I went back to my bedroom to pull on sweats and a fleece jacket. When I returned, the guys were at my bar, calling to me to bring a full ice bucket to them.
“I had this dreadful encounter with Paul Battaglia,” I said, setting the ice on the bar. “I was way out of line, Mike. I know that, but he caught me off guard, lying in wait for me near the driveway and scaring me half to death.”
“Calm down, babe.” He turned to me and put his arms around me. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I may have just thrown away my job.” I buried my head into Mike’s shoulder.
“Hell, you always wanted to be a ballet dancer, didn’t you? You’re a little long in the tooth for that now, but—”
“As I recall,” Mercer said, “you’ve got the district attorney by the short hairs, Alex. He’s not about to do anything.”
“Yet,” I said. “You meant to add ‘yet,’ didn’t you?”
Mike pushed me back and lifted my chin. “Smile for me.”
“I’ve forgotten how to do that.”
“Practice,” Mike said, picking up the half-gallon bottle of Dewar’s. “I’ll let you have a drink with us. You’ve shown remarkable self-restraint.”
“You mean you trust me?”
“Not exactly. But I marked the bottle before we left the house this morning,” he said. “And you got through this little crisis without dipping in. Good for you.”
I didn’t need to confess to my interlude at the Beach Café and the wine at the Met dining room. By the time I’d had my confrontation with Paul Battaglia, I needed a steaming-hot bath more than a cocktail.
“You’re tracking my pours? I can’t believe it.”
“That’s the least of it, Coop. You’re going to start running with me in the mornings, too. Boot camp begins tomorrow.”
Mercer was pouring the drinks.
“I actually bought food for Mike and me, but I dropped the bag on the street when Battaglia shouted my name. I have nothing for you guys to eat.”
“I ordered a pizza on our way up. It’ll be here in half an hour,” Mike said.
“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” I said. “Tell me what you did after I left.”
“First of all, we missed Jeopardy! because of the presser about the ME’s findings,” Mike said. “My mother taped it for me.”
“Seriously, Mike.”
“Okay, okay. So Jimmy North met me at the morgue, to go back over to the Savage offices. By the time we got there, Hal and Reed had left for lunch, and were going directly from there to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will. That’s all we were able to get out of the secretary—she wouldn’t budge on who or where the lawyer is—so it shut us down for a while.”
“I got called in because of the Tanya Root piece of the case,” Mercer said. “We’re starting all over on that investigation, now that we know Wolf Savage was her father. We’re linked in with Mike and Jimmy, of course.”
“Murder begets murder,” Mike said. “We just need the ‘why’ and the ‘who.’”
“Catherine will give you warrants for anything you want,” I said.
“Done. She’s way out in front of this. You lose your job? She’ll step right into your shoes. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried about Catherine or the unit for a minute, Mike. I’m worried about me.”
“We’re going for Wolf’s phones—business and cell, incoming and outgoing—for the last six months. Reed Savage and Uncle Hal, too. And Lily Savitsky.”
“But she’s just—” I blurted out, not sure why I would leap to defend a woman I hadn’t seen for twenty years.
“She’s Tanya’s half-sister, Coop. And the dead man’s daughter. Think big-picture. Everybody’s got a motive till they don’t.”
“Sorry. You’re right, of course,” I said. “Were you able to grab any of the family members after they met with the trusts and estate lawyer?”
“Nope. I don’t know how long the meeting took. But nobody came back to the office. That’s on tap for tomorrow morning, after the autopsy of Wolf Savage,” Mike said. “Mercer and me.”
“I figured that. Battaglia spoke to the commissioner, right? He told me that Dr. Parker let it slip that I was at the morgue with you, and that he doesn’t want me doing any more of that.”
“Don’t inhale that scotch, kid. It’s your one and only, so sip it slow,” Mike said. “Yeah, we went straight from Seventh Avenue to headquarters. Scully knew it was important enough to do a stand-up conference on this one. Did you catch it?”
