“Did you catch the funeral service yesterday?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I’m throwing Kirk Douglas on the list of possible perps—that was the worst acting job I’ve ever seen that man do. He’s practically my hero—you know that—but this was a lousy performance, pretending that broad was a saint.”
“He made Isabella furious, Mike,” I chuckled as I recalled her outrage. She had thrown herself at him during the filming of Blue Lotus, tried every one of her teddy-bear tricks to seduce him, but he reminded her that he was very much in love with his wife and wasn’t the least bit interested in a dalliance with her. “She really thought she was irresistible. Thought a man had to be dead or insane if he didn’t react to her charms.”
“What are you doing today?”
I looked out the window as the rain streaked against it, the gray clouds mirroring my mood. “Nothing, really. I’ve got some motions to answer for my next trial, so I’m just going to hang around and do my homework, return some of my phone calls.”
“Good. Lieutenant Dane just reached me. He had a notification from the Chief of Detectives. Thought you’d be pleased to know that they’re lifting your bodyguard tomorrow. Uniform team will drive you to work in the morning and then you’re on your own. Battaglia approved. And I’m back on night watch as of midnight tomorrow.”
“Oh, Mike, that’s great news. Living with these watchdogs could really drive me nuts, I’m so used to just picking up and moving when and where I want to.”
“Here’s the case update. LAPD is going through Isabella’s house right now—they’ll let us know if they find anything of interest. Wally Flanders is letting us work this with him, so we’ll get copies of any reports he gets. And best of all is that he wants us to do some of the interviews. Richard Burrell and Johnny Garelli for starters—both’ll be coming into New York this week.”
“As suspects or witnesses?”
“Hey, everybody’s a ‘possible’ in my book until they convince me otherwise. Now, for whatever it’s worth, Wally FedEx’d some of the photos that have been developed and turned in. Should be in the squad office tomorrow. He thought Isabella was in a couple of frames but didn’t see anything else of interest. I left orders to get them to the lab immediately for enlargement, so by the time I get in at eleven-thirty to start a midnight tour, they should be available.”
“Great. Let’s not waste any time. I have to go to a black-tie dinner with Jed tomorrow evening, but I’ll be home by eleven. I’ll make a pot of coffee for you. Bring the pictures over when you swing out and we’ll look through them together, okay?”
“Long as nobody gets chopped up in little pieces or dumped in the East River before midnight, I’ll be there, Coop. Lighten up—we’re going to break this thing open ASAP and get your life back to normal… if that’s what anybody calls normal. It’s really nasty outside—just stay in and relax, you’re not missing a thing. See you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and went back to the dining room table to work on the Vargas case. Not a complicated matter, a typical “push-in” burglary that escalated into a rape, and my white legal pad filled up quickly with the draft of my answers to the demands for information made by the defendant’s attorney in the pretrial stage. I flipped through the complaint to find the exact time of occurrence, then backed up to get the precinct arrest number from the rap sheet. Like most stranger rapists, thirty-four-year-old Ervilio Vargas had a record that stretched back to his early teens. From fare beats and car boosts he moved to breakins, then began to commit felonies with weapons, then threw in sexual assaults when he encountered women during his burglaries. He had done city time and state time, released to early parole on his last sentence, but never able to stay out of trouble very long. I planned to try him as a “persistent felony offender”—with more than five felony convictions to his credit. I was looking for a life sentence and no shot at parole. He had ruined far too many lives and been given more chances than any human being deserved. The victim was very cooperative and anxious to put Vargas out of business, too. If all the paperwork was done expeditiously, we’d be ready for trial before the Christmas recess. Happy New Year, Ervilio.
I had worked for more than an hour when the phone rang again, and I was delighted to hear my best friend’s voice on the line. Talking to Nina was the easiest thing in the world. We had been close since the first day at Wellesley and had guided each other through every significant event and every trivial detail of our lives. There were very few secrets we kept from each other, and she was unique in that her friendship had always been completely unconditional. Nina didn’t pronounce judgments or exact demands or hold grudges—she was simply a loyal and loving friend.
