Death Angel (21 page)

We were greeted by the waiters like long-lost friends—since we managed to slip in a couple of times a year—and were about to sit down beneath the wall-to-wall display of autographed photos of A-list celebrities, athletes, politicians, and authors when Mike reminded us that if we went into the back office right now we could catch the Final Jeopardy question.

As we waited for the category to be revealed, we caught Mercer up on our short visit to the old stable. He told us he had nothing to report either.

“Tonight’s category,” Trebek said, “is WEATHER.”

He repeated the word three times as the contestants logged in their bets.

“I’m an automatic loser,” Mike said. “Doppler Alex here is always on patrol for hurricanes and blizzards. Worst-case-scenario kind of broad.”

“I am not.”

“You’ll get this one, girl. And the winner buys.”

“I’m in,” Mercer said.

Trebek stood beside the blue board as the final answer was displayed: “Intense dust storm carried on an atmospheric gravity current.”

“What’s a sirocco?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “A sirocco.”

Two of the three contestants made the same guess, and Trebek told all of us we were wrong. “No, gentlemen, it’s not that Mediterranean wind that blows off the Sahara.”

“What’s a haboob?” Mercer said.

“The correct question is ‘What is a haboob?’ A haboob, folks. They’re commonly found in arid regions around the world.”

Mercer smiled and patted Mike on the back. His knowledge of geography was unparalleled. He had grown up studying all the airline maps that his father had accumulated in his job at Delta, and knew as much about foreign cultures and customs as Mike knew about the military.

“They were first described in the Sudan,” Mercer said as we walked back to our table, “and they often happen when a thunderstorm collapses. The winds reverse and become a downdraft, creating a wall of dust that can move at sixty miles an hour.”

“A dust storm,” Mike said.

“Same thing. That’s what it’s called out west.”

“Then I would have gotten it right. Like Coop says when she trips over her tongue, it’s just semantics.”

Nicky brought our cocktails, and we clinked glasses. I was still thinking of the Arsenal rooftop when I looked across at Mike and said, “Cheers.”

There was no menu at Rao’s, and all the food was served family-style. We started with baked clams, roasted peppers—maybe the best anywhere—and a seafood salad.

“So what’s the word?” Mike asked Mercer.

“Scully’s got four teams from SVU out looking for Raymond Tanner. He’s public enemy number one.”

“In Central Park?” I asked.

“And all his old haunts. But the Park is still saturated. They’ve moved some anticrime guys to the North Woods, so he figures they have that covered.”

“But a lot of those men will come out this weekend,” Mike said.

“No question. The body in the Lake gets back-burnered.”

I shook my head and counted on the Scotch to calm me down.

“What’s tomorrow like for you?” Mike asked Mercer.

“I’ll be at Verge’s sister’s house early. No call, just a knock on the door. Then they’re probably throwing me onto the Tanner task force. You?”

“I feel kind of stalled,” Mike said. “Did you get a chance to talk to Chirico?”

“I went to see him after you left for the garage. He was over by the boathouse.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Did you forget about Jessica Pell?” Mike said, holding up his glass and shouting out to the bartender, “Nicky, how about a refill?”

“No, but—”

“Her deadline to tell Scully to bounce me if Chirico doesn’t discipline me is tomorrow. I’m nervous about what she’s got up her sleeve.”

“She’s not going forward with this, Mike,” I said, stirring the ice cubes with my finger.

“Pell’s a wild card, Coop. You don’t know what she’s up to.”

“No, but—” I didn’t want to tell him about my intervention in her robing room earlier today, but I was surprised that she hadn’t yet walked back her complaint.

“But nothing. Did you tell Mercer she was staking out your driveway last night?”

I blushed. “No. No, I didn’t say anything about it.”

“What’d you do?” Mercer asked.

“Just rode around for a while,” I said. “Why’d you go to Chirico?”

“To look him in the eye, so Mike didn’t have to do it himself. Push the sergeant to do the right thing.”

“What would that be?”

“Call Pell before she calls Scully tomorrow,” Mercer said. “I want Manny Chirico to knock her on her ass, is what I really want.”

“What does he say to that?”

“He needs ammunition to do it.”

Now I had a way to start my day if I could figure out how to get involved without leaving my DNA all over Mike’s problem.

“It’s off the table for the moment,” Mike said. “Enjoy the feast.”

The guys ordered rigatoni Bolognese with a side order of the largest, most delicious meatballs in town; Rao’s signature lemon chicken dish; a veal chop with hot peppers; and shrimp parmigiana. I didn’t have room for the homemade ice cream, but it was impossible to refuse a spoonful as I washed it down with my second glass of barolo
.

Mercer paid the bill, and we said our good nights to the kitchen crew as we went out the door. “I’ll take you home, Alex.”

