Blood Oath

by Linda Fairstein

  Mike slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted. I braced myself against the dashboard. “Record Zach Palmer?”

  “Don’t say it. I’m nuts, right? Join the parade.”

  Mike reached across me and grabbed my tote from the floor of the car, beneath my feet.

  “Bad guess. You’re not even warm,” I said as he rummaged through it.

  “Where’s the recorder?” Mike said, having lost every trace of his characteristic humor. “You can’t tape a lawyer, kid. You’ve refused to do it with sleazebag after sleazebag whenever I’ve asked you to.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yeah, it’s different,” Mike said. “Because you want to do it. That’s the only thing that makes it different.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “The rules have changed.”

  “You always told me that taping another lawyer would smack of trickery,” Mike said, turning in the driver’s seat so that he was facing me. “That lady and gentleman lawyers wouldn’t behave like that to each other. That—what was it—the New York City Bar Association forbids it, and you didn’t want to be sanctioned by them.”

  “You just said it yourself. Zachary Palmer is apparently everything but a gentleman. He had a sexual relationship with his star witness in a federal case,” I said, “and she was under the age of consent at the time. And I don’t even know yet, but some of the contact may have been forcible.”

  “What about ethics, Coop? Did you throw them out the window with your good judgment?”

  “The bar association woke up to the fact that everyone has the ability to record conversations with commonplace devices like phones,” I said.

  “Then put your phone on the table and go to town,” Mike said.

  “Zach’s likely to check me out on that,” I said. “He’s not stupid. He’ll play with my phone and tell me he has to make a call.”

  “Then skip it.”

  “The ethics rules now say a lawyer is permitted to tape another lawyer in pursuit of the common good—and you can bet the good is on my side. I’m wired up for a super-clear recording I can use if this case goes forward.”

  “Where’s your recorder?”

  “It’s a professional hookup, Detective,” I said, sitting up straight, my shoulders back and my breasts standing at attention. “The tech guys in the DA’s Squad put the teeniest device possible—a microcamera with an audio recorder—right inside the top button on my blouse.”

  “That, kid, was one stupid fucking idea,” Mike said.

  He reached over, holding my shoulder with one hand, and using the other to rip the top button off my pale pink shirt.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Bon soir, Madame Cooper,” Stephane said, looking a bit surprised as Mike and I stepped into the dining room. The suave Frenchman had been the maître d’ at Aretsky’s Patroon since the day it opened twenty years ago. “I have your reservation at eight P.M. You’re a bit early.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We’re intentionally early. Mike and I are going to go into the bar until my guest arrives.”

  “Bien sûr,” he said. “I think you know the way.”

  The cozy bar was at the right rear of the restaurant. I walked ahead of Mike, adjusting my blouse so that the missing button wouldn’t be noticed.

  I asked the bartender for some sparkling water, figuring it was better for me to be totally sharp during my face-to-face with Zach. Mike ordered a Tito’s vodka martini straight up, with a twist.

  We sat at a small table in the corner, in direct line of sight of the small television mounted above the impressive row of single-malt Scotches.

  Mike held out his hand to me to return the button. “Sorry, but I’m trying to save you some embarrassment.”

  I took the small object and threw it in my tote. “No hard feelings. You have to do what you think is right,” I said. “But you’ll be entirely to blame if Zach says anything I’d want to have as evidence.”

  Mike laughed. “Don’t get all snarly and start sniping at me for de-buttoning you,” he said. “I was just looking out for you. Do you want me here for this meeting?”

  “No, but thanks. I just want Zach to see that I have you at my back, in case he thinks I’m weak-kneed,” I said. “I’ll just greet him, introduce you, and then you can head out. I’m sure he’ll ask me a ton of questions about you.”

  “You plan to play him that you’re interested in succeeding Battaglia?”

  “I’d be crazy not to until I know what happened to Lucy,” I said. “He’ll be the front-runner unless I can prove he’s a predator. It makes sense to see who else wants to get in the race. I just want to slow him down a bit until I know what the entire field of candidates looks like.”

  “It’s okay that Zach knows that—that—I’m—”

  I reached over and took hold of his hand. “Say it, Mike. You can say the L word, can’t you?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. He was having a hard time suppressing his smile. “That I’m living with you?”

  “Wrong L, you coward. Living with? Try again.”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t like public displays of affection,” he said, starting in on his drink and changing the subject. “Is that why you don’t want to get into the race? Because you’re living with a cop, instead of someone more suitable to your background? You think your opponents would slam you for going down low in your private life instead of waiting for Prince Charming?”

  “Michael Chapman, what’s this sudden inferiority complex?”

  “Look at you, kid. Wellesley College, University of Virginia School of Law, a trustafarian doing public service while your old man’s fortune keeps you living high on Park Avenue, slipping off to your Vineyard getaway, dressing in Escada, and dining at the best joints in the city,” Mike said. “Why would you be hanging out with me?”