“I know your life is upside down at the moment, Alex, but you’ve got to stay in touch with me. No calls, no messages, no cards… what’s going on?”
“I’m fine, Nina, really, I promise.” She was referring to the fact that we had a regular routine of keeping up-to-date with each other, and it was always pretty easy to guess when our lives were disturbed, because the flow of communication was interrupted as well. Despite the three-hour time difference between us, we called each other several times every week. We didn’t always speak directly because of our work schedules, but we left messages on our home machines, so that no matter what hour I got in after a long day, the sound of Nina’s familiar voice would frequently help me unwind and put my day in perspective. Her joys, her heartaches, her professional triumphs—all strung out on an endless strip of rewound tape, as mine were on her machine in L.A. And we both collected art postcards from museums all over the world, writing each other a note on one of them almost every evening to track our lives through almost fifteen years of graduate school, legal jobs, romances, motherhood, and now, mystery.
“Can you talk? Are you in the middle of anything?”
“Are you kidding? It’s been pouring all day. It’s the first chance I’ve had to stay in and relax—I’m just catching up on everything. How about you? How’re Jerry and Gabe?” Gabriel was their two-year-old son, my godchild.
“They’re great. They’re out in Malibu at the beach today. So what did you think of the service?”
“Compared to what, Nina? It didn’t sound like they were eulogizing the woman we knew.”
“Let me tell you what nonsense was going on at this end. Did you ever dress for a funeral, I mean, worry about what designer you were going to wear? The girls in the front row were tripping over each other for the photo-ops, black Armani versus black Ungaro versus black Bob Mackie… for those who like sequins graveside. I doubt any of them even listened to what was being said. What do the cops think—have they got a killer?”
“All the usual suspects. I understand the LAPD is at the house this afternoon, looking for clues, papers, diaries, whatever. I’ll know more tomorrow. Did you find anything else out about her shrink?”
“Just that she’s had about four different ones the past few years. I don’t know names, but the police will find them on the pill bottles in her bathroom. The rest of the world had problems, according to Iz. She was fine—but used these guys for pills. Ups, downs, whatever the latest fad. As soon as one of the psychiatrists got wise to her, she’d switch to a new one and start the prescriptions over.”
“Did I tell you that she wasn’t alone for the last couple of nights she stayed at my place on the Vineyard?”
“You’re kidding! Don’t hold out on me—who’s the masochist?”
“We have no idea. I was hoping maybe she told you.”
“Nope. She talked about some guy she ran into on a plane about a month ago. She had taken the Concorde back from London—said he referred to it as ‘the rocket.’ ”
“Yeah. That’s investment banker lingo.”
“Said the guy was fascinating because he wasn’t in showbiz and was still powerful and important—her words, darling. You know how it always impressed her that people who weren’t in People could still be w
orth talking to occasionally, and could even get a table at Le Cirque.”
“Well, did she date him or come on to him? I’m dying to know who he is so I can ask whether he enjoyed my hospitality.”
“I’ll check around. To me it just sounded like her perpetual search for Mr. Right.”
We chatted for another ten minutes before hanging up. The talk of psychiatrists reminded me of my neighbor.
I dialed David Mitchell’s number as soon as I hung up with Nina. It was our Sunday evening tradition to watch “60 Minutes” together at seven o’clock, and if neither of us had a date, to order dinner in while we watched. “Are we on?” I asked when David picked up the phone.
“Sure. Zac and I will be over a few minutes before seven. Any other company?”
“No, Jed had to leave this morning.”
“Why don’t I order in from Pig Heaven?”
“Ummm. Chinese food—great idea. I’m just warning you, I’m switching channels if one of the segments is about some other guy on death row who admits killing twenty-seven people but didn’t do the one he’s been convicted of. I’m only watching if they profile a scientist who discovered that red meat, french fries, ice cream, and Doritos are good for your health, or some other upbeat story. See you later.”
