“Not a whisper. I’m going up to sit it out in the courtroom. I’ll let you know what happens. And, Alex, thanks so much for your advice about the summation. I never would have thought to put all that detail in, but I think it helped a lot. Your notes were a godsend.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Go get him.”
Laura buzzed me. “Dr. Mitchell’s secretary just called. Said to tell you he’s going to see Jed in his office at seven-thirty tonight, and that you’d know what it’s all about.”
“Yes, Laura, I do. Be right back, I’m going for a refill,”
I was on my way next door to the Legal Hiring Office, which kept fresh coffee going all day to impress the applicants who applied for positions in Battaglia’s office by the thousands every year. When I returned with a steaming cupful, Laura was standing at the side of her desk. “It’s Mercer, I’ve got him on hold. It’s urgent.”
I picked up Laura’s phone. “Yeah?”
“Coop, it’s almost over.”
I had to think for a minute to realize that he wasn’t talking about Isabella’s case. “What happened?”
“An attempt this morning. Two blocks away from the last hit. M.O. was identical—same approach, same description, same language. Woman lets the guy in the house, he’s got the knife. Only surprise was that her husband was in the bedroom. The husband hears a commotion and comes into the kitchen, Mr. William Montvale gets so shook up he drops everything and runs out the door.”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re losing me. Who’s William Montvale? The husband?”
“No, no, Miss Cooper. Stay with me. The man we have been looking for is William Montvale, otherwise known to the local media as the Con Ed rapist. Not only was this morning’s attempt at a rape unsuccessful, much to the delight of the intended victim, but I am calling personally to tell you that the NYPD has solved this pattern, just for you, kid.”
“I know you’re going to explain this to me, Mercer, right?”
“Make me a promise, Coop. No dates for the next seventy hours, okay? No champagne dinners, no trips out of town. As soon as I get my hands on Montvale, I’ll be calling or beeping you, no matter what time of day or night, so you can run the line-ups and do the Q and A. Will that make you happy?”
“Delirious, Mercer.”
“Now, what you want to know is how I know the rapist is William Montvale. Is that your question, Counselor? And the answer is, the usual brilliant detective work that you associate with me and my crew, with a dash of—ahem—shall we say, great good luck. Make that incredible good luck. The way most crimes are solved, Alex.”
“Tell me what happened.” My heart was pounding at the idea of catching this maniac and putting an end to his little reign of terror before any other woman was victimized.
“When the husband came out of the bedroom, Montvale was so flustered that he let go of his knife. He bent over to pick it up but the newspaper he was carrying in his back pocket got caught under the countertop and fell to the floor, too. Either he didn’t notice or he was happy just to hang on to the knife, in case he needed it to fight his way out. By the time the couple called their doorman, Montvale had run down the staircase and out the rear service door. Gone.
“The people were so shaken they just sat in the living room holding on to each other till uniformed responded to the 911 call. That’s when the first cops on the scene saw the Post on the kitchen floor and picked it up.”
“There’s a scoop for Mickey Diamond. Most rapists prefer the New York Post. Hope his editor likes it. Go on.”
“Cop asks the couple if the paper was theirs. They say no. It had been rolled up to fit in the guy’s pocket, so the cop unrolls it. In it, there’s a letter from the New York State Department of Parole addressed to one William J. Montvale, inviting him to come to their offices at three o’clock this afternoon and bring his birth certificate as proof of identification. Seems he just got out of state prison in New Jersey, and they agreed to transfer his parole to New York, so he could move back in with his beloved mother.”
“Make my day—tell me what he did the time for in Jersey.”
“I’m trying to keep you happy, Coop. Your instincts were right all along. Four counts of rape, Bergen County. You just couldn’t come up with him ’cause his priors weren’t in New York. Got a release to early parole because he was in that treatment center in the Jersey system, you know the one I mean?”
“Yeah, Mercer. That one where they rehabilitate rapists. Then they send ’em back to us all cured and well behaved, like William Montvale.”
