The Kills

by Fairstein, Linda

  “Without the certificate that monetizes her-and Morgenthau very likely didn’t sign two of them-it’s just one more lovely piece of gold. Carry it in your pocket for good luck or melt it down and turn it into a ring for your sweetheart.”

  “So it’s the piece of paper that makes the coin worth its weight in gold?”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “But how did this Englishman get the coin-the one you sold-from Farouk?” Mercer wanted to know.

  “The depositions are all sealed. Perhaps you can convince the agents to tell you. And then, Ms. Cooper,” Stark said, standing to usher us out of his office, “maybe when you bring me some of Ms. Ransome’s coins to inventory, you all can let me in on the full story that you get from the feds. I’ve been curious for years myself.”

  We thanked him for his help and waited for the assorted security devices to let us make our way back to the reception area and downstairs to the lobby.

  My cell phone was vibrating. As we stepped out of the elevator, I took it out of my pocket. “You call the Secret Service and make an appointment for noon tomorrow,” I said to Mike. “Let me get this.”

  “Alex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Christine Kiernan. Your trap-and-trace with the cell phone came through with the goods.”

  “You got the rapist?” I turned to Mercer and gave him a thumbs-up. “Where?”

  “Just like you said, he was standing on the corner of One Hundred and Second and Madison, talking to his grandmother down in the Dominican Republic.”

  “Reach out and touch someone. Works every time. Fit the ‘scrip?”

  “As much as she could give, including a surgical scar on his groin area. Had the doc’s cell phone and two of her ID cards.”

  “Track marks?”

  “Yeah, he’s a junkie. Stone-cold.”

  “Priors?”

  “Depends which name you run him under.” She laughed. “Once the fingerprints tell us what his real name is, we’ll know more. But he’s been through the system before. He’s greeting everyone in the station house like he’s a regular.”

  “Want me to come up and help with a statement?”

  “He’s not talking. Ponied up for a lawyer right away. Found the phone on the street, found the doc’s ID in a garbage pail. That’s all he gave us and now he’s not saying a word. I’ll do a court order to get a saliva swab for his DNA, and I’ll draft a complaint. I don’t think I’ll need to bother you till tomorrow.”

  “Good job, Christine.”

  “Thanks. See you in the morning.”

  I snapped the lid of the phone closed.

  “Where do you get a drink around here?” Mike asked.

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-thirty. “Let’s try Michael’s, over on Fifty-fifth Street. We can sit quietly and figure out where we are in this maze.”

  “Has the rain let up?” he said, opening the door to look outside. “Where’s your car?”

  Mercer pointed up the street to where we had parked. Mike’s was closer by, so we crossed Fifty-seventh Street in the light drizzle and squared the block on Fifth Avenue to get to West Fifty-fifth Street.

  We had almost made it through dinner when Mercer’s beeper went off. He left the table to return the call.

  “You still going to the country tomorrow?” Mike asked.

  “Absolutely. Any chance you and Val can join me? I’d love the company.”

  He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, which he’d almost emptied of his first vodka. “Val’s having a bad time of it, Alex.”

  Mike had met Valerie Jacobsen after she had undergone a mastectomy. She had completed an intensive course of chemotherapy, but the doctors warned her that it was such a virulent strain of cancer that she had to be watched for every minor health change.

  “Want to tell me?”

  “Maybe it’s nothing. I just know how it frightens her, even when she doesn’t want to worry me about it. Mostly she’s run-down, exhausted, listless. They’re working up a whole slew of tests this week. Maybe you could give her a call, cheer her up.”

  “I’m mortified that you have to ask me to do it. I haven’t spoken to her in a couple of weeks, between my vacation and the trial. Of course I’ll call her. Don’t you think a few days on the Vineyard would-”

  “She can’t do it right now, Alex.”

  “Look at me, Mike,” I said, lifting his chin to make his eyes meet mine. “Trust me, will you? You’ve got to talk to me about these things. I can’t read your mind.”

