The Kills (31 page)

"I'm
not going to argue with you," I said. "That's exactly what I did. But
it's only because I was being chased by a man who attacked me."

"I
didn't see nobody doing nothin' to you."

"I
kicked the guy after he smacked me with an umbrella. He'd been chasing me up
and down Whitehall."

Cappetti
got on his radio and called ahead for a patrol car. "Possible 730."

"You're
gonna psycho me?"

He was
surprised I recognized the designation. "You been before?"

"No.
Actually, I'm a prosecutor. Manhattan DA's office."

"Here
we go, sweetheart. And I'm the commissioner."

"Do
I get a phone call?"

"Back
at the house."

"I
was waiting for a New York City detective when I was attacked. I can give you
my cell phone. If you call him, he can come meet me. Verify what I'm
saying."

Cappetti
listened to me for a few minutes, took the phone from my pocket, and dialed the
number I gave him. "You Mercer Wallace?" he paused, then asked a few
more questions, establishing to his satisfaction the fact that Mercer was, in
fact, on the job, a real New York City cop. "I'm with Alexandra Cooper.
She tells me she's an assistant DA." Another pause. "Really?"
And then, "Is that right?"

Mercer
told Cappetti to keep me with him when the boat landed at the St. George
Terminal on Staten Island. For the next fifteen minutes, I sat side by side
with Cappetti, who had liberated me from my restraints, leaving me to stare
back at the sweeping vista of the great New York Harbor gleaming through the
mist. The burning torch in the outstretched arm of Lady Liberty, the wide mouth
of the Hudson River, the office towers of Lower Manhattan, and the spidery,
weblike cables of the Brooklyn Bridge occupied my imagination while I kneaded
my shoulder and tried to figure out who my assailant had been.

Together,
Cappetti and I waited almost an hour until Mercer made his way out through Bay
Ridge and across the Verrazano Bridge.

Mercer
found us in the terminal police station, wrapping me in an embrace.

"Let
go before you get yourself covered in this filth," I warned him.

"Your
prisoner free to leave, Cappetti?"

"Yeah."

"Did
I hurt the ferry guy when I shoved him? I'd like to apologize to him."

"Nah,"
Cappetti answered. "We get loonies all the time. Maybe you had a good
reason tonight."

"Why
don't you go inside the rest room and wash up?" Mercer said.

It was
stupid of me to be nervous about it, but I had handled too many assaults that
had occurred in public bathrooms. He picked up on my hesitation.

"C'mon.
I'll check it out and stand at the door."

I went
into the grim ladies' room, with its faded yellow tiles, exposed lightbulbs,
and paperless towel holders. I avoided the mirror, stooping to wash my face and
hands, letting them drip dry. I knew Mercer needed five minutes alone with
Cappetti, to see whether there was anyone to corroborate my strange encounter.

It was
almost eleven o'clock when we got in the car to drive back over the Verrazano,
one of the longest suspension bridges in the world. The fog was now so thick
that the skyline had been lost from sight altogether, and the immense tower at
the far end of the span was barely visible.

"Buy
you a drink?" Mercer asked.

I nodded
my head.

"Mike's
sitting at the bar at Lumi's," Mercer said, referring to one of my
favorite restaurants, just a block from home. Warm and quiet, with a superb
kitchen, the restaurant owner would have a fire burning in the small hearth
right inside the front door.

"You've
told him already?"

"You
know how he hates surprises, Alex. Might as well get his thoughts on it,
too."

While we
drove to Manhattan's Upper East Side, I told Mercer exactly what had happened.
We parked at the fire hydrant in front of the restaurant.

Lumi was
entertaining Mike when we came in. "Holy shit," Mike said, getting
off the stool, holding up two fingers in the sign of the cross, as though
warding off a vampire. "You're really rushing the season on Halloween,
aren't you, kid?"

Lumi
kissed me on both cheeks and took me into her office, handing me a pullover
sweater of hers, a hairbrush, and a tube of lipstick, closing the door so that
I could repair some of the water damage.

"You're
still shivering, Alex," she said when I returned to the bar. "Are you
hungry, too?"

I warmed
my hands in front of the fire. "It's gotten so raw out there. No thanks.
Maybe when I defrost."

"I'll
nibble on some osso buco," Mike said. "And an artichoke dip to start.
Mercer?"

"Vickee
fed me at home. It's all yours."

Lumi went
into the kitchen to place the order while we talked.

"So
what did he look like?"

"I
can't say."

"Didn't
you see him?"

"His
face? Never."

"Well,
was he white or black or-"

"I
don't know."

"Don't
give me that color-blind crap," Mike said. "I hate when my victims do
that."

Mercer
laughed. "She never saw his face."

"How
about his hands?"

"Gloves."

"I
gave you a damn umbrella. Why the hell didn't you hit him first?"

