Silent Mercy

by Linda Fairstein

  “Well, yes. But evangelicals believe in regulating those passions. Not a lot of talking in tongues where I come from.”

  “Can you point us to any specific organizations?” Mike was hoping to get direction from Faith Grant.

  “I’d be looking at some of the extreme ministries that have sprung up.”

  “Extreme?”

  “Yes. You know that a lot of nondenominational churches—evangelicals in particular—have used popular culture to reach new followers. Rock music, skateboarding—including pop things like that has been going on for years.”

  “So what do the extreme groups do?”

  Faith paused before answering. “There are a lot of ministers who think that the church has become too feminized. I don’t mean just because of women in the clergy. They think, in this new movement, that we’ve gotten too far away from Christ, emphasizing compassion and kindness rather than strength and responsibility.”

  “So what’s their solution?” I asked.

  “Fighting. Using mixed martial arts as part of the church service.”

  “You got to be pulling my leg,” Mike said.

  “I wish I were. They believe that using violence—or sport, I guess they’d call it—explains how Christ fought for what he believed in.”

  “You know where these extreme ministries are? You’ll give us names?”

  “I can work on that today. They’re pretty much springing up everywhere.”

  “Have you had any personal experience with anyone in particular that you think marks you in one of these fringe groups?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Not that at all. But when I look for—I don’t know—someone capable of this kind of violent behavior, I’m not thinking he comes out of any church that I know.”

  Mike lowered his voice. “Then you haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Faith: every one of the deadly sins committed by the righteous and the religious, sometimes before the preacher even gets to say the last amen.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  MIKE and I walked Faith back to her apartment and waited while she packed a small suitcase with clothes, toiletries, and books to get through the weekend in the dormitory. She had arranged through the secretary of the soon-to-be-retired president to stay in one of the guest suites for the weekend. No one questioned the problems with the aged heating system that she complained of in her apartment.

  “Are you sure we aren’t putting you into the reach of someone here who could be dangerous?” I asked as we entered the lobby and passed into the center courtyard.

  “I’ll be very safe,” Faith said.

  The small quad looked like most other campuses at eleven a.m. A few students were throwing Frisbees around while others tossed a football. The music that came from classroom windows was the sound of a gospel choir at practice, and the kids who greeted Faith on the path were a mix of earnest and upbeat.

  “How about your nemesis?” I asked. “The guy you didn’t look too happy to see when the statue nearly got you. Won’t you tell me his name?”

  She looked up at me and smiled. “Would you mind if I turn the other proverbial cheek, Alex? He spends weekends in Connecticut, and the only serious backstabbing he does is with a very sharp tongue.”

  We exchanged phone numbers and e-mails so that we could stay in communication. “You’ll call us if anything happens?” I asked. “No matter how insignificant it seems to you.”

  “Of course I will. I’ll have Chat here with me too. That’s why I told them I needed a suite. As soon as she comes back today, I’ll have her join me. Might be a bit more church than she’s used to on an average weekend, but she’s fiercely loyal to me.”

  “That’s excellent. We’ll talk later.”

  We let ourselves out and walked across Broadway toward Mike’s car. “Wasn’t that woman pastor in Kentucky murdered in a Pentecostal church?”

  “Yeah, but can you imagine how many of them there are all over the country?” I said. “I wouldn’t go leaping to any conclusions from that. Are you still going to JTS to canvass?”

  He checked his text messages. “Peterson’s got two guys on site now. Why don’t we work out of your office, with Mercer and Nan.”

  “I won’t tell Scully if you don’t,” I said, getting into the passenger seat. I held my forefinger against my mouth to ask Mike to be quiet. “I’ve got a call to make.”

  I dialed Information to get a listing for New Amsterdam Prep. “Connect me,” I said to the operator, then asked to be passed along to the headmaster. “Good morning. My name is Alexandra Cooper. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. I’m calling about two—”

  “I was expecting your call, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Borracelli said you’d be phoning.”