“This guy’s a real pro. I’ll find him for you, Coop, but then you got to put him out of business forever. Is it a deal?”
“Blood oath, Mercer. What’s the plan?”
“We got a stakeout in front of his mama’s place, but once he realizes he dropped those papers, I doubt he’ll show there or at the parole office today. They’re covered just in case. We got a team checking the Jersey prison files, looking for visitors’ names, girlfriends, cousins, cellmates—anybody he might run to for a place to crash. Then we’ll fan out to all the shelters and see if they got any ‘John Does’ showing up today. You know I’ll get his ass. Just stick with me and I’ll hand you a lock-solid case.”
I knew he would. Nobody could do it better. “I’m here, and I’ll have the beeper on day and night. Whatever you need, just let me know.”
“I’ll be in touch. Keep your fingers crossed.”
I called Rose Malone and asked her to tell Battaglia that we had a big break in the case, then told Sarah Brenner to be ready to cover me for the next few days in the event I got tied up on the Montvale arrest. She offered to do my two witness interviews scheduled for the afternoon, knowing that it would be difficult for me to concentrate while I was primed to rush up to the Special Victims office the minute Mercer called.
My counterpart in the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office had been helpful to me in the past, so I reached out for him again and asked him to pull the closed case files on the suspect, just to see whether there was any other nexus to Jersey that might be useful. Don’t cross the Hudson, I urged Montvale silently. I don’t want to deal with the delays of an extradition proceeding—I just want to grab you here, let these women have a chance to confront you and put you behind bars till you outlive the ability to do this to anybody else.
Another lunch at my desk, this time consisting of a container of light yogurt and a seltzer. I checked Mercer’s office every half hour, but the entire squad was out in the field and the civilian aide who was handling the phones didn’t know which end was up.
Shortly after two, Laura buzzed me to announce that we had a walk-in. The last thing I needed right now was a witness without an appointment, but that’s exactly what I had. I couldn’t pass her off to Sarah, whose hands were already full with my overflow. Angela Firkin had presented herself to the lobby security officer with a crumpled piece of paper that had my name printed on it, along with the address of the building.
I invited her into my office and seated her opposite me. “How did you get my name, Miss Firkin?” I asked, as I took out a fresh pad to begin to make notes of our conversation.
“I called the crisis hot line, told them my problem, and they told me to come talk to you.”
“I see. Did anybody mention reporting to the police first?”
“I can’t go to the police, Miss Cooper. I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment, but I was very upset and I just couldn’t go to a police station. This is a situation about a man in an official uniform, and I’m just not comfortable talking to the police.”
“All right,” I said, after getting the pedigree information I needed, “why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Angela Firkin was a twenty-eight-year-old woman who lived alone in a brownstone in the East Eighties. She supported herself on disability insurance and a modest inheritance, but was unable to work because she had a long history of treatment for schizophrenia. “I don’t go ou
t much, just walking for some exercise in the neighborhood, and getting my groceries. Almost everything else I do by mail order, by sending away for things.
“A couple of weeks ago, our regular mailman had a heart attack and we got a new guy. I have to see him a lot, ’cause some of the things that I order are too big for the mailbox. My book club delivery, my home shopping network things, you know.”
“Sure.”
“Well, this new guy started off fine. Then, one day, when he rang the doorbell to give me a package, he told me the Post Office had new rules. Said it was because of all the trouble the government was having with drug smugglers and, um, I think the word he called it was ‘contraband.’ He told me I had to open the wrapping in front of him, so he could see what was in the box. It was just a pair of cubic zirconia earrings I ordered for myself for sixteen dollars, so I showed it to him.
“A few days later, he did the same thing with my mystery book order, even though it had a return address and everything, from the book club.”
She was telling the story easily, in a coherent narrative, so I let Angela go on without interruption.
