Three of the machines registered to the Gotham center were SUVs, and the fourth was a minivan. Shipley could man a small protest anywhere in the city just by filling up his own fleet.
I checked the plates, but none of them ended in C78. I’d do that search later to find who had been chauffeuring Hal to the Wilson apartment. The plate number might not matter at all.
It was almost five o’clock when I finished entering all my case reports into the computer program. I spent another twenty minutes on the phone talking Jimmy North through the search of Shipley’s office and what to look for.
Nan Toth, one of Coop’s closest friends, would handle the warrant but couldn’t go before a judge to get it signed till tomorrow morning. The tricky part she had to navigate was to make it all about Wynan Wilson but allow us to get our mitts on Shipley’s paper trail.
The ME called to confirm that I would be present for the autopsy, also in the morning, at nine o’clock.
I turned my attention back to the information I had about Takeesha Falls. I left a message for Angela Wilson, asking how she was doing and whether she could give me names of friends of her father’s who might tell me more about Keesh. I still had a few hours in which I could try to do some interviews.
Guys were in and out of the squad at the four o’clock shift change. You never just worked a solid eight hours in homicide. Witnesses were hard to find and interviews ran over, so the day detectives were only now signing out.
I didn’t look up at the footsteps behind me, though they were lighter than most of the guys’.
“Heard you got a live one.” Vickee Eaton kissed me on top of my head. “Don’t you go making work for us at public info, Mike.”
“Detective Eaton, since when did you start making house calls?”
She shrugged. “I’m on my way home. Mercer’s working late, so it’s just me and Logan, and he’s happy hanging out with my sister, getting his sugar high from the candy she feeds him.”
“Manhattan North isn’t remotely on your path to Queens, and I just had the pleasure of your company last night, so this must be an emergency stop for—”
“No emergency. Just—”
“For advice to the lovelorn. Is that it, Vickee?”
“I don’t have any advice, Mike. You know that.”
“Then what?”
“Two things. I know you spoke to Catherine today. She really doesn’t want to be caught up in the middle of anything between you and Alex. It’s one of the reasons I’m here, ’cause she got what she knows from me. The second thing is that I’m getting nervous. I mean, I wasn’t until a little bit ago.”
“Why now?” I said, pretending to lose myself in a photograph of Wynan Wilson’s head.
“I was tough on Alex last night, okay? I thought she’d be happy about Tanner, but I didn’t know much about what had gone on with Estevez until Catherine told me today. I pushed some mean buttons—even about you.”
“So?”
“Well, yes, Alex has got a terrible temper. When I heard she was playing hooky, I felt like I was part of the cause. But she’d never disappear without telling Laura to cover for her. She’s never left Laura hanging, even if she planted a white lie to take a day off.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but it was probably true.
“Mike, I couldn’t do this to you on the phone. Tell you—”
“Let’s have it, Vickee. This must be my eyeball-to-eyeball day. First Peterson, now you.”
She waited till I looked at her. “Alex wasn’t on her way home last night when she walked out of Primola. You need to know that.”
“What’s that old saying? Free, white, and twenty-one.” I had a knot in the pit of my stomach. “Excuse my political incorrectness, Vickee. Back in the day—”
“You need to take this more seriously, Mike.”
“I’ll bite. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? Where was she going?”
“I got a phone call last week from Jake.”
“Jake Tyler?” The knot felt more like the ache from a sucker punch. He was one of Coop’s ex-lovers, a news jock who fancied himself in the line of succession for a Lester Holt anchor job at NBC.
“Yes,” Vickee said. “He told me he was coming back to town for two weeks and wanted to know if I thought Alex would see him.”
Selfishly, I’d been happy when Jake was stationed in London after he and Coop broke up a few years back. I wasn’t about to get in the game and try to match wits with the Yale grad/Rhodes scholar who had snake-charmed his way into her bed.
