The Kills

by Fairstein, Linda

  Dried off and snug in a long nightshirt, I sat on the bed and played back the eleven messages on the machine, hoping to hear one voice. I deleted Nina’s news about her son’s admission to a Beverly Hills pre-k; my mother’s concern about the damage caused by the hurricane; three routine messages from Mike, who wasn’t really sure where to find me; an assortment of nonurgent friendly calls; and found Jake on the ninth try.

  “Hey, guess you decided to stay on after all.” His voice sounded cool and clipped, and I had missed him by less than half an hour. “I’m off for supper with a friend. Be home for the weekend.” Too much silence. “We need to talk, Alex.”

  The one thing I needed less than root canal was to talk. Whatever happened to action?

  Good old action. Talk was going to expose every layer of difference between us, every nitpicking reason we weren’t good for each other. His walking in the door and taking me in his arms and making me feel sexy and safe and adored was what I wanted more than anything at this very moment. Talk was as overrated as renewing marriage vows on top of a Hawaiian volcano to assuage a cheating husband’s guilt.

  No answer at Mike’s place. I put on some music and sat at my desk, rereading the case files on Paige Vallis-the rape and the homicide-to see whether I could make sense of the directions things had taken in her life. No sense, no nothing. I moved to the mountain of bills growing beside me and took out my checkbook.

  I crawled into bed before ten, hit with the exhaustion that follows shock and stress. Sleep helped, and I was up by 8 A.M. on Saturday, ready for a better day.

  The first call was from Mercer Wallace. “Any trouble getting back into town?”

  “The only easy thing that’s happened in days. Look, I’ve got to-”

  He and I were speaking over each other. I heard him say “I have news for-” but he stopped and asked me to finish what I had started.

  “I’ve got to tell you what happened to me during the storm.” I described the way my predator had circled the house trying to get in, and how I had escaped him. Unlike Chip Streeter, Mercer understood that this was no amateur, no coincidence, no joke.

  “I’ll get on the Spike Logan angle. Check out his car, his uncle. Make sure Hoyt was really in Nantucket on the boat. Speak to the troopers and see what they came up with.”

  “I’m sorry I jumped in over you. You had something to tell me?” I asked.

  “Plate came back yesterday on that car you thought you saw Robelon driving when you chased the guy with the gun out of Federal Plaza. It’s a rental.”

  “To Robelon?”

  “Nope. Ever heard of a Lionel Webster?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “I think he’s the guy who’s pretending to be Harry Strait. My lieutenant ran Webster last night and there’s all kinds of info flooding back in this morning. He’s ordered us to work overtime on it all weekend. Best I can tell, Webster is some kind of soldier of fortune. A mercenary. Services go to the highest bidder. Knows the caves of Tora Bora as well as he does Paris.”

  “Armed services?” I thought of Andrew Tripping and his fascination with all things military.

  “West Point grad. Taught there for a while until he was kicked out. Stripped of his commission-”

  “For?”

  “You’re thinking faster than I can read. I’m not sure it gives a reason in these papers. We’ll get him checked out ASAP.”

  “Can you fax over a picture?”

  “Hold your horses, Ms. Cooper. You might have to make an ID, you know. You’re not getting any advance look at my mug shots.”

  “The buzz cut fits with the military background, Mercer. I wish we knew if the U.S. armed services had anything to do with King Farouk.” The pieces of the puzzle were twisting in my mind.

  “Only thing I know about is the Agency and its involvement in Cairo. Not the army. Although that lovely lady at Treasury we met with before you went to the country called me back with a nice little nugget of information.”

  “Lori Alvino? Don’t hold out on me, Mercer.”

  “I don’t know whether our military had anything to do with Farouk, but it did touch the wings of the Double Eagle.”

  “The coin? Are you talking about the coin?” Mercer knew his mention of new information was a teaser.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. That bird is mighty lucky she didn’t have her wings clipped.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Alvino had gotten us all as far as the Secret Service intercepting Farouk’s coin when it was brought back into the U.S. in ninety-six.”

