Devil's Bridge (5 page)

“Give me a minute. There’s a link here,” he said to me. “That doesn’t ring any bells?”

“Yeah, there’s a slight tinkling. Just tell us.”

“The letter in your documents folder kicks over to the white-collar division. Looks like there’s a tax fraud allegation that’s been opened into the reverend’s nonprofit profit center.”

The tithing scam was about to come out in the open, way before Battaglia was ready for anyone to know about it. It was as though someone was trying to plant the seed in that division that Shipley indeed had the protection of the district attorney.

“So that’s my fault, too? I’m unleashing this monster and, on top of it, I’m going to take the fall for Battaglia’s double-dealing?”

“Hold tight,” Aaron said. “The fog is lifting.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the letter from District Attorney Paul Battaglia to the Reverend Hal Shipley was just dumped onto your computer today. Not months ago, at the time it was written.”

“What?” I said. “Maybe I should ask Rose why she did that after all.”

“It wasn’t Rose,” Aaron Byrne said.

“Who, then?”

“This letter was uploaded to you—and filed by Laura around noon, with your documents—by Josie Aponte. Or whoever it was who stole the Antonio Estevez file.”

We were all trying to connect the dots at once.

“What you’re telling us,” I said, “is that there is some kind of connection between Estevez, a world-class sex trafficker—”

Detective Drew Poser finished my sentence. “And the Reverend Hal Shipley, who’s a world-class pimp in every sense of the word.”

“Aaron,” I said, aware that more than half of what the white-collar lawyers dealt with was Internet crimes, “you know everyone in the fraud division. Will you nail that piece of it for me as discreetly as you can? We need to know as much about this as possible or you’ll be drawn into the quicksand with me.”

“Starting right now,” he said, pushing back from my desk. “Be back to you by morning. All you have to do is figure out the link between Estevez and Shipley.”

“Well, if there is one,” I said, “why would Estevez want to do anything to discredit Shipley? It might cause his flock to think twice about giving to him.”

“Nothing has ever made Shipley’s people second-guess him, Alex. They seem to like the scoundrel side of the reverend.”

“Whatever the link,” Drew said, “it’s pretty obvious Estevez and Shipley have the same goal. Looks like they’ve got a plan to bring you down, Alexandra Cooper.”

“Let’s knock off,” Aaron said. “What’s your day like tomorrow? That’s Thursday, right?”

“Right. It’s only six forty-five. Why don’t we keep at it?” I asked.

“Your witnesses are all accounted for,” Drew said. “And your trial is adjourned, so you’re wide-open tomorrow, to answer Aaron’s question.”

“What’s your rush?”

“I’ve got a class to teach at NYU,” Aaron said, “and if everyone is safely tucked in for the night, let’s pick up first thing in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s only
me
they’re aiming at, guys. Take the rest of the day off, why don’t you?”

“You’ve been telling us there’s nothing personal in your files here,” Drew said. “You can’t go face-to-face with Battaglia till he shows up in the
A.M.
, and we’ve got three teams looking for the Josie Aponte wannabe. Stay here late by yourself, but that’s when the roaches come out of the woodwork to play. Get a life.”

“C’mon, Alex,” Catherine said. “Time for a cocktail. There’s a Dewar’s with your name on it at Primola. Nan?”

“Have to help the girls with math homework. Have one for me.”

Catherine waited till I shut down my computer. I threw a trench coat over my suit against the cool fall air, and we walked down the dimly lit corridors to the elevator.

Centre Street was populated, as usual, by a mix of lawyers and perps—the former leaving work after a long day or pausing for a meal, the latter just released after an arraignment in night court. Too many of the arrestees were making their way to the Canal Street subway station. The last thing I needed was some frotteur—a subway rubber—celebrating his release from custody on our way uptown. Catherine was known to paralyze them with a single kick.

“I know you don’t want to train it, but there are no cabs in sight,” Catherine said.

“I’ll punch in Uber,” I said. The app for the service usually resulted in a black car arriving at the courthouse within five minutes. I tapped out our location and the address of the restaurant, one of my favorite Italian eateries, on Second Avenue in the Sixties.

“I spoke with Marissa. All good with Tanner. It’s wise for her not to join us tonight, so she’ll go home as soon as he’s on his way down here to meet the judge.”

“So who’s at Primola besides Mike?”

“Most of the guys from the task force that has been trying to hunt Tanner down,” she said. “Mercer called Vickee in, too.”

“Sweet. I know she’d rather be home with her son at night.”

Vickee Eaton, Mercer’s wife, was also a detective. She was assigned to the office of the deputy commissioner for public information and usually knew more about what was going on in headquarters than most of the chiefs. We were close friends, and I was godmother to their four-year-old, Logan. I’d spent many nights in their guest room while Tanner was on the loose.

“She and Mercer want to stay for dinner with us.”

“Guess that trumps my plans,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I was supposed to meet an old friend who’s just in town for a couple of days. I can always move that back to a nightcap.”

