Alex Cooper 01 - Final Jeopardy

by Linda Fairstein

“Detective Chapman, if you don’t control yourself I’m going to leave you behind with that needle-nosed prick. It’s not a weekend, it’s a day trip. I’ll have Laura make the plane reservations. It’ll save a lot of time if you leave your gun home—we won’t have to deal with all that security stuff at the airport.

  “And, Mike,” I added, “Battaglia asked me a question which raised an obvious point. Exactly when did Isabella get to the Vineyard? I’ve got an idea—maybe Chief Flanders has thought of it—”

  “Unlikely, unless his wife supplied it to him. He didn’t sound like he was into ideas,” Chapman replied.

  “Well, there are only two ways to get there. I mean, you’re right, we are going overseas. It’s not like most places in the country where a killer could just drive to a murder scene and then just drive away. You can only get to the Vineyard by sea and by air.”

  “Yeah, Alex, but thousands of people still do it every year, don’t they? And they don’t need passports.”

  I knew that the Vineyard had a small year-round population of about fifteen thousand, which swelled to almost eighty thousand in the summer vacation months of June, July, and August. Then, after Labor Day, the crowds departed and the little island regained its tranquillity, much to the delight of the locals.

  “It becomes much more difficult to get to the island after the Labor Day weekend,” I explained to Mike. “For example, all summer long, there are direct flights to Martha’s Vineyard from New York. Lots of flights, several times a day, from both La Guardia and Newark airports. This time of year they’ve been eliminated. From now until next June, there’s only one scheduled airline that flies from Boston—nine-seater planes, a few times a day—and small private or chartered planes.

  “Same with the ferry. The ferry goes from Woods Hole, on Cape Cod, to the Vineyard, but fewer times a day after the holiday weekend is over.”

  “Where are we going with this travelogue, Coop?” Mike asked.

  “You know what we’re looking for,” I responded to Mike. “Who was with Isabella on the island, and was that guy—or woman—the one who killed her. Or maybe he witnessed the killing and fled, but knows who did it.”

  “All right, do you know when she went up to your house?” It wouldn’t take much to draw Chapman into an investigation. I knew that from years of experience.

  “She told me she was going at the end of last week, when she finished some business in Boston probably Thursday or Friday. I assume Chief Flanders has already contacted the Ritz and knows when she checked out,” I offered.

  “And she told me that if she had enough time, instead of flying, she was going to try to have a driver, a limo, take her down to Woods Hole—it’s only ninety minutes by car from Boston—and she wanted to arrive the ‘old-fashioned’ way, by sailing across to the island.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Mike. “Just like the Pilgrims—the limo, to the ferry, to the rented Mustang, to the chintz-lined cottage. The rental agency people should be able to tell us when Isabella picked up the car. Then, the next thing I do, if Flanders hasn’t, is to check the passenger manifests for the airline, starting at least a week ago. What’s it called?”

  “Cape Air. Exactly. And there’s a tiny office at the airport for private planes, which all have to register and submit flight plans in order to come and go. The air arrival and departure part of this won’t take much time at all. The local police will know most of the names of islanders and regular commuters, you’ll have a few honeymooners and golf outings for the weekends, and then Isabella’s manager can look at the unknowns for familiar names that he might recognize, but which wouldn’t mean anything to us, right?” I suggested to Mike.

  “That covers the air, Sherlock,” Mike replied. “But what about the water? Does the ferry take cars onto it, as well as foot passengers?”

  “Yes, it does. Look, the big problem is boats. There are lots of marinas and plenty of little coves. A private boat could come from the Cape or the Hamptons, drop anchor, discharge and pick up a killer with no way to trace it. That’s how most of the drugs get to an island, as you know. Anyway, you could even walk onto the ferry with a shotgun inside a Vuitton tote—there’s no such thing as metal detectors on the boats.” I was getting a second wind by this point, suddenly thinking that I knew of a way, even though a long shot, of tracking Isabella’s arrival.