David and Zac appeared just as the local news signed off. I liked David a great deal, but I never felt that I knew him well at all. He had that wonderful trait of a good counselor that encouraged you to tell him everything you thought and believed, but revealed nothing of his personal feelings in the process. Like my own, his professional life was all-consuming, and while I had seen him with a number of his dates from time to time, I had no idea who they were or what his social life revolved around.
Prozac, on the other hand, was the ideal neighbor. A sleek taupe dog, nicknamed Zac, she was always eager to greet me when I came home after a difficult day in the office. When our paths crossed, she would bound down the hallway and cover me with friendly licks, anxious to be petted and stroked. Occasionally, when David had out-of-town meetings to attend, I’d keep Zac with me for the weekend, taking her for long walks in the park and jogging with her at my side.
David did a gentle cross-examination to make sure I was really okay, while Zac assumed her usual position at my feet and rolled over on her back so I could scratch her belly till she almost purred like a feline. The food delivery arrived before the end of the hour, and we devoured our ribs, scallion pancakes, and hot, spicy chicken while I enlisted David’s help for later in the week, when I was promised more information about Isabella’s psychiatric history and correspondence.
When they left, I put on my Private Dancer disc and luxuriated in the bathtub for almost an hour. I worried about whether David was too interested in Isabella’s case or simply being a good friend. He denied having met her, but I was certain I had introduced them to each other when she picked me up in our lobby one evening, more than a year ago. I told myself to stop being so paranoid and went back to planning the week ahead, actually looking forward to getting back to my desk and the office routine tomorrow.
I was so glad to see the sunshine again Monday morning that I was out of bed early, dressed and ready to go before eight, with my evening clothes packed so that I could shower and change in the ladies’ room and be at the Plaza to meet led in time for the dinner honoring his boss, the CEO of CommPlex.
The same two policewomen were waiting in the radio car in my driveway. I greeted and thanked them, knowing they were as relieved as I was that this boring assignment would be over after the twenty-minute ride downtown. They dropped me in front of the entrance to the District Attorney’s Office and I swiped my photo ID over the security scanner to let myself in and get up to my office to check Friday’s mail and memos.
I turned on the computer and entered my password and user code. Once I got into the E-mail system I got caught in the unwanted personal messages that the administrative assistant had been directing the legal staff to cut out—apparently in vain. An assistant in Bureau 30 had four tickets to Phantom that her aunt Lucy couldn’t use for Wednesday’s matinee; a colleague in Frauds had a Himalayan long-hair that was expecting kittens and she was looking for a good parent (“J.D. Degree preferred”); and a paralegal in Special Projects was desperately seeking tickets for Knicks games, not located behind the baskets and no higher than twenty rows off the court.
Once those were erased, I skimmed through the in-house equivalent of help wanted ads. Has anyone ever used a ballistics expert who can tell the effect of weather conditions on the sound of gunshots? Has anyone seen the case jacket that was inadvertently left in the courthouse coffee shop (and which, by the way, contains all of the witness interview notes that the defense shouldn’t get to see till the middle of the trial)? Does anyone want to piggyback on a telephone dump that we’re preparing for a rackets investigation? Has anyone ever qualified an Albanian interpreter (Gheg dialect, not Tosk) in the Grand Jury and can he or she get here on short notice? It’s faster to send an urgent message through to a co-worker by Pony Express than by an E-mail system overclogged with the individual requests of six hundred lawyers and thousands of support staff users.