  “I was with you in her office. I heard that.”

  “She has tracked down its whereabouts after the ninety-six arrival here, and before the auction in 2002. Wanted to confirm it for us.”

  “Nice. And?”

  “It was actually stored and safeguarded in the Treasury Department vaults during the legal battles about who owned it.”

  “You mean Fort Knox?”

  “Closer to home. For five years, the Double Eagle lived in a vault in the basement of the World Trade Center. Seven World Trade Center, to be exact.”

  I thought again of how often I had looked out my office window at those towers before September 11. So many lives lost in an instant of evil. The property losses mattered to me not at all.

  Mercer went on. “A few months before the attacks, the coin was moved. Just a coincidence.”

  “To?”

  “The bullion depository of the United States Mint.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s up at West Point, Ms. Cooper. You can’t get any more militarily connected than that. The Double Eagle wound up quartered at the Point, in its bullion depository, overlooking the Hudson River.”

  “You put that upstate tour on the agenda for this week?”

  “Mike wants to wait till the Army-Navy game next month to make that trip,” he joked. “Anyway, he’s going to pick you up in half an hour, if that’s okay with you. I’m meeting you both at Peter Robelon’s office. I reached him at home just now and told him it was urgent we see him this morning. We’ll try to confront him about that encounter you had with Harry Strait.”

  “See you later.”

  The phone rang again as soon as I hung up. “Hello, Alex? You make it back all right?”

  It was Chip Streeter, the Vineyard cop, checking on me. “Just fine. I appreciate all the time you gave me. Not to mention a dry place to sleep. I’ve got to run, but thanks for calling.”

  “I actually need your help for a minute. You know a guy on the island named Logan? Spike Logan?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know who he is.” Strange that Streeter should be asking about him.

  “Was he up your way the other day?”

  “No. But-why?”

  “Found his car pulled off the road down by the Stonewall Bridge, coming from the direction of your house to Beetlebung Corner. Looks like it flooded out during the storm. Kinda abandoned.”

  “Anything in it? Any weapons, any-”

  “Just a pair of boots, Alex. Fit the imprints in the mud around your house. Same size, same tread design, same maker logo. State troopers confirmed that for me.”

  “And Logan? Have you looked for him?” I asked more frantically than I meant to. “Have you been to the house he stays in? Have you asked-?”

  “Made a lot of calls and visits last evening and stopped by again this morning. Just wanted to know whether he was an acquaintance of yours,” Chip said. “Just wanted you to know that he’s out there somewhere. Pretty sure he’s gone off-island.”

  36

  I was waiting inside the lobby of my apartment building when Mike’s car drove up in front. “Yo, blondie,” Mike shouted. “Let’s hit the road.”

  Mercer had called to tell him about my Vineyard experience, and he was furious with me. “You lied to me, Coop. You let me think Jake was going to be there with you.”

  “It was true when I first told you that.”

  “He wimped out?
Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “No, he didn’t. The flights weren’t going and I didn’t want him to drive up. Adam,” I said quietly. “You know.”

  “So you and Bigfoot played hide-and-seek instead, huh?”

  “And now the police just called because they think my visitor might have been Spike Logan.” I told Mike what Streeter had said about the washed-out car and the boots that were in it.

  “Or his passenger. Coulda had somebody with him. Sounds too obvious to me to leave his car right where it was bound to be found. Maybe it’s a setup,” Mike said. He looked over at me as we headed uptown. “That won’t stop you from scanning the horizon for the Spikester, right?”

  I was staring off at the boats churning up water in the East River. “Tell me something good, then. Take my mind off mindless things. How’s Val?”

  He drew in breath before he answered. “That’s a heartbreaker. She doesn’t want me to tell anyone, but you gotta know. The docs found some more nodes. More-what do they call it?-involvement.”

  I looked over at him but he kept his focus straight ahead. “They doing chemo?”

  “First surgery and then chemo. She’s the toughest fighter I’ve ever met.”

  I reached over and put my hand on Mike’s wrist, but when he made a left turn onto the Drive, his arm moved and I wasn’t holding anything.