  “But, Mike, if she came by ferry, and she wasn’t alone, there’s another possibility,” I suggested. “On a beautiful fall afternoon, most people who travel on the ferries head topside. There are hundreds of seats, a snack bar, binoculars to scan the horizon—the views of the Vineyard, crossing the sound from the Cape, are absolutely spectacular. Isabella Lascar would have been just like every other tourist on that boat, and whether it’s a first trip or the thousandth, I don’t know anyone who isn’t captivated by the beauty of that vista.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what’s next. You’re gonna want us to find and canvass everybody who was on the boat to see if they saw a movie star standing next to them and whether they can describe the person with…”

  “No, much easier. Every single tourist, and half of the regulars, make that trip with a camera Mike,” I said. “People are always taking pictures of each other against the boat railing, like it was the QE2, or feeding the sea-gulls or just staring at the view.”

  “You think people recognized Isabella and took her picture?” Mike asked.

  “Hard to tell.” I had seen her when she wasn’t preening for her public. We had gone all over Manhattan together and people failed to recognize her when she was casually dressed, without makeup and a serious hairdo. “I mean, she looked absolutely beautiful whether or not she tried to hide it. She’d turn heads, even if people didn’t know exactly who she was.”

  “So, how does that help?”

  “Two possibilities. One is that someone did take her picture, recognizing Isabella Lascar, the movie star. The other,” I thought out loud, “is that she simply was captured in the frame of some photographs—you know, people taking amateur shots of the scenery usually have bodies in the foreground, whether they intend to or not. Even if Isabella was trying to be incognito, she may be in somebody’s snapshots—along with her weekend guest.”

  “Which might give us a key witness,” said Mike, “and a motive, and maybe even a perp.”

  “Call the chief. While you work the airlines, have him do this angle. There’s only one radio station on the island—WMVY—great oldies, lots of Carly Simon and James Taylor, and all the local news, so everybody listens to it at some point. Do a public service announcement, immediately. Urge anyone with film from the ferry at the end of last week, with pictures of Isabella, to come forward, and if it leads to any information about the identification of her killer… then we get the police to offer a reward. There’s a shot at coming up with something. I’d even check the camera store near the ferry landing—they do developing in several hours, and probably have the names and numbers of everyone who has brought film in to be developed during the past week.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Alex,” Mike offered, as he threw out the remains of his sandwich and pushed away from my desk. “You take care of these weenie-waggers here in Manhattan, and I’ll work with your Chilmark boys on the murder. This isn’t a bad way to begin. I’ll get started on it in your paralegals’ office and you keep occupied on your own cases.”

  I sorted through the phone messages that had accumulated and gave most of them back to Laura, knowing they could wait till the next week. I kept the ones I wanted to handle.

  Jed’s secretary had called. No way for him to leave Paris until the business meetings end on the weekend—he’ll call me at home later and come straight from the airport on Saturday. Shit, I thought, not exactly the response I had craved. But I knew my own priorities when I was in the middle of a major investigation which had to come before any personal considerations, so I understood Jed’s position—I guess.

  Call Congressman LaMella’s office. They want
to know our position on the legislative package changing the evidentiary requirement for child abuse cases. Better late than never.

  Gina Hemmings will call back from Part 82, where she’s on trial. The judge is about to charge her jury and she wants to know if you can cite any cases on whether the crime of “sexual misconduct” is a lesser included count in a rape case. Well, I mused as my annoyance grew, once again Gina has avoided the burden of overpreparation.

  Ellen Goldman called to confirm tomorrow’s appointment. Battaglia had given her permission to do a big story on the innovative work of our Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit for the USA Lawyer’s Digest, the premier glossy legal journal. I had already spoken with her several times on the telephone and we were ready for the first interview. She’s smart and pushy, but I’d have to move her back to next week. I knew she’d try to weasel Isabella’s death into the piece so I decided to call her back myself in an effort to show I was still in control. Slightly. I got her machine and left a message kicking our appointment back until Monday afternoon.