I spun around and looked at Mike, puzzled by that decision. “But Mike’s got to pass by my place to get home.”

“It’s all right. She can ride with me, Mercer.”

The Triborough Bridge was spitting distance from the restaurant. Why wasn’t Mercer just going on home to Queens, and why—after last night—wasn’t Mike coming to my place?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’ve got some papers—some stuff—that Mercer’s stopping by to pick up,” Mike said as I got in his car.

We cruised down Second Avenue, and I could see Mercer’s SUV in the rearview mirror. Mike still wasn’t talking—nothing personal at least—and I attributed it to the distraction of Jessica Pell’s threats.

By the time we reached the driveway in front of my apartment, Mercer had overtaken us and nosed into a parking place ahead of us.

I could see a patrol car parked on the sidewalk at the exit of the driveway, and when I turned to look into the glass-fronted lobby of my building, I noticed a pair of uniformed cops.

Mercer opened the car door just as the lights went on in my brain.

“Now I know what you meant when you asked Mercer if everything was in place,” I said to Mike, my eyes flashing fire. “The cool dinner at Rao’s was just a distraction till you could set this up. I guess Scully’s put a bodyguard on me.”

“We convinced him that Mercer and I have got you covered all day,” Mike said. “It’s just at night; he doesn’t want you alone as long as Raymond Tanner’s out there with
KILL COOP
etched into his skin.”

Mercer put his hands in his pants pockets and walked away to explain the situation to Oscar and Vinny, the two doormen—my good friends—who were on duty.

“What about last night, Mike? What was the point of that? The Arsenal, the rooftop, the—the rest of it?” I slammed the door shut behind me. “Was that just a diversion to keep me out of harm’s way?”

“Look, Coop, last night had nothing to do with Scully’s decision. He called the lieutenant today and ordered this detail put in place.”

“My babysitters are waiting for me, Mike,” I said, walking toward the revolving door.

“I’ll call you later to check in.”

“Don’t bother. I haven’t got anything at all to say to you tonight. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve just checked out.”

I made the two rookies as comfortable as I could in my den. I went into the bedroom suite, took a steaming-hot bath, and then slept fitfully till 6:30
A.M.
, when I awakened and dressed for the office.

By the time I emerged from my bedroom, one of the cops had brewed a pot of coffee. They tried to divert me by telling stories of the more bizarre cases they’d handled recently.

Mercer had texted that he would pick me up at 7:30 and that the officers would be relieved then.

When the doorman called to say that Mercer was in the driveway, my bodyguards brought me downstairs and delivered me to my next keeper.

“Good morning, Alexandra.”

“Morning.”

“We didn’t mean to sandbag you last night. The commissioner’s plan makes sense.”

“I understand it all. I just wasn’t expecting such an abrupt end to my day. It’s so impersonal to have two armed strangers keeping watch in my home.”

“But safer than not.”

“Thank you.”

“And it looks like Raymond Tanner has a bad case of recidivist rage, Alex.”

“What now?” As Mercer drove to the southbound entrance of the FDR, I picked up the day’s papers, which were between us on the front seat.

“Too late for the news. Tanner raped a young woman at two
A.M.
”

“I can’t believe it. Where did it happen?”

“This time in Brooklyn. In Prospect Park, just off the Midwood Trail.”

“Dear God. This is our worst nightmare,” I said. “Is she going to be all right?”

“Yeah. I went to the hospital to see her. Twenty-one years old.”

“Homeless?”

“Out of work. Her parents, way out on Long Island, gave her a hard time. They didn’t want her staying there unless she could contribute to the rent because they’re struggling. So she’s been living in Prospect Park.”

Prospect Park was also designed by Olmsted and Vaux, using many of the same elements as they had created in Manhattan, on an even larger chunk of land. I’d jogged the Midwood Trail many times with my friend Nan Toth. Like the Ramble, it was a woodland area with the last remaining natural forest in Brooklyn.

“Are you sure it’s Tanner?”

“No doubt, Alex. Same exact language, same order of the sexual acts. He threatened to split her head open with a lead pipe, and she felt the cold steel of the weapon when he pressed it against her ear every time she squirmed.”

“And the tattoo?”

“It was too dark for the girl to read it. All she could say was that there were letters inked on his hand—two words, she thought. And the forensic exam yielded seminal fluid, so we’ll have DNA.”

“Good, ’cause Tanner’s in the data bank,” I said. “But how ironic that he moved to Prospect Park.”

“Why?”

“In so many respects it’s like a double for Central Park. The combination of great natural beauty, like the Midwood Trail, along with man-made lakes and waterfalls. Tanner seems to know both of them pretty well.”

