Deadfall

by Linda Fairstein

  “Why can’t you call it a zoo?” Mercer asked.

  “From the time this place was founded,” Deirdre said, “the word ‘zoo’ was frowned upon. It referred to small places—like our Central Park facility—where animals are kept in cages and not allowed to roam free.”

  “But at first, even here—” Mike started to say.

  “Yes, but that was never the plan for these two hundred sixty acres,” she replied. “It was always to be a place where animals could roam freely, with a habitat re-created to resemble the homes they were taken from. A park—which sounded far more dignified to our founders than a zoo. It has only reached this great level of sophistication with modern technology. If you haven’t visited the park lately, I’m going to insist that you take a tour.”

  “We’d love to do that,” I said. I reached to the center of the table and grabbed a pad and pencil. “Thanks, too, for reminding me about the importance of the wordage. You held me to it—not referring to this place as a zoo—in Battaglia’s dinner speech, and I would have forgotten how important it is by this point in time.”

  I jotted down the words “zoological park,” as Deirdre watched me write. I wanted her to know I was on target, concentrating on a memorial tribute, not searching for clues. She seemed to appreciate my expression of gratitude.

  “So what you asked was whether Mr. Battaglia was the board’s unanimous choice,” Deirdre said. “I’d prefer you keep what I’m about to tell you just between us, as background.”

  “Of course we will.”

  “He was not.” Deirdre looked at her notes and laughed. “Not even close.”

  Mike looked at me and my eyes opened wide. Was it possible someone knew, two years ago, of Battaglia’s association with a private big-game hunting preserve?

  “Someone objected to Battaglia because they didn’t think he was sincere when he did the work on Operation Crash?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Deirdre said. “That’s the case that had most of the board in his corner. From the perspective of our work, it was a unique and powerful piece of public service. I’m skimming my notes and I see there were complaints about making a politician the honoree. You know, there are people who didn’t vote for Paul Battaglia.”

  “Not many,” Mike said. “Eight terms, and most of the time no one ran against him.”

  Deirdre turned a page. “Then there’s the problem—voiced by many—that when you honor a public servant, you can’t raise nearly as much money as you can with a corporate leader.”

  “That’s certainly true,” I said. The staff prosecutors didn’t make enough money to chip in for fifty-thousand-dollar tables or bid on twenty-five-thousand-dollar auction items. It always worked better to bestow the award on the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and let his underlings fill the ballroom with equally wealthy sycophants or rivals.

  “But, just so I don’t head off in the wrong direction when I’m writing this,” I said, “there was nothing in your vetting that turned up opposition material to Battaglia on the wildlife issue itself?”

  “Of course not,” Deirdre said.

  “Like if the man was off herding elk into his garage and shooting them,” Mike said, “you would have known about it?”

  Deirdre thought he was funny. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Isn’t that what it’s like to be on a shooting preserve? Someone rounds up all the animals and you just take pot shots at them, for sport?”

  “That’s my view of it,” Deirdre said, shaking her head. “This spring, a group imported ninety kangaroos and released them into the wild in Wyoming.”

  “Kangaroos?” I asked.

  “Yes. The climate resembles that in Australia, and, well, hunters will love the novelty of killing those creatures, I’m sure.”

  “It’s shocking.”

  “There’s even a preserve in Texas where the guests shoot at wild boar from a helicopter,” Deirdre said. “I don’t know where the word ‘sportsmanship’ fits into that scenario.”

  The idea sickened me, but the mention of Texas perked me up.

  “Texas? Are you talking about the ranch—the preserve—where Justice Scalia died?” I asked. “Do you know anything about Saint Hubertus?”

  “Hey, I’m just development,” Deirdre said. “I don’t know a thing about that organization except that the honorable justice would not have been on our short list of honorees.”

  “Diana,” I said, hungry for a positive answer. “Is there a hunt club named after the Roman goddess?”

  “Not that I know of, but most of these societies are so secretive, Alex—by plan—that it’s really rare to hear anything about them,” Deirdre said. “Texas is full of these twenty-thousand-acre preserves in hill country.”

  “What’s that about?” Mercer asked. “Deer? Buffalo? Game birds?”

  “Oh, no. The owners of some of these properties have been importing exotic hoofstock from Africa for years: oryx and ibex, wildebeests, gazelles—even zebra.”

  “To be hunted and killed? Why would anyone find pleasure in killing a zebra?” I asked. “Is it legal?”

  “Some of the imports are sanctioned, but certainly not endangered or threatened species,” Deirdre said. “Take the dama gazelle, which may be the most graceful animal on earth. It’s from the Sahara, but it’s critically endangered.”

  “Why so?” Mercer asked.

  “Overhunted, of course, and also because its habitat is shrinking. Society keeps encroaching on its land,” Deirdre said. “But go online, Mercer. Google ‘Texas and hunting preserves.’ You’ll get dozens of options popping up, offering you packages of game to shoot. Animals of your choosing. Somehow these gorgeous creatures—dama gazelles—have been brought into North America, some of them for captive breeding programs and others smuggled, just for the purpose of providing target practice for some rich sportsman.”