  He continued to ask questions about the storm most of the way, and to cross-examine me about what had happened at the house. We parked around the corner and met Mercer in the lobby of the large commercial complex that housed Robelon’s office.

  Robelon was expecting us. “What’s the posse here for?” he said, looking at me but pointing to the men on either side of me.

  “This time I’m just the witness, not the prosecutor. They’ve got some questions for you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who’s your buddy?” Mike asked. “The guy who enjoys pretending he’s the late great Strait.”

  “What?”

  “The dude who sat in the back of the courtroom when Paige Vallis testified?”

  “How would I know who was sitting behind me? I was looking at the witness.”

  “Let me-what do you say, Coop?-let me refresh your recollection, Counselor. The uptight guy who looks like he had his hair cut by Sergeant Bilko. The one whose rental car you were tooling around town in last week,” Mike said.

  Robelon pushed back from his desk and played with a pencil, tapping it against his left thumb. “I’ve got no idea what you mean. I thought you had something urgent to discuss, Mr. Wallace? Try not to act like you’ve picked up all your techniques on television, Detective.” He raised his right leg and rested it on a desk drawer. His disdain for Chapman was palpable.

  “Shit, you’re probably right. I woulda been a bartender if it wasn’t for Law and Order. Wouldn’t have to put up with empty suits like you. There’s the lovely Miss Cooper, running down the street last week in those ridiculous high heels she favors, trying to hail a cab, and you didn’t even stop for her. Downright rude.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Alex? Cab?”

  “Thomas Street,” I said, “you were-”

  “Keep a lid on it, Coop. Think back to Wednesday, Counselor. A black sedan with rental plates. Parked on Thomas Street. Maybe it was a stranger who screamed at you to open the door and jumped inside holding a gun, is that it?”

  Robelon kicked the desk drawer shut and crossed his legs. He yelled to his secretary, “Mrs. Kaye, you want to show these people the way out?”

  She hadn’t heard him clearly and came to the door of his office to look inside and ask him to repeat what he said.

  “Lionel Webster, also known as Harry Strait. You got a second job as his limo driver?” Mike asked.

  Mrs. Kaye looked confused. “Did you want me to get Mr. Webster on the phone?”

  Robelon was fuming. He held up his hand and spun it around, motioning the secretary to back out of the room. Sorry, no doubt, he had made her come in for the impromptu weekend meeting.

  Mike was on his feet, lifting the lid on the humidor and helping himself to a cigar.

  “I’m so glad you weren’t about to give me that ‘I don’t know any Lionel what-did-you-say-his-name-is?’ Give that broad a raise. She saved your ass just now.”

  “Yeah, and I’d like to tell you what to stick up yours if there wasn’t a lady present.”

  “Who, her?” Mike said, pointing the cigar at me. “That’s no lady. Help yourself. She’s just a louche broad masquerading behind a Wellesley degree and a fine pair of pins. Nothing you can say to me she hasn’t said herself. So about Lionel Webster, what can you tell us?”

  “Haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to me about him? Everything you know.”

  “Whatever happened to attorney-client privilege, or don’t you believe in that either?”

  “Oh, so now he’s your client, not your employee? Wasn’t he working for you, trying to spook Paige Vallis?”

  “This interview is over,” Robelon said. “And Alex, don’t ever try to sandbag me again, okay? You want me to answer questions, there’s a proper way to do that. I didn’t see Webster on Wednesday and if he had anything to do with you and some kind of chase, I can promise you I don’t have the first clue about it.”

  Mercer’s pager went off and he reached into his pocket to shut it down. The loud beeps seemed to signal the meeting’s end.

  Peter Robelon was holding the door open for us. It was probably the wrong time to ask another question but I gave it a shot.

  “Do you know where Andrew Tripping is?”

  He looked down at his right foot as he pawed at the carpeting. “You guys don’t get it, do you? I represent him, Alex, remember?”

  “No, no, no. I’m not going to do an end run. I mean, can we get to the courtroom in a couple of weeks and put this whole thing to bed?” I asked.