I rolled my chair toward the computer. “Thanks for having my back, Vick.”
“I did, Mike,” she said. “Don’t get snide with me. I told Jake she was in love with you. And very happy about it. I told the man to leave it be.”
“Obviously, Coop still carries a torch, don’t you think? For him, or for the NBC peacock.”
“I was so annoyed at her last night I was seeing red. I was sure he’d called her, but she didn’t want me to know. Then today, Catherine said to me Alex told her, on the way to Primola, that she couldn’t stay because she was supposed to meet a friend for a drink. That has to be Jake.”
I threw a balled-up sheet of paper at the wastebasket and missed by a foot. “What am I supposed to do about it, Vickee? Get real.”
“Find her, Mike. Find out what this is all about before she gets hurt. And before she hurts you any more than she’s already done.”
SEVENTEEN
“What’d you get?” I was outside the station house on the street, leaning against Vickee’s car.
“The intern who answered at the news desk didn’t have cell phones for any of the reporters,” Vickee said. “I used my NYPD public info credentials to find which hotel he’s at, and lucky to have gotten that. Jake is staying at the London.”
“West 54th Street. Convenient to Rock Center and the NBC studios. Coop loves herself a fine hotel. Somebody else to make the bed.”
“Give it a try, Mike.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do, girl.”
“Worst-case scenario? Alex didn’t keep her assignation with Jake and we’ve got real trouble on our hands.”
“Even worse than that case scenario? I get to the London and find a love nest, but a ménage is not what they had in mind,” I said. “Giuliano put her in a cab when she left the restaurant. She’s just embarrassed to see you or me.”
“Turns out he didn’t walk her out,” Vickee said. “Al Vandomir told Catherine he saw her using her Uber app to order a car.”
“To go five blocks? That’s not her style. She always walks home from Primola.”
“Exactly. That’s my point.”
“So what do you propose? Dumping her phone, checking her credit card to see if there’s an Uber receipt with her destination?” I asked. “I’d be treating her like she’s a perp—or like I’m a stalker. She’d have my head for that.”
“I want to know where she is, Mike. Just like you do.”
I wasn’t sure I needed to know the truth. After ten years of verbal foreplay, I didn’t fancy rejection quite this way.
“Maybe she flew off the handle, me pressing her about playing with your emotions. Maybe she just, I don’t know, disappeared, like Battaglia suggested—like to the Vineyard. We can talk sense to her.”
“She’s not there.”
“At her house?” Vickee asked. “How do you know?”
“’Cause I called the Chilmark police when you went to freshen up. They rode up and checked the house,” I said. “All locked up and nobody home. Got the call back while you were on the phone with the intern.”
I was pacing the sidewalk now. I was somewhere between jealousy and concern, but not even twenty-four hours had elapsed since we’d all been together. Coop often let her team take what she called “mental health days”—just a break from the stress of a very difficult job.
A trial had blown up in her face, an impostor hired by the DA’s people had hacked into her computer and stolen an
unknown measure of professional and personal information, and she was obviously in some kind of turmoil—maybe regret—about our affair.
“I know you’ve got a conscience, Mike,” Vickee said, pulling open her car door. “So it’s on your head, okay? Whatever is going on with Alex.”
“Hold on,” I said, grabbing the door before she slammed it shut. “Because you’ve decided to put the weight all on me? That’s why it’s there?”
Vickee nodded. “May not be fair, but you’ve got to do it.”
“Okay. It’ll give me something to occupy myself with for the rest of my tour. I guess murder doesn’t trump your pal, even if she’s just livin’ la vida loca, huh?”
“Bring her back in, Mike. And you’ll stay in touch with—?”
“I’ve made a fool of myself for less important reasons. Sure, I’ll call.”
When Vickee reached for her belt I closed the door. It was time for my meal break anyway. I went inside, told Peterson that I’d grab a bite and then canvass some of Wynan Wilson’s neighbors to see what they’d heard the night of the murder, and went back out to my own car.
