Hell Gate (30 page)

“Keep your perspective. That’s what I’m asking you to do.”

I could see Scylla Point in the distance and was trying to find Charybdis. I had the feeling I was destined to be crushed on the rocks in between.

“What’s Ethan charged with right now?” Lem went on. “Driving while intoxed. Leaving the scene. Hell, first offender with a strong record of public service, I’ll get these charges reduced and dismissed. A third-year law student could get the same result.”

“Salma Zunega’s dead,” I said. “Remember her?”

“It seems to me you’d never heard of her until I mentioned her name.”

“Till you told me she was crazy. You seemed to be the first to know that, too, Lem. Well, maybe you’ve heard she wasn’t quite as crazy as you wanted me to believe. Salma was murdered. That’s good to keep in mind.”

“Ah, murder,” Lem said. He got to his feet, raising a finger in the air. “Now it becomes clear, Alex. That’s your plan? To use the
m
word every time Ethan Leighton’s name comes up?”

“I don’t have a plan, Lem. It’s up to Mike, to Mercer, to the NYPD, to solve this.”

“This? By
this
you mean Salma’s death as well as the shipwreck? You think they’re connected?”

I glared at Mike.

“You don’t want to tell me how. I get it,” Lem said. “You can’t do this to Ethan. You can’t tar him with this crime while he tries to get his good name back.”

Now I was following a tugboat’s progress downstream. “How well I remember standing next to you during one of my first arraignments on a felony case, Lem. AR-three, night court. The judge was Irving Lang. The defendant had drugged and raped a woman and I was requesting substantial bail. His lawyer started screaming at me—how could I do this to his client?”

Lem cocked his head and squinted, like he was trying to remember the event.

“Don’t you hate screamers in the courtroom? Well, that guy was really wailing at me about how I was hurting his client. I remember the sharp tone of his voice as clearly as I can still see the perp’s monogrammed shirt and his rep tie, stained with blood.”

Mike and Lem were walking back and forth in front of me, both trying to get me to make eye contact. But there was enough going on in the river to keep me engaged while I talked.

“I must have been at a loss for words that night, Lem. Never your problem, is it? You were supervising me and you stepped in and gently pushed me aside. Made this wonderful record for me, about how the prosecution didn’t ‘do this’ to that jackass standing before the court. You described how the defendant himself plotted the evening, selected his victim, bought the drugs, sprang for an expensive bottle of wine, and then spiked the drink,” I said. “Well,
I
haven’t done anything to Ethan Leighton. He seems to have created his problems all by himself. His greed, his infidelity—”

“People don’t go to jail for infidelity, Alex. Half your colleagues in the office would be behind bars.”

“Just let me slap the cuffs on Pat McKinney myself when that day comes,” Mike said. “Don’t give me that look every three minutes, Coop. Stop rolling your eyes.”

“We’re talking a car accident, Alex,” Lem said. “Have you lost your focus? Keep that separate and apart from the murder case.”

“I guess this is about the Ethan Leighton press conference that you’re undoubtedly scheduling, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got to get him in front of a microphone before the weekend’s over. He needs to speak to his constituents and assure them that he’s ready to apologize and put this all behind him.”

“So, you responded to Mike ’cause you’re hoping I’ll tell you that when the reporters run from your office to Battaglia’s, the DA doesn’t say that the newly repentant congressman is the prime suspect in our murder case.”

Lem smiled. “That would be helpful.”

“We’ve got an office pool, Lem. I hate to cheat, but I can be the big winner if I bet them all that Claire Leighton will actually stand by his side through this, sunglasses covering her tear-filled eyes. Do the forgiving wife thing,” I said facetiously. “We’re just dying to know.”

“I was working with Claire this morning when Mike called. I’m trying to get her there, but don’t bet all you’ve got on it.”

“Go me one better. Tell me she was in on the plot, Lem.” I said. “And her father-in-law? How much has Moses offered her to hang tight?”

Lem slapped Mike on the back. “You’re spending too much time with Chapman. I’ve never heard you be so cynical, my dear.”

