“Oh.”
“You’re trying too hard,” Mike whispered to me. “Relax.”
“So we’re only ten minutes away,” I said.
“It’s two now,” Deirdre said, “and I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you come over at three, and I’ll get you started. Would that work?”
“Sure. Sure it will.”
“Very good. Come in at the Fordham Road entrance—the Rainey gates—and head up, well, do you know where Astor Court is?” she asked.
“Astor Court?” I repeated the name aloud, shrugging my shoulders.
Mike nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“Head for that and then just ask one of the guards for the Heads and Horns building. I’m on the second floor,” Deirdre said. “Room 206.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”
I handed the phone back to Mercer. “So now we’re the memorial committee?” Mercer asked.
“I’ve been told not to mope around feeling sorry for myself,” I said. “What a good thing to involve myself in, to honor the late district attorney. Didn’t I make it clear that I’m not doing anything official?”
“James Prescott will have your head,” Mercer said.
“Heads and Horns it is,” I said. “You know where that building is, Mike?”
“Follow me,” he said. “You know how this place—I mean the zoo—was founded, don’t you?”
“Not a clue.”
“European royalty had its Saint Hubertus Society, as we found out, but America had a Boone and Crockett Club.”
“Daniel Boone?” I asked. “King of the Wild Frontier?”
“Those are the guys,” Mike said.
We were walking along a broad path, beautifully landscaped, and circling a tall stone fountain that was adorned with mythical creatures of all sorts. We continued on up the steps, stopping in front of the original buildings that had housed the first animals ever brought to the zoo.
“What do Boone and Crockett have to do with this?” Mercer asked.
“So far as I can remember,” I said, thinking back to my brothers’ fascination with their coonskin caps and all things related to Crockett, “those two managed to shoot and kill and skin and trap just about every critter that crossed their paths. Not very conservation-minded.”
“Nobody was,” Mike said, “when this country was growing westward. Nobody saw any need to be.”
“Crockett would be one of your heroes because he was in the Tennessee militia,” Mercer said, “and he died fighting Santa Anna and the Mexicans at the Alamo.”
“That would be right. So Teddy Roosevelt and his friends created something called the Boone and Crockett Club in the 1880s. No green robes. No white hoods,” Mike said. “They were early crusaders for saving wildlife.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “TR was a big-game hunter. He was slaughtering animals everywhere he went. I’ve seen photographs of him on these testosterone-filled trips with the guys standing next to dead elephants and zebras in Africa, elk and buffalo in the Dakotas. Don’t tell me this club was about conservation.”
“Teddy knew better than anyone that these animals were doomed to extinction unless there were ways to save them.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t shoot them. That’s one way.”
“I’m telling you, Coop, TR introduced legislation to stop deer hunting in New York, and this club dedicated itself to creating the zoological park. This park.”
“Why here?” Mercer asked. “Was this part of the Bronx really that wild?”
“Totally unkempt,” Mike said. “They’ve got loads of pictures of it over at the university. It was like a jungle of trees and weeds, a few huge bogs, a deadly sewer stream that flowed through it, and not a drop of drinking water anywhere on these two hundred sixty acres. What they created here is nothing short of miraculous.”
The pavement was redbrick, and the staircase led up to an enormous building with a great dome on top of it.
“Recognize that architecture? This is the Elephant House—and it was modeled on one of the great creations of the Columbian Exposition,” Mike said. “Chicago, 1893.”
“I don’t know much about the exposition except for the devil in the White City,” I said, thinking of the extraordinary story of the serial killer who murdered dozens of women during its run, “but the building is pretty spectacular.”
We walked through the arch under the dome—which was lined with Guastavino tiles, just like the magnificent ghost station in the subway below city hall and over the whispering corner in Grand Central Terminal.
“Can you imagine elephants penned up in buildings like this?” Mercer asked. “African elephants on one side and Asians on the other, with a small caged area outside where they could walk for a few hours a day.”
“What’s the difference between African and Asian elephants?” I asked.
“Pretty much two things,” Mercer said. “The Africans tend to be larger than their counterparts. They also have larger ears, which are sort of shaped like the continent itself.”
“This whole place was obviously built before the idea of designing spaces that resemble the natural habitats of the animals came to be,” Mike said. “You could go a little stir-crazy inside an old brick building if you were used to the freedom of the jungle.”
“That’s what happened to the zoo’s very first elephant,” Mercer said, obviously recalling his youthful obsession with the large gray beasts. “He was caught in the wild, in Assam. The zookeepers here were hoping to tame the big guy, but docile wasn’t in the stars for Gunda. He injured so many of the staff that he wound up in shackles.”
“Leg shackles?” I asked.
“Yes, chained down by all fours,” Mercer said. “But he still raged and charged at everyone who came near him, till they finally put him down.”
“With an elephant gun, no doubt,” Mike said.
“I thought zoos were such happy places,” I said.
“Better when we were kids than way back then,” Mercer said, patting me on the head.