“I saw a rerun. A clip of it anyway. How much did he give out?”
“Bare bones. That news reports of Savage’s suicide were premature. That his death has been reclassified as a homicide, pending autopsy and an investigation,” Mike said. “Then he had a blow-up of the anthropologist’s reconstruction of Tanya Root’s face, and said that she has been identified as the daughter of Wolf Savage.”
“So far, Alex,” Mercer said, “none of the hundred-plus women in America with that name fits the ’scrip of our Tanya Root. We’re hoping that because this story will get international play, especially coming from Commissioner Scully, that someone who knows her, somewhere in the world, will come forward.”
“Do you have a phone number for her? Any way to retrace her steps here?”
“You know anybody who goes swimming in the East River with a phone, Coop?” Mike said. “We don’t even know that the name she gave the plastic surgeon is her real one.”
“So maybe I got some information today that will move you forward.”
“Let’s hear about your little escapade,” Mike said. “It’s always interesting when the patients get out of their straitjackets for a few hours.”
“Yeah, quite refreshing for me, actually. Off my meds. No keeper,” I said. “I just got lucky, is all it is. I didn’t have any reason to know what I was going to walk into.”
I started to detail my conversation with Tiziana Bolt while Mercer took notes.
My information was coming out in bits and pieces. “We need to know more than what the gossip columnists have printed about his third, fourth, and fifth wives over the years,” I said.
“We’re on that,” Mercer said.
“You already knew about them? That they were—?”
“‘Women of color’ is what Scully called them. He made Vickee research the guy’s bio from decades of press clips about him,” Mercer said. “That’s one thing that benefits us from his living such a public life.”
“So Reed’s mother was his first wife, and she’s long dead,” I said. “Then he married Lily’s mother.”
“Then the third wife is the Brit who raised Reed,” Mercer said. “Alive and well—the recluse who lives outside of London.”
“She’s not supposed to be an issue in this,” Mike said. “Reed told us his father took good care of her when they split, and local police in her village say she hasn’t set foot out of town in ten years.”
I was sketching a family tree as I sat on the sofa with a legal pad.
“Did she figure out four and five?”
“You know Vickee. She’s a relentless researcher,” Mercer said. “The fourth wife is from the Caribbean originally. Nevis. She lives in New Orleans now. She met Wolf when she was trying to break into modeling here in the city as a teenager. Married him when she was twenty-one, and the only job she could land was in a showroom of a glove manufacturer.”
“Great hands, I guess,” Mike said. “Not a total bust.”
“Short marriage. No kids,” Mercer said. “I talked to her on the phone. She’s remarried, to a former Saint.”
“A saint?” I asked.
“Think football, Coop. New Orleans Saints.”
“Happy and healthy, and very comfortable answering my questions,” Mercer said. “Holds no grudge for Wolf. The man treated her like a queen.”
“Did she know about Reed?” I asked. “And Lily?”
“Met Reed. Heard about Li
ly but never met her. And no, she never knew anything about an illegitimate child. Never heard of Tanya Root.”
“The woman had to come from somewhere,” I said.
“She’s going to stay in touch with me. She remembers that Wolf Savage was very familiar with New Orleans, and told her he’d spent time there in a relationship with another woman,” Mercer said. “She’s going to see if she can find that woman’s name in one of her old journals or diaries.”
“That would be great,” I said. “If my math is correct, Tanya was conceived sometime between the third and fourth marriages, right?”
“Seems to be so.”
“Did Vickee come up with anything on the fifth wife?”
“An African woman.”
“Ethiopian?” I asked, telling them the story of Samira.
“No,” Mercer said. “This one was from Ghana. A young businesswoman, actually. We haven’t been able to reach her by phone. Thirtysomething when Wolf married her, according to the tabloids. She stole a bundle of money from him. Got nothing in the divorce and went back to Ghana a year later, where she started her own company. Vickee can’t find her name in any of the newspapers since she left the States.”
“You guys really have your hands full,” I said, holding the chilled glass against my forehead. “Does Dr. Parker know what killed Tanya?”
