Hell Gate (24 page)

“He—maybe she—was photographing you or the Russian broads?”

No point stopping for a geography lesson.

“I don’t know. It seemed like the flash went off four or five times.”

“You sure he wasn’t photographing the church across the street? People come here all the time to take pictures of it. Must be one of the oldest churches in the city.”

I looked across the street at the building, which had no remarkable architectural features.

“Understand me? I mean, can you say the camera was pointed at all of you and not across the street?” DeCicco asked.

“The windows were so dark I can’t honestly say where the camera was pointed. I just saw flashes of light.”

“Passenger window open facing you?”

I shook my head from side to side.

“So you couldn’t see if the driver’s window was open?”

“No.”

“Sort of makes more sense he’d be shooting at the church through an open window on his side and not through the tint at you, right? Don’t make sense.”

“Can you just take a report of this—this—?”

“It’s not a crime.”

“Okay, the incident, then. Just a record of the time and a description—well, a sort of description of the car.”

“Sure, miss. Sure, I’ll do that,” DeCicco said.

I’d been blown off more diplomatically in my life. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a department car, was it?” he asked.

“You’ve got minivans out here—unmarked vans?”

“We’ve got some wagons,” he said, nodding to Nan.

“Not all shiny—?”

“Sometimes we even wash ’em, you know?” DeCicco said, on his way down the steps. “Not to worry. They call us if there’s even the smell of trouble here. You take care, girls. See you in court.”

“Don’t say it, Nan. I lost that round.”

“Now, there’s a guy who could give Lem Howell a run for his money. Let me see—a cross that was rapier sharp—”

“Risible and rude. There’s your triplicate.”

We waited until Olena and Lydia had toured the facility, seen their first large-screen high-def television mounted in the lounge, greeted some of the other residents, and cried with joy when they were taken into their own little apartment.

At four thirty, Nan and I said good-bye to them and walked out to my SUV.

“Perfect timing,” I said, checking my watch. “I promised Vickee I’d be at the house before six.”

“I’ll hop on the train.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll drop you at Fifty-ninth Street and get on the bridge there.”

Mercer and Vickee lived in a gracious house in Douglaston, one of the most attractive neighborhoods in Queens. It borders on Nassau County and has a suburban feel. Blessed with excellent public schools, it’s a great neighborhood in which to raise kids.

“Still seeing ghosts around here?” Nan asked as I got in the car.

“All clear. Thanks for your trust,” I said. “You stood your ground with DeCicco. Remind me, am I the boss of you or what? It’s so refreshing to be humiliated every now and then.”

“I’m really much more worried about what you’re going to cook for Logan’s dinner. You know Vickee doesn’t let him have junk food.”

“Her sister saved me. Made some meat loaf today and all I have to do is warm it up and nuke the veggies.”

We talked all the way downtown, jumping back and forth between the case facts and our personal lives. I dropped Nan off at the subway on Lexington Avenue. “Speak to you tomorrow, I’m sure. Thanks for everything.”

I beat the rush-hour traffic over the bridge and coasted out on the parkway with Smokey Robinson singing to me.

When I reached the house, I parked in front and before I could get across the sidewalk with my shopping bags, Vickee opened the door and Logan dashed down the walk to greet me. I dropped the packages and picked him up, spinning around with him in my arms.

“Are you staying with me, Lexi?” That was as close as the almost-three-year-old could get to my name. “What’s in the bags? Is it for me?”

“Logan, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Vickee called out from the open doorway. “You haven’t seen Auntie Alex in over a month.”

“That’s all right. We’ve got lots of time to play tonight,” I said. “Wow! Look at you, Detective Eaton. Don’t you look fine.”

“Cousin Velma’s into sequins, can you tell? And I’m cohosting, so I went all out.”

Vickee stepped back and twirled for me, a striking image in a sparkling silver gown and three-inch heels that had her towering over me.

“Doesn’t Mommy look beautiful?” I asked Logan.

“She looks silly,” he said, laughing as he foraged through the wrapped boxes I had brought.