I buried my hands in my jacket pockets. Mike’s hair was blowing wildly in the strong wind, catching the occasional spray as water splashed against the seawall. Lem was ramrod straight and serious, his coat belted tightly around him against the chill.

“What do you know about the baby?” I asked.

“I understand you, Alex. You’re not giving me anything without a ‘get.’ ”

“Did Ethan believe that he had fathered a child with Salma?”

“He wasn’t happy about it. He denied it at first. Salma actually left New York for almost five months. That’s when she gave birth, somewhere in Texas. He made her do DNA testing, of course, at some lab near Brownsville. When that proved he was the father, he flew her back to the city and bought her this apartment.”

“Did it ever occur to him that the whole baby thing was a scam?” Mike asked.

“What do you know that I don’t?” Lem asked.

Neither Mike nor I answered.

“I see. Not my turn to ask questions today, is it? Ethan’s quite distraught about the child’s disappearance. I assume you know the Leightons have posted a huge reward for information about the little girl.”

I was glad that Mike apparently had not told Lem about Salma’s autopsy findings.

“You must know something about Salma’s background,” I said. “Was she trafficked into the country? Who brought her here?”

“Don’t know, Alex. I don’t know.”

“Come back when you do,” I said, getting up from the bench. “I’ll see you guys next week. I’d like some answers, Lem.”

“I can do better than that, Alex. If you come with me into the park right now, I can give you a second chance. You can get them from Ethan Leighton.”

“She does stubborn better than anyone,” Mike said to Lem. “Relax, will you, Coop?”

“There’s a proper way to do this.”

“And that would put more pressure on both you and Leighton than either of you needs, Alex,” Lem said. “I’ve always had your trust. Queen for a day—right here, right now.”

“No, Lem.”

“I can’t walk Ethan into the District Attorney’s Office. The press would be all over him—and all over you. ‘What did he say, who did he implicate, why’d they make a deal?’ You have my word—whatever you want. Talk to him, Alex. Get a sense of the man.”

“I heard him snap at you in the car the other night. I felt his eyes cutting through me like lasers. And I saw Salma Zunega’s body. I have a damn good sense of Ethan Leighton.”

“Bad attitude, blondie. We got nothing to lose.”

“Queen for a day” was the name for a process in the criminal justice system that had been developed over the years. Defense attorneys would agree to present their clients—suspects, targets, or mere witnesses in a criminal investigation—to a prosecutor for a proffer of evidence, a sneak preview of what they might say under oath in a court of law.

“Mike’s right, Alex. It’s Ethan who’s got the exposure here.”

The proffer would lead to a written agreement, in which I’d assure the congressman that anything he told me couldn’t be used against him at a later time. It wouldn’t prevent me from getting derivative evidence, developing leads from any information he might give to us.

“I’m not the front man on this, Lem. Donovan Baynes has to call the shots.”

“Look at me, Alex. Donny Baynes is one of Ethan’s closest friends. If you don’t think I placed a call to him before coming over here, you’re forgetting how I work.”

The feds had far more formal rules for accepting proffers in cases than we did. And Baynes’s relationship with Leighton would have disqualified him from handling the matter.

“You’re telling me Baynes wants me to take this meeting?”

“Baby steps, Alex. You’ve got to start somewhere. Donny’s hands are tied but, yes, he wants you to do this.”

“Has he been talking to Leighton?” I didn’t know who was next in line to betray whom.

“No, no, no. Just to me. I was aware of their long friendship.”

“Where’s your client?”

“This way. He’s waiting in that garden beneath the rock wall.”

Mike tried to take my arm to guide me down the wide winding staircase but I wanted no part of him. The steps led to a round garden that, in summer, was one of the prettiest spots in the city, surrounded by lush greenery and beautiful plantings. Now, the trees were bare and the bushes looked scraggly, but the stunning rock formations provided a natural shield from the wind.

At the base of the steps, sitting alone on a stone wall, was Congressman Ethan Leighton. He was dressed in jogging clothes, with a hooded sweatshirt pulled up over his head and a short windbreaker on top of that.

