Chapter
18
Battaglia called in from Washington just after one, as I was eating a salad ordered in from Broadway’s Best at my desk. “Guess you can’t even stay out of trouble for twenty-four hours, so I can make an appearance in Washington, hmm?”
“Paul, I don’t know where to begin on this, I feel like such a fool.”
“Forget it, Alex, this one’s easy.” Great, the Battaglia I adore, understanding my dilemma. “I’m behind you one hundred percent. Don’t worry about his complaint.”
Whoops. It was suddenly obvious that we were talking about two different things. “Hadleigh? How did you hear about that already? I haven’t been back from the courtroom for an hour yet.”
“He got right off the bench and called Pat McKinney to complain about you. Relax. I still owe him a few jabs for dismissing the indictment in that Asian Gang Unit case last winter. He tried to grandstand on that and it nearly cost us half the forfeiture money we collected to re-present it to the Grand Jury.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s the way you feel, Paul, but that’s not the reason I sent up the alert. I didn’t even tell this to Rose, but Chapman and I are pretty sure this guy I’ve been dating—Jed Segal—well, that he was cheating on me, with Isabella Lascar. Chapman’s even put him on the suspect list.”
Silence. Deafening silence.
“How many people know about this?”
“Not many. And not the press, yet. It’s not even confirmed. We should know more this afternoon when we talk to—”
“Dammit. It’s not ‘we’—you’re not to have a hand in this. Can’t you get that through your stubborn skull yet? Have the Chief of Detectives give me a call—Rose can patch him through to me. And you better do exactly what I pay you to do—nothing else. I suppose I have to worry about having you guarded again.”
“Oh no, that’s ridiculous.” I had Jed claiming he was desperate to see me, Richard Burrell showing up unexpectedly in my office, Johnny Garelli due in town any minute now, and I’m arming myself with a bottle opener to answer the door for Mike and Mercer. “No, I’ll be okay.”
I hung up and opened the door, picking up my messages as I headed for the Bureau Chiefs’ meeting that Rod had scheduled for the afternoon. Jed had telephoned three times, but Laura had gotten my signal and took no details from him, only the record of the call.
It was going to be more difficult than usual to focus during the meeting, as thirty of the Trial Division administrators sat around a long conference table, arguing over whether too many buy-and-bust cases were being indicted instead of given misdemeanor pleas, or too few defendants were being recommended for alternative sentencing plans. I scripted imaginary conversations with Jed in my head—what I really wanted to hear him say to me, and what I planned to say in response. By the time the meeting ended, none of the major issues we had come together to discuss had been resolved, and the next session was planned for two weeks thereafter.
It was four-fifteen when I returned to my desk with my third diet Coke of the afternoon, hoping the caffeine would kick in and keep me alert.
“Call Chapman at the squad. You just missed him.”
“Thanks, Laura.” I speed-dialed the number.
“Segal’s a no-show. Thought you’d like to know that. Jerk got himself a lawyer who isn’t bringing him in today.”
Shit. Why would he do that unless he had something to hide? “Let me guess. Jimmy LaRossa? Marty London? Justin Feldman? He’d only go for one of the top dogs. Which one?” My luck—I’m the one who introduced him to the best lawyers in New York. Now he’ll try to use one of them to thwart us.
“Nah. Some guy I never heard of—name’s Bergin, from Washington.”
“Of course. Anderson Warmack’s lawyer. Great trouble-shooter if you’ve got a federal securities case. I doubt he could even find the jury box in state court.”
“Yeah, well, he knew enough to tell Romeo to stay away from my office. And he refuses to let Jed submit to a blood test for DNA. Says we don’t have probable cause.”
“He’s been calling here all day, asking me to see him. I hung up on him once. Laura’s not putting him through anymore.”
“Good girl. I spoke to Wally. I had Motor Vehicles FedEx Jed’s new photo from his New York driver’s license up to Chilmark. Told Wally to put it in an array and take it over to the Quinn sisters at the fried clam place, to see if they can make an ID or not. He should get that tomorrow and have it done. I hate to tell this guy how much probable cause I’m gonna have by the end of the week.”
