"And when it was over, did any of them stay behind with you?"
She stopped to think for a minute. "I know I asked for a sedative, to take a nap. I'd been extremely worried about this, and not being able to tell the neighbors it was all a fake. Lola and I sat up practically the entire night before, just trying to reassure ourselves that if the whole thing worked, she'd be rid of Ivan forever. I remember Lola and Anne giving me something to help me sleep that afternoon, once Lola was done with the shooting, but that's about all. I don't know when any of them left here."
"And Lola," Mike asked. "Did you know she was going back to her apartment?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. She made me promise not to tell Anne. Anne left the room, then Lola kissed me, thanked me, and put the throw over my bedspread 'cause I was cold."
"She just told you she was going to walk out the door?"
Lily nodded.
"Did she ask to borrow your car?"
Lily's brow creased. She was working against the wine to remember what had happened. "No, of course not. She told me a car service was picking her up. At least, that's who I assumed she Was talking to. She used the phone next to my bed to make a call. Told whoever it was not to come to the front door. Lola said she'd slip out the back, cross over Tess Bolton's yard-that's one of the neighbors you met-and wait next to their garage, on Arlington Street. She told me she'd be fine. Someone was taking her home, she said, where she'd be safe."
8
An hour later I was sitting at my secretary's typewriter, pounding out subpoenas for Mike to serve as soon as possible.
"What's first?"
"Verizon telephone services in New Jersey. MUDS and LUDS. I want every outgoing call made from Lily's phone on Thursday- in fact, all of last week. I suppose you should try each of the cab companies in Summit, too, but I think there's a good chance that she reached out to someone she knew-and trusted-to drive her to Manhattan. After the emotional drain of enacting her own murder, I assume she'd pick her traveling companion carefully."
"How about phone records for the apartment and her office?"
"I'm working on them. Give me your notepad. You've got all the relevant numbers written there, don't you?" We both knew the value of a paper trail, and started to think of any electronic or written means of communication that might have left a connection or a clue.
When I had finished looking for every possible link to Lola Dakota, I reached for another blank subpoena in my drawer. I flipped through Mike's pages until I found his references to Charlotte Voight, the student who had disappeared in April. There would be King's College records that could tell us which credit card she used at the school bookstore, and from there, we could get the company's vouchers to tell us what businesses she frequented and perhaps where she ate. As I took the subpoenas out of the typewriter, I signed them beneath the printed space with Battaglia's name in it, and passed them to Mike.
"What's this one for? King's College Student Health Services?" "Long shot. We've got absolutely nothing to give us a control sample for Voight's DNA. None of her belongings are at school- no clothes, no toothbrush, no hairbrush. Nothing to let the lab develop a genetic fingerprint. What if we come across evidence or-worst-case scenario-a body? Once they work up a profile from that, we'd have zilch with which to compare it."
"What do you think she left at the doctor's office, a DNA sample in case of emergency?" Mike was growing impatient and was ready to leave.
"I'm willing to bet you that a sexually active college student made at least one trip to that office, had one gynecological checkup during her time at the school. Needed birth control, or maybe-with Voight's lifestyle-a test for sexually transmitted diseases or pregnancy. And if she was examined there, most doctors would have done a routine Pap smear as part of the process. The cells scraped off during that procedure are more than enough to give us a control.
"So my guess is that sitting in a lab somewhere not too far away is all we need to get started on a DNA print of Charlotte Voight."
Mike nodded his approval. "C'mon, blondie. Nothing I can do with these papers till Monday morning. None of these business offices will be open at this hour on a Saturday. I'll drop you off at home. Then I'll be back at seven tonight to drive out to Mercer's."
I stopped in the lobby to pick up my mail, an assortment of Christmas cards from friends scattered across the country mixed in with the usual bills. There were two messages on the answering machine. One was my mother, hoping I could change my schedule and join the rest of the family at their Caribbean island home for Christmas. She hadn't heard the news of my latest case, so I would plan to spend some time with her on the phone tomorrow. The other call was from Jake, and I dialed his cell phone number.
"Still at the studio?"
"Trying to wrap up the piece for tomorrow. Brian's going to lead with the Ugandan story on Sunday's Nightly News. We found some background information that puts a whole new spin on the assassination, and so far, it's an exclusive. How about you?"
"Wish I could say we were that far along. No spin, no leads. This is going to be a slow one. The administration closed down the school early for the holidays, so we're just treading water. Mercer's having a bunch of us over for a party tonight."
"Then you can hold out for a few more days till I get home?"
I was stretched out on the bed, phone to my ear, patting the empty space next to me. "Pretty lonely on your side of the mattress. Don't think I have any choice in the matter, do I? See if you can nab the assignment to do local traffic up here. Something unexciting that keeps you in my neighborhood all the time, okay?"
After we hung up, I called a few of my friends to say hello, wrapped some of the gifts I planned to take to the office on Monday, and dressed for the evening.
When Mike and I arrived at Mercer's house in Queens, the door was open and there were fifteen or twenty people clustered around the bar in his den. The first person to greet us was Vickee Eaton, a second-grade detective who worked at One Police Plaza, in the office of the deputy commissioner for public information.