“Blunt-force trauma confirmed,” Mercer said. “Her skull was crushed in the rear.”
“Which is nothing like Wolf’s death,” I said.
“Right. I take his autopsy at nine, then Mercer and I try a new approach to the brother and the uncle,” Mike said. “Track Lily down to see how she fared in the will.”
“You need to get the two hotel housekeepers,” I said. “Wolf recommended Josie—the one who took off—for the job. We’ve got to find out where in life their paths originally crossed. Then there’s Wanda. The one who found the body. She told us she babysat for a child whose mother was going out with Wolf. She assumed it was his wife and child, from somewhere abroad.”
“Not a wife,” Mike said. “A lover, maybe. But there’s no evidence of another marriage.”
“Even so,” I said, “Wanda can give you a better description. Maybe a way to figure out who they are.”
Mike barely acknowledged my ideas, while Mercer wrote everything down. I knew Mike wanted me to keep my nose out of this entire affair.
“Then there’s the business side of things. You’re going to have to talk to Tiziana.” I looked in my contacts and gave Mercer the number. “She probably has more reason to give you the real story than the brother and son.”
“Good work, Alex,” Mercer said, clinking his glass against mine.
“You should both be at the Savage show at the Met on Monday night,” I said. “It will be a chance for all the interested parties to be under the same roof.”
The intercom rang. “There’s your pizza,” I said.
Mike went to answer it while I grabbed some plates and napkins.
“I agree with you, Alex,” Mercer said. “The outfit that does security for Fashion Week is run by a guy who used to be a detective in the Nineteenth. I told Scully I’d call him and see if I can fake my way onto his staff.”
“If you’re going in undercover, Detective Wallace, then I’m going to be your date.”
“You know how I feel about you, Alexandra, but Commissioner Scully would have my head for that. Think of yourself as a wallflower, Alex. This may be one ball you just have to sit out.”
TWENTY-SIX
“How are you going to keep yourself busy today, blondie?” Mike asked.
We had jogged the one-and-a-half-mile trail around the Jacqueline Onassis Reservoir—the Central Park landmark that had been renamed in the First Lady’s honor for her many contributions to the city.
“You are a tough taskmaster,” I said, wiping my neck with a towel as we walked back to the apartment. “Shopping. I think I’ll go shopping. Totally stress-free.”
“Next week, I’d like you to do a favor for me.”
“What kind of favor?”
“No, no, no. It doesn’t go like that,” Mike said. “Somebody who loves you asks you to do something for him, the answer is an unconditional yes.”
“Does it involve a case?”
“Nope.”
“I’d rather it did,” I said.
“Are you in or not?”
“What do you want? Just some vapid broad who jumps every time you tell her to?”
“Exactly what I’ve always wanted,” Mike said. “I seem to remember that’s how you responded to everything Luc used to ask.”
I slapped the back of his thighs with my towel. “Move on, buddy. Sure, I’ll give you an unconditional yes.”
“I’d like you to see my shrink—the one the department made me talk to when—”
“No! Not happening,” I shouted, breaking into a run to cross the avenue before the light changed.
During my days of captivity, Keith Scully had insisted that Mike meet with a psychiatrist. He’d been furious at first, thinking she’d been called in to deal with his anger management at the thought of my abduction. Instead, she had tried to find out as much as she could about me—from the man who was closest to me—to help find a reason for someone to have victimized me.
Mike caught up with me a block away.
“There’s nothing wrong with me that your beloved shrink can help, Mike,” I said. “I’m just thoroughly strung out. Can you deal with that?”
“Everything that happens triggers some kind of flashback for you.”
“She told you to expect that I’d have flashbacks. I told you the same thing—most of my victims have had them. It’s part of the process, Mike. I want it to stop as much as you do.”
“Then talk to her, Coop. Maybe she can help you with some of your anxiety.”
“I want you to help me. That’s what I want.”
“I’m doing everything I can for you. I can’t stop working and be with you twenty-four/seven.”