“Don’t gloat about it, Mike.”
“Sorry, Coop. I hate to be stonewalled. If he didn’t do it, why doesn’t he just come in and tell me?”
“It’s more complicated than that for someone in his position, Mike. You know that.”
“Don’t defend him, blondie. Look at this objectively, okay? Arm’s length.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, got a confirmation from Maine. Burrell’s got an arsenal all right. Lots of guns. Likes to shoot those little furry things, mostly. Be nice to him and you could probably have yourself a warm coat for the winter. Like the man said, no one can tell us when he got back to the island. But the Vineyard police are canvassing all the inns and guest houses anyway. We might turn up something there.
“Next thing. That story you told me about Isabella asking led for help ’cause she thought her accountant was stealing from her? Well, it’s true. I spoke to her agent this morning. Seems the accountant, Fred Weintraub—a beanie, of course—was cooking the books. Iz had reported it to the IRS and they were gonna open a case on him. I did a run on the guy and he’s got two convictions for fraud—one here in New York and one in Jersey. Freddy the Felon. Basically an East Coast guy, so I guess I gotta dig a little deeper on him, too.”
“Well, you’re having a more productive day than I did. I’m ready to call it quits.”
“You okay for the evening?”
“Fine, thanks. I’m going to get some exercise for a while. Then dinner with Joan, and home to sleep, for a change.”
“There’ll be an envelope at your door when you get home. I made a copy of a couple of letters the LAPD found in Isabella’s house from this person who claims to be a shrink. Sounds crazier than a bedbug to me. Maybe they’ll mean something to you. Ask your neighbor to look ’em over. Maybe it’s shrink talk and he can figure it out.”
My backup line was flashing as I got off with Mike. It was Nina.
“Can you talk?”
“I can, but the better question is whether I want to. Nina, I’ve never been so confused or alone in my life.”
“I can be there tomorrow. I can take the red-eye tonight.”
“No, honestly, save it. Believe it or not, things might get worse, and I’ll be begging you to come.”
“I called Joan while you were in court this morning and I couldn’t reach you. I think I see the picture. She’s going to meet you for dinner, right?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Alex, I’ve been going over this again and again. Did Jed spend any time in England last month?”
“Well, he’s been in Paris a lot. And usually makes a side trip to Zurich or London, if there’s business to be done.”
“Remember when we were talking after Isabella’s funeral and I told you she mentioned running into some guy on the rocket, the Concorde, coming back from London. That he was ‘powerful and important,’ remember? Maybe it was Jed. Maybe it was after you had introduced them to each other at ‘21,’ and they accidentally ran into each other on the same plane. Kismet. Serendipity. Don’t blame yourself for this one—if she thought he was attractive and stable and rich, she’d have her claws out for him.”
“Even if she knew I was crazy about him?”
“All the more likely. That surprises you? C’mon, we all know women like that, Alex. There’s Jezebel; there’s the Duchess of Windsor, who stole Edward away from her best friend, Thelma Furness; there�
��s Elizabeth Taylor going to the mats with Debbie Reynolds over Eddie Fisher. You think for a minute that Iz would have scruples about stepping on your toes? Give me a break. Anyway, the London airplane encounter was just a thought.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, whenever you’re ready, I want you to come out here and get away from everything for a while. I’ll take a few days off, leave the baby with Elena, and we’ll just go out to the cottage at Malibu and relax for a week. Please?”
“Sure, Nina.”
We exchanged good-byes and I took my tote filled with ballet paraphernalia out of the filing cabinet. “I’m sneaking out a bit early, Laura. Trying to make a six-thirty class. See you in the morning.”
“Two more from Jed, while you were taking these other calls. Sounds like he was at a phone booth. He’s really anxious to see you. I’m just worried he might be waiting here at the corner of Centre Street, hoping to catch up with you on the way out.”
