Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy
“They had a solution for that kind of prognosticating in Salem,” McKinney said. He was, as usual, the only one to laugh at what he thought passed for humor.
“Nan was just telling us that there might be a Bellevue connection,” Battaglia said, eyeing me, waiting for me to speak.
“Mercer come up with anything solid yet?” I asked her.
“Risk management’s doing their usual dance,” she said, referring to the legal arm of the hospital, always vigilant against the potential for lawsuits. “Patient privacy, medical privilege — we’ll be lucky to have our first shot at records by Monday.”
“Surely Chapman’s got a hot nurse or two he can lean on there to break the rules,” McKinney said.
“I won’t forget to ask him.”
“Scully’s having the Homicide Squad bosses in at six for a briefing. He wants you there,” Battaglia said.
I was certain McKinney had been lobbying to take me off the case. His girlfriend had just been dumped from the head of the Gun Recovery Unit for general incompetence, and Pat kept looking to insert her into other high-profile work. The fact that he hadn’t dragged her into this mess suggested he didn’t have any ready solutions for these murders and feared things would get worse before we made headway.
“All right if Nan comes along?” I asked.
“I’d prefer it. At least I can find her when I need something.” Battaglia had good reason to respect Nan’s professionalism. She had tried some of the most challenging cases — from murder to multimillion-dollar white-collar frauds — and was one of his most trusted soldiers.
Chapman obviously hadn’t reached Scully yet. “Just so you know, Mike didn’t take me on a wild goose chase. We found what we were looking for.”
“Are you serious? He found the woman’s tongue?” The DA put his hand on the black phone that connected him immediately to the police commissioner’s desk. “Tell me where it was. I can hold this one over the PC’s head.”
I explained what had led Mike to the campus chapel. A smile crept onto Paul Battaglia’s face. He liked the church trivia and the forensic finding almost as much as he relished being the first in a position of power to know something.
“I’ve got a slew of calls to make before I go over to headquarters,” I said, rising to leave. “We left Crime Scene at the chapel going over every inch of the place. The killer must have gone straight from St. Pat’s cemetery up to Fordham.”
“I can head out from here,” Nan said. “I’ll tell Mike you’ll be over in?…”
“By the time the meeting starts.”
We left McKinney with Battaglia and Nan asked me if I needed help with anything before she took the short walk from our office, through the cutaway next to the federal courthouse, to One Police Plaza, tucked away behind the United States Attorney’s Office.
“Thanks. Laura’s going to hang out and triage my list of calls. See you there.”
I went back to my office. Laura had just brewed a fresh pot of coffee and set me up with a steaming-hot mug.
Six of the lawyers from the unit were on trial. Only two had courtroom crises, and my longtime deputy had put out those fires. I clipped the notes together to take home with me, so I could check in on each of them that night.
There were case inquiries from victims, detectives who wanted investigative guidance, and one bureau chief complaining about a judgment call we had made in a new case. My internist’s office reminded me of the need for an annual checkup, my nephew wanted theater tickets when the family came to town for spring break, and a date had been set for the fall trunk show at Escada. It seemed that everyone but the man I loved was looking for me.
“This guy was beyond rude,” Laura said, handing me a slip with her red exclamation marks and underlining all over it. “Let him cool down a day before you call.”
The message was from Vincenzo Borracelli. My meeting with his wife had only been Thursday but felt like a week ago. “It’s imperative that I hear from you today. Do you know who I am?” The italics were Laura’s — it meant that Borracelli had been screaming at her. “You can’t treat my child the way you did. I’ll have you taken off the case at once. I’ll see that you pay for this.”
“Good luck to him if he can find someone else who wants the case,” I said, handing the slip of paper back to Laura. “Let him stew until Monday. I’ll return some of these others. Can you please remind me when it gets close to six?”
“Will do.”
I picked up my private line to deal with the more important matters and let Laura continue to fend off callers and passersby. I slipped a couple of Tylenol from my desk drawer and tried to make a list of details that might be useful for Scully’s meeting.
When Laura told me it was time to go, I left all the papers in discrete piles on my desk. We both put on jackets and walked to the elevator. She went into the revolving door first, and we parted on the sidewalk in front of the Hogan Place entrance.
“Good night. Stop pushing yourself so hard, Alex,” Laura said, walking off to head north to the Canal Street subway station.