“Hey, little guy,” Mercer’s voice boomed from the top of the staircase, “did Aunt Alex say anything about those being for you?”

He was still adjusting his tie as he came down from the master bedroom, dressed to the nines in a handsome suit and cobalt blue tie. He kissed me on both cheeks. “There’s still time to change your mind, Alex. You can borrow something from Vickee’s closet and go in my place.”

“Don’t go breaking Velma’s heart,” Vickee said. “You’re her favorite outlaw.”

“Open, Lexi? Can I open?” Logan asked.

“You bet.”

He sat on the floor and began to tear at the Christmas wrapping.

“You got the drill?” Mercer said. “Listen up, Logan. You get to play with Aunt Alex for a while. Then you’ve got to eat all your dinner. You get a bath, three stories, and then to sleep. That good? Lights out the minute Alex tells you so.”

The child would have said yes to anything as he ripped at the paper.

“Look, Mommy, look! Legos!”

Vickee had given me part of Logan’s wish list for Santa. The Legos Airport was my first order and got the desired response. He knew his grandfather had worked at LaGuardia, and he, too, was fascinated with everything that flew. He wrapped himself around my leg and said thank you over and over.

“Come into the kitchen,” Vickee said. “I’ll show you where everything is.”

The prepared food was laid out on the counter. I reassured Vickee of my ability to heat, plate, and serve it, while Logan shouted about the two Bionicles he had opened.

“Over the top, Alex.”

“I’m allowed to spoil him. That’s what aunties are all about,” I said. “Any special instructions?”

“There’s a nice bottle of white wine on ice. It’ll go well—”

“No drinking on duty, ma’am. My charge is too important.”

“Well, if this doesn’t rock on too late, we’ll have a nightcap together later.”

Logan walked into the kitchen, dragging a large Paddington Bear in one hand and clutching a small leather-bound book in the other. “Will you read me?” he asked, holding it out to me.

“Aunt Alex can read after we’ve gone, babe,” Vickee said. “Come into the den and play with your new toys while I talk to her. And give me the book.”

Reluctantly, he handed the slim volume to his mother. It was my tradition to give the children in my family and among my close friends books with which they could start and grow a collection. I had always found great joy in the stories that were read to me as a child, and my love of literature remained a stabilizing force in my life.

“Aesop’s Fables,”
I said.

“I’ll put this high on the shelf with his others. No sticky fingers, no danger it will get used as a projectile,” Vickee said, as we followed Logan into the den.

We talked until Vickee and Mercer were ready to leave. Logan was so engrossed in his new bounty that he had to be reminded to get up and give them good-night hugs.

Getting down on the rug to help Logan put together the tiny pieces to build the airport was the perfect tonic to the end of a long, crazy week. We played for almost an hour and when I told him it was time for dinner, he merrily came to the kitchen with me, explaining everything there was to know about Gresh, one of his new Bionicles.

I put him in his booster seat, warmed up the meat loaf in the preheated oven, and microwaved the rest of the meal. He cleaned his plate, drank two glasses of milk, introduced me to the imaginary buddies who were seated around the table with us, and made the whole process of caring for him seem like a cakewalk.

“Time for your bath, Mr. Logan,” I said.

“Gresh come too?”

“Why not?”

The child headed for the staircase and climbed as fast as he could, talking to the odd-looking creature all the way up.

I rolled up my sleeves and ran the water in the tub, checking the temperature to make sure it would be comfortable. “Okay, sweetie, let’s get in.”

He undressed and I lifted him into the bathtub. “Bubbles, Lexi. Where are the bubbles?”

“Whoops! I forgot them. I don’t know why, ’cause I love bubbles when I take my bath too,” I said, adding them till they completely covered his plastic toy and the surface of the tub.

“You take baths, Lexi? My mom likes showers better,” Logan said. “How come you don’t have a little boy like me to play with?”

I was washing his neck and sat back on my heels as he stared at me and asked again. “How come?”

“I expect I might someday, Logan.” I couldn’t even catch a break from a toddler. “It would be nice to have a boy or girl who could come hang out with you, right?”