“Then the guy, his name is Oscar Lanier—it’s right on his name tag—the guy comes back this Monday with another delivery for me. This time it’s some pills, but over-the-counter stuff. From ABC Vitamin Company. I’m on a lot of medication for my—well, you know, my condition—but I also sent away for some vitamins. So Oscar says, ‘I have to search you before I let you have this package.’
“I said, ‘What? I never heard of this before.’ He said, ‘New rules, I told you, new Post Office rules. I’m sure you’re okay, but it’s gotten very dangerous to go into people’s homes these days. They’re doing this to protect us.’
“I felt kind of bad for him, I mean, I wouldn’t want to go into a lot of apartments in this city. People with pit bulls and drug dealers and who knows what. So I stepped into the hallway, Oscar puts down his bag, and he starts to frisk me, like in the movies. But I’m telling you, Miss Cooper, he’s running his hands back and forth over my breasts. I say, ‘That’s enough, Oscar.’ And he gives me the package and thanks me a lot.”
I asked Angela how long the encounter took and exactly where and how the mailman touched her. She explained it all.
“Then he was back this morning. I’m telling you I never got my mail so early as this week. He’s got a box for me, no return label. So he tells me it looks suspicious. I see it’s got a postmark from Philly, and I know it’s my cousin Muriel, sending me the sucking candies I like. She never puts a return address—in case there’s not enough postage on it, she doesn’t want it coming back to her. Wants me to pay it. But no, Oscar says he has to search me and then see the candy for himself. This time, he puts his hand inside my blouse and actually touches my breast. Can you believe it? I smacked him across the face and stepped inside and bolted the door. Never even got the candy.”
I asked some more questions and told Miss Firkin that I would like her to wait in our reception area while I called the Post Office.
“I already did that, Miss Cooper. No new rules. Oscar was full of baloney—thought he had an easy mark, just ’cause I like my packages. They don’t have any new rules like that.”
I hadn’t thought there were actually new rules, but I did want to check to see if Oscar was, in fact, an employee of the United States Government. Laura got Angela a seat down the hall and a cold drink, and I made my calls. Yes, there was an Oscar Lanier and indeed that was his postal route, although he was only a probationary worker at the moment. Just to satisfy my curiosity, I punched his name into the criminal justice computer network—AJIS—and within seconds, got the response that Lanier had a misdemeanor conviction earlier this year in Queens County. Not surprisingly, it was for sexual abuse.
My next call was to the head of the Special Victims Bureau in the Queens District Attorney’s Office. I explained the story and asked her to tell me what the case was about. Fifteen minutes later, she called back to let me know that Oscar’s previous job had been as an airport security guard at JFK. He was arrested after several women passengers complained that he took them out of line, into his office, and tried to do a body cavity search, looking for smuggled drugs. Fired, convicted, and rehired by the United States Post Office, all within the last six months. You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.
I brought Angela back in, reassured her that this particular postman would not ring a third time, and told her that I would assign a female detective to work with her on the case. After she left, I made the necessary calls to arrange a temporary suspension of Lanier while we investigated the matter. It was almost five o’clock by the time I finished those details and attended to the rest of the paperwork on my desk.
Mark Acciano called to say that the judge would keep his jury only until ten this evening, and if there was no verdict by that time, he’d declare a mistrial. I tried to shore up his spirits, and told him I’d stick it out with him as long as there were no developments on the Montvale case.
Laura asked if she could leave a bit early to go to the dentist, and I told her I would get the phones myself. I sat at my desk, going through the pile of mail that had come with the afternoon delivery. Two demands for letters advising the Parole Board what position our office would take on cases coming before them next month, one request to lecture to a women’s group at a college in Pennsylvania, and several offers to test software programs designed to expedite the preparation of lawyer’s briefs were on the top of the stack.