When he heard us approach, he stood up and took off his gloves. He didn’t look much better than he had the other night, forcing a smile as he greeted me again. Ethan was a bit taller than I, and his normally slim frame seemed even lighter than I recalled.

He held out a hand to me and I nodded at him. His lower lip was raw and red from where he’d been biting down on it. He had a ghostly pallor, a hollowness around his eyes that made them look even beadier than before.

“Sit down, Ethan,” Lem said.

I sat a few feet away from him. Both Mike and Lem stood as Lem explained what he had told me. I muttered my agreement to this unorthodox arrangement.

“Why don’t you tell Ms. Cooper about yourself, Ethan? What you’ve been doing since you left the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

“Where should I start?” he asked, looking around to each of us.

“We can read the official bio,” Mike said. “Tell us something about Salma Zunega.”

“I’m just so sick that she’s been hurt. It’s haunting me.”

“Not hurt, Congressman. We call it dead.”

I wanted to find out how he’d met her before we got into the subject of the missing baby and whose child it might be.

“How long have you been married?” I asked. I counted on the fact that it would rattle him to talk about his wife and his inamorata in the same breath.

“Twenty-two years.” Ethan Leighton had been on the hustings too long. His ability to flash an artificial smile in the middle of this was uncanny. “Claire and I tied the knot when I was in law school. She has a degree in business. She’s wonderful—she’s, um, really wonderful.”

“And children?”

“Two. Two children. One’s away at college and the other’s in boarding school.”

“You forgetting one?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry. Ana, of course. Ana Zunega,” Leighton said. “I want you to know we’re terribly concerned about the child. We’re moving heaven and earth, with private resources, to help find her.”

The more emotionally wound up he became, the more the tic in his left eye became pronounced. I’d never noticed it before. He stroked it with his forefinger, which was as long and almost as skinny as the finger bones of that skeleton in the City Hall grave.

“Who’s ‘we’?” Mike asked.

“My father, Moses Leighton. He’s a very wealthy man, Detective. He’s got the money to do this kind of thing.”

“And Claire,” I said, “—how does she feel about this?”

He took a deep breath and answered. “Under the circumstances, she’s—she’s—well, she understands completely and will raise the child with me as our own.”

Mike asked exactly what it was that Claire understood, but Leighton didn’t answer. He was listening to me as I spoke to Lem.

“I guess you made your point this morning, Mr. Howell. I guess Claire will be doing her Tammy Wynette ‘Stand by Your Man’ best on the podium for your press conference. Congratulations.” I turned back to Leighton. “Of course, she hasn’t yet accounted for her version of where she was the night Salma was killed, by any chance?”

His eye twitched wildly. “You’re crazy, Alex. You’re f—”

Lem cut him off and told him to control himself. The congressman’s front tooth found its groove in his lower lip, drawing droplets of blood as he clamped his mouth shut.

“When did you meet Salma?” Mike asked.

“Three, almost four years ago.”

“She was still a teenager then?”

“Twenty, sir. She was twenty.”

“Just a tad older than your own kids,” Mike said.

“Yes, but could we leave Claire and the kids out of this?” Leighton asked of Lem Howell. “Could we just talk about the accident and Salma’s problem?”

“Ms. Cooper, here, is a fan of the big picture, Mr. Leighton,” Mike said. “She’ll tie it all up in a package for you before we’re done.”

“Mr. Howell told me that you were home with your family the night Salma was killed. You understand that Claire necessarily becomes a witness in all this.”

“You’re not seriously thinking I had any reason to hurt Salma?” Ethan Leighton pulled himself up into a position, posturing his outrage as though he were making a congressional appearance on C-SPAN. “Or that my wife did?”

“Don’t ever try to go where Ms. Cooper’s thinking,” Lem said. “Just stay calm.”

There was nothing a prosecutor liked better than the loving family member as alibi witness. What wife—with everything to lose—wouldn’t put her hand on a Bible and swear that her husband had never left her side the night in question?

“Do you have any photographs of your daughter?” I asked. “Of Ana.”

“I—uh—I’m afraid I don’t. I’m afraid that wouldn’t have been very smart, under the circumstances.”

“Which part of the circumstances
were
smart?” Mike said.