  My father, Benjamin Cooper, met my mother, Maude, when she was a nurse working in the same hospital where he started practicing medicine. I was still a kid when he and his partner invented a tiny plastic device—the Cooper-Hoffman Valve, as it came to be known—which is still used today in every heart operation worldwide that involves valve replacement. I loved my job, and was able to comfortably remain in the public sector because of the trust fund my parents had established for my two older brothers and for me.

  “Because I love you,” I said. “It’s really simple. I love your courage and fearlessness—the way you go into the darkest places of the human soul and come out with guys who should never walk among us again. Who else does that but a terrifically smart and strong Homicide detective?”

  Mike’s late father, Brian, had been a great detective before him, and was thrilled that Mike chose to go to Fordham College and pursue his interest in military history. But shortly after Mike graduated, Brian died of a massive coronary the same day he turned in his shield and gun.

  “That’s all I know how to do,” he said.

  I went on. “Did you ever think that you might be my Prince Charming?”

  Mike stirred the vodka with his finger. “That would mean you’ve hit rock bottom, blondie, and that’s after going through a load of guys who’ve auditioned for the job.”

  “Nobody but you would have had the patience to get me back on my feet.”

  “Frankly, you were a pain in the ass the other way,” Mike said, getting up to ask the bartender to put Jeopardy! on the screen.

  We sat at the small table in the bar area for another fifteen minutes, just talking about how we were going to spend the next couple of fall weekends. There was a sweetness to this side of Mike when we were alone together, and I didn’t want to sacrifice it to a political career that would threaten to rip us apart.

  He spotted the Final Jeopardy! section before I did and called out to the bartender to turn up the volume.

  Trebek stepped aside to reveal
the category, which was a single word on the big blue screen: Monsters.

  “We should both be good at this one,” Mike said, putting his twenty dollars on the small tabletop.

  “You like horror movies better than I do,” I said, matching his bet.

  “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” Mike said. “That’s my favorite. Man taking on the Gill Man in his own element.”

  “I can’t even watch it. When I saw it as a kid, it was probably another month before I’d get in a bathtub again. I’m stuck at twenty bucks.”

  “Here’s tonight’s Final Jeopardy! answer,” Trebek said. “‘Age of the author who created the Frankenstein monster.’”

  Mike groaned. “A question about literature disguised as a mysterious monster.”

  Then the longtime host of the show laughed and said, “Of course, you’ll have to know who the author was to know this one.”

  “What’s your answer, Detective?” I asked.

  “You’ve already swallowed the canary, haven’t you? Gloating doesn’t become you,” Mike said, “in case you thought this was a good look. You know this dude Trebek makes ten million dollars a year to stand here for half an hour a day asking trivia questions?”

  “Best guess,” I said, walking two fingers across the table toward the forty-dollar pile. “Changing the subject is a real tell that you’re clueless.”

  Mike threw up his hands and then took a hit of vodka. “Who was—who was the man who wrote Frankenstein?”

  “Such a bad answer,” I said, “and so sexist to boot.”

  “What?”

  I took the bills, held them with both hands, and snapped them tight before stuffing them in my tote. “Frankenstein—also entitled The Modern Prometheus—was written by Mary Shelley,” I said, “when she was eighteen years old. Eighteen. Can you imagine?”

  “What a misspent youth you had,” Mike said, “with your nose in a book all the time.”

  I leaned forward. “Very apt character for this moment. Do you know what Victor Frankenstein’s last words were?”

  “Nope. Go on,” Mike said. “Show off, why don’t you? There’s no one else here but me, but all that knowledge squeezed in behind your eyebrows must hurt to carry around.”

  “It only hurts when I can’t impart my wisdom to you,” I said. “‘Seek happiness in tranquillity,’” I said, quoting the fictional scientist who created the monster, “‘and avoid ambition.’”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t need to do anything but my work and to be with you. No playing politics with people’s lives,” I said.

  “Hold that thought for an hour or two,” Mike said, looking over the top of my head. “I think the man himself is here.”

  “Zach Palmer?” I asked.

  “Keep your eyes on me,” Mike said. “Stephane is directing him this way.”

  Zach came up behind me, leaned over and put his arms around me—in a way that suggested too much intimacy. “‘Alexandra Cooper, for the People,’” he said, in a low voice, doing his best to imitate me. “How many times have you uttered that phrase standing in the well of a courtroom, striking fear in the hearts of your adversaries?”

  “I hope fear was never the operative word, Zach,” I said, shaking myself loose and standing up to exchange kisses on the check.

  “Oh, that old search-for-the-truth thing,” he said, reaching out to shake Mike’s hand. “You must be Mike Chapman.”

  “I am.”

  “How do you like my opposition research?” Zach asked. “I’m ahead of the curve, don’t you think?”

  “You usually are,” I said, grinning at him, despite the fact that my stomach was roiling at the idea of him oozing what he thought was his charm on a teenage victim.

  “So if you’re the guy for Alexandra, Detective,” Zach said, pointing to his own hand, “how come you haven’t put a ring on it yet?”

  “I’m just waiting for her to ask me, Mr. Palmer,” Mike said. “Coop always leads when we dance, so I’m just being patient until she kneels down and proposes.”