  If Paul Battaglia and Keith Scully were cutting back my duties, it looked like Borracelli had my day’s work lined up for me.

  “Is Gina at school today?”

  “Yes, she’s in class now.”

  “And Javier Valdiz?”

  “No. No, we suspended him when he showed up this morning. He’ll be expelled once you confirm that he violated the school’s honor code.”

  “Violated what?” I asked.

  “The New Amsterdam Prep code.”

  “Mr. Borracelli is gravely mistaken, sir. My jurisdiction is strictly the penal code. I’m not calling on behalf of Gina’s father. I’m calling because I conducted a criminal investigation which involved two of your students and several others as witnesses.

  “I want you to know that Mr. Valdiz, in fact, didn’t commit any crime. He’s not going to be prosecuted, and I would suggest—before I advise his lawyer to take legal action—that you reinstate him as quickly as possible.”

  The man on the other end of the phone sucked in air. “May I have your callback number, Ms. Cooper?”

  “Because you want to talk to Mr. Borracelli before you hear me out? He’ll be happy to give it to you.” And my home address, too, no doubt.

  “He told me that Gina wanted to withdraw charges. That she’s too fragile, emotionally, to go through with a prosecution.”

  “I’ll say it again. Javier Valdiz did not commit a crime. There was no rape. Gina admitted that to me, after all the evidence was evaluated.”

  “But … but surely statutory rape? She’s underage, Ms. Cooper.”

  “So is he. A man has to be over twenty-one to be prosecuted for having sex with a minor.”

  “Tell him it’s called Hooking Up in the First Degree when two consenting teens hit the mattresses,” Mike said. “I’ll have his whole upper school in lockdown by the end of the day.”

  The headmaster was mulling over what I told him, clearly surprised by the news. When he spoke, it was about the school honor code. “It’s still a violation for Javier to be drinking alcoholic beverages.”

  “Even though it was Gina who served them to him, and had a lot more than he did? I think my count was seven intoxicated New Amsterdam students at the party. You’ll toss them all? Or does the code only apply to the scholarship students who don’t have a pitbull parent fighting for them?”

  “I’ll have to discuss this with my staff. And with Mr. Borracelli, of course. We’re not about to expel seven students, Ms. Cooper.”

  Not at thirty thousand a year, I wouldn’t think. “My more important immediate concern is Gina’s mental health. She has threatened to hurt herself if Javier isn’t thrown out. I’d suggest you have her parents and maybe a counselor present when you complete your findings and inform her of them.”

  “Aren’t you going to do that?”

  “I’ve done my job, sir. I have no role in the rest of your internal decisions. I’m just making sure you’re aware that Gina has expressed suicidal thoughts to her family, whether true or not, and I think you need to pay attention to that as you go forward.”

  “Take a line out of Borracelli’s book,” Mike said, poking me in the ribs with one hand as he guided the steering wheel with the other. “Doesn’t this joker know who you are? Tell him who you a
re and be done with it.”

  I covered the phone. “Who am I, Detective? This guy knows exactly who I am in Borracelli-speak. Nobody. I’m absolutely nobody and now I’m dropping a monster headache in his lap to boot.”

  “Were you talking to me? It was muffled,” the headmaster said. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “No, sir. I’m driving into a dead cell zone. I think we’re done.”

  “You may be finished with me, Ms. Cooper. But I don’t think you’ve heard the last from Vincenzo Borracelli.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  NAN Toth had set up our team in a conference room in her building, which was directly across the street from the main office on Hogan Place. At one point, the courthouse held the entire district attorney’s staff, but thirty years ago we’d annexed an adjacent government building as we more than doubled in size to close to six hundred lawyers.