The car arrived seconds later and we settled in to the backseat.

“You want to tell me how it’s going with Mike?” Catherine asked.

I was very comfortable confiding in the close circle of women with whom I’d worked for so long at the DA’s office.

“Baby steps,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat cushion. “We’re taking it very slow. So far, so good.”

“Sorry, but that must have been a weird transition—the first time you took your clothes off—after working together for such a long time.”

“Weird but good. You know, even in bed—”

“TMI, Alex. Stop right there,” Catherine said, holding her hand between our faces. “Way too much information.”

“I wasn’t headed where you think,” I said, smiling at her. “No inappropriate reveals here. I was just about to say that Mike’s never going to cease taking shots at me. It’s totally disarming. There’s no angst, no pressure, no relationship psychobabble. We just make each other laugh. It’s refreshing after some of the self-involved guys I’ve dated.”

“It’s great to see you relaxed and happy. You know I told Mike if he ever made you cry, I’d break every bone in his body.”

“Catherine—it’s been six weeks. That’s all. Don’t blow things out of proportion.”

“Just for the record, Grand Central Terminal’s a pretty offbeat place to start an affair.”

“Foreplay only. It was that weekend in September that we went to the Vineyard.”

“Yeah, the one that was supposed to be ladies only. The one you canceled on me.”

My old farmhouse on a hilltop in Chilmark, overlooking Vineyard Sound, was the most romantic spot I’d ever known. It was a haven for me, a small piece of paradise where I was able to escape from the stress of a constantly challenging job. My colleagues and I held lives in our hands—our victims, the accused, those wrongly accused, and the cops who fought to keep our city safe—every day of the week.

“Pick a date. We can do it next month.”

I was the third child—two older brothers—of a marriage between a doctor and a nurse, an ordinary upbringing until my father and his partner revolutionized heart surgery with the invention of a small plastic device used in operating rooms worldwide. The Cooper-Hoffman valve had paid for our educations, and the trust fund established with its proceeds allowed me the luxury of a Vineyard vacation home that I couldn’t have dreamed of on a public servant’s salary.

“Yes. Let’s go before it gets too cold,” Catherine said. “You’ll have to tell me how you managed to seduce a man in your country house when you can’t even cook. You could store some of your shoes inside your oven, it gets so little use.”

“Can you believe that Mike cooks? Like, really well.”

“You’re shattering my image. I know he loves chowing down fried clams at the Bite, and I can see him sitting at the bar at the Chilmark Tavern, chatting up the hostess. But cooking? He’s such a tough guy. Just makes you think a woman would love to take care of him,” Catherine said, “although you’re really useless at that.”

I picked my head up. “I beg your pardon. I’ve got certain charms. Limited in the kitchen, maybe, but talents that come in handy.”

“So what did he serve?”

“Oysters from one of the island ponds, which Mike shucked himself. And lobster. Two-and-a-half-pounders from Larsen’s—which he cooked to perfection.”

Larsen’s Fish Market, in the tiny fishing village of Menemsha, had the most amazing selection of fresh seafood, off-loaded from working boats that docked right at the back door in the small harbor.

“You melted the butter and poured the drinks. A match made in heaven.”

“Don’t forget I’m in charge of the fireplace, too. I even remembered to open the flue.”

“Mid-September? Wasn’t it a tad warm for a fire?”

“I opened all the windows. The fire helped with the atmosphere,” I said. “You can’t imagine how nervous I was.”

“Did you manage to get through the first night without any shop talk?” Catherine asked. “No double helixes or autopsy photos or dramatic readings from the penal law?”

“Totally social. I don’t think Mike’s ever gone that long without measuring someone for a body bag.”

Catherine was quiet for the next few blocks. “I have to ask,” she said. “Did any of your demons show up after dark?”

“You’re a great friend,” I said. She had been witness to all of my darkest moments over the years. “Thanks for asking. No, nothing at all. No nightmares, no one stalking me, no old lovers. The whole thing felt very safe, very normal.”

“For a change.”

“And the cat’s out of the bag,” I said as we pulled up in front of the restaurant. “That’s kind of a relief, too.”

Giuliano, the owner of Primola, was seating people at a table by the window as we walked in. “Signorina Cooper,” he said. “
Ciao,
ladies. Good to have you here. The guys are all waiting for you in the back.”

He pointed past the bar to the area in the rear of the crowded room. Several tables had been pushed together for the dozen or so men—and Vickee—who had worked relentlessly since summer to find the elusive Raymond Tanner.

I saw Mike’s dark hair, his back to me, and we made our way through the hungry New Yorkers who were three deep the length of the room as they waited for turnover.

Mercer was the first to see us and raise a glass in our direction.

“I’d hardly call it waiting for us,” Catherine said. “The team seems to be throwing back some celebratory drinks in anticipation of our arrival.”

“Hey, Coop,” Mike called out to me. “Grab yourself something from the bar.”