Many people don’t realize that in the 1850s and 1860s, when Central Park and then Prospect Park were designed, Brooklyn was a separate city from New York, and the two were only connected by ferry service. It was not until 1898 that New York—then comprised of only the island of Manhattan and a small piece of the Bronx—joined forces across the river with Brooklyn, at that time the third-largest city in America.

“They’ll be looking at him hard for Angel’s killing. The Midwood’s so much like the Ramble, and both girls were homeless, white, and about the same age.”

“Impossible to know—with no ID for our vic—whether there’s any connection between them. Did she tell you where she was living?” I asked.

“Do you know Elephant Hill?”

“Yes.” The name referred to one of the highest points on the Midwood Trail, where a century ago there had been a menagerie that housed elephants and bears. Now there were towering trees that covered the landscape along the interweaving paths.

“She was camping out there, in sort of a shelter.”

“A cave?” I remembered the story Flo had told about the small grotto behind the waterfall in the Ravine, and that Mia Schneider had promised to find out for Mike and me the location of the original caves that were part of the Park design.

“No. This one was made of logs,” Mercer said. “Apparently it’s a thing in Prospect Park, according to what the rangers told the cops, that when trees fall and begin to decay, they’re left in place unless they block a path. This way the fungi and molds return nutrients to the soil.”

“You’re serious? She was living in a stack of moldy logs?”

“The first team in showed me the photos. They’re all over the Park.”

“How can we not take better care of the people in this city?” I said. “It rips me up to think of how vulnerable these kids are.”

“I hate to tell you that today marks one week since Angel was found in the Lake. This Brooklyn rape will give Scully exactly what he needs to withdraw a task force from Central Park and beef up the patrols in Prospect.”

“But suppose Tanner’s playing a game? He’s fully capable of switching up his location and then doubling back.”

“Course he is. So don’t be stubborn about letting us stay close to you.”

“No comment, Mercer. I think he’s moved on from thinking about me.”

It was easy for Mercer to find a parking spot on Hogan Place so early in the morning. We picked up coffee and Danish at the corner cart and went upstairs to settle in the conference room with all the case reports. With every twist, like Tanner’s new attack, and every bit of information about the evidence, like Vergil Humphrey’s claim about the black angel statuette, we had to reevaluate each assumption we’d made earlier.

I left a voice mail for my counterpart in the Brooklyn DA’s office—the chief of the Special Victims Unit—telling her that I would be happy to exchange details with her on our Raymond Tanner cases, and give her all the background on both his criminal and psych history. Then Mercer and I began digging into piles of police reports, talking over the significance of the developments of the last twenty-four hours.

It was just after 9:30 when Laura came down to look for me.

“It’s the district attorney, Alex. He called on your hotline, so I picked it up. He wants you in his office right away.”

“Tanner, you think?” Mercer asked.

“Probably,” I said, pushing back my chair to get up. “It’s not like him to call himself. At least Rose will tell me what it’s about.”

I walked down the corridor and crossed through the secured entrance to the executive wing. Rose barely looked up from her desk, her expression as tight as I’d ever seen it. That signaled to me that there was no point asking her about the district attorney’s mood. I hadn’t been summoned for a casual chat.

When I entered Battaglia’s office, I was surprised to see Manny Chirico sitting across the table from him. “Good morning, Paul,” I said, looking from one of the men to the other. “Sergeant Chirico.”

“Sit down, Alexandra.”

I did.

“I understand this character Raymond Tanner is on the street. A case you lost, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One completed rape earlier this morning, one attempt earlier this week, and possibly a murder.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s he got against you?”

“That I tried the case against him, I guess. Who better to hate than the prosecutor?”

“But you did a lousy job,” Battaglia said, with the straightest of faces.

“Thanks, boss. You might tell him that when you see him. I think he finds the psych hospitalization terrifically confining when he thinks he can get away with so many more rapes on the outside. Especially since he must think, like you do, that I did a lousy job.”

“You okay with the bodyguard?”

“I guess it’s necessary.”

“Scully called me on it late yesterday. Wish I’d heard about the situation from you,” the DA said, “but it seems like a sound idea.”

“Then I’m okay with—”

“So long as it’s not Mike Chapman.”

I met his stare head-on. “It’s not, Paul. Anything else you want?”

“Don’t get up yet, Alexandra. The sergeant tells me he’s been dealing with a problem of Chapman’s all week.”

“Just like you have, boss.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s why you and McKinney were so happy to dump the Central Park homicide in my lap. Jessica Pell’s on the warpath, she’s obviously had your ear about me, and you’re taking her seriously. Without the courtesy of letting me be heard.”

“Don’t ever forget who runs the show here, Alexandra. Why the hell shouldn’t I be taking the judge seriously?”

“Because she’s crazy,” Manny Chirico said. “I’m telling you, Mr. Battaglia, she’s dangerously off-balance.”