  I was on the phone with my secretary while Mike searched for a parking space. “Laura doesn’t even want me to show my face on the eighth-floor corridor. She’s given Pat McKinney the impression that I’ve taken the day off, like I’m taking the commissioner’s advice seriously. She’s sending Maxine over with all my papers on the case.”

  “Excellent.” He backed into a no-parking zone and tossed his laminated police plate in the windshield. “So Nan’s your shill today.”

  “She’s the ideal cover to take the lead. Battaglia thinks she walks on water.”

  “Perfect talent for this case.”

  We made our way into the 80 Centre Street offices, which were so antiquated that the elevators still required operators to ferry the hundreds of lawyers and support staff up and down all day.

  The tired machine groaned its way to the fourth floor, and I led Mike through the maze of security checkpoints and cubicles the size of rabbit warrens—homes to the rookie prosecutors—to the small conference room that serviced the Cold Case Unit and the Child Abuse team.

  Nan and Mercer had established themselves at corners of the long table. My supersmart and good-natured paralegal, Max, was just unloading stacks of my Redwelds, already overstuffed with police reports and paperwork related to the two murders.

  “Anything else you need?” she asked.

  Mike and I staked out territory opposite each other. “Don’t you dare leave,” I said to Max. “We’re going to suck that powerful brain of yours dry today. Grab a seat.”

  She was obviously pleased to be part of the team, and I valued the fresh pair of non-law enforcement eyes to reexamine all the facts that we had.

  “Make yourself useful, Max,” Mike said. “You take dictation?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’ll talk slow. Turkey and Swiss hero. Lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Plenty of onion. Two Cokes. Big bag of chips. Get everybody’s order and have lunch here at one sharp.”

  “I can handle that.”

  She wrote down his order and passed the pad around so we could add our choices while he talked.

  “Let’s all get on the same page.” Mike spent the next ten minutes summarizing the minister’s interview for the others. “Faith’s going to try to track down some of the women who knew Ursula best, who may have been with her last week. And get more info on these extreme ministries.”

  “Faith sounds so interesting,” Nan said.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “I think I’m in love.”

  “That would be a full-time ministry for the good woman,” I said. “You were making a good play for Chastity.”

  “A bit more of a challenge there, I’d have to say. I like the idea of a sister act,” Mike stroked his chin and pretended to be giving the choice between the women a serious thought. “Have you given Max copies of those scraps of paper that Daniel Gersh tried to flush down the toilet?”

  “I got them from Laura last night.” Max reached for one of my folders and extracted a much thicker stack than I recalled assembling. “I’ve put together a few hundred words and phrases, just pushing around the letters. I can refine the search once I hear more about what you know. Maybe certain words will make sense.”

  “What else is new?” Mike asked, looking to Mercer. “What have you got to say for yourself, my man?”

  “I stopped at the Chelsea Square Workshop on my way in this morning,” Mercer said, flipping open his notepad. “Lucky to find anyone there at all. Nothing running at the moment, so the house was dark, as they seem to say in the theater.”

  “Who’d you talk to?”

  “Guy says he’s the stage manager. He doesn’t have anything to do with the business end of the shows, but he hires the crews to work them.”

  “Daniel Gersh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know where that weasel is?” Mike asked.

  Mercer shook his head. “Just like Gersh told you, he got to town in the late fall. He worked a couple of shows in November and December. Double-Crossed was one of them. He was still around in January, but they’ve only had two stagings since then, and Daniel Gersh wasn’t involved in either of them.”

  “He must have information on Gersh,” I said. “Where he lives and how to reach him, no?”

  “Unfortunately for us, it’s not a union operation. The place is like a funky, oversized coffee shop. The stage is just a raised platform with a homemade curtain. Doesn’t look ready for prime-time.”

  “Latte and lowbrow drama,” Mike said. “How’d Gersh get to him?”

  “They advertise in all those supermarket giveaways. Don’t pay scale and don’t really care who signs up to work. When they haven’t got a live play, they show classic cinema. This guy runs the projector and his wife makes the brew.”