  “Oh, he’ll be good on the hustings, Alexandra,” Zach said, wagging a finger in Mike’s direction. “Those women voters will love that you’re the alpha dog and Mike follows your lead. It wouldn’t work so well in Queens or on Staten Island, but the ladies in Manhattan will eat up your moxie.”

  “You’re making too many assumptions, Zach,” I said. “About the race to fill Paul’s seat, that is.”

  “Then let’s talk,” he said.

  “Sure. Let’s go to our table.”

  I got up and went to the entrance of the dining room. Stephane saw me—in that seamless, fluid movement of a great maître-d’—and came toward us. “Your table is ready, madame.”

  “Are you staying for dinner, Mike?” Zach asked. “Because my body man can join us, too.”

  “Body man?” I said.

  “You’ve got to jump into the action, Alexandra. Every politician has a body man who’s the top aide, sticks by his side,” Zach said. “That’s how it’s done these days. Seems like you’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “I’m a lot of things,” Mike said, “but I am not about to be Coop’s body man.”

  Mike said good night and headed to the exit.

  I followed Stephane to our table, nodding at some of the regular diners I knew from frequent visits to the restaurant as I wound my way through the tables to a quiet corner banquette near the front window.

  As Mike walked away, an attractive woman, younger than me, maybe thirty-four or thirty-five—passed him, coming in our direction.

  “Are you all set, boss?” she asked. “Shall I wait for you in the car?”

  “Thank you, Josie. We’ll be about an hour,” Zach said. “This is Ms. Cooper, by the way.”

  I tried not to stare at her, but I couldn’t place our connection. She was as tall as I was—about five foot ten—but more wiry. Her auburn hair was swept up in a ponytail, and she was dressed all in black. Her face looked so familiar to me.

  She smiled and waved at me. “Hi, I’m Josie Breed.”

  “Alex. Alex Cooper.”

  “Josie worked with me at Justice,” Zach said. “She was an agent just out of Quantico but handled some of my big cases. She’s tough. Smart, fearless, and tough.”

  Of course. Josie was one of the young agents standing on the steps of the Utah courthouse after the conviction of Welly Baynes. I had seen her picture yesterday—several versions of it—in all of the news clips about the trial. She must know Lucy Jenner, too.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “We’ll have to talk sometime. I bet you’ve had some fascinating experiences.”

  “You’ll be seeing a lot of her,” Zach said. Then he winked at me. “Leave it to me, Alex. There’s no rule against a body man being a good-looking girl.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I sat down and straightened my blouse, trying to cover the pull in the cloth where my button had been.

  “One bit of advice, Zach,” I said, smiling at him as I spread my napkin on my lap. “Bad times to call a thirtysomething heat-packing former Feebie a ‘girl.’ I’m sure she’s a formidable young woman.”

  “I know it’s your job,” he said, “but this Me Too bullshit isn’t going to last through next spring. It’s just a moment in time, before everybody goes back to doing what they used to do.”

  I looked up at Stephane as he apologized for interrupting to take our drink order. His gracious interruption saved me from responding to Zach’s stupid remark in a fit of pique. “Dewar’s for you, madame? And for you, sir?”

  “Let me have a Hendrick’s gin martini, straight up with olives,” Zach said, “and then give us a few minutes to talk before we make our dinner decisions.”

  “Bien sûr, monsieur.”

  “So how are you feeling?” Zach a
sked, putting on his best sincere face.

  “Good. I’m really good. I love being back at work and I think I’ve managed to put my kidnapping in the rearview mirror.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” Zach said. “I was getting really mixed reports about how you were dealing with the post-traumatic stress.”

  “Maybe you’re asking the wrong people.”

  “Is it the meds keeping you steady? All those antianxiety drugs do wonders for people these days.”

  “I’m off the meds,” I said. While they were the right option for some people, Zach was probably hoping to use the fact that I had been dependent on them for his campaign prep, figuring I might further unravel along the way.

  “Good. Good for you,” Zach said. “They help some people a lot and others get totally fucked up by the chemicals.”

  Stephane placed the drinks in front of each of us, and Zach lifted his glass to say “Cheers.”

  “Tell me what it is you want to talk about,” I said.

  “You were always pretty direct, so let’s get to it,” Zach said. “On December 1, I’m going to declare that I’m running for Battaglia’s seat in the special election next April. There are a lot of dark horses—none quite as dark as me, which is pretty much to my advantage—so I’m making the rounds to see where they all stand.”

  “Who have you got on your list?”

  “So far, I’m figuring the clowns in the executive wing of your office will duke it out among themselves, and the last man standing will jump in. Maybe McKinney, maybe that other spineless guy, Spindler. Has either of them told you?”

  “I haven’t seen much of them. Today’s only my second day back, and neither of them were on my short list of visitors.”

  “I figured the attorney general would make the power grab,” Zach said, “’cause there’s not a soul in this state can tell what an AG does when he goes to work every day.”

  I laughed. “You’re right about that.”

  “But then he—that great champion of women’s rights—got caught up by four broads claiming he had them role-playing S and M bondage games in the bedroom, so he’s out of my way,” Zach said. “Actually, I began licking my chops when he took his big fall.”