The Bone Vault - Linda Fairstein (30 page)

"Why?"

"Routine application for a gun permit, five years back. Must have changed his mind 'cause he never got the gun or completed the application."

"Son of the great white hunter thing, I guess."

"The rest of the professional crew is just what you'd expect. Very few with criminal histories. A couple of young staffers with drug priors. But belowdecks, watch out. You got a locksmith at the Met with a long sheet for burglary, a handful of guys with petty thefts, and about five in both houses with physical assaults. We'll talk to all of them, but nothing seems to be an obvious connection."

We had almost reached Val's building when my beeper went off. I looked at the dial and saw that it was McKinney's extension. I took out my phone to return the call.

"Isn't your office closed today?" Val asked. "Yeah, but if McKinney sits home with his wife and kids," Mike explained, "then his idiot girlfriend doesn't get to sit under his desk and give him a blow job all day. Heard they created a new position for Gunsher."

I dialed the number and pressedSEND. "Yeah, this new position's even more useless than her warrant apprehension unit, which caught nobody. Here's an acronym for you: GRIP. Gun Recovery Information Program. Firearm trafficking stuff."

"Don't the feds do that? Isn't that what the United States Attorney's expertise was?" Val asked.

"They do it better than anybody. Just meant to be a feel-good thing for Gunsher. Gives her a title with no work to do. Cops recover a gun from a perp and she calls the feds and asks them to track the piece. A chimp could do her work."

"Maybe not the blow--"

"She sits in McKinney's office all day and tells him he's a genius. Every time she comes up for air. Hey, Pat, what is it?"

"Where are you?"

"On my way to interview a witness." I could tell from the tone of surprise in his voice that he figured he had caught me out of town and unable to respond to whatever he was about to ask me to do. "I hate to seem like I'm picking on you when you've got so much to do. How's the murder investigation coming along?"

"I didn't realize there was a gun involved in the Grooten case. Why else would you be the least bit interested?"

"I'd like you to get right over to the Waldorf-Astoria this morning before you do anything else. Ask for the head of security--Rocco Bronzini. One of your buddies is staying at the hotel, causing him big headaches. Get over there and clear it up before you drag the office into your personal life."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anyone who's--"

"Do me a favor, take ten minutes out of your day and get to the hotel."

I flipped the lid to end the conversation. "Slight detour, Mike. Val, we'll drop you and then swing by the Waldorf. Was there a full moon? I didn't notice."

By nine-fifteen we were at the concierge's desk in the lobby of the old hotel, waiting for Rocco. He led us to an empty table in the Peacock Alley bar and spread out his paperwork.

"We've been stiffed for twenty-five grand. Third time it's happened. Looks like the broad is a friend of yours." I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Hard to believe. Don't you return her calls? She leaves you plenty of messages."

"If you'd stop being cryptic and give me her name I'd be happy to help."

"That's just it. We need you to tell us whoshe is?"

"Back it up a step, Rocco. Whaddaya got?" Mike asked.

"Let's use the latest one as an example. I know part of the story now 'cause I had the guy on the phone yesterday. Call him John Doe. Businessman from Omaha, here for a sales convention. Checks in almost two weeks ago, on a Tuesday. Junior suite, reserved through Friday. Five hundred fifty bucks a night, plus some room service. Figure the whole thing should run his company about three thousand for the week, even with the best wines and biggest steaks."

"Nice boondoggle."

"Last night in town, he's drinking alone in our other pub, the Bull and Bear. Picks up a girl, buys her a cocktail. Invites her upstairs for a nightcap.

"In the morning, he's got to dash for the airport and report back to the Nebraska widget company. She's bathing in the afterglow, spread out on top of the bedsheets like she really had a good time. She's sipping on a mimosa from the breakfast tray. `Mind if I stay an hour or so, take a bath before I leave?'"

"John's not a bad guy, right?"

"Not a mean bone in his body, Chapman. Tells her she just has to be out of the room by noon, and gives those breasts one more squeeze on his way out the door."

"What's your problem?"