It was the height of rush hour, so it took me almost an hour to crawl down Broadway to get to 54th Street. I parked the car, went to the front desk of the London—making my way past all the Eurotrash clientele clogging the lobby bar—and asked for Jake.
“Certainly, sir,” the receptionist said, the French accent coating her words like a treacly sweet syrup. “I’ll ring his room for you.”
She looked me up and down with a keen sense of disapproval while the rings went unanswered. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Tyler is not in at the moment.”
“What’s his room number?”
“I’m sorry again, sir. But I can’t give you that information.”
“I bet you can,” I said, putting my badge on the countertop. “Homicide.”
I didn’t exactly whisper the word. The receptionist’s eyes opened wide, and the woman beside me inquiring about a driver for the next day placed the forefinger of her gloved hand next to the badge.
“Did I hear you say ‘homicide’?” she asked, while the receptionist scurried off to get her supervisor. “Is everything all right here?”
I gave the bejeweled older woman my best grin. “Except for the dead man, it’s fine.”
“Here? A murder?”
“No, ma’am. Not here. You’re perfectly safe, if all that glitz in the lobby isn’t lethal.”
She turned her head to look at the other guests just as the senior desk clerk arrived. “Do you have a problem, Detective? May we take it into my office?”
“No problem at all. If you’ll have security accompany me up to Mr. Tyler’s room, I just need to look around for a few minutes.”
I had the woman’s attention again. “Jake Tyler? The NBC reporter? I just saw his on-air segment fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surely he’s not hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said, her gloved hand to her throat. “He’s not a suspect in a murder case? That’s not possible.”
I put my finger up to my lips, hinting that I was telling her something in confidence. “Just a person of interest at this point,” I said, using the bullshit term that had become so popular on television news. “No charges yet.”
Fuck Jake and the horse he rode in on.
“Would you please step into my office?” the clerk asked, repeating his request. He was anxious to get me out of the way of his guests. “It’s Mr.—?”
“I won’t, actually. It’s Detective,” I said. “Mike Chapman. Homicide.”
“Let’s avoid a scene, shall we?”
“Happy to. Get the head of security to take me up to Jake Tyler’s room and open the door. All I need is a quick look around and I’m gone.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Chapman. Our guests are entitled to their privacy.”
“Fair enough. I can have Emergency Services here with a battering ram in no time.”
“He’s bluffing,” the young Frenchwoman muttered to her boss. “I didn’t even tell him the room number.”
“No,” I said, hitting the keypad on my phone. “But NBC will and then you’ll have a real mess to clean up.”
I dialed Vickee’s number and got her voice mail. She was probably giving Logan his evening bath. “Detective Eaton? Call NBC again—the guy who told you Jake was here at the London—and get his room number. I’m bringing ESU in to break down the door.”
“In that case, Detective,” the supervisor said, “let me get security to take you upstairs. Two minutes is all you need?”
“For starters.”
I didn’t have to wait long for security. Two men in suits huffed and puffed their way to the front desk in short order. They introduced themselves and took me to the elevator, to a suite on the sixth floor. One of them knocked but got no response.
The taller man of the two was holding a key card. He inserted it in the lock and the door opened.
The room was empty.
Jake’s suitcase was on a luggage rack in the living room area of the suite, open, with sweaters visible on top. His laptop was on the desk, with papers scattered around it.
I walked into the bedroom and the security guys followed. The bed was made. I looked in the closet and saw only men’s suits and shirts hung neatly there.
I checked out the bathroom. His toiletries lined the side of one of the two sinks, and a small plastic cosmetics bag, covered in a pink azalea pattern, was next to the other sink. I picked it up and noted the toothbrush and lipstick case inside. I tensed up.
“What are you looking for?” the shorter guard asked.
“What’s it your business?”
“I thought maybe if I could help, it would go faster.”