Don’t do this to me, you bastard. You know what it’s like to be followed and harassed and watched and intercepted. You even went to court to get that woman to stop doing it. Don’t start it with me.
I decided not to take the chance of running into him, if indeed he had figured out that the easiest place to find me was outside of my office. I took the stairs down one flight and crossed into the corridor that led through the length of the building, exiting by the doorway two blocks to the north, instead of the executive wing elevators. That dumped me out at the rear of the courthouse, in the middle of Chinatown. I saw no signs of a Yellow Cab, so I hurried myself to Canal Street, turned west past rows of vendors hawking counterfeit Vuittons and Guccis, and symbolically held my breath as I descended the steps to the subway station and pushed through the turnstile for the uptown N train.
I hate the subway. I hate its filth, its odor, its crowds, and its unreliability. But when it worked, it was without exception the most efficient way to travel around the city. The Canal Street stops were my least favorite, since most of the people arriving in the morning and leaving in the late afternoon were either colleagues of mine who worked in the system, or defendants and their rent-a-baby-so-the-judge-will-be-sympathetic families, on their way to be arraigned for their latest arrests. I dreaded making eye contact with perps I would be squaring off with later in the day, or girlfriends with earrings the size of door knockers who had just left their main men in the Tombs because I had asked the judge for remand without bail.
The platform was practically deserted and my footsteps rang with an eerie echo as I tried to find a position to wait in for the next train. I was unusually jumpy and kept looking over my shoulder in hopes that no one would trap me against the dead end of the tunnel wall toward which I had chosen to move, or be hiding behind the thick steel girders which lined the middle of the station. I walked to the edge to see whether there were headlights to signal the approach of a subway car, but reminded myself of the recent spate of women being pushed onto the tracks by an escaped mental patient. I turned back to stand closer to the graffiti-streaked wall. Two or three times I glimpsed the head of a man coming toward me, weaving in and out of the posts, but I was unable to get a clear shot at his face and was relieved when I heard the rumble of the train as it approached the station.
So I clutched my tote to my side, moved briskly through the doors as they opened in front of me, found a seat that didn’t seem to be too badly smeared with crumbs and soda stains, and pretended to be absorbed in a sheaf of Court of Appeals decisions that Laura had printed out of E-mail for me to read, while all the time my peripheral vision was scanning the car for the usual assortment of freaks and perverts.
Chapter
19
I GOT OFF THE TRAIN AT FIFTY-SEVENTH STREET AND SEVENTH Avenue. The studio was a few blocks due north, but I toyed with the idea of a diversionary jaunt to the corner of Fifth, since it was such a beautiful afternoon. I thought of Holly Golightly and how she relieved her bouts of depression by visits to Tiffany’s, on the theory that nothing bad could ever happen there. I could square the area and still be in time for class—Tiffany’s windows, with Bendel’s and Bergdorf’s thrown in for good measure. Better than Prozac any day. Then I remembered the Warner Brothers store that expropriated the northeast corner and decided against the side trip. That giant souvenir shop had really brought the neighborhood down, I concluded, and kept on walking to William’s loft instead.
The dressing room was empty when I went inside to change into my leotard and tights. It was rare that I arrived ahead of the regular students, most of whom lived and worked uptown, and I relished the moments of privacy and quiet at this end of the day as well. William was already in the studio, so I joined him for a series of stretches and bends, willing the tension and distress out of my stiff body as I tried to limber up.
“I didn’t think you’d be here today, Alex,” he said quietly, in the calming manner that always put me at ease in his presence. “I’ve been following the story about Isabella.”
“I think this is the best place for me to be. It really helps.” I was on the floor now, my back erect and the heels of my feet drawn up close to my body, as I tried to press my knees down to make contact with the wood. William walked over and began to knead my shoulders and neck, working the tightened muscles apart.
“I’ve got two tickets for the Kirov next week. I thought perhaps you and Bernard could use them. I hate for them to go to waste and I hope to get out of town for a few days by then.”