“Why not? We can go back up to the Vineyard and just stay there for a month or two. I promise you I can work through this.”
“I need a paycheck, babe. And I do what I do because I like it, because I’m good at it. I’d be a lousy nanny, I really would.”
I knew better than to tell him I could support us—a trustifarian is how he referred to spoiled rich kids—so I just walked beside him silently.
“You’re mad because I mouthed off to the district attorney,” I said.
“I would have punched him in his huge-beaked nose, babe. That doesn’t bother me at all,” Mike said. “Once. Will you just go talk to her one time?”
“It’s the drinking, then. You drink a whole lot more than I do.”
“I hold it better than you, too. And I don’t start quite as early in the day.”
“Once,” I said, jogging off ahead of Mike as I called back to him. “I’ll go talk to her once.”
He caught up with me and took me in his arms, kissing me on top of my head.
“You know how I hate public displays of affection,” I said, grinning back at him. “Give me the phone number and I’ll make an appointment with her for next week.”
“Made my day, Coop. I’ll let you take me to dinner anywhere you’d like to go. Now you’re being sensible.”
Mike showered and shaved, stayed with me for a second cup of coffee, then called his mother to ask her about the Final Jeopardy! question from the night before.
“Yes, Mom, I’m with Alex. This one’s for her?” he said into the phone. “The category is literature?”
“Tell her thank you for me,” I said. “Double or nothing.”
“No way,” Mike said before repeating his mother’s words. “The answer is: ‘This person is the author of a 1914 book of essays called Tender Buttons.’”
“Who’s Gertrude Stein?” I said.
“She’s right?” Mike asked his mother. “Too smart for my blood. The nuns didn’t let me read Ge
rtrude Stein. Going to work now, Mom. See you on Sunday.”
Mike hung up and reached for the coffee mug. “So she wrote a book about buttons?”
“No. But she lived in Paris, and the expression has a couple of meanings in French. One is a name for tiny mushrooms and the other—”
“Why does everything with you come back to French?” he asked, playfully pulling on my jogging ponytail. “I’d rather watch an autopsy.”
“Well, today you get your wish, darling.”
I walked him to the door and kissed him goodbye, cleaned up and dressed, made a few calls to friends, and tried to think of ways to amuse myself.
I hadn’t been shopping in ages. Maybe it would cheer me up to buy a new scarf or pair of snow boots in anticipation of predictions for a stormy winter ahead.
My usual route to my favorite stores was walking down Third Avenue and cutting over to Madison somewhere in the sixties. I stopped at the cash machine, wandered into my local independent bookstore for a browse, and stopped to admire a cashmere sweater in the window of a new shop on Lexington.
I couldn’t get the case out of my mind, probably even more so because I had been ordered to stay out of it.
Some of the details of the investigation continued to nag at me, and I kept going back over them again and again. One of them, which I was reminded of when I thought of the greasy tire tracks in the rooms adjacent to Wolf Savage’s suite, was the gold-tone button I had found in the nappy carpet. I opened my phone to look at the photograph I had taken of it before handing it to Mike to voucher.
I didn’t need to satisfy my curiosity by going to the Garment District and risking a scolding. The most unusual little shop I could think of was on East Sixty-Second Street, right on the path to my favorite shoe salon. My visit was triggered by Mike’s call to his mother. The store had been a Manhattan institution since the ’60s. It was called Tender Buttons.
It took me only ten minutes to reach my destination, a narrow brownstone building, recognizable as I approached it by the giant-sized gold button—a trade sign—that was suspended from the balcony above the shop entrance.
There were two saleswomen and one other customer there when I entered. The walls on both sides of the room, from front to back, were covered floor to ceiling with very small boxes. Each box held a different size and style of button—literally hundreds of thousands of them—from antique to modern designs. It was like a library of buttons, and all I needed was someone to tell me whether the one I had picked up from the carpet in the Silver Needle Hotel was in their card catalog.
Killer Look Page 18