Lethal Legacy

by Linda Fairstein

  “I’ll run Anton Griggs. You get a plate number?”

  “Not even a partial. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted out.”

  “Understood. You want me to stay at your place tonight?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got-well, um, Luc is in town. We’re having dinner with Joan and Jim. I’ll be fine.”

  “Sounds like Anton had his moment if he was going to do anything more than scare the pants off you.”

  “A total success at that.”

  “You’re on the street? I heard a car honking.”

  “Just going into the restaurant, I promise.”

  “I’ll check in with you in the morning. You got your Saturday ballet class?”

  “I’ve just done my best leap. I’ll play hooky tomorrow.”

  “You know Battaglia will put someone on you the minute you call him,” Mercer said. “I’d just as soon have it be me.”

  “So would I. But I want to wait till Luc goes to the airport in the morning. I’d like a semblance of a normal social life for the evening.”

  “You’re entitled to that. We’ll talk.”

  Ken Aretsky welcomed me to Patroon with his usual warmth and charm. We embraced and exchanged kisses. “Good to see you, Alex. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

  “No, Ken. Why?”

  “Well, you’re all flushed and perspiring a bit.”

  That was a polite way of telling me I was sweating and shaking. “The traffic was wild. I had to sprint the last couple of blocks.”

  “Better for me. That’s bound to make you even hungrier,” he said, leading me into the dining room, where New York ’s power brokers gathered to make deals over the superb food for which Aretsky was known. “Joan’s at the table. Jim took Luc upstairs to show him the private dining rooms and the rooftop bar. Happy to know I’m getting you into my business.”

  “That’s entirely Luc’s doing, I’m afraid.”

  Ken led me to the banquette in the front corner of the room and left me to bask in Joan Stafford’s effusive greeting.

  I slipped onto the seat beside Joan, and after we hugged she asked to be brought up to the minute on everything I’d been doing.

  “Sweetheart, did you even have time to see the news tonight? Your case is all over it. What did that poor girl do to deserve to die like that?”

  “Isn’t it tragic?”

  “I know you can’t tell me anything, but it’s so dreadful. We like to think of libraries as uplifting sanctuaries, but there have been murders and thefts associated with the best of them. Someone walked out of Cambridge University with a million dollars’ worth of rare books a couple of years ago when my play was in rehearsal in London.”

  “I didn’t know about that one. It’s mind-boggling, isn’t it?”

  “Mark Antony plundered the entire library of Pergamon so he could give it to Cleopatra as a wedding present. Nothing new under the sun.”

  A novelist and playwright, Joan knew more about literature than anyone I had ever encountered. Brilliant, funny, and incredibly chic, she was happily married to an expert in foreign affairs who wrote a nationally syndicated column. Joan and my college roommate, Nina Baum, were the most loyal of friends, and I leaned on their shoulders during my more serious investigations.

  “So I’m learning. And the characters who people this world-”

  “Tell me about it. I go to those library benefits, and let me remind you that it isn’t all classy trustees like Louise Grunwald and Gordon Davis. The NBC reporter said the Hunts might be involved in this brouhaha,” Joan said as Stefan, the maître d’, came over to fill my flute with champagne. “You don’t want to find yourself between Minerva Hunt and a rattlesnake. She’ll take your eyes out in a flash.”

  “How about Jonah Krauss?” I asked. Joan had one of the grandest homes in East Hampton, where she’d been summering all of her life. There were few people of substance there that she didn’t know.

  “You’re talking very north of the highway now, Alex,” she said, referring to the less fancy neighborhoods on the far side of Route 25, which split the Hamptons in half, where many of the newly rich had built their McMansions.

  “We met with him this afternoon. He’s actually got a book bound in human skin.”

  “Check his wife’s plastic surgeon. She’s had so much work done, they probably had enough left over to bind an encyclopedia,” Joan said, clinking her glass against mine. “Listen, sweetheart, when the reporters come after you on this one, promise me you’ll trowel on some foundation. You came in here all flushed and now you’re so white, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I thought I had, Joanie.”

  “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 w
as 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.”

  “There’s an outer entrance that’s kept locked?”

  “Always.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was in the den, turning on the television, so I walked through the apartment to the living room. The knocking came again, and I asked who was there.”

  “Did someone respond?”

  “Oh, yes. The young man spoke to me. Told me he had a package.”

  “For you?”

  “That’s what has me feeling foolish. I don’t get many packages, other than an occasional fruitcake from my niece and nephews around the holidays. Can’t give them away fast enough.” She was spunky and quick to smile. “‘Not for me, you don’t.’ That’s what I told him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That it was a delivery for my neighbor. He even had the name and apartment right. Miss Ziegler in two-C. Then he told me to look through the peephole so I could see his uniform.”

  While Jane Eliot was talking, I heard Mercer ask the sergeant whether there was a list of names in the building’s vestibule. He nodded and mouthed the word “yes.”

  “My vision isn’t too good these days,” she said, “but I can make out shapes and colors. I can see, Mercer, that you’ve got a very large frame, that you’re a tall man, black skinned. And you’re quite tall yourself, Alex, with lovely golden hair.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mine was red,” Jane Eliot said. “Fiery red. Well, there he was in one of those brown jackets. You know that delivery service that’s all done up in brown?”