“Did you hear me say I was in any kind of a hurry?”
I glanced at the towel rack opposite the sink. There was a bra and a pair of panties hanging over a plush towel.
I picked up the lacy lingerie. The bra was a C cup—way too big for Coop to wear. The underwear covered a much broader ass. I liked those facts.
“Somebody pays the rates to get a suite at this joint, and they’re taking in laundry up here on the side?” I said.
“You gotta be kidding,” the taller man said. “The room rate is nothing. They charge twelve bucks to wash a brassiere. Twenty to clean and iron a man’s shorts.”
“How many key cards did Jake ask for when he signed in?”
The same guy checked his iPad. “Just one.”
“He registered alone?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got cameras everywhere?” I asked.
“Lobby, elevators, corridors.”
“Good. If it comes to that, I may need to see last night’s film.” I reentered the bedroom, pulling open a dresser drawer, with my back to the living room. “You got someone who can keep an eye out tonight? See when Mr. Tyler comes home for the evening, whether there’s a dame with him to claim her clean underwear?”
“Sure.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mike,” Jake Tyler said, stepping into the room. “She’s on her way here right now.”
EIGHTEEN
“What in God’s name are you doing here, Mike?” Jake asked.
“Looking for Alexandra Cooper.”
“You got the hotel to let you break into my room?” he said, striding to the desk to pick up the telephone. “You gone crazy or what?”
I grabbed the receiver from his hand and waved off the security team. “Why don’t you guys go on downstairs? Tell the boss the two of us are going to have a cocktail together.”
“I want your names,” Jake said, pointing a finger at them as they walked out.
“Forget them,” I said. “It’s my doing. And it’s not what it looks like, Jake. I know Coop met you for a drink last night, but we’re all—”
“She never met me, Mike. She stood me up.”
“Whaddaya mean?” My concern immediately ratchet
ed up a dozen notches. “I know you called her a week ago. I understand I wasn’t supposed to know about it.”
“But obviously you do.”
“Vickee just told me an hour ago. Coop never said a word.”
Jake was at the minibar. He helped himself to a small bottle of single-malt Scotch and handed me the vodka. “There’s no ice till they do turndown service later tonight. Best I can offer.”
I put the bottle to my mouth and threw back my head.
“When did you speak to her?”
“Like you said, a week ago.”
“And not since?”
“Sure. I thought you meant—”
“Most recently, Jake. If you don’t know where she is, then we’ve got a problem.”
“Then we’ve got a problem,” he said, pouring his Scotch into a glass from the tray above the minibar. “Or you do.”
“When, then?”
“Yesterday. We spoke twice. First time was in the morning, when I called her at the office. I confirmed that she would meet me for a drink at seven o’clock. At Patroon. You know, it’s her favorite—”
“I do know. I do happen to know that.” Nothing like getting cuckolded at the best bar in town, in front of the owner and the staff who had followed the progress of my courtship of Coop. I swallowed the rest of the bottle and let it burn its way to my gut while Jake spoke.
“You know, this wasn’t about trying to horn in on your relationship, Mike.” Jake had one hand in his pants pocket and the other arm leaning on the mantel over the gas fireplace, like a good ole boy hoping to soft-pedal bad news.
I was angry and in pain, and beginning to get scared for Coop. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s long over between Alexandra and me. Long over.” He lifted his glass in my direction. “I’m rooting for—”
“I knew it was long over, once I saw the panties of the big-assed girl you got draped over the towel rack. You just called Coop because—?”
“I called her because I’m doing a big series—a five-parter, national news—on the backlog of rape evidence collection kits, Mike. She’s the expert. I checked with prosecutors and forensic experts all over the country before I rang her up. Nobody knows this stuff better than she does,” Jake said. “And if you don’t have the courtesy to leave here before my friend arrives, I hope you’ll be able to suppress your usual display of sophomoric humor and not focus on her tits and ass.”
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