega’s body. I have a damn good sense of Ethan Leighton.”

  “Bad attitude, blondie. We got nothing to lose.”

  “Queen for a day” was the name for a process in the criminal justice system that had been developed over the years. Defense attorneys would agree to present their clients—suspects, targets, or mere witnesses in a criminal investigation—to a prosecutor for a proffer of evidence, a sneak preview of what they might say under oath in a court of law.

  “Mike’s right, Alex. It’s Ethan who’s got the exposure here.”

  The proffer would lead to a written agreement, in which I’d assure the congressman that anything he told me couldn’t be used against him at a later time. It wouldn’t prevent me from getting derivative evidence, developing leads from any information he might give to us.