I moved on to messages addressed only to me. Lots of notes from friends in various bureaus offering consolation, advice, support, and free drinks (that last being a typical law enforcement solution for most traumatic events) because of Isabella’s death and my connection to it. A notice that Rod was calling a bureau chiefs’ meeting for Tuesday afternoon at four, so I put that in my book. Updates from Sarah on the new matters that had come in over the past few days and suggestions about witnesses who needed to be interviewed. Reminders from Laura about appointments she had scheduled for me and penciled in my calendar for the week. A note from Battaglia’s assistant, Rose Malone, suggesting that I stick my head in later today to see the boss.
I got to work knocking out some correspondence on the word processor that Laura could clean up and print out for my signature when she got in. Two were disposition letters, informing victims of the pleas I had taken in both cases, resulting in lengthy prison terms and sparing the women the need to confront their rapists at trial. One was a letter confirming a request to present a lecture about date rape to the freshman class at Yale at the beginning of the next semester, and another accepted a meeting to bring Sarah with me to Mount Sinai Hospital to train the ob-gyn staff on the protocol for the examination of sexual assault victims at Grand Rounds in early January. I did as much as I could before the doors opened to the general public around 9 A.M. and all of my colleagues went into high gear.
Laura was the first one to check in with me when she arrived. We caught up on what I had missed the previous Friday and she went over the day’s appointments with me. I usually liked to leave some open time on Monday morning because weekends often generated a disproportionate number of cases that needed emergency triage at the beginning of the week.
“I had you set for a ten o’clock with a woman whose ex-boyfriend came back to the apartment to pick up some clothes, then smacked her around and raped her,” Laura began. “But she left a message canceling on my voice mail. Her name’s Shaniqua Simmons—here’s the number. Call it yourself—you’ll see why she’s not coming.”
“Anybody need that space?”
“Yeah. Jackie Manzi called from Special Victims. She’d like you to see a Hunter College student—case came in yesterday morning and she doesn’t know whether to make an arrest. Wants you to decide and let her know.”
“Fine. Call and tell her to get her witness down as soon as possible—she can have Shaniqua’s spot.”
“Rose Malone said to ignore her E-mail. Battaglia wants to take you, Rod, and Pat McKinney to lunch to brainstorm for some ideas on bringing down the arrest to arraignment time. She warned me that he also wants to see how you’re functioning under all this stress.”
“Thank her for the warning.”
“Then at two you have that interview with Ellen Goldman, the w
oman who’s doing the profile for USA Lawyer’s Digest.”
“I really don’t have the patience to sit for that kind of thing today. I have too much to make up here.”
“Well, I doubt you’ll be able to put her off much longer—she’s very persistent. Plus the District Attorney thinks it’s good P.R. for the office, so don’t fight it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled and bowed my head in deference to Laura’s sound advice. “Anything else?”
“An avalanche of calls—some media, some friends—you can go through them yourself. And one guy kept calling all day Friday. Wouldn’t leave his name or a message—says he must talk with you about Isabella and will try you again today. You want to take it?”
“Sure.”
“And Alan Glanton called already. He’s opening in the bodega rape case this morning. Judge Callahan told him he’s much more likely to rule favorably on the prosecution’s objections during the trial if you give Alan the same ‘equipment’ you used so successfully in the Boynton trial. Can he stop by and pick them up before he goes to court?”
I laughed and walked over to the last filing cabinet along the wall, which held all of my personal belongings. Shoes with varying size heel heights, panty hose in a wide variety of shades to guard against daily snags and runs, makeup and perfume for unanticipated evening invitations. And my way to Judge Callahan’s heart: packages of Stick-Ups, the air freshener, deodorizers in different scents, which adhere to wood surfaces. Philip Boynton, a serial rapist I tried last spring, refused to shower from the day he was arrested till the trial. His stench was so overwhelming that none of the court officers wanted to work Callahan’s part. I brought the Stick-Ups to court every day and we covered the underside of the defendant’s chair and counsel table with spearmint, peppermint, and evergreen to make life bearable for the personnel. Bodega-man was in the same category, so I gave Laura my secret stash to pass along to Alan.
Alex Cooper 01 - Final Jeopardy Page 13