“Straight forward to Heads and Horns,” Mike said. “At the far end of Astor Court, to your right.”
“What was that named for?” I asked. “Heads and Horns.”
“The first director of this facility,” Mike said, “was a man named William Hornaday.”
“He was a zoologist?”
“Not exactly, Coop. He was a taxidermist.”
“What? The guy stuffed dead animals?”
“That’s what he did,” Mike said.
“Why did they let him run a zoo, full of live ones?” I asked. “That makes no sense.”
“Listen to me, kid. Before 1900, it was pretty damn rare to find a man who made a distinction between killing for sport—like the great white hunters—and killing for scientific study, for education,” Mike said. “Hornaday made it his goal to preserve the animals of North America. He was really the forefather of this conservation movement.”
“But in the meantime,” I said, speeding up my gait, “he built a museum full of stuffed heads.”
“That’s what people who couldn’t go on safari with Teddy wanted to see, Coop. Rhinos and elephants and giraffes—on the wall from floor to ceiling.”
“Breaks my heart,” I said. “What’s the reason to shoot a giraffe, just to hang its beautiful long neck on the wall? They’re not predators.”
“Different times,” Mike said. “All the animals in the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History were shot specifically for the purpose of displaying them, to educate people who’d never otherwise see them.”
“Different moral compass.” I loved that museum—I think everyone did. Re-creations of animal life created in the 1940s. Real skin and actual bones underneath, stuffed with papier-mâché to
make the creatures come to life.
“In the middle of the room here at Heads and Horns was a pair of the largest elephant tusks in the world,” Mike said, “each one more than twelve feet long.”
“Blood ivory,” I said. “Then and now.”
“You don’t have to run, kid. This whole museum was dismantled fifty years ago. That moment of trophy heads and horns has passed. I studied it while I was at Fordham. I’ve only seen pictures,” Mike said. “The old building just holds administrative offices now.”
There were sea lions at play in the large pool beyond the original Primate House. It was so refreshing to see living things in spaces that resembled their native homes, instead of hearing these tales of cement captivity from Mike. Schoolkids surrounded the wrought iron fence, fixated on the barking creatures that climbed up to bask in the October sunlight before diving back into the chilly water.
Almost everything that used to be a brick-and-mortar enclosure seemed to have been repurposed for some other space—a cafeteria that had been the Lion House, once filled with majestic royal palms that fronted the cages that held pacing beasts, and an education facility in the former Antelope House.
Rhinos, horns intact, grazed behind the buildings off to our right, and peacocks seemed to have no confines at all, strutting on the footpaths as though they owned the property.
“We’re still early,” Mike said, pulling out his phone. “I’d better check in with the US attorney before he implodes.”
I sat down on a bench, watching the endless march of visitors, most adults with maps in hand and kids running ahead to find their favorite animals.
“Is this Ella?” he asked. “It’s Mike Chapman for Mr. Prescott.”
I threw back my head to catch some of the rays while Mike waited.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Mike started to listen—and then held the phone away from his ear so that I could hear James shouting at him.
“I’m actually not working this week, sir,” Mike said. “I’m not required to keep my phone on, so you really don’t have to yell at me for not returning your calls.”
Then a pause while Prescott spoke.
“Yes, I had lunch with Alexandra today and, yes, I gave her your message,” he said. “She didn’t much feel like calling you, but I expect she’ll be in your office tomorrow. She intends to give you her complete cooperation.”
I couldn’t make out the words James was speaking, but I could hear the tone of his voice.
“Alexandra was pulling a Garbo, sir,” Mike said. “No? Not a movie guy, are you, then?”
Prescott’s volume increased.
“It means she wanted to be alone,” Mike said. “And frankly, she’s on a leave of absence, so it’s not really any of your business.”
Another question.
“I didn’t say that, sir. I didn’t say I don’t know where she is, because you never asked me that. If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Prescott, Alexandra is visiting relatives in the Bronx.”
A short burst this time.
“You may not have known she had relatives there, but I think we pretty much all do. It’s a generational thing,” Mike said, before shutting off his phone.
I got up to high-five my lover. “Well done,” I said, kissing him on each cheek.
“I couldn’t help myself, Coop. I’m staring at the sign that says Primate House. These creatures are Prescott’s missing links, too, no matter how he wound up in horse country.”
Mercer had backed off in the other direction, probably to check in with Vickee and to call his lieutenant, who was clearly giving him a break for the afternoon.
When he returned, he had a grim expression on his face.
“All quiet on Vickee’s end,” Mercer said. “They can’t confirm the fact that Battaglia was actually in Texas the night Justice Scalia died, so that buys DCPI at least another day with the media.”
Unlike the tabloids, the mainstream media required two sources to go with a story. Thankfully, they were short one on the Saint Hubertus angle.
“And no new clues on the assassins,” Mercer said, “so the Police Foundation has upped the reward money to two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Life is cheap. I’d have thought the Manhattan DA was worth way more than that,” Mike said. “I guess he was past his sell-by date at this point.”