Mike and Vickee were the same age and had gone through the academy together. He had introduced her to Mercer when the latter's brief marriage to a girl he'd grown up with had ended. Vickee and Mercer dated for almost five years, and were married for less than two when she walked out on him without any reason that he could articulate to us. When I saw her once thereafter, at a press event the commissioner held at headquarters to which Battaglia and I had been invited, she told me she just couldn't deal with the kind of danger Mercer was exposed to in the field. Vickee's father had been a cop, and had been killed on the job when she was fifteen. He was the reason she had gone into the department, and even more, the reason she feared how being a cop could be a death warrant as well.
I thought I had masked my surprise at seeing Vickee, but she read me clearly. "You haven't heard?"
I looked at Mike, who shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't go to visit Mercer in the hospital-too many of you guys around for me to get down on my knees and apologize for how stupid I'd been." She was talking about the shooting in August, when the three of us had been investigating the murder of an art dealer, and Mercer had almost been killed as a result. "But I went over to Spencer's house immediately and kind of sat vigil with him that whole first week."
"That old dog really kept it under his vest." Mike and I had been in constant contact with Mercer's widowed father, Spencer Wallace, who lived for his only son. He never told us Vickee had reentered their lives.
Mercer had seen us come in and was making his way across the room with two glasses of champagne in his hands. He gave one to each of us, and Mike turned to pass his off to Vickee. She waved a finger at him and picked up a soft drink she'd been working on when we came in. "No alcohol for me. Not quite my third month yet."
Mike grabbed her in a bear hug, champagne sloshing from the flute and covering his lapel. "You mean that doctor got Mercer's plumbing back in order? Damn, you are my idol, m'man. Here I'
m thinking you need all this bed rest and you're going to get out on three-quarters 'cause some asshole disabled you, and if you can ever be lucky enough to shoot at all again you'd be shooting blanks. While the whole time you're just practicing on Vickee, making love-"
I hadn't seen Mercer this happy in more than a year. He was trying to talk over Mike and explain that he and Vickee had decided to get married. "It's just going to be my dad, and her mother and two sisters this time. And both of you. New Year's Day, in Judge Carter's chambers. Will you be there?"
"Sure, we'll be there. Long as you don't do it during any of the bowl games, okay?"
The house was filled with friends and family. Mercer's team from Special Victims had all come to celebrate, and we tried not to talk cases as we ate and danced and drank. By eleven o'clock, I could see that Vickee was tired and trying to stay off her feet. I pried the third helping of lasagna out of Mike's hand and suggested we get on the road.
"The Final Jeopardy! category is Astronomy. Any takers?" Silence. "Blondie, make a stab at it? Could be something in it for you." I laughed and tugged at his jacket sleeve. "What is December twenty-first?" Mike asked aloud to no one in particular as I tried to pull him toward the door. "The winter solstice, ladies and gentleman. Shortest day of the year, but the longest night. Make good use of it-I certainly intend to."
Mercer walked us to the door and held it open as we said good night. "If your reputation wasn't shot before, Ms. Cooper, it's gone now. What are you doing for the solstice? You need Jake up here-enough of this toughin' it out alone. We've all been doing that too long."
"If I stopped to worry about every time Mike opened his mouth, they'd have to institutionalize me. I'm so happy for both of you. What a lucky little baby that's going to be."
We walked down the path and up the street to Mike's car. For most of the ride back to the city, I was quiet. We came through the Thirty-fourth Street tunnel, then Mike swung onto the FDR Drive going uptown. The cold spell seemed to be interminable, and I stared over at the sparkling lights of the bridges crossing the East River.
Off to the right, the forbidding outline of a ruined building loomed against the dark sky, covered with frozen snow and icicles hanging from empty window frames.
"What are you thinking about? Where'd you go?"
"Just daydreaming. Thinking that's the most beautiful building in New York."
"Which one?"
"That abandoned hospital." I pointed to the southern tip of the island in the river. "It's the only landmarked ruin in the city. Built by the same guy who designed St. Patrick's Cathedral,
James Renwick."
"Y'know, you can change the subject and create a distraction better than anyone on earth."
"I didn't know we had a subject. The solstice?"
"I know why you're brooding, Coop." Mike exited the Drive at Sixty-first Street and stopped at the first light. "You're thinking about Mercer and Vickee. And the baby."
"I'm not brooding."
"Makes you think about the direction of your own life, doesn't it? Family, careers, sort of what the purpose of-"
"Don't go getting all Hamlet on me tonight, Mikey. I'm thrilled for them. He's always been in love with Vickee and I think it's perfect that they've gotten back together. I really wasn't doing any heavy thinking."
"Well, you ought to do some." We were getting closer to my apartment now, and I was shifting my weight in the seat. "How much longer you gonna stay at this, Coop? Run around playing cops and robbers with us in the middle of the night? Now you've got a guy who's mad for you, plus you could name your own price at a law firm, or start one up, for that matter. Shit, you could hang it all up and have some kids. Little news jocks."