  “What does he remember about Daniel Gersh?” Nan asked.

  “Precious little. He’s the cranky sort. He didn’t like anything to do with Ursula Hewitt’s play—not the subject, not the script, not the shots at the church. So he kind of shut down to everyone around him.”

  “How about the team who worked the show with Gersh?”

  “Two regulars—he gave me names and numbers—and another drifter.”

  “Did he describe the drifter?” I asked.

  “Nothing distinctive. You know the type. You could ask him to describe his wife of thirty-two years and he’d probably say ‘nothing distinctive.’”

  “He’d probably be right,” Mike said. “Was there a Christmas party? I think maybe that’s what Daniel was talking to us about. A party after the performance Naomi attended.”

  Mercer held a printout of the story that Nan had pulled up on the computer the night before, about the play. “I showed him this. He remembered that night because—you’re right—there was a celebration of sorts after the show.”

  “That’s a start. Did he recognize anyone in the picture, besides Ursula Hewitt?”

  “No. But it reminded him there was a man in the audience that night who got really angry during the performance.”

  We all sat up at attention.

  “How angry?” Nan asked.

  “Angry enough to stay for the party so that he could have it out with Ursula Hewitt. A loud argument that Gersh and the other hands had to break up. He thinks Gersh took him outside to cool him down, maybe even left with him. My witness says the guy was about as angry as the thick red blisters on his cheeks.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “IS there a credit on that photograph?” I asked.

  “I printed out a copy for each of you,” Max said. “No credit listed.”

  “Whoever took this picture must have other snaps from that night. Call the newspaper, pronto.”

  She nodded at me and walked to the corner of the room with her cell in hand.

  “Was he wearing a clerical collar?” I asked Mercer.

  “The stage manager couldn’t recall another thing about him except sunglasses, even though it was indoors, at nighttime.”

  “If he really has no eyebrows, then maybe the frames of the glasses conceal that. Maybe it’s why he wears them.”

  “I
want Daniel Gersh,” Mike said. “I’ll call Peterson and tell him to send somebody over to the offices of Local One.”

  “What’s Local One?” Nan asked.

  “IATSE. International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees. The stagehand’s union,” Mike stood up to speed-dial the lieutenant and started pacing. “Someone will know if that scab is still working in this town.”

  I took notes while Mike talked.

  “Loo? We need a guy over at Local One. Yeah. It’s on West Forty-Sixth off Tenth. See if the Gersh kid has signed up there. See if anyone can help us hunt him down.”

  “But if he didn’t join the union—” I started to say.

  “But if he did, Coop, they’ll have him. They do scenery, sound, and light for every show in town, from Radio City to the Met, Broadway to network television.”

  Mike and Mercer were meticulous about the need to run down every lead.

  “You, Coop, you need to call the kid’s stepfather.”

  “I’m the last one he’ll want to hear from—a sex crimes prosecutor. I’m sure Daniel has confronted him by now about the pictures of him in bed with Naomi.”

  “Then call the mother, okay? Worm some information out of her. Tell her that her boy is likely to get hurt if she doesn’t help us find him. What else?”

  I fished through my notes to find the name of the suburban Illinois town to get to work on reaching Daniel Gersh’s mother.

  “I’m tracking the guy from Highway Patrol,” Nan said. “Every precinct in the city turned out on the day shift with orders this morning to look for abandoned trucks as possible crime scenes. They’re doing stops at the bridges and tunnels too. He’ll check in on the hour.”

  “Good.”

  I was in another corner of the room, dialing Information for Lanny Bellin, Daniel’s stepfather. The robot that helped me get the number offered to connect me at no extra charge.

  “Hello? Hello, Mrs. Bellin? I’m calling about your son, Daniel. My name is Alexandra Cooper, and I’m a lawyer—”

  The line went dead.

  “You got a machine?”

  “No, I got distinctly hung up on.”