Wedged in between the legal-sized envelopes that I had been opening was a small letter that appeared to be a personal note. It was stamped but had no postmark, and I guessed that it had been delivered by hand. I slit it open with the narrow point of a pair of desk scissors and unfolded the page of single-spaced typed correspondence. It began with the salutation, “My dearest Alexandra,” and my eye flipped immediately to the bottom of the paper to see the closing that was identical to the one on the papers Isabella had received: “Best ever, Cordelia Jeffers, Fellow, Royal Academy of Medicine.”
My thoughts scattered in a dozen directions. I was mad at myself for touching the letter and envelope, which may have yielded fingerprints if I had not smudged them; I wanted to have Mike or David or anyone else who knew the case sitting beside me as I read through the text; I wondered whether to march directly into Battaglia’s office and tell him I was in over my head; and yet I couldn’t stop myself from reading on.
My dearest Alexandra,
I debated about sending this to you at your office or your fancy apartment, but I didn’t know if you’d notice it at home among the dozens of yellow roses that our mutual friend continues to waste his money on.
Sometimes, my clever girl, your actions do surprise me. Didn’t you find it degrading, and I do mean thoroughly humiliating, to have him leaping into bed with that vacant slut, that Cleopatra-like whore you were stupid enough to befriend? And yet, thereafter you remained so desperate for his companionship that you accept rides in his limousine and let him try to wheedle his way back into your good graces. Deny him the help he seeks, he needs it not.
Like her before you, you will be shocked to find that the woman he truly loves is not your equal—not in physical appearance, not social status or material wealth, not even in professional recognition in her chosen field.
As you know, women do crazy things in the name of love, and crazier still when they sense the beloved slipping away, becoming ambivalent.
Wasn’t it the immortal Bard who said “One may smile and smile and be a villain”? Keep that in mind and yield not to temptation.
Best ever,
Cordelia Jeffers
Fellow, Royal Academy of Medicine
I read it three times to try to make it make sense. How did this woman, this person, know the things she talked about in the letter? The yellow roses, my short ride across town in Jed’s limo, his pleas for help these last few days, his betrayal of me with Isabella. I surely didn’t be
lieve in psychics, but could I have been unaware that someone was actually following me wherever I went? Not possible.
Then that paragraph that mirrors one in Isabella’s letter, referring to the woman Jed really loves. Again, I was completely puzzled by its meaning.
Who was the beloved that Jed was slipping away from? Who was he becoming ambivalent about? Could this possibly be his ex-wife, now bitter about their estrangement? I had never even suggested that to Chapman. All I knew about her was that like many other women, she was unhappy in marriage and unhappier still in divorce. Why hadn’t I asked more questions about her?
I called the guard at the security desk to see if he remembered anyone leaving an envelope with him earlier in the day. He reminded me that the shifts had changed at four o’clock, when he had come on duty, and nothing except deliveries from Police Headquarters had been dropped at his station. I’d have to check with the day shift tomorrow morning.
Mike Chapman and David Mitchell needed to know about this letter at once. I called David’s office and got the answering machine. I left a message, expecting that he would pick it up soon, since he was supposed to be there to meet Jed sometime within the next two hours, and I told him I would fax a copy of the letter to him before I left the office.
I tried Mike but he wasn’t at the squad yet, so I hung up and walked down the hall to use the fax machine outside of Rod’s conference room. As I walked back to my desk, I could hear the phone ringing and I ran to pick it up.
“We popped the motherfucker, Coop. We’re in business.”
“Mercer? How’d you do it?”
“Seems like the last thing he did before he left prison was get himself an ATM card. A MetroBank cash card. I got that info from the prison this morning. I called the bank and told them to stop the card, figuring he had to get cash if he was gonna be on the run. He tried three machines, got a ‘Card not valid’ printout. Picked up the courtesy phone and called the bank hot line. The branch manager told him to come in at four-thirty, after the regular banking was closed—at our direction—that there must have been a defect in the card. Manager called me back, and a few of us from the squad kept that appointment with him. It gives new meaning to the word ‘surprise.’ ”
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