Lethal Legacy (39 page)

“You must just be exhausted. Let’s give you some
delicious comfort food and send you home to bed. Here come the guys,” she said,
pointing at Jim and Luc, who had stopped in the bar to talk with Ken. “Things
going okay with Luc?”

“He’s wonderful to me and it’s been very exciting.
There can’t be a worse week for him to be here, though. I’ve been so
unavailable on every level—physically and emotionally.”

“If I see your head fall into the bisque during dinner,
I’ll kick you under the table,” she said, reaching out and squeezing my hand.

“I’ll stay awake,” I said, as Joan’s usual good
humor restored my calm.

“Not to worry.”

Luc came directly to my side, bending over to kiss
me on each cheek before he and Jim took seats opposite us. “I was so worried
that Mr. Battaglia wouldn’t give you the night off, darling. How do you feel?”

“Better, for the three of you.”

Luc lifted his glass for a toast to Joan and Jim,
then turned his attention back to me.

“I’m going to miss you terribly, Alexandra. You
look stunning tonight.”

“Please don’t—”

“She’s right to stop you, Monsieur Rouget. Or I’ll
never believe anything you tell me,” Joan said, wagging a finger at Luc. “She
looks drawn and tired and thin. Awful is how she looks. Stunned, not stunning.”

“My English doesn’t need correction,
chère
madame.
After all, Alex was called out by the police in the middle of the
night. She’s had absolutely no rest, and she’s got me to deal with, too.”

“You were there?” Joan said, turning to me. “You
had to go out to the scene? You didn’t tell me that.”

“Let’s talk about somebody else’s week, okay?”

“I just sit in a room and make up stories all day.
This was one of the mornings the muse decided not to visit. Can’t I ever come
out to a crime scene with you?” Joan asked. “Mike would let me, wouldn’t he?”

“He adores you. Of course he would,” I said. “Did
you accomplish anything today, Luc?”

“For me, it was very exciting. I was just telling
Ken that I think I’ve found a property, a townhouse very much like the original
Lutèce, also on the East Side, in the Fifties. As soon as I talk with my
advisors, I’m going to make a bid on the building.”

“You must be so happy,” I said, pleased to
disengage from my own worries and participate in Luc’s enthusiasm.

“How divine,” Joan said, lifting her glass again.
“I’ll give the opening party.”

“
Pas si vite,
Joan. It won’t happen that
fast,” Luc said, talking to Joan but looking at me. We both knew she enjoyed
the role of matchmaker and was trying to push us together at a speed greater
than we could deal with.

Jim’s diplomatic skills saved the moment, and he
arranged for Stefan to take our order. He had just interviewed the British
prime minister earlier in the day and had marvelous insights into the economic
conference about to start at the United Nations.

By the time Joan and I shared a profiterole that
made up for all the calories I had missed during the week, I was ready to fold.
Jim’s car was parked in front of the restaurant, and they offered to drop us
off on the way home.

I took Luc’s arm for the short walk to the car,
searching the dark street to make sure Anton Griggs hadn’t circled back to wait
for me again.

“So who’s the killer?” Joan asked as she buckled
her seat belt.

“You’re worse than Battaglia. Give me a week or
so, will you?” I said, as Luc gently hugged me closer.

“How’s your Flaubert?” Joan asked.

“
Madame Bovary.
That’s it.”

“Luc,” she said, completely focused on the
homicide case again. “You know
Bibliomanie?
”

“Bien sûr.”

“It was the first story Flaubert published, Alex.
And it was based on an historical event, wasn’t it, Luc?”

“Oui. C’est vrai,”
he said. “Fra Vincente was a monk in Barcelona in the Middle Ages. A
bibliomaniac.”

“He became so obsessed with owning a particular
rare book about the mystery of St. Michael that he killed to get his hands on
it. A monk, Alex. Just think what some of your characters might do. I’ll get
you a copy so you can read it.”

“That’s the last thing I want to do, Joanie.”

“You see? I’ve got all this useless information,”
she said, throwing her arms up in false despair. “If only I could try a case.
Where did I go wrong?”

Jim stopped in front of the door and Luc helped me
out of the car.

The champagne had relaxed me, and I let Luc take
me by the hand and lead me into the bedroom. I was relieved that no light was
flashing on my answering machine, and ready to shut down the professional part
of my life that so often intruded on my spirit.

We made love—Luc’s tenderness and sincerity
piercing the steel-like armor that I subconsciously developed to protect myself
against the world in which I worked. I slept soundly until early morning, when
he awakened me by making love to me again.

It was so pleasantly normal to lounge in my robe
with my lover on a Saturday morning, to do the
Times
crossword puzzle,
sip coffee, enjoy the omelet Luc whipped up with French cheeses he’d stocked in
my refrigerator.

When eleven o’clock came and the doorman called to
tell us that Luc’s car service was waiting for him, he pulled me onto his lap
and held me tight.

“It’s only going to be a week or so, darling. I’ll
be back very soon,” he said.

I walked him to the door and said a cheerful
good-bye, then closed it behind me, taking the paper into the bedroom so I
could curl up and finish the puzzle.

He’d barely had time to get into the car when my
phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Mercer.

“Good morning,” I said. “I really admire your
timing.”

“I have more respect than you think for the good
things in life, Alex.”

“Where are you?”

“Closer than you’d like me to be.”

