Hell Gate

by Linda A. Fairstein

  “Yes. Moses Leighton put him in some deals before Reid went to work for Ethan.”

  “What kind of deals?”

  “Leighton’s had some export-import companies, and a lot of real estate.”

  “Is Reid married?”

  “Single. He’s supposed to be a real player.”

  “Could be your moment, Coop.”

  The second floor hall was almost as busy as on a weekday. I didn’t recognize most of the people around, but there were dozens of casually dressed men and women who were scurrying about or stopping to talk in small huddles.

  The door to Reid’s room was ajar. He was on the phone at his desk, and it looked like his office had already been emptied of file cabinets, in all likelihood a result of a search warrant executed after the unsealing of the indictment.

  He covered the receiver with his hand. “Who you looking for?”

  Mike flashed his badge again and said his name.

  Reid didn’t even say good-bye to whoever was on the phone. He hung up, stood, and began shooing us out of the small room. “Nothing left for you guys. Be gone.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with your arrest, Mr. Reid,” Mike said. “I’m here about your friend Ethan Leighton.”

  Kendall Reid looked at us quizzically. “You’d best talk to my lawyer.”

  He was about five foot nine, muscular and well-built, with short-cropped curly hair and very light brown skin.

  “We just left Ethan.”

  “Left him where?”

  I introduced myself to Reid. “Just an informal meeting.”

  “Lemuel Howell know about it?”

  “Lem was a mentor of mine in the DA’s Office. He made it happen.”

  Reid was giving each of us a thorough once-over. “How’s Ethan doin’?”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,” Mike said. “You’re his buddy.”

  “Well, we’ve both been a little bit busy. I haven’t seen him.”

  “How strange is that? The congressman told me that just yesterday—”

  Kendall Reid got the point. “Forgot that I ran into him right outside. Dammit. Right on the front steps. I had no idea he’d be around here. Come in, come in, Detective. Sit yourselves down.”

  Reid walked behind us and closed the door. Then he parked himself on the edge of the desk, facing us. The monogram on his shirt pocket matched the pale blue lines in his black striped suit, and his gold fountain pen was clipped neatly in place.

  Mike told Reid that we were investigating the murder of Salma Zunega, and that so far, Ethan Leighton had been cooperating with us.

  “You’ve known the congressman for quite some time, haven’t you?” Mike asked.

  “Sure have. Sure have. I actually met him through his father. It was Moses Leighton who hired me away right out from under Mayor Bloomberg. I was just two years out of law school, working on legislation for the City Planning Commission.”

  “You and Moses Leighton became close?”

  “Yes, we did. Man is like a father to me. Took a chance, liked what he saw, thought he could teach me a few things. I owe a lot to him.”

  I’d guess he owed at least the monogrammed shirt and the vintage Montblanc, not to mention the well-addressed town house, to the senior Leighton.

  “Was it through working at Leighton Enterprises that you got to know Ethan?”

  “Yeah. I’m an only kid, Detective. No sibs. So Ethan liked to take me under his wing, show me the ropes.”

  “Has politics always interested you?” I asked.

  “There’s two ways out of the ghetto, Ms. Cooper. Politics and business. The gangsta route? You can make money and live just as well that way, though not likely as long. It’s still a ghetto lifestyle, no matter how high the rent. And there’s always the risk of prison bars. No, I was focused early on. Politics and business.”

  I didn’t want to say that this week’s news made prison bars a strong possibility for Councilman Reid.

  “I’m guessin’ I can read your mind, Ms. Cooper. How can I talk about being better than criminals when your office just came gunnin’ for me?” Reid reached behind him and grabbed the weekend edition of The Wall Street Journal. He swatted his hand a couple of times with it as he spoke. “I’m just a scapegoat for this practice that’s been goin’ on in this here city council for more than twenty years.”

  “I really don’t want you talking about that to us, Mr. Reid,” I said.