“Thanks for everything. See you tomorrow.”
I took the shortcut along Baxter Street, crossing to avoid the loading dock that was blocked by a large truck. The small park that separated Chinatown from the courthouse was on my left. Schoolchildren who played kickball and tag there were long gone, and it was too dark for the seniors who did their Tai Chi exercises at the beginning and end of the day.
The wind picked up and shadows from the trees in the park danced under the dim glow of the streetlights.
I held my cell in both hands, texting Mike that I was on my way. I had forgotten that the new security system at One Police Plaza would slow me down by an additional five or six minutes.
I heard the footsteps before the man spoke. He came rushing out of the park after I passed the gate in the southwest corner, running at me from behind.
I turned to look at him and stumbled on the cracked sidewalk, falling to my knees, my BlackBerry skipping off the curb between two parked cars.
He was coming at me so fast that his feet caught on my extended leg and he landed on the ground, half of him squarely on top of me.
“Ms. Alice,” the slight young black man said. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ms. Alice.”
I didn’t realize I had screamed until two uniformed cops pulled the kid off and cuffed him.
TWENTY-THREE
“IT was Luther Audley,” I said to Mike. I was forty-five minutes late for Scully’s meeting, but the commissioner himself had been called to City Hall to explain things to the mayor, so we were all on hold waiting for him.
“How’d you recognize Luther? By the crack in his rear end?”
Guido Lentini, the deputy commissioner for public information, had given us his office to use until Scully arrived. Nan was standing behind me, kneading my shoulders. She knew I was rattled and was just trying to calm me down.
“Where is he now?” Mercer asked.
“I asked the cops not to arrest him. I believe his story. I’m fine. If I hadn’t tripped on that jagged piece of cement, he wouldn’t have become entangled with me.”
“C’mon, Alex. Where’s Luther?”
“I told them you’d call. It’s two guys from the Ninth Precinct,” I said, unfolding a piece of paper with their numbers. “They’re holding him in Central Booking till after we sort this out.”
“What did Luther say to you, exactly?” Mike asked.
“He might have been calling my name to get my attention. I’m not sure, but I thought he said ‘Alice’ so it didn’t concern me. Anyway, I thought it was street noise and I ignored it ’cause I was texting you. I didn’t hear him speak until after—”
“After he brought you down.”
“He didn’t bring me down, Mike. I really don’t think that’s what he had in mind.”
“He was waiting for you, wasn’t he?”
“How could he possibly have known I’d take Baxter Street?”
“Your office is the only place he’d think to find you,” Mercer said. “Maybe he just skulked around till he figured you’d be getting out of work, saw you walk out and separate from Laura, and got lucky when you took the darker route.”
“But he didn’t do anything to me.”
“Tell her, Nan. The kid cost her at least a manicure,” Mike said.
“Twelve dollars, Mike. Still only a misdemeanor.” Nan pinched my shoulders.
My knuckles were bloody from scraping the sidewalk, and several of my nails had broken.
“Here’s what he said, when the cops let him open his mouth. It’s all about his grandfather.”
“I like that old guy,” Mike said.
“The trustees have decided to fire Mr. Audley,” I said. “It looks bad for them that Amos has been letting Luther hang out there. By hindsight, people in the office claim that stuff is missing — cash, some of the silver objects that would bring in a fraction of their worth being sold on the street, books and hymnals.”
“Then keep a leash on Luther,” Mercer said. “Why punish Gramps?”
“He’s the one person in the world that Luther cares about. The one human being who’s always looked out for him. The kid knows that and feels bad about it. That’s why he was trying to catch up with me. That’s all he wanted.”
“He’s not familiar with the concept of office hours?”
“Right, Mike. With his batting average, you think he’s just going to show up for an appointment with an assistant district attorney? Not likely to be his comfort zone.”
“What does he expect you to do?”
“Talk to Wilbur Gaskin. The kid’s not wrong. Luther says Mr. Gaskin’s behind the whole idea. He feels personally embarrassed about what happened in front of us with him and his friends. Gaskin thinks he needs to send a signal to everyone at the church.”
“Ain’t nothing sacred if Amos Audley’s expendable,” Mercer said. “That’ll have everybody shaking in their boots.”
“So you called, didn’t you? That’s why you were so late getting over here.”
“I was late because I had to make the cops understand why I wasn’t pressing charges.”