“What’s the bad news?” I asked.
“The lieutenant asked me to tell you that this didn’t come from him,” Mercer said.
“Deal.”
“You’re not wrong about Detective Stern wanting to put the screws to you, Alex,” Mercer said.
“What now?” I asked, tensing up at the mention of his name. “What did I do to ask for that?”
“You just did your job,” he said. “But it turns out that the guy you convicted of drugging and raping that grad student eighteen months ago—you know the case I mean?”
“Yes, he doped her with roofies, then practically drowned her in his bathtub trying to wake her up. Threatened her not to call the police, because he had connections at the precinct.”
“That perp’s connection is none other than Jaxon Stern,” Mercer said. “He’s married to Stern’s sister.”
“So what?” I said. “The guy I convicted is a total asshole.”
“Yeah, but Detective I-Am-Internal-Affairs actually bailed him out when the arrest happened. He almost lost his chance to go from IAB to Homicide. So now Jaxon not only got a serious dressing down, but he’s stuck with supporting his sister and her kids. The man would like nothing better than to see you go down in flames.”
SIXTEEN
“Hello, I’m Deirdre Wright.”
“I’m Alex,” I said, introducing her to Mike and Mercer. “It’s very nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise, although I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“So do we all.”
She ushered us into Room 206 and we each grabbed a seat around the small table in the middle of the room. Over Deirdre’s shoulder, I could see the bright plumage of a variety of birds, flying high in the giant aviary across from the rear of the building.
“Just to be clear,” I said, repeating what I had told her on the phone, “I have nothing to do with the investigation into Paul Battaglia’s death.”
“I understand that,” Deirdre said. “The newspaper stories say you’re on leave, and beside that, I can’t imagine any reason the murder case would reach into the WCS or the zoo. I appreciate that you’re thinking of us for the bigger picture.”
We were good. No matter what came after this, Deirdre Wright could truthfully say that I had not represented to her that I was working with the feds on the DA’s shooting.
“Happy to,” I said.
She glanced at my companions, showing she was not to be trifled with. “Are you all on leave?”
“Just keeping an eye on Ms. Cooper,” Mike said, running his fingers through his thick dark hair and giving Deirdre his classic Chapman grin. “We work with her, and since she and I were both eyewitnesses to the shooting, we’re laying low for the week. Mercer’s our bodyguard.”
Deirdre responded to the word “bodyguard” by sitting up straight and losing her smile. I had the feeling that when people looked at me now and knew who I was, they would see the words DEATH GRIP written across my forehead in scarlet letters.
“Did you have a chance to work with Paul Battaglia when you helped Animals Without Borders organize the dinner in his honor?” I asked.
Deirdre had her hand on a small stack of folders, color-coded and tabbed by subject.
“I only met the DA twice,” she said. “If you’ve ever planned one of these charity dinners—or been honored at one—you sort of know the drill.”
“Start from scratch,” Mike said. “I’m a novice.”
Sh
e pulled out the red folder from the bottom of the pile. “First, the executive committee of their board comes up with some nominees for the annual award. That happens about a week after the annual dinner is over.”
“You plunge right into the next year?” Mike asked.
“Yes,” Deirdre said. “You can’t imagine how much planning one of these events takes—from selecting the venue, choosing a date that works for everyone involved, finding an honoree acceptable to the committee, growing the guest list, collecting the money, and choosing a speaker who can keep a crowd awake and not walking out the door before the coffee is served. We all take a week off—I’m the liaison between the two groups—then we dive right in all over again.”
“Was Battaglia the unanimous choice of the committee when he was honored—what was it—two years ago?” I asked.
Deirdre opened the red folder, then looked up at me. “Do you really need this kind of detail to plan a memorial?”
“She can’t help herself sometimes,” Mike said, leaning forward with clasped hands on the table, trying to bond with Deirdre—loosen her up a bit. “It’s the investigative gene in her DNA. Kind of drives Mercer and me crazy, too.”
Deirdre responded to him and returned the smile with a wide one of her own.
“We’re trying to distract her for a few days,” Mike went on, as though I wasn’t in the room. “Hey, if she thinks she can solve the murder case at the same time as she can do good for her old boss, what’s the harm? There are snakes around every corner, out on the street and right here inside your park. We like to cut Coop some slack.”
“No harm at all,” Deirdre said. Now she was looking at me more like I was a mental patient than a killer.
She flipped through a sheaf of papers. “They’ve got a really tough board. Not just smart and rich and prestigious, but men and women who take wildlife conservation more seriously than anything else. Sure they’re patrons of the arts and they’re captains of industry, but this zoological park—and do not, Alex, whenever it is that you make your remarks, refer to it as a ‘zoo,’ okay?—this zoological park is the center of their universe. It drives all their efforts worldwide to save species and to save wild places.”
Deadfall Page 11