“Daddy says he doesn’t think you ever will. How come, Lexi?”

“Maybe I’ll surprise your daddy. Would you like that?”

The boy splashed the water with both hands, delighted by the prospect of pulling off a surprise for his father. “Yes, Logan like that.”

“How about I tell you a story about the first time I met your daddy?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“It was a very long time ago, long before you were born—”

I was plotting the narrative when the doorbell rang. I was startled by the loud, jarring sound and the prospect of an unexpected visitor.

“Who’s that?” Logan asked.

“Might be the wrong house, sweetie. Let’s rinse off the soap and get you dry and warm before we go downstairs.”

Again the shrill ring of the bell.

I lifted Logan out of the tub and wrapped a large bath sheet around him, carrying him in my arms and rubbing him as I walked through the hall to the master bedroom, to see if there was any other car parked in front of the house.

Now there was a pounding on the door—an impatient, insistent knock that seemed to get louder.

“Who’s that?” I never ceased to be amazed at how often kids could be repetitious.

“I don’t know yet, Logan. Why don’t you get into bed so I can go see,” I said, crossing down the hall to his room. I thought it would be smarter to leave him there while I explored the situation at the door.

“I don’t want to get in bed,” he said, kicking before I could set him down and start to get his pajamas on.

“Logan, you’ve got to get ready—”

The brass striker hit the door again just as my cell phone rang. I stood Logan on his bed and pulled the cell out of my rear pants pocket.

“Yes,” I said brusquely into the mouthpiece.

“Jeez, I was afraid you took my godson and ran out the back door when I rang the bell,” Mike said. “That’s me freezing my ass here on the front steps, waiting for you to open up. All you see is the bogeyman, waiting for you everywhere you go. You better get a life for yourself, Coop.”

There was no corralling Logan Wallace. He idolized Mike and was ecstatic about the surprise visit, squealing and laughing like he’d never stop.

“Lo-lo-lo-Logan,” Mike said, stopping for a high-five before he marched a shopping bag into the kitchen while the kid tried to keep up with him. “What are you doing still awake, m’man? It’s eight o’clock. I’m gonna fire your babysitter.”

“No, you can’t,” he said as Mike put the bag down, grabbed the boy’s pajamas by the waistband, and began tickling him. “It’s Lexi.”

“I thought Lexi was your date.”

Logan buried his face in Mike’s thigh, still laughing. “Logan have no date.”

“You had your stories yet, little guy?”

“No.”

“I was just about to start reading to him.”

“Go on upstairs with Lexi,” Mike said. “Get in bed and I’ll tell you a good one.”

“Three good ones, Mikey. I can have three.” The child grabbed my hand and started pulling me away.

The moment Logan turned his back, Mike removed his gun from its holster and stowed it on top of the tall refrigerator. It was the first thing most cops did when they spent time in a house with kids, but that particular hiding place would only work until Logan got a little older, when he’d be able to climb up on the counters to explore all the hidden surfaces.

“Let’s gather your animals and go on upstairs,” I said, stopping in the den to retrieve the stuffed brontosaurus and ragged teddy bear he slept with every night.

“Wait just a minute,” Mike said, coming in behind us, scooping the boy up and hoisting him onto his shoulders. “Lexi, put on the TV, will you?”

Logan was clapping his hands from his new perch.

Mike’s timing was impeccable.

“When we come back from the commercial break,” Alex Trebek said, “we’ll see which of our contestants has the right question. Who’ll become our champion tonight? Remember, the Final
Jeopardy
! category is MYTH OR MADNESS.”

“Who’s the champion, Logan?” Mike asked, letting the child ride him like a bronco.

“Logan! Logan is!”

“What do you give me, Coop?”

“Whatever it takes to encourage you to put my guy to bed.”

Myths, especially the classics, were among Mike’s specialties, full of warriors and heroes whose legends and exploits captivated him. I was the resident expert on madness, a popular theme of literature and art.

“We’ll hold at twenty, right, Logan? You my partner, pal?”

“Yeah.”

“We gonna beat Lexi?” Mike asked. “Dudes rule?”