  Sarah Brenner will wait for a callback. Has a witness coming on Monday and doesn’t believe the story. Wants help breaking it down. Boy, am I in the mood to do that—I’d love to make someone else cry. Schedule that one for Monday morning.

  Pat McKinney called to see if there’s anything he can do to help. Translation: he knows I’m miserable and the boss is pissed off, and he wants me to know that he knows. Response: yeah, you can help me—go fuck yourself.

  Chapter

  6

  The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. I wasn’t able to concentrate on the brief I had to submit for the sodomy case I was scheduled to try in three weeks, and I was desperate to avoid unnecessary phone conversations. Sarah stopped by to discuss several new investigations that needed to be assigned, and to cheer me up with chatter about her baby.

  The only phone call of interest was from Mercer Wallace. He was pleased about Katherine Fryer’s input with the sketch artist. “It’s the best one yet, Coop,” he told me. “She’s really good on facial characteristics. She’s firm about the size and shape of the mustache, and you know how they all say he’s got bad skin? Well, she actually draws these big pockmarks and a deep set of creases down each side of his forehead. Swears that’s exactly where they are. I never had an illustrator as a victim before but it sure helps the sketch take on some definition.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. The typical description started with witnesses saying they’re lousy at doing this, and that the guy was average height, average weight, average-looking, nothing distinctive about his appearance, and so on. I had a folder full of sketches of wanted rapists who looked like everybody and nobody. Try and display one to a jury and claim a resemblance to the defendant on trial and it was more likely to look like three of the jurors. Not guilty.

  Mercer went on. “Better yet. She also thinks she made out a birthmark. Says she really tried to avoid looking at his private parts, but he kept sticking it in her face and she’s pretty sure he had a fuzzy area on his right thigh, ’bout the size of a tangerine, two inches southeast of his equipment.”

  Bingo. One of the few advantages afforded a rape victim in identifying her attacker is actually the intimacy of the crime. She gets to see anatomical parts rarely displayed in a bank robbery or mugging. And sometimes there are birthmarks or tattoos or surgical scars that a victim describes the day of the assault, and that a knowledgeable detective photographs the minute he has his suspect in custody. Mercer and I had our fastest conviction on a case when our witness told us the rapist had a tattoo of a spider on his penis. The jury only needed to see the Polaroid of that scorpion for about ten seconds before they voted to convict the defendant. Then they spent the next hour eating lunch, because they didn’t want the defense attorney to think they hadn’t spent a serious amount of time deliberating about his client’s fate.

  Once we had a lead on this suspect, Katherine’s description of the unusual mark would help sink him, especially if we didn’t get lucky with DNA testing.

  Mike came back to my office shortly before five-thirty, as Laura was packing up to leave for the day. “I don’t blame you for getting out of here,” he said to Wilkie. “I bet you never knew how unpopular your boss was. I got a list as long as your arm here of people who’d like to get rid of her, and those are just the guys she’s prosecuting, who don’t even know her personally. Wait till I start with that crew.”

  Laura laughed and said good night. “I won’t see you tomorrow, will I?” she asked.

  “No, but we’ll call you from the Vineyard. Have a good weekend and I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Mike and I spent another hour going over the list of possible killers he had culled from my closed case files.

  “You’ve prosecuted some sick puppies, blondie,” he mused as he shook his head over the long accumulation of names he had scrawled during the afternoon, with briefcase descriptions next to each of them.

  “Great cop you are. It took you ten years to reach that conclusion?”

  “No, I mean, we mess with some ugly characters in Homicide. But your guys torture people who are alive and looking them right in the eye. And it takes them a lot longer to do it than a shooting or stabbing—a couple of seconds in my cases and it’s all over. I never liked working sex crimes, making the victims talk about it in such detail, relive it. Seeing your screening sheets makes me remember why I hated it so much. Murder is easy—you know how it happened, you just gotta figure out who did it. And you got no complaining witness to screw up your case with inconsistencies when you get to trial. C’mon. I’ll take you home so you can freshen up for lover boy.”