“I promise I’ll call Battaglia and tell him about
Anton Griggs. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m in the lobby. The doorman just pointed out
your friend to me. Thought the least I could do was give you the morning.”

“I’m okay, Mercer. Really.”

“It’s not about you, Alex. Sergeant Pridgen’s the
squad commander in the sixth precinct now. Called me about a victim of his
who’s hospitalized in St. Vinny’s. I’m going down to talk to her, and I’m sure
you’ll want to come along.”

“What’s it about?” I asked, throwing the paper to
the side.

“Her apartment was broken into a few nights back.
The guy knocked her out with chloroform, just like Tina Barr.”

THIRTY-THREE

Pridgen was waiting for us outside the
patient’s room on the fourth floor of St. Vincent’s Hospital, pacing the quiet
hallway. We had worked with him in the SVU when we’d had our first cold hit,
just after Mercer was shot by a desperate killer.

“Good to see you both,” he said. “Wish I could sit
down, but the chief of d’s ripped me a new one at yesterday’s COMPSTAT.”

“Been there,” Mercer said.

The brilliant Computerized Statistics program
originated with the NYPD in 1994 as an aggressive approach to crime reduction
and resource management. Weekly meetings of the department’s seventy-six
precinct commanders, on Friday mornings at headquarters’ most high-tech
facility, were designed to improve the flow of information between supervisors.

“The captain made me go yesterday ’cause he
thought my case was so unique,” Pridgen said. “I stood at the podium, laid out
the facts, and that crew leaped on me like I was a rookie just out of the
academy. ‘Why didn’t you do this? Why didn’t you think of that? Why didn’t you
call Special Victims?’ How was I supposed to know about your case? It wasn’t in
the papers or anything. And mine wasn’t a sex assault.”

“But one of the execs figured they might be
related?” I asked. “Is that why they made you hook up with Mercer?”

“I got a push-in with a bastard who chloroforms
the vic. Those guys think I didn’t question her as good as you would have about
a sex crime. They think I might have missed something. Said you had a similar
case a few days earlier.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve got,” Mercer said.

Pridgen’s plaid polyester jacket was so worn, it
almost shined. His cheap tie wasn’t knotted, just crossed—detective style—below
the open collar of his shirt.

“Jane Eliot—one tough broad,” he said. “Eighty-one
years old.”

“Your witness?” Mercer asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I know we’ve had sex crimes with
women older than that, but my guys asked her about it. She passed out and all,
but her clothes were never disturbed. All we got is a push-in with a guy who
ransacked the apartment.”

“Take anything?”

“Don’t look like she had much of any value. Not
even electronic stuff. She hasn’t been back there to tell us whether anything’s
missing.”

“Can we talk to her?” I asked.

“Yeah. She doesn’t see too good. Has real thick
cataracts.”

Pridgen opened the door to the room and announced
himself as we went in. “Hey, Miss Eliot, how’s it going? Pridgen here.”

“I’m doing well. Though the social worker says
they won’t release me until Monday,” she said. “Observation and all that.”

The handsome woman, perfectly erect in a vinyl
hospital chair with her feet on the ottoman, was dressed in a housecoat,
listening to the opera on a small portable radio.

“I brought you those friends I told you about.
This here is Ms. Cooper, and the big guy is Detective Wallace.”

“How do you do?” she asked, shifting her head as
though trying to make us out. “I’m Jane Eliot.”

“I’m Alex and he’s Mercer. I guess you know who we
are.”

“I do. And I know you’re not here for my blood or
my temperature, so that’s just fine,” she said, smiling at us. “Pridgen, would
you bring in a few chairs?”

I explained our purpose to Jane Eliot, without
mentioning Tina Barr, and told her we needed to do another interview, to probe
even more thoroughly.

“It’s rather odd for me, Alex. I’ve lived such an
ordinary life for so very long that I can’t understand all this interest.”

“Why don’t we work backward, then?” I said,
sitting on one of the chairs that the sergeant had brought into the room. “Get
the worst over with first. When did this happen?”

I wanted the facts, and I also wanted to know how
clear she was.

“Wednesday. It was shortly before noon,” Jane
Eliot answered without any hesitation. “I’ve got my favorite shows to listen
to, so I know exactly what day and time it was.”

“Where do you live?”

“Greenwich Village,” she said. “On Bedford,
between Morton and Commerce streets.”

“How lovely. Such a pretty area.” The historic
district of tree-lined streets and small townhouses was one of the safest parts
of the city. “That’s the block where Edna St. Vincent Millay’s house is, if I’m
not mistaken.”

“Precisely, young lady. The narrowest house in the
Village—nine and a half feet wide. Are you a poet as well as a lawyer?” Eliot
asked, leaning over to pat me on the knee.

No question she was as sharp as a tack. I laughed.
“No, ma’am. All lawyer.”

“I’ve been there for many, many years—on the first
floor, thank goodness. I don’t think I could climb those steps very well
anymore.”

“Do you live alone, Miss Eliot?”

“Yes, dear. Always have.”

“How large is your apartment?”

“Just a small parlor, my bedroom, the kitchen, and
a little den.”

“Why don’t you tell us exactly what you remember
about Tuesday?”

“Certainly. I was waiting to get my local news and
weather, enjoy the chatter on one of those midday shows. There was a knock on
my door, which surprised me, because the buzzer hadn’t rung.”