"That was Friday morning. `Mrs. Doe' waits for him to scat. She calls the front desk and tells my receptionist that they're having such a ball they've decided to stay on for another week."

"That works?"

"Hey, he's got the room on his AmEx card. The front desk calls up the credit card company, which says the corporation is good for it. And lovely Mrs. Doe is in business. You start with the five-fifty-a-night suite rate. You add a week's worth of room service-- champagne morning, noon, and night, shrimp cocktail and filet mignon for dinner. Make that dinner for two, whoever the lucky guy may be. Make some charges at the shops on the concourse level, everything from clothing to a gold watch, all billed to the room. And then you walk out the door a week later."

"And Mr. Doe?" "Opens his American Express bill at his office yesterday and almost had a stroke. Instead of three thousand dollars in charges that the company expected, he's got a bill close to thirty thousand. He calls our accounting office, and they tell him Mrs. Doe authorized the payments."

"Only Mrs. Doe never left Omaha."

"How could she? Three little Does, a whole bunch of PTA meetings and soccer games."

"So he can't cry to her, and he can't cry to his boss. So he calls the Waldorf to complain."

"Yeah, and it wasn't until his fourth attempt at a story that he got close to the truth. Someone stole his room key, must have lost his credit card, maybe it was the maid. He tried all that crap first. But this one was recent enough that when I went back to the bartender to see if there was anything he remembered from that final night's bar bill, he actually recalled watching the pickup. Mr. Doe had been there for the last call, chatting up the barkeep about the Cornhuskers' prospects for next season, till the girl came in. She worked fast, and the guy's hands were all over her within ten minutes."

"How'd you put it together?"

"Thanks to Miss Cooper, here. She and her little friend did that for me." I looked at Mike and shrugged my shoulders.

"I pulled the last two cases we had like this. One guy from Kansas City and another from Austin. Both got beat for thirty large. There's only one common denominator. On each of the bills, the girl calls your number, Miss Cooper. Sometimes three, four calls a night. Checked with the phone company and they said it was an extension at the DA's office. Spoke with the head of the division--this guy McKinney--and he told me it must be one of your crazy pals. You want to straighten this out for me?"

He passed the telephone records to me and I broke into a wide grin. "Crazy, yes. My pal, no. Mike," I said, "this is Shirley Denzig, the woman who's been stalking me since last winter."

"You serious? How can you tell?"

"Because she called again last week. Leaving messages in the middle of the night. The squad's doing a dump on my phone. They should have results tomorrow but this beats them to it." I pointed at the times of her outgoing calls, which corresponded with the messages that had been left on my office voice mail. "All they thought they had on her was a harassment case. Looks like there'll be a grand larceny charge, too. Three of them."

"You know where we can find her?" Rocco asked.

"That's been our problem. She must have come up with this scam because she needed a place to live. She was evicted from her apartment and that's why we couldn't find her to lock her up during the winter. What's she had, three weeks under your roof in the past few months? You checked with any of the other hotels to see if they've been hit? It's pretty clever. She probably goes from joint to joint doing the same thing. One night as a hooker and then she lives like a queen for a week."

"Is she that unstable?"

"Rocco, she's not only psycho, but she's been known to carry a gun, too."

"Don't go public with that," I said jokingly to Mike. "McKinney'll put Ellen Gunsher and her new firearms unit on my case."

Shirley Denzig had been stalking me for more than half a year. She had stolen a gun from her father's home in Baltimore, and become unhinged enough that we feared that she might use it.

"You got a file on her?"

"Sure." I gave Rocco the number for the DA's squad detectives who were working on the case. They would be happy for the wealth of information the Waldorf files would add to what they knew about Denzig's recent whereabouts. "May I ask, why didn't you just call me yourself, instead of going over my head?"

"It never occurred to me. She was phoning you so often I figured you must have been a good friend of hers. The only one she's got. Why would I think she might be annoying you?"

This morning's call from Rocco would give McKinney one more reason to think that I was drowning in my own overload. I could either go down to the office and take the time to explain the story to him or get on with the day as planned. "Shall we get over to the museum, Mike?"