I exhaled, realizing that Chirico was actually on Mike’s side. Maybe he had a good purpose in coming here, forcing Battaglia to look at the two threats—one against Mike and the other against me—as a single package.

“What’s your point?” the DA asked Chirico.

“I’ve had a week to think this through, puzzle the pieces, pull together some information before the judge meets her noon deadline and makes her demands of you and the commissioner.” The sergeant was well respected by his men, with a great career as an investigator in the detective bureau. “I think I know how you feel about Alexandra, Mr. B, and there’s no way I’m giving up Chapman to a lunatic, no matter how bad a slide his love life took.”

He opened a file folder and placed a sheaf of photographs in front of Battaglia.

“What are these?”

“Raymond Tanner. They’re eight-by-tens of all the photos of him, from the standing shot at the time of his arrest in the case that Alex tried to his most recent from psych city.”

There were at least eight pictures in the pile. Battaglia studied each one and passed it along to me. I knew the arrest photo and had introduced it into evidence at the trial. It showed Tanner standing in Central Booking, next to the measure on the wall that recorded his height at six-foot-one. The tattoos that snaked down both sides of his arms from beneath his white T-shirt were already in place—a bodyscape of violence featuring guns of all shapes and sizes and knives that dripped blood from their tips.

But there was, as yet, no writing on the backs of Tanner’s hands, which hung by his sides in the first photograph.

The next four were taken at the facilities in which he was incarcerated as a result of the NGRI verdict. One pair was from the infamous Clinton psych ward, in which Tanner stood—first a full-body shot from the front and then from the back—with his long-sleeved shirt on. The next was with the shirt removed, showing some of the art on his chest and his back, including a brightly colored dragon whose tail curled around his torso while flames shot out of its mouth.

Eighteen months later, at a facility midstate, the same photos—facing the camera and away—showed a new sketch across the span of his upper back. It was a crudely drawn pit bull, black and white, with drops of blood on his bared teeth. The word
BUSTER
was printed below the dog. But still there was no lettering on Tanner’s hands.

The next pair of photos marked the prisoner’s admission to Fishkill’s mental facility, from which his brutal forays into the city began.

I looked at his hands, which again were unmarked. The first shot was unremarkable because of his clothing; the second showed that a red-caped black-figured drawing of a devil had been squeezed in between the pit bull and the old dragon. Some jailhouse artist had misspelled Lucifer—
LOOSIFUR
—under the tattoo.

The last photo was dated just days before Raymond Tanner absconded after his taste of freedom during work release. Battaglia looked at it without comment—I had no idea whether any of the images made an impression on him—and passed it to me.

“Here it is,” I said to Manny Chirico. “For the first time you can see the words.”

“What?” Battaglia asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“See that? See the words
KILL COOP
?” Chirico said, grabbing the picture from me and handing it back to the district attorney. “That’s the tattoo on Tanner’s hand.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Look at the date, Mr. B. That picture was taken on May 8th. Did you notice that the image was not in any of the previous photos?”

Battaglia wouldn’t acknowledge that he hadn’t tracked that feature. He reached a hand out toward me, and I passed the stack back to him.

“They’re taken periodically, Mr. B, to enter information in the databanks, whether it’s about tattoos or scars or nicknames or prison events.”

“I’m following you.”

May 8th. I was frantically trying to attach a significance to that date. My birthday was April 30th—just one week earlier—and
that
was shortly after Mike told Jessica Pell he’d be spending time with me that night. I wanted to know where Manny Chirico was going with his theory, and I desperately wanted him not to trip up in front of an unforgiving Paul Battaglia.

“And May 8th,” Chirico said, “was while Tanner was obviously still at Fishkill, but allowed to come into the city for work release.”

“It’s also the Feast Day of St. Victor the Moor, Sergeant. What’s your point?”

Chirico extracted the next group of papers, half an inch think, from another folder. “Think about it, Mr. B. Assume that Raymond Tanner hated Alexandra, especially during his trial. She was the face and voice of the prosecution, standing in the way between him and a free ride.”

“But she didn’t get the verdict she wanted, Manny.”

“Even worse. To the perp who hears the words ‘not guilty,’ he thinks he ought to walk out the door. Get out of jail free. Instead, he’s freezing his ass off in a prison on the Canadian border. And who does he have to blame? Alexander Cooper. She’s the reason he’s there.”

Battaglia stared at the photo showing Tanner’s tattooed hand. “So you think it would have made more sense for him to have had the
KILL COOP
branding done when he was most enraged? When they slammed the cell door on him?”

“Makes much more sense, Mr. B,” Chirico said. “He’s had lots more people to hate than Alex since he went behind bars. So that’s why I’ve run everyone who’s currently in the psych ward with Tanner starting April 1st.”