  Peter seemed surprised by my offer, debating whether to talk with me. “There’s a-there’s a meeting this morning. Andrew and the child welfare agency lawyers-they’re getting him together with his son. It’s all supervised. Planned for today so he wouldn’t miss another school day. Don’t worry, Dulles won’t be alone with him. Give me a call later on.”

  The elevator doors opened and the three of us got on.

  “What do you think?” Mike asked. He lighted the cigar as we hit the sidewalk.

  Mercer retrieved the number on his pager as I answered. “That we can’t trust him. He’s the target in an investigation pending with my office, remember that? I just don’t think you can believe what he says. Who’s the beep from?”

  “Unfamiliar number. I’ll call it now,” Mercer said.

  “You sure that was Robelon behind the wheel on Wednesday?”

  I rolled my eyes at Mike. “Please don’t start second-guessing me. If you two don’t believe in me, who will? I had a pretty good look at the guy and yes, it was Peter Robelon.”

  “This is Mercer Wallace. Did you call me?” He was leaning against Mike’s car and talking into his cell phone. He stood straight and gave us a thumbs-up. “Sure, I’ve got time to help you, Mrs. Gatts. No, no, I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to that homicide detective. Yeah, I can. Sure.”

  “What kind of stroke job is he getting now from that tub of lard?” Mike asked.

  “The numbers joint on One Hundred and Eighteenth and Pleasant? You stay put in your house. I’m on it.”

  “What’s she got?”

  “Bessemer’s back,” Wallace said, pounding his fist on the hood of the car. “C’mon, unlock your batmobile and run me over to One Hundred and Eighteenth. Kevin Bessemer just showed up, high as a kite and looking to score. Drugs and the daily number. Sooner or later they all come back round.”

  “You, blondie. Backseat. Buckle up and keep your yap shut. Maybe Kevin’ll tell you who the real moneybags is behind the whole operation. Find who paid to hire H
elena Lisi for Tiffany.”

  Mike reached under his seat and lifted the red bubble dome to the dashboard. He tested the whelper to make sure it was working and wheeled out of his parking space, headed back to the northbound FDR Drive.

  Mercer was on the phone, calling the precinct to talk to the squad lieutenant. “Get your men over to Limpy’s place. Kevin Bessemer, the snitch who-”

  The lieutenant didn’t need a scorecard. He knew the players. Especially the one who’d taken himself out of the lineup.

  “Don’t you want to grab him yourselves?” I asked.

  “And take the chance we knew where he was and let him get away again?” Mike said. “They’ll hold him there for us and then we’ll get to eyeball him.”

  Mercer dialed again. “Limpy? Wallace here. That scumbag you got hanging out? Yeah, that’s the one. The cavalry’s coming. No, no, not to worry. They’re not there to break your balls-they just want Bessemer. Don’t let him outta your sight, okay?”

  “Why’d you give him a heads-up?”

  “Good guy, Alex. He’s worked with us for a long time. Runs a pretty clean operation. Does numbers on the side. Just didn’t want him to panic when the men in blue burst in. Limpy’s bigger than I am, so Bessemer won’t be going anywhere.”

  “How’s he going to hold down an out-of-control junkie, high on crack? He limps, no?” I asked.

  “Not his leg,” Mike said. “Limp dick. That’s how he got his name. Ex-wife gave it to him and it stuck.”

  We were almost there when Mercer’s cell rang.

  “Be there in two minutes,” Mercer said. He repeated the rest of the conversation to us. “Bessemer’s acting like a wild man. Limpy has him pinned in a chair in the basement with the cops at the top of the stairs.”

  We pulled up to the building that housed the newsstand that was the front for the illegal numbers business. Mike and Mercer got out and went inside. I stepped onto the curb and explained to the two uniformed cops posted beside the open door that I was just waiting for the detectives to bring the prisoner out.

  I could hear Kevin Bessemer screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a sound like furniture crashing around the room, and Wallace’s deep voice telling him, “Stop kicking, man. Stop breaking up the place. Calm down.”