  “I assume Mr. Battaglia was keenly interested in all this,” I said, trying to find a way back to my mission.

  Deirdre Wright pursed her lips. “Not so much, frankly.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Like I said, I met with the DA twice before we honored him. The first time was in his office, when I explained to him the setup for the evening, talked about the run of show and what we expected his remarks to cover, and asked for his guest list.”

  “His guest list?” Mike said. “I thought it was your party.”

  “This is how charity dinners go, Mike,” Deirdre said. “We’ve got a list of all our donors, and, yes, most of our loyal and regular high rollers will pay the money and come to the annual dinner. But the way an organization grows is by bringing in an honoree who has a pretty big following himself.”

  “So Paul Battaglia’s campaign contributions,” Mike said. “Eight terms’ worth of them.”

  “That was the idea that won over the recalcitrant board members,” she said, removing a green folder from the pile and waving it at us. “The color of money.”

  “But in the end he wouldn’t play; is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Some people are like that,” Deirdre said. “They make promises to us so we give them the award—which comes with a lot of media attention, all over the world, and introduces the honoree to many of our folks he doesn’t know.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Paul Battaglia gave you a rousing ‘yes’ when he was asked to accept the honor but got too busy with his work and major cases when time came to lean on him for the list.”

  “Let’s just say it was a short list.” Deirdre winked at me. “You do know him well.”

  “I assume that what you like is for the man of the year to turn his Rolodex over to you,” I said.

  “Ideally. But that didn’t happen.”

  I was itching to get my fingers inside Deirdre’s green folder and scan the names—her list and Battaglia’s desig
nated hitters.

  “Did you get to meet Amy Battaglia?” I asked.

  “The DA’s wife?” Deirdre asked. “Only to shake hands at the dinner.”

  That left another door open for me. “If I could have a copy of the lists, I can probably come up with names to add for invites to the memorial,” I said. “If Mrs. B didn’t cross into this part of the DA’s interests, she’ll probably neglect to include them.”

  “Interesting idea. I mean, I know my boss would certainly like to be included,” Deirdre said, though I noted her hesitation, “and maybe some of the board members of Animals Without Borders. But I—well, I’d have my head handed to me if I made a copy of this list for you.”

  “What if I stayed right here,” I said, forcing a smile, “and just scanned the names on both lists? It could be so helpful to the family.”

  “It’s hard to say no to that, isn’t it?” she said.

  Deirdre Wright played her fingers on the green folder like it was a piano.

  “Why don’t I turn my back for a moment, and you take a look at the names, if you think it will provide some comfort for the family,” she said. “I’ll try and engage Mike and Mercer to come back to the park.”

  She stood up and walked to the window, leaving the file with me.

  “I could make this really worthwhile for you,” Mike said, stepping in beside Deirdre. “Don’t get fooled by the fact that Alex is a public servant. She’s also a trustifarian.”

  “A what?”

  “She’s got a trust fund,” Mike said, “and she’s crazy about animals. The wilder the better.”

  Deirdre was amused. And distracted.

  I was scrolling down the abbreviated list of names that Battaglia had given to AWB. There were few surprises on the first page—relatives and friends, partners at major law firms, prosperous members of the defense bar, guys he golfed with and summered with in East Hampton. I recognized names of prominent men and women who’d been similarly honored by the American Museum of Natural History or the Frick or other cultural institutes, for whom this contribution would have been payback.

  “You bought a ticket to the dinner,” Deirdre said to me. “You were there.”

  “A ticket?” Mike said. “She could have bought a table. She could have bought six or eight tables.”

  I let him babble on while I read on. I expected that he’d have me signed up as a supporter before we left the grounds today.

  “The Reverend Shipley was a contributor?” I asked Deirdre.

  She answered without turning her head. “Not a chance. The Reverend Hal is a freeloader. All the time,” she said. “Battaglia specifically requested we put Hal at his table.”

  I didn’t remember that, but the dinner was more than a year before the reverend and I had our dustup over his attempt to interfere in a case Mike and I were working on. I thought of him then as a community pariah—morally bankrupt and totally corrupt—but I had never figured his tentacles reached into Paul Battaglia’s pockets.

  “We do a lot of outreach in Harlem,” Deirdre said, “with our educational programs for kids and our teach-ins here at the park. So we get great support from most of the Harlem leaders, but nothing at all from Hal Shipley.”

  “The rev’s got no redeeming social value,” Mike said.

  While Deirdre was pointing out something through the window, I scribbled down some of the names that were less familiar to me. Tonight I could cross-check them against the fashion gala guest list that was published in yesterday’s papers, in case my hunch about George Kwan was incorrect.

  “We do,” she was saying in answer to questions Mike and Mercer had asked. “We get more than three million visitors a year. We’ve got four thousand animals who live here with us, representing six hundred fifty different species.”

  “That must make you the largest metropolitan zoo in the country,” Mercer said.

  “It does.”