“We’d love them if you’re not going to need them, Alex. That’s very thoughtful. I guested with them once—nearly three decades ago. What a priceless week that was.”
“Must have been.”
“Bernard’s dying to know if the police have any leads in the murder case. That you can talk about, of course.”
No wonder the neck massage. You can’t ever get something for nothing, as my grandmother used to say. “Nothing new.”
“Any rumors that Isabella was gay?”
That was a new one on me. “That’s never come up, as far as I know.”
“Phew. I mean after the furor over Basic Instinct, Bernard thinks the community would go wild if the killer turned out to be some crazed lesbian. Entirely too Hollywood.”
I laughed. “Tell Bernard to relax. I think we’re safe on this one.”
The dancers were beginning to filter in and warm up alongside us on the floor and at the barre. William went over to turn on his elaborate recording system, and the strong music of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony lifted me back to my feet and into the opening pattern of pliés and relevés in the standard numbered positions.
By the end of the hour I was physically drained—a perfect complement to my emotional condition. I dragged myself into the dressing room, showered in the tiny stall William had rigged up for his sweaty troupes, and put my business clothes on again to head over to meet Joan for dinner. I checked my answering machine from William’s phone to make sure Joan had not changed or canceled our plans, but there were no messages at all, so I said good-bye to the stragglers and walked out onto the street.
When I reached the curb at the corner of Sixty-fourth Street and Central Park West, I was startled by the approach of a sleek navy limo that must have trailed me for the block and a half from the studio. The rear door opened and Jed stepped toward me, carrying an armload of long-stemmed yellow roses, my favorite.
“Please, Alex, you must let me talk to you. I know you’re meeting Joan—just give me five minutes in the car and I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”
“It’s over, Jed. I’m not interested in a postmortem. And I’m even less interested in creating a scene on a street corner.”
“Five minutes. I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’d like you to hear what I have to say.”
I looked at the driver. It was Luigi, who usually drove Jed around town and who had always been a perfect gentleman to me. I still couldn’t absorb Mike’s theory that Jed was a killer, and I trusted that
I was not in mortal danger as long as Luigi was in earshot. A smile formed on my lips, despite my company, as I toyed with the thought that the only thing Chapman and I hadn’t floated was a conspiracy theory. He’d be livid that I got in a car with Jed, and ready to commit me if he let his imagination carry him to think that Jed and Luigi had conspired to do Isabella in.
I was tired enough to yield to the pressure and I bent to get into the car. Luigi began to draw closed the glass window that separated him from us in the backseat, but I put my hand up to stop him. “Would you mind taking me to Sixty-fourth and Second, Luigi, to Primola? I’d like you to leave the partition open—you might as well hear all this.” I counted on the fact that I could at least embarrass Jed a bit in the process. Luigi had probably driven him to all his assignations anyway.
Jed grimaced at my suggestion, but was prepared to go ahead. He sat opposite me on the car seat, riding backward and trying to look me in the eye. “I’ve called you dozens of times today and could never get through. Laura wouldn’t take any messages from me, Joan won’t help. I’ve left more on your home machine.”
Bullshit. Start with a lie, that’ll really win me over. I just checked the machine and there was nothing on it, but why give him the satisfaction of knowing I even cared? I stared at the back of Luigi’s head.
“Alex, I want to apologize to you. I have lied to you and I was unfaithful, but I think you’ll understand what happened if you listen to the whole—”
“I’ve heard all I need to hear, Jed. This is one place where the details really don’t interest me. Don’t you see how painful this is for me?”
We were on the Park transverse now, right below the twinkling little white lights of Tavern on the Green, and dusk was fast becoming the darkness of a mild fall evening.
“I want you back, Alexandra Cooper. I love you and I want you back. I made a mistake—a stupid, selfish, pigheaded mistake. Are you so perfect that you’ve never done that in your life?”
“What was your mistake, Jed, betraying me—or getting caught at it?”
Alex Cooper 01 - Final Jeopardy Page 21