  Mercer stood behind me, resting his hand on my sore shoulder. “Finish your cocktails, folks. Have to make a stop at the ER.”

  I assumed that meant a sexual assault victim had been admitted and Mercer was tagged for the interview. “A rape?”

  “Nope. Our friend Andrew Tripping is being treated for multiple stab wounds.”

  “Is he-?”

  “He’s going to live. Out of danger, just a few holes in his back.”

  “Bellevue?”

  “Nope. New York Hospital.”

  York Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. My neighborhood, not Tripping’s.

  We each threw some bills on the table to cover the drinks and dinner. The rain had stopped but the wet pavement still glistened against the headlights of the oncoming traffic as we weaved our way north and east to the hospital entrance.

  The triage nurse was surprised to see us, particularly once we displayed our identification shields to her. She tipped her head in the direction of a small cubicle that was separated from her station by a green curtain. “He’s been sedated. Let me check. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to try to talk to him now.”

  She walked away and I whispered to Mercer, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to talk to him at all. He’s represented by counsel and he’s supposed to show up in Moffett’s part tomorrow morning to take a plea.”

  “I can ask him about the stabbing, can’t I? This time, he’s in as a victim.”

  “Check with the nurse. Wouldn’t you think he’s already been interviewed? I assume he came in here by ambulance after a 911 call.”

  I walked out to the waiting area while Mike and Mercer entered the cubicle. They were with the patient almost fifteen minutes before they came back to me.

  Mike was shaking his head. “I don’t know what to make of him. He’s a nutcase to begin with, isn’t he?”

  “Diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic.”

  “So people are always after him, right?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “In case you didn’t have enough to worry about, Mr. Tripping was on his way to try to find where you live, Coop.”

  “But, why?”

  “Guess he just couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning. I didn’t throw him any questions about your case, I just asked what happened this evening.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He’s a little incoherent. I don’t know if that’s him or the drugs. Mumbling all kinds of conspiracy theories. The lawyers are out to get him, there are terrorists after him, the CIA wants him dead, and he’s never gonna see his kid again. Now which of those make sense?” Mike asked.

  “Don’t I wish I knew. Why me?” I said. “That’s the only thing I’m concentrating on at the moment.”

  “He’s telling us he wants you to put him in jail. That’s why he’s looking for you.”

  “Happy to help,” I said. “But all he needs to do is show up in court to get that done. I don’t like this one bit. And who’s following him while he’s looking for me? Who does he say attacked him?”

  Mercer waved his hand in a circle. “Wasn’t sure, couldn’t see, can’t describe-”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. He claims he used to be a CIA agent, for chrissakes.”

  “You didn’t do any better last night with your attacker,” Mike said.

  I flapped around for an answer but had none. “What does the doctor say? How serious is it?”

  “Not
very,” said Mercer. “In fact, the resident’s got the chart all marked up for psych observation. He won’t rule out that the stab wounds may be self-inflicted.”

  “Why?”

  “There are a lot of small jabs in the upper back. Nothing life-threatening, nothing terribly lethal, and all are high enough that you could reach them yourself with a knife.”

  “Great. This is a surefire way for him to buy a little more time before he bites the bullet and takes the guilty plea. There must be a reason he wants to stay out of jail.”

  “That’s not what he’s saying tonight, Alex. He’s telling us that jail is the only place he thinks his life is safe.”

  29

  “How did it get to be ten-thirty?” I asked Mike and Mercer, as they followed me into my apartment after we left the hospital. “Somebody fix me a drink while I check my messages.”

  They went to the kitchen while I went to the bedroom to put on jeans and check the answering machine. There were a few personal calls, Jake among them, and a rather cool voice mail from Peter Robelon.

  “It’s Peter, Alex. Just had a call from the emergency department at New York Hospital. Andrew Tripping was assaulted tonight. They’re going to treat and release him, but I don’t think he’s going to be in any shape for court tomorrow. I’m going to ask for an adjournment,” he said, explaining the reasons why. “And Alex, keep your cops away from Andrew. This has nothing to do with your case, okay?”