  “You read this yet?” he asked, offering the newspaper to me. “I’ve got nothing to keep from you. Like the Journal says, it was a bookkeeping maneuver that dates back to 1988. I don’t even know who the speaker was then, but he set up these fictitious groups, just to pool the money till it was distributed to council members. Nobody’s takin’ a piece of Kendall Reid’s hide for this. That money’s goin’ to the community, just like I promised. Read this editorial.”

  I took the paper from him and put it on my lap. “We’d just like to ask you some questions about Ethan Leighton,” I said, “and about Salma.”

  “Such a pity, such a tragedy.” Reid was shaking his head back and forth.

  “You were the first person Ethan called after the accident early Wednesday morning, I understand.” I had read that in the police reports.

  “I told you, ma’am, he’s like my brother.”

  “You got to the scene before anybody could find the congressman. You were willing to take the weight for him?”

  “Now, don’t you be puttin’ words in my mouth. There was a lot of confusion at that car wreck. I was just doin’ my level best to help sort things out. I had no plans to take no weight for anybody, you hear?”

  “He’s not that heavy,” Mike said. “I thought—like—he’s your brother.”

  “Good try, Detective.”

  “What exactly did you tell the police when you got to the scene of the crash?”

  “That paperwork those boys were so busy fillin’ out? I bet everything I said is as clear as day. I don’t want to be saying different things to you. Won’t help Ethan any.” Reid winked at me and went on. “Besides, I know how y’all be crisscrossing us up on the witness stand, you prosecutors. Bet you’re good at it, ma’am.”

  Mike and the councilman were squaring off with each other. Reid had the habit of bouncing back and forth between a very crisp accent that matched his educational opportunities, and the g-dropping lingo of the streets. I could tell Mike was getting the sense that Kendall Reid was more flimflam than substance.

  “Why don’t you tell us when you met Salma Zunega?” I asked.

  “Dates and me, we just don’t get along too good.”

  “Roughly, Mr. Reid. About what year?”

  “Goodness, I would have been working for Ethan at the time. Three, maybe four years ago.”

  “Do you remember where?”

  “Does Ethan remember?” Reid tilted his head and pointed a finger at me.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m kind of afraid to say. Don’t need to mix him up none.”

  “Take your best shot,” Mike said. “A speech, a party, a funeral, a Bar Mitzvah. Some other rubber-chicken dinner where you politicians hang out?”

  “I’m quite sure it was a fund-raiser. That would be it.”

  “That’s what Ethan said.” Mike was luring the councilman along, opening his steno pad to pretend he was confirming Reid’s answers with what Ethan Leighton had just told us an hour ago. “So you remember who brought her too?”

  “Oh, Lordy, yes,” Reid said, scratching his head. “That could have been ugly.”

  Mike flipped pages as though he were trying to find the name, even though Leighton had claimed it was no one memorable. “Yeah, the congressman said he dodged a bullet on that one.”

  “Salma came in with Rod Ralevic,” Reid said. “Am I right?”

  “You got it.”

  “He was a state senator at the time, before he became lieutenant governor. It was a big-ticket Democratic fund-raise
r. There was Salma, looking so sweet, just getting on her feet after—you know her background, right?”

  “We do,” I said.

  “Well, she was really fragile and vulnerable. And there’s that fool Ralevic, so much hair on the guy’s head he’s looking like he’s wearin’ a mop instead of a hairpiece.”

  So Salma Zunega had already graduated to the political scene before she met Ethan Leighton.

  “But she couldn’t have been too wrapped up in Ralevic,” Mike said, “if she made such a play for the congressman?”

  “Rod? He was just in town for a few days from the boonies. Goin’ hog wild over women and wine and whatever other people’s money could buy him,” Reid said. “He didn’t care about the girl.”

  “How do you think Ralevic met her?” I was trying to get back to the common thread among the trafficked women.

  “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

  “Pay for play?” Mike asked.