  “I see that Wolf Savage was one of your big donors,” I said. “Not to the Battaglia evening, but in general, even sending in a check for that event.”

  “Yes, we were so saddened by Mr. Savage’s death,” Deirdre said. “He was such a philanthropic man. I hope the family—the corporation—keeps it up.”

  “That would be wonderful.” It was premature for me to suggest that I could put in a word with Savage’s daughter. If this turned out to be an avenue of interest, there would be plenty of time for me to do that.

  “It was such a perfect fit,” she said. “You know his company was named WolfWear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, of course you know that,” Deirdre said, turning back to me. “So he made it his personal interest to help save the Mongolian gray wolf. He liked the symbolism of it.”

  “Tell me about the animal,” I said. I was stretching to make connections now—some of them doubtless inconsequential, but sooner or later we were bound to hit pay dirt.

  “The gray wolf?” she asked. “Sure. It’s the largest canid in Asia.”

  “Canid?” Mike asked.

  “Dogs, wolves, jackals—they’re all in the Canid genus. The gray wolves are slender and long-limbed, but very powerful.”

  “And endangered because they’re hunted?” he said.

  “That, and because in Asia, where they live, they’re used a lot as an ingredient in traditional medicine,” Deirdre said. “They’re killed for their brains.”

  “Brains?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, wolves are key figures in Mongolian culture. They’re believed to have been the ancestors of Genghis Khan.”

  “Ah,” Mike said. “The Supreme Conqueror.”

  “So their brains are said to have great healing powers.”

  “So does Preparation H,” Mike said, “but there’s nothing on earth I’d shoot to get my hands on some of it.”

  Deirdre chuckled. “Neither would Mr. Savage. He even staged one of his Fashion Week shows in the Central Park Zoo. The models actually walked with the baby goats and the potbellied pigs and the petting zoo animals. It was a huge hit.”

  “I’ll bet it was,” Mike said.

  Now I was trying to make links between the WCS donors and the Wolf Savage gala on Monday night. The names on Deirdre’s list might be more important than I could factor in at the moment. Surely, some of the wildlife donors would have respected Wolf’s work in this field. And maybe one of them was recognized by Battaglia—at the Met, on the late news, before he headed out to meet me in such a rush.

  I flipped over the three pages of personal donors and went on to those tabbed as corporate sponsors. There was a single name that jumped out at me.

  KWAN ENTERPRISES was listed in all caps and bold ink as both a Platinum Supporter of Animals Without Borders and the underwriter of the dinner honoring the district attorney.

  I played it as casually as I could, hoping Mike wouldn’t pile in when he heard the name.

  “Kwan Enterprises,” I said. “That sounds so familiar. What can you tell me about them?”

  “All I know is that they’re an international business of some kind. They’ve got big money and they give it freely to good causes, like WCS and AWB.”

  “The man in charge of the company,” I said, “is George Kwan, if I have my information right.”

  “I think you do. That’s the name I recognize, the signature on the checks.”

  “Tell me what you know about him,” I said. “Tell me how he’s involved with your organization.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Deirdre said. “Kwan is kind of a mystery to us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “George Kwan doesn’t participate in any of our events,” she said. “I’m not sure he’s in the States very often, because he has businesses all over the world. But if my boss asks him for money, George Kwan sends a check.”

  “What does he get
in return?” I asked.

  Deirdre looked puzzled. “Same as all our other donors, Alex. He gets free admission to the park, tickets to our lectures, newsletters about our research, and all that sort of thing.”

  “No special access?”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Then why did you say he’s mysterious?” I asked.

  “Because most people who give us gobs of money make demands,” Deirdre said. “They want to give parties here at the park, free admission for all their friends, and behind-the-scenes access to our animal keepers and feeding pens. They want their kids to ride on the Bug Carousel and eat breakfast with the gorillas.”

  “But George Kwan wants nothing?”

  Deirdre Wright lifted her hands and threw back her head, as if searching in the air for an answer. “Can you believe that perhaps he just has a good heart and believes in our cause?”

  “That could be, but—”

  “Mr. Kwan is Chinese,” Deirdre said, “and dozens of the animals in that country are facing extinction. Red pandas and white-cheeked gibbons, Siberian tigers and snow leopards. I could give you a list of fifty more.”

  “So you don’t think Kwan is taking their brains,” Mike said, “at the same time he’s doling out dollars to you?”

  “I seriously doubt that, Mike,” she said.

  “Then why do you consider him so mysterious?” I asked.

  “We’d like to meet him, is all. We’d like to get to know Mr. Kwan.”

  “So you can dig a little deeper in his pockets?” Mercer asked.

  “You nailed me,” she said. “I’m really good at that. It’s just that since he came to us several years ago, he’s been more elusive than the yeti.”

  “George Kwan,” Mike said. “Man of mystery, Coop.”

  Deirdre smiled again. “That’s why we think he might just be an apparition, Mike,” she said. “It’s our nickname for him—we call him the ghost.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Why did you get off the drive here?” I asked. “Aren’t we going to midtown for dinner?”