  By the time I got to the den, the guys had poured the drinks, made themselves comfortable, and turned on the Yankees game-which was only in the fifth inning because of an initial rain delay. I had lost my partners to the pennant race, so I stretched out on the sofa and enjoyed my scotch.

  When I put the two of them out the door at midnight, Mercer arranged to pick me up and take me to the office, and to be there for the plea proceedings.

  We walked into Judge Moffett’s courtroom together at nine-thirty sharp. The lawyers for the child welfare agency and the foundling hospital had beaten us to the part, but everyone else was late. I didn’t appreciate all my adversary’s conversations with Moffett that had been conducted out of my presence, so I decided not to tell the judge about the stabbing incident ex parte.

  Fifteen minutes later, the court officer held open the door and Peter Robelon walked in, pushing Andrew Tripping in a wheelchair. Graham Hoyt was a step or two behind, carrying Robelon’s trial folders.

  I rolled my eyes at Mercer and waited for the clerk to call the case into the calendar.

  “What have we here, Mr. Robelon? A little accident?”

  “I wish that were the case, Your Honor. Unfortunately, it’s a lot more serious than that. My client was attacked last night-a vicious street crime-repeatedly stabbed in the back in a senseless act of violence.”

  “You know about this, Alexandra?” the judge asked.

  “I don’t think it’s quite as serious as it looks, Your Honor.”

  “Now Ms. Cooper’s a doctor, too,” Robelon said. “Mr. Tripping was released from the hospital at two o’clock this morning. He’s in great pain, and he’s got a schedule of follow-up medical care that has to be kept. He-he can’t even get out of this chair.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Judge. He’s got some superficial wounds in his upper back. I know all about this. If you’d just order him out of the chair, he’s perfectly able to stand up and go forward with the plea that counsel and I have discussed.”

  Moffett pointed his gavel at me and shook it. “The last time I tried that, young lady, at the direction of one of your buddies, I was censured by the appellate court.”

  I had struck the wrong chord. Years ago, in an incident that had made tabloid headlines, cops had been pulling the leg of one of my rookie colleagues. The perp being arraigned was a notorious career criminal, who had frequently been a malingerer and faked diseases to avoid judicial proceedings. The night he was brought up on charges of homicide, the arresting officer insisted to the assistant district attorney that despite his protestations, the killer could get out of his wheelchair and stand before the court.

  The prosecutor passed the message along to the judge, neither of them knowing that the victim’s brother had just broken the defendant’s kneecaps with a golf club. Moffett barked at the guy to stand up, five or six times, threatening to hold him in contempt if he refused. When the man tried to stand, he collapsed on the floor of the courtroom, and the Legal Aid Society brought a complaint against Moffett that almost caused him to be denied reappointment.

  “Your Honor, there has actually been some progress to report, if you’ll give us some breathing space here. I’ve had a conversation with Ms. Cooper. My client has authorized me to accept an offer of a misdemeanor plea. We had every intention of going ahead with that this morning, but in light of Mr. Tripping’s physical condition-his injuries-”

  “Judge, this is ridiculous. Yes, we had plea discussions. And this-this sudden bunch of scratches on the defendant’s back are nothing more than an insurance policy for the strategy planned by Mr. Robelon. Although he told me he thought there could be a disposition of the case, he wanted additional time out of jail for his client. When I told him I would not go along with that condition, this sham is apparently the solution they devised to buy some time out of Rikers.”

  “What does he need time for, Alexandra? He pleads guilty, so he gets a week or two to tie up loose ends. What’s the big deal?”

  “I have no idea why he wants it. Maybe he doesn’t intend to surrender himself. Maybe he has plans to abscond. Maybe-”

  Robelon was livid. “Stop with the fantasies, Ms. Cooper. Where do you come off throwing out these absurd ideas to prejudice the court against this defendant?”

  “Look at him, Alexandra,” Moffett said, pointing at Tripping. He had slumped down in his wheelchair and both arms were hanging over the sides. “He can’t even hold himself together. They give you any medication, Mr. Tripping?”