"Because
I thought that he was just a drunken bum who had gotten too close to me by
accident. Or that he was going to ask me for money."

"You
should have taken the point of it, shoved it in his butt, pressed the button to
open it, and sent him flying like Mary Poppins. What a waste of a weapon."

"Tell
him about the pants and shoes," Mercer said, prompting me.

"That's
when I realized he wasn't a bum. Navy wool gabardine, nicely center pleated
uniform pants. And department-issue shoes."

"You're
talking cop?"

"Or
fireman. Or any uniform force in the city, except the Brownies."

"You
do anything lately to piss anybody off? You're like our poster girl,
Coop."

"I
feel more like a poster girl for the Salvation Army. The only thing I can think
of is that I just gave the go-ahead to lock up a sergeant in Correction.
Impregnated a female prisoner over at Bayview."

"Give
us his name and we'll get on it."

"The
victim says at least five of the guards are involved. They take turns looking
out for each other, divvying up the new inmates, charging for protection."

Mercer
had another thought. "Mrs. Gatts got any relatives on the job?"

I
shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. "I don't know anything about
her."

"Well,
let's do a little digging."

"You
got a lot of balls in the air, Coop, and some of them are loaded with
dynamite."

"I'll
tell you what," I said. "If the Tripping plea actually goes down on
Wednesday, I'm going up to the Vineyard to sit out the storm. Roaring fire,
lobster dinner-"

"Jake?"
Mike asked.

"Or
no Jake. You're all invited."

"You'd
fly in this weather?" Mike asked, revealing one of his few phobias.

"If
the pilots go, I go with them. When they know enough to stop, I'm grounded.
I've got to close up the house. My caretaker's going off-island, to his
brother's wedding, and I can make sure the house is all tight. Think about it,
guys. We could start off the fall season with a country weekend together."
It would relax me to be there even in foul weather.

"Talk
among yourselves," Mike said, digging into the veal.

"First,"
said Mercer, "we've got to figure whether this little encounter of yours
is related to Paige Vallis-"

"Or
Queenie," Mike said.

"Or
one of my endless stream of attractive miscreants. It's a big fan club."

"Did
you notice whether the guy was in the church during Paige's service?"

"No.
I didn't see him until I came out onto the street. Actually, all I can say is
that I didn't see anyone dressed like him."

Mike was
picking at the marrow in the bone shank with a tiny fork. "Maybe he
followed you downtown from the courthouse."

"She
would have noticed."

"Coop?
She wouldn't have had a clue if some mope was walking behind her on a rainy
night while she's got her head stuck under a big fat golf umbrella. If he
followed her from Centre Street, it explains the uniform pants, and why someone
would have known where to wait for her," Mike said.

I chewed
on a breadstick and sipped my scotch. Lumi had brought out a small bowl of
risotto and I was making a dent in it, giving in to my emerging hunger pangs.
"You know what I'm going to do tomorrow? I'm going to get Battaglia to
sign off on a FOIA request to the CIA."

"Don't
you love it when she thinks, Mercer?" Mike stopped eating and sniffed the
air. "Hot little brain waves firing on all cylinders beneath those peroxide
streaks while I just sit here enjoying a good meal. What are you talking
about?"

"Freedom
of Information Act request. There's got to be some connection among all these
players that has to do with the CIA and the Middle East. We ask for the files
of Victor Vallis and Harry Strait. Who knows? They might even have one on
McQueen Ransome."

It made
such a difference to have some kind of paper history of an individual, some
written record of what he or she did to create a picture for us and retrace old
paths.

"Don't
think J. Edgar didn't keep Queenie's file at home. He probably had a hankering
to try on some of her snazzy costumes-satin gowns, harem pants, over-the-elbow
gloves," Mike said.

"And
King Farouk," I said to Mercer. "You know the government must have
kept some kind of dossier on him. There's got to be a way to find a nexis
between these two murders."

"What
other themes have come up more than once?" Mercer asked.

"Pornography.
Queenie had it, Farouk collected it. And antique weapons," I said.
"Farouk collected them. So does Andrew Tripping. And rare coins. Both
Spike Logan and Graham Hoyt mentioned them."

"What
were all those coins that we saw on the floor of Queenie's closet?" Mike
asked.

"Just
miscellaneous change, I think. I didn't look closely."

"Are
they still there?" Mercer asked.

"After
Mike and I found the inscribed first-edition Hemingway, we asked them to seal
everything so the place could be inventoried."

"Yeah,
well, that didn't stop Spike Logan from climbing inside."

"Tell
you what," Mercer said. "Mike'll make sure you don't get re-arrested
for anything before you get snug in your apartment tonight. I'll pick you up at
seven, and we'll make another sweep up at Queenie's to see about those coins
and anything else we might have overlooked."