  Kendall Reid stood up straight and stretched his neck back. “Maybe so. That’s before Salma found her way. Fell in love with Ethan.”

  “Ralevic never got mad when he learned about Ethan and Salma?”

  “Learned what, huh? That affair was a better kept secret than my grandmother’s recipe for monkey bread.”

  “No rivalry there? It has nothing to do with Ralevic rushing in to pull the strings on replacing Ethan’s congressional seat?”

  “Where you think Ethan’s goin’, dude?” Reid asked. “Sure as hell you don’t know Moses Leighton if you think anybody’s got a plan to take Ethan’s seat away. The lieutenant governor ain’t got no chance against Moses. That’s for sure.”

  “What can you tell me about the little girl,” I asked, “—about Ana?”

  Reid’s mouth tightened and he closed his eyes. “No way.”

  “But, we’re terribly worried about what’s become of the child.”

  “And I want to know who’s the baby’s father,” Mike said. “Couldn’t be the lieutenant governor, could it?”

  “You know what?” He started to walk around to sit at his desk. “Let me get Ethan on the phone. Let me hear from him that he wants me to talk to you about all this, okay?”

  “Try Lem Howell’s office,” Mike said, getting up and closing his pad. He knew Reid was about to end our interview. “My guess is that’s where your brother is.”

  “Don’t be goin’ all holier-than-thou on me, Chapman. You want to know about Ethan meeting Salma? Ask your friend Baynes.”

  “Donovan Baynes?” I asked, shocked to hear his name in that context. “The head of the task force?”

  Donny had denied from the first moment the news broke that the congressman had been having an affair.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s part of the club.”

  “Club. What club?”

  “You’re all so high-and-mighty, don’t you think? I find it nice myself when there’s something you just don’t know.”

  “What club?” I repeated.

  “A gentlemen’s social club, Ms. Cooper. By invitation only. I don’t think you’d really be welcome.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “The mayor isn’t back yet,” Mike said. “I just left him a message. Told him he could call me anytime he remembered the story about Levi Weeks and the girl in the well.”

  I had waited for Mike in the lobby of City Hall, trying to figure out whether Donny Baynes really knew more than he had offered us. It was troubling to think that he was sitting on valuable information that might compromise his own position.

  Kendall Reid wasn’t able to reach Ethan Leighton, nor was he willing to go forward with our conversation.

  “Statler’s as likely to call you back as Judge Crater is,” I said. “What do we do about Donny Baynes?”

  “We take him head-on. Could be just this guy Reid’s nonsense. He’s not into prosecutorial love at the moment.”

  “I can tell.”

  We walked out the door and Mike pointed at the late afternoon sky. There was a gorgeous streak of pink that cut through the gray backdrop, lightening the dull winter landscape.

  “See that dame?” He was shoulder-to-shoulder with me, pointing to something in the distance.

  “Who?”

  “That golden girl, on top of the Municipal Building.”

  Directly to the southeast of City Hall was the enormous structure, straddling an entire street, that housed scores of government offices. It was capped by the dazzling figure of a woman—several times larger than life size—cast in gilded copper. The famous statue, known as Civic Fame, held the city’s coat of arms in one hand and a crown with five crenellations—the boroughs of New York—in the other.

  “She’s really gleaming against that pink sky.”

  “She reminds me of you, Coop. Not just the tiara and the veneer.”

  “What, then?” I asked, stepping down as Mike talked.

  “See how she’s standing? She’s on top of a ball, spending her entire life trying to keep a delicate balance.”

  “That’s me?”

  “To a T. You’re probably feeling sorry for Donny Baynes right now. Why? That’s not your problem. If he didn’t tell us something he should have, then screw him. That golden girl? She fell once.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. The pose was too much for her. Toppled right over. Her arm broke off. I don’t know how many stories down it was, but she crashed right through the skylight in the cafeteria. Nearly killed a couple of locals. Get my point? You’re always trying to balance too much. Know who she was?”

  “The statue?”