  Tripping looked dazed. He was nonresponsive.

  Moffett tried again. “You, Mr. Tripping. You with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Judge. I’m in terrible pain-”

  Robelon interrupted. “I really don’t want my client speaking on the record, Judge. Yes, he’s been given MorphiDex. It’s a morphine derivative, Judge. Obviously,” he said, sneering at me, “someone believes he’s in pain.”

  “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You lose, Ms. Cooper. I can’t take a plea from somebody who’s doped up on narcotics.”

  “You do it every day of the week, Judge. Just different narcotics.”

  “The boy, Dallas-”

  “Dulles,” I said.

  “Dallas, Dulles, whatever-he’s out of harm’s way?”

  “Doing very well,” Robelon said. Hoyt, Taggart, and Irizzary all nodded up and down, like a row of bobble-head dolls.

  “Let’s put this over till the beginning of October. I try and allocute him today, and he’ll come back wanting to withdraw the plea. It’ll be a complete waste of time.”

  I didn’t have a prayer in this skirmish, but there was one more fact for the court to know. “Your Honor, are you aware that this incident-this charade-happened less than two blocks away from my home?”

  “You really are over the top, Alex,” Robelon said quietly before standing up again to address the court. “Judge Moffett, this attack happened a block away from the Frick Museum, it happened a block away from the Ukrainian embassy, it happened a block away from the Nineteenth Precinct. Fortunately, none of the occupants of those buildings has any reason to be paranoid either. We don’t have martial law in this city, do we? Mr. Tripping was enjoying an evening on the Upper East Side.”

  “He told the police, Your Honor, that he was coming to find me. I think you know I’m not an alarmist about these things, but it is quite disturbing to think the defendant believed he had any legitimate reason to be talking to me.”

  “Is that true, sir? You couldn’t wait for this morning to see Ms. Cooper?”

&n
bsp; Robelon leaned over and grabbed Tripping’s arm, telling him not to answer. He straightened back up. “My client says that’s absolutely ridiculous. That’s a lie.”

  “October second, nine-thirty sharp. We’ll take the plea and you can prepare to be sentenced the same day. Bring your toothpaste and pajamas, Mr. Tripping. No excuses next time.” Moffett looked from the defendant to me. “You want an order of protection, Ms. Cooper?”

  Little good that piece of paper would do if Tripping became unglued. “An admonition will do, sir. Make it clear if the defendant has anything to say to me, he can do it in the courtroom or through counsel.”

  “One last issue, if I may,” Robelon said. “I had talked to Ms. Cooper about getting her agreement for a single visit between Mr. Tripping and his son. All the doctors believe it would be the healthiest way for them to separate, going forward.”

  “Fine,” I said, giving up the fight. “As long as it’s supervised and on the condition that it comes to an abrupt end if the defendant does anything at all to upset the child.”

  “Then the last order of business,” Moffett said, “is for me to dismiss the charges of rape in the first degree against your client, isn’t that right, Mr. Robelon.”

  “That’s correct, Judge.”

  I left the courtroom amid the self-congratulatory backslapping of the defense team.

  “Where’d Mercer go?” I asked Laura.

  “He said to tell you that a Detective Squeeks-did I get that name right?-that Squeeks needed to see him down at the First Precinct on the Vallis murder. Just routine. Wanted to interview him about your original case. Said he’d meet you at Twenty-six Federal Plaza for your noon appointment.”

  The detectives on the Vallis case were certainly working hard to keep me out of the mix.

  I took care of a pile of correspondence that had stacked up on my desk, returned a bunch of nonurgent phone calls, and gathered up some of the Tripping memos from my file cabinet so that I could write a closing report while I was in the country. I encouraged my assistants to cover their tails with paperwork. There were always bizarre defendants-like Andrew Tripping-who were bound to revisit the system at some future point in time, and it was smart to leave documentation of why an earlier case had been dismissed.