"This is all about you, Mr. Chapman." I tensed and fidgeted as we neared the driveway. "Sounds like Mercer's lifestyle changes appeal to you more than they do to me. He was getting anxious to settle down. I doubt he ever got over Vickee walking out the first time. Besides, he's forty-I'm only thirty-five-"
"And ticking."
"He loves kids. Always has. I watch him on the child abuse cases and he's great with kids."
"You are, too."
"Yeah, but he likes all of them. Me, I like the ones I know and love. I worship my nieces and nephews. I cherish my friends' kids. But I don't sit in an airport lounge listening to the whining toddlers, watching them wipe their noses on their sleeves, see the parents fighting with their petulant adolescents, thinking there's some great hole in my life. I'd choose a dog every time."
"People think you're nuts for staying in this job. Most of 'em think there's something screwy in your head, that you like it so much."
"I learned a long time ago not to worry about what other people think. Unless they're people I care about. You love what you do. You don't understand why I like my end of it?"
"Different thing."
"What are you talking about? You're sniffing around dead bodies day and night. I get to help people. Live ones. People who've survived the trauma, who recover from it, who get to see a bit of justice restored because we make the system work for them."
I realized I had raised my voice in answering Mike, so I said more calmly, "Twenty years ago, prosecutors couldn't get convictions in these cases in a court of law. Now, the guys in my unit do it every day. Different thing? According to who? To you? 'Cause your narrow-minded, parochial upbringing wants you to think that women shouldn't do this kind of work, right?"
My pitch had gone up again. There was no point trying to explain what he already knew.
We were stopped in the middle of the driveway at my building, the doorman standing at the passenger side to let me out, but waiting till our argument stopped before daring to approach the car. I was sure he could hear my agitated voice through the window.
Mike lowered his tone a notch and spoke to me softly. "'Cause I think you've got to start thinking about the rest of your life, Coop."
"I think about it every day. Know what my thoughts are? That if a fraction of the people I knew did something that was as emotionally rewarding as what I do, they'd be a pretty satisfied bunch. I've got loyal friends who happen to have a great time working together, with one another and with the good cops like you and Mercer."
"And you're going home, by yourself, to an empty apartment. With nothing to eat in the refrigerator, nobody to keep you warm when the heat goes off, and no way for anyone to know if you're dead or alive until it's time to show up for work on Monday. It's pathetic. You should have been on the last shuttle to Washington, slippin' into Jake's hotel room-"
I stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind me. "When you straighten out your own love life, instead of going home and playing with yourself every night, then you can start giving advice to the lovelorn."
He accelerated over the speed bumps and raced out of the driveway.
"Sorry." I nodded to the doorman. "Thanks for waiting."
"Miss Cooper? There was someone here an hour or two ago asking questions about you."
I shivered. "Do you know who he was?"
"No, it wasn't a man. It was a young woman, actually. Wanted to know if you lived here."
"What did you say?"
"Well, it was the new guy she spoke to, the one covering for the holiday break. He thought she looked harmless enough. He told her that you did live in the building before he even thought about why she might be asking."
Great security. Must be why my rent is so high. "What else did she say?"
"She wanted to know if anybody else lived with you. She wanted to know if you usually came home alone at night."
9
The light was flashing on my answering machine when I walked into my bedroom at midnight. Jake said he and the film crew had gone out for dinner, but he was back in his hotel room and would wait up awhile for my call. The second caller was an unfamiliar voice.
"Miss Cooper? Hello? This is, um, Joan Ryan. I'm one of the counselors in the Witness Aid Unit at the DA's office. We haven't met ye
t, and this isn't exactly the way I, uh, wanted to introduce myself. But I need to tell you about a problem on one of your cases.
"I've been counseling one of your victims, Shirley Denzig, you know the one who claims the delivery guy attacked her? She was flirting with him in the deli when she bought her dinner, and then she paid him to bring up the dessert half an hour later?" Ryan was rambling now, in that way people do on answering machines so it seems to the listener that the story will be interminable. What's the point, Joan?
"I, um-I probably should have given you a heads-up about this yesterday, when she showed up at my office. But then, you know, whatever she tells me is privileged, 'cause I'm a social worker and she's a victim. It was only when she showed up again tonight that the supervisor called me. She really seemed out of control, asking all kinds of questions about you. Anyway, if you want to call me at home, here's my number. You'll probably want to know what Shirley was saying. My supervisor thinks I have to tell you."
I cut off her confessional narrative and dialed the number.
"Joan? It's Alex Cooper. Sounds like I woke you up."
"That's okay. This is really my fault."
I knew who Denzig was, so there was no need to go through the story again. It was during her second interview with me a couple of weeks ago, in our discussion of her psychiatric history, that I had set her off on a tirade. While I was asking the routine pedigree questions, Denzig had told me she was a student at Columbia College. Considering the other information she had provided, I was skeptical of her claim and asked to see her identification. She had presented me with a photo ID that had expired two years earlier. It looked fairly generic, with no Columbia crest, or any of the characteristic blue-and-white university markings.
When I pressed further, Shirley admitted that she had never attended the college, and had purchased the phony card on Forty-second Street, where just about any kind of counterfeit document is available for a price. I clipped the fake ID to her case file and continued asking questions.
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