  “The statue was a person. I mean a model. Back in the nineteen twenties.” Mike stopped again and looked off at the great golden symbol of the city. “Audrey Munson. I’m telling you her name because it’ll never be on Jeopardy! Otherwise, I’d try to score the dough off you.”

  “So how come you know it?”

  “ ’ Cause she fascinates me, ever since I was a kid. Artists used her for half the famous monuments around town. She’s that strong-looking woman, you know, at the foot of the archway of the Manhattan Bridge. She’s in marble at the Firemen’s Memorial on Riverside Drive. I used to go there with my pop all the time. Fifteen statues in this city, and that one woman inspired them all.”

  “She must have been magnificent.”

  “That’s not the part that reminded me of you, kid. It didn’t stop her from going mad. Couldn’t live with it when her career ended. Spent more than sixty years in an insane asylum, till she died at the age of a hundred and five.”

  “This is my object lesson for the day, Detective?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it since you got tagged last night. Then I looked up and saw my girl Audrey just now. It’s a delicate balance you’re living, Coop. You need to step down off that ball every now and then. I’d hate for you to take a fall.”

  I hesitated before moving on, staring up at the gilded figure. “Okay, so I forget all my personal feelings about Donny Baynes.”

  “He’s made his own bed. Let him sleep in it.”

  “Got it. When do I get to do my lifestyle lessons for the Chapman retort?”

  “I’m hopeless. Get that through your thick skull,” he said, trotting down the steps. “You’ll never change me.”

  As I descended behind Mike, I heard a voice calling my name. Ahead of us, at the southern end of the park, was the grounds supervisor Alton Brady, who had responded when I fell in the ditch on Thursday morning.

  “Ms. Cooper? I thought that was you standing up there,” he said, reminding me of his name and introducing the two workers who were trailing behind him.

  “We found some things when we cleaned up the site,” Brady said. “I’ve had the men out here all day, after that news story the other night made us look like we couldn’t take care of our own place. Thought you might have dropped stuff when you fell.”

  “I don’t think so. But nice of you to ask. What did you find?”

  “The police
took all the weapons and metal things from us. But we went back to clean everything out and picked up a boxful of odds and ends. It’s in a cardboard carton, right by security. You lose any makeup?”

  “You gotta ask that question?” Mike said. “Just look at her. She lost it ages ago.”

  “I don’t know, everything dropped out of my bag. I guess I could have left something behind. I definitely had my wallet and keys, but I haven’t looked for anything else. Besides, makeup would be too dirty to use after this.”

  “No femurs or clavicles?”

  “Say what?” Brady answered.

  “Take a look, Coop. Not every day you get a graveyard lost and found.”

  Brady trudged up the steps and we went along with him. The cop on duty handed him the box when he asked for it. He untied the string that latched it and opened it up.

  “I threw out all the garbage, of course. Food and soda cans and such.”

  He scrambled around and came out with a small plastic freezer bag. I could see that it held three black plastic pieces—a compact, lipstick, and a mascara applicator.

  “It’s actually the brand I use,” I said, studying the damp baggie. “Do you mind?”

  I reached for the corner of the bag. “You found this around the side of the building, where I fell?”

  Brady turned to his men. “That where it was?”

  “No, not the makeup,” the taller man answered. “I got some other things out of that hole. This was right here in the trench at the bottom of the steps.”

  Mike pulled back the lid of the box and poked around inside.

  “Not my shades, but it’s all Chanel,” I said. “What are you looking for in there?”

  “A smoking gun. A straw, so I can grab at it.”

  “I may have the straw after all,” I said. “Look at this, Mike.” I held up the bag between my fingertips.

  “What?”

  “These three makeup cases. It’s the same brand Salma used. We can check the colors against others in her bathroom. It’s too expensive for most of the women who work in City Hall.”

  “Long shot but I’m with you.”

  “It gets better. See those nubby little things that are caught in the zipper of the baggie? Sort of off-white wooly threads.”