“But I’ll bet you called Wilbur Gaskin. Fess up, Coop.”
“Sure, I tried to call him.”
“Without discussing the idea with your partners, huh?” Mike gestured at Nan and Mercer. “Without letting us weigh in on whether it was a good plan.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Chapman. I didn’t reach him.”
“Nobody home?”
“Remember, Wilbur Gaskin spends every other weekend in Atlanta? Keeps a place there, where he grew up. Likes to go down to play golf.”
“I’m not surprised, Coop. You scared him out of church on us, just when we could have used his help. Now Amos Audley’s job is on the line, and you’ve run Gaskin right out of town.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GUIDO Lentini cracked the door open. “Everything okay with you, Alexandra?”
“We’re good. What’s with Scully?” It was almost seven thirty.
“Everybody in the room is getting antsy. All I know is that the first dep called to say the mayor has info for Scully, for a change. He asked me to keep all you cats herded in the big office. You ready to join us?”
“Couple more calls, Guido,” Mike said. He had already convinced the pair of 9th Precinct cops to let Luther Audley go and void his arrest for third-degree assault.
“I want you to be in there when Scully shows, okay?”
The office of the DCPI was one of the most high-tech communications hubs in the department. Lentini’s phone bank could auto-dial any bigwig in the city, and the flat screens that hung on three of the walls could call up everything from local breaking news to on-the-ground action in Afghanistan or Israel, Abu Dhabi or Singapore.
“Give me a heads-up when he’s crossing the street, will you?” Mike asked, one hand on the television remote.
I stood up and walked into the restroom to splash water on my face. When I came out, Mike pressed the power button and five of the large screens lit up with Alex Trebek’s face.
“Get ready, Nan. I expect you to ante up,” Mike said.
“What makes this okay, Mike?” she asked. “That the body isn’t actually in the room with us? Or do you just like being the poster boy for bad taste?”
“You know a body wouldn’t stop him,” Mercer said. “Never has done.”
“That’s right,” Trebek said. “Tonight’s Final Jeopardy! category is CRIMINAL SONGBIRD. First time we’ve had this one. CRIMINAL SONGBIRD.”
All three studio contestants laughed and shook their heads.
“Fifty bucks, ladies and gent. We’re bound to know this,” Mike said. “All crime, all the time.”
“Twenty-five,” Nan said. “I’ve got those little mouths to feed at home.”
Trebek stepped back to reveal the answer. “ ‘ Singer convicted of pinching buttocks of a woman in the Central Park Zoo.’ ”
“I’m going inside. I have no idea.”
“Don’t throw in the towel, blondie. You know every Chester Molester in history.”
“Who is Frank Sinatra?”
“Are you crazy? If you were a player on the show, ninety-nine percent of the viewing public would be throwing rocks at the telly. Ol’ Blue Eyes never had to pinch.”
I was only a bit ahead of the accountant, who guessed Keith Richards. Nan and Mercer — like the other two contestants — threw up their hands without an answer.
“I’m in a cultural wasteland with you mooks. Who was Enrico Caruso?” Mike cheered for himself when Trebek confirmed the question. “In 1906. The great tenor was arrested by the NYPD for ass-grabbing a society dame in the monkey house.”
“You learned that at the Academy?” Mercer asked. “I must have been dozing.”
“Nah. My dad loved Caruso. But Aunt Eunice wouldn’t let him listen to the records ’cause of what he did. She thought he was a perv. Convicted too. He testified at his trial that the monkey did it. How’s that for a new low?”
Mike was gathering up his papers to shift to the conference room adjoining Scully’s office.
“Fits with your orangutan theory,” Mercer said. “Let’s move out, okay?”
Nan and I left first. We had long ago ceased to be surprised by the black humor of homicide work. These were detectives who faced down the darkest corners of the human condition every day and found relief — like small air pockets for someone gasping for breath — in the most unlikely manner.
The group waiting for Scully had grown considerably in number. Lieutenant Peterson led the Manhattan North contingent, chatting with his South counterpart while the men — and one woman homicide cop — stood in clusters around the long table. Somehow, Manny Chirico was still wide-eyed and alert. I recognized guys from Anti-Crime and the Harbor Unit, Highway Patrol and Housing. The only people not invited seemed to be the Counter-Terrorism teams.