  “You always know just what to say, Mike, don’t you? Let’s go—Jed’s not getting back tonight. He won’t be here till Saturday.”

  “Whoops. Looks like you, me, and a pizza. Close up shop, Cooper.”

  It was almost seven when I shut down my computer, turned off the light and locked the door to my office, almost reluctantly. It seemed to be easier to stay there than to face the emptiness of my apartment for another long night.

  One of my doormen held the front door open for us as Mike and I approached the building, while the other one walked toward the package room, motioning that he had something in back for me. “Your mail, Miss C., and some lady dropped off flowers for you,” Victor called across the lobby.

  Most days my mail didn’t fit in the box and had to be held on the shelf with all the other assorted deliveries. It wasn’t a lot of personal correspondence, but I’m a magazine junkie, and the regular arrivals of news magazines, fashion books, women’s journals that I clipped for topical articles for my lectures, and things I actually read were always bundled up in rubber bands because they were too bulky for the boxes.

  Victor handed me the pile and the small bouquet of tulips, then winked as he said, “My daughter showed me that picture of you in the paper today, next to that dead movie star. You looked almost as good as she did, Miss C.”

  “Thanks, Victor,” I replied as the elevator door closed and Mike pushed the button for twenty. “What an idiot—can you believe there are people who think that any reason to have your picture in a tabloid is a good reason? I swear, I think if some guy showed up with the Post in his hand and, told Victor he was the one who shot Isabella but he had really been looking for me, Victor would wink at him and smile and send him right up to 20B to knock on my door.”

  “Not between now and Christmas—he might lose a big tip if you got knocked off in the next few months.”

  I opened the note that was hanging from the string around the flowers. “Thanks for your message. This must be awful for you. See you next week—Ellen Goldman.”

  “That’s nice. She’s the reporter for the USA Lawyer’s Digest who’s doing the profile on the unit and me. Very thoughtful.”

  “There’s no such thing as a nice reporter or a thoughtful one. Oxymoron—isn’t that the word? She’s just sucking up to you for something… probably wa
nts the exclusive on you and Isabella.”

  The elevator opened on the twentieth floor and we turned left to walk to my door. There are six apartments on each floor, and as I placed the key in the lock, 20E opened up down the hallway and a large Weimaraner came loping at us with her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth.

  As I kneeled to pat Zac and rub her behind her ears, her owner followed behind her to greet us. “Hi, David,” I said, rising to kiss him and accept an embrace.

  “Alex, I just left a message on your machine. Why didn’t you call me during the night? I only heard about the murder this afternoon. Do you need anything, any help?”

  “David, this is Mike Chapman. Mike works with me. Mike, this is David Mitchell—Dr. Mitchell’s a psychiatrist,” I said as I made the introductions, “and a great friend. No, I’m okay for the moment, thanks. If you’re going to be around this weekend I’ll fill you in on the whole story. You look like you’re on your way out for the evening.”

  “After I walk the dog I’ve got a dinner date. But I won’t be too late, if you want to talk.”

  “I’ve got an early appointment, David, so we’ll catch up this weekend. Have a nice evening.”

  I barely had the door closed behind us and the light switched on before Mike grinned at me and asked, “Ever do him?”

  “Jesus, Chapman, no!” I shouted back at him, laughing for the first time in hours. “He’s my neighbor.”

  “Well, that’s no answer. You did 31C, didn’t you?”

  “It’s my own fault. Why did I ever start playing this game with you? I really asked for it, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you pump me more than I’d ever have the nerve to ask you. But then, I’m a year older than you are, so I probably have a bit more experience.”

  “Where did that expression start—‘do’ somebody? Is it a squad term? I can’t believe I even answer you when you ask if I’ve ever had a sexual encounter with someone. ‘Did you do him?’ It’s disgusting, Mike—I’m beginning to agree with my father that I’ve been at this job too long.”