We walked out onto Park Avenue and back to Mike's car. "There's probably a reason you didn't tell me Mad Shirl was back in your life again. I'd like to know what that is."

"Look, I called the squad. They'll get it done. It's not like she's back after me, out on the street. You always overreact to situations like that."

"Like a woman who's walking around with a gun, thinks you're the devil, knows where you work and where you live, and you don't have a clue about how to find her? Damn right I want to know about it. Anything in that set of facts you don't understand?"

"Sorry. I'll keep you up to speed." I glanced at my watch. "So we're supposed to have most of the people who were working on the big exhibition gathered at Natural History. We're a bit late, so they should all be assembled by now."

"They opening up just for us?"

"Nope. The only two days the museum closes are Thanksgiving and Christmas. Who do you want to start with? Any ideas?"

"We're gonna go with the group approach first. See some of the dynamic between the--"

"Among them."

"That little grammatical dictator can't ever shut off, huh? You're just pissed off 'cause the group meeting left you with such a bad headache last time we tried it." He grinned at me, and I remembered our interrogation up at King's College last December.

We parked and made our way past the entrance guards, who recognized us now, and called down to the basement, where the meeting was to be held. A student led us through the maze of corridors and staircases, down past the signs that readTHE BESTIARY and into a makeshift conference room in which the mostly familiar faces were talking over their coffee.

Anna Friedrichs poured a cup for each of us and pointed to seats at the table. I sat next to Erik Poste, who was examining a large woodcut, discussing it with a man I did not recognize.

"Hello, I'm Alexandra Cooper."

"Richard Socarides, African mammals."

Poste moved the black-and-white image so that I could see it. It was a stunningly detailed drawing of a rhinoceros with its singular horn, whiskered neck, scaly legs, and armored-plated body. "Can you imagine this, Miss Cooper?"

I studied the wonderful print, which seemed a perfect example for the show.

"Albrecht D�rer drew this beast. There he is, in Germany, 1515. No magazines or books or television to let him see the animal. The only rhinoceros ever shipped to Europe from Africa drowned on its way there. All he had to work from were the verbal descriptions of other people. And still to this day, no one has ever produced a better drawing of a rhino. From my collection, of course." Poste, I remembered, was in charge of European paintings at the Met.

Socarides appeared to be about forty years old, with a serious mien and a more elegant style of dress than most of the Natural History staff. He was wearing a pinstriped suit, tasseled loafers, and a shirt with his monogram on the barrel cuff. "Better than the real thing, Erik. How goes your investigation, Ms. Cooper?"

"Fine, thank you. We're making progress, slowly."

"I would think the odds are against you. I watch all those forensic shows on television. The statistics are rather appalling. If the matter isn't solved within the first seventy hours, the odds of identifying the killer drop off the charts."

"And every now and then we get lucky, Mr. Socarides." "Yeah, the perp drools on a body and the first place we come is the Natural History data bank, making sure it wasn't one of your taxidermists getting some practice. Mike Chapman. Homicide."

"What data bank?" Poste asked.

"Not quite like your shop, Erik," Socarides said. "We've all given samples of our DNA. Have to do it so we don't confuse a new species of woolly mammoth with some hair that's rubbed off my alpaca overcoat."

Elijah Mamdouba called the meeting to order. "What you have here, Mr. Chapman, Miss Cooper, is the organizing committee of the joint exhibition. From our museum, that is myself and Mr. Socarides. From the Met," he said, pointing around the table, "you have Mr. Poste--European paintings, Miss Friedrichs--the arts of Africa, Oceania, and the Americas, and Mr. Bellinger--from the Cloisters. So we are missing..."

He scanned the room, trying to recall the other curator.

"Gaylord. Timothy Gaylord. Eygptian art," Mike said. "Still at the mummy congress."

"Certainly. Well, let's see if we can answer some more of your questions."

Mike let me start the conversation. We both had a preference for the bad cop role--me out of a penchant for cross-examination, and Mike because he was naturally distrustful and impatient.

"We've found out a great deal more about Katrina Grooten than we knew when we met each of you the first time. Some of her friends have been very helpful to us."