I gave him a thumbs-up and we stopped at the end, next to the waiters’ station. I ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks and for Catherine a glass of pinot grigio. We mounted the two steps that separated the rear room from the main floor of the restaurant, and the detectives greeted us with whistles, cheers, and a toast to the young rookie—unknown to all of them—who was on his way down to the courthouse to take Tanner to his arraignment.

“Here’s to you, Alex,” one of the men said. “Bet you’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”

“I’ve slept well every night, because you guys were on the job.” No need to tell them about the times I closed my eyes and still was sure I could see the image of the letters that spelled
KILL COOP
on Tanner’s hand.

“They were all just a little slow on the draw, Coop,” Mike said.

“You leave my task force alone, Detective Chapman. They had a few things more urgent on their plates than my stalker,” I said. “Now, why don’t you sit and we’ll get some dinner for you?”

Vickee came around from the far side of the table to give me a hug. “Way to go, girl. Raymond Tanner was a great big accident waiting to happen, wasn’t he?”

“To put it mildly.”

“All good?”

I smiled at Vickee. “I guess stranger things have happened, but yes, all good.”

“Five more minutes till you take your seats, guys,” Mike said, motioning to me with his forefinger. “C’mon, kid. Time for the final question.”

Mercer, Mike, and I had a long-standing habit of betting on the last
Jeopardy!
question whenever we were together on a weeknight evening. These detectives were two of the smartest men I knew, and our vastly different areas of interest made it fun to be challenged, whether at the morgue or my place, crime scenes or chic restaurants.

The small television was in the short corridor behind the dining room, hung out of sight but close enough so that diners could track sports scores or breaking news.

Mike followed me into the space, off to the side of the busy kitchen. “You feeling okay?”

“About this news? I couldn’t be happier,” I said, sipping my Scotch. “The rest of my afternoon cratered, but that’s not your problem.”

“You’d be wrong about that, Coop. Antonio Estevez and his crew?”

“Correct. Possibly related to the Reverend Hal Shipley. I’ll tell you later.”

“Am I breaking something up?” Mercer asked.

“We were just waiting on you, Mr. Wallace,” Mike said. “Time for the big question.”

Mercer clinked his glass of vodka against my drink, and Mike reached over my arm to hit us both. At the same time, Alex Trebek had come onto the screen after a commercial break and was about to reveal the final answer to the trio of contestants.

Mike Chapman was a graduate of Fordham University, where he had majored in military history. He’d been obsessed by that subject since childhood and knew as much about it as any scholar I’d ever encountered. Mercer Wallace was raised by his widowed father in Queens. The Delta mechanic had papered the walls of his son’s bedroom with maps of the world, and there was barely a square foot of it with which Mercer wasn’t familiar. Geography was where his depth of knowledge was concentrated.

Mike grabbed the clicker off the top of the monitor and unmuted the sound.

“All right, gentlemen,” Trebek said. “You’re each within a hundred dollars of the others, so I assume any one of you can win.”

I had majored in English literature before deciding that a career in public service would be my focus. Reading the Romantic poets and dense nineteenth-century British novels was my favorite way to escape from dry legal briefs. All three of us were on sound footing when the categories touched on Motown music or classic movies of the 1930s and 1940s.

“Tonight’s Final Jeopardy category is ‘The Wild Wild West,’” Trebek said as the words were revealed on the giant game board. “What will each of you wager on the Wild Wild West? We’ll see in just a minute.”

“I’m in for forty,” I said, doubling our usual bet of twenty dollars.

“Just because you grew up on reruns of
Bonanza
?” Mike said.

“You obviously don’t know that my childhood dream was to be Annie Oakley.”

“Hard to imagine since you’re so skittish around guns. Double or nothing.”

“Don’t you two go all sky-high on me,” Mercer said. “I’m in at eighty bucks. I’ve got a little mouth to feed at home.”

Trebek’s voice boomed from the speaker as he revealed the answer. “He was the first man executed by the federal government in the Dakota Territory.”

“See that?” Mike said. The three contestants grimaced as they struggled—or appeared to be doing so—to write the proper question as the show’s iconic “Think” music played loudly. “We’re all on equal footing. It’s about murder.”

His encyclopedic knowledge of all things homicidal took Mike back through generations of killers and their weapons of choice.

“You’re up, Alex,” Mercer said as the music stopped and Trebek pointed at the first of the three men standing on the stage.

“Who was—?” I couldn’t pull up the name I wanted. “Who was Billy the Kid?”

“So wrong in every direction that you ought to pay triple the ante,” Mike said, reaching out his hand for my money. “Billy the Kid’s real name was William Bonney. Killed so far south of Dakota that it was practically part of Mexico. New Mexico. And shot by Sheriff Pat Garrett, not hung by the feds.”

The first two contestants had drawn blanks also.

“You’re next, Mercer,” Mike said.

“Who was Jack McCall?” Mercer asked, just as the contestant who had been in the lead revealed to Trebek that he had written, “Who was the man who shot Bill Hickok?”