Deadfall

by Linda Fairstein

  “I think it’s a good time to go ghost busting, Coop.”

  Mike had taken the Seventy-First Street exit of the FDR Drive, turning north on First Avenue to wind his way through the East Seventies.

  “George Kwan?” I said. “We can’t do that now.”

  “Just a drop-in,” Mike said. “You can’t get the man out of your head. If he had something to do with Battaglia’s murder, let’s get on his ass right away.”

  “I need to prep for this. For an interview.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “He might be a suspect in a homicide. I can’t just shoot from the hip.”

  “Just because you don’t have hips?” Mike asked. “Sure you can. Leave your OCD list making behind.”

  “Calm down, both of you,” Mercer said. “Let’s all get on the same page. What even makes you think he’s at home?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got no reason at all. But what have we got to lose by trying?”

  I leaned back against the rear seat to puzzle it out. “We might scare him off by going in too early. Unprepared.”

  “You’re the only one who’s unprepared,” Mike said. “You think I get to a crime scene, find a body chopped to bits and some mope holding the machete, and I get to go back to the office and make a neat list of questions to ask him?”

  “This is no street mope. He’s a really smart businessman. He’s—”

  “You’ve cross-examined monsters, Coop. You’ve stood nose to nose with some of the worst human beings on the planet. Time for you to strap on some balls again, babe.”

  Mercer laughed along with Mike—of course—and I just bit my lip.

  “What’s the approach?” Mercer asked.

  “Coop and I can go to the door,” Mike said. “I’ve got a legit reason to talk to Kwan.”

  “Remind me what that would be,” I said.

  “The man knew Battaglia, right?”

  “Check.”

  “The man knew Wolf Savage and was actually a business rival of his.”

  “Check.”

  “Kwan possibly saw some of our encounter with Savage’s killers at the museum.”

  “Okay. Check.”

  “We don’t know what time he walked down the steps of the Met to leave,” Mike said, “so what’s to say he doesn’t have information—normal witness information—about either Battaglia’s unfortunate and untimely end or the fugitive in the Savage murder?”

  “So this is a routine homicide investigation interview,” I said.

  “Sounds right to me,” Mercer chimed in. “Just don’t set off any alarm buttons in case Coop’s sniffer is on the right track.”

  “I don’t piss everybody off, pal. I’m very selective in my approach.”

  By the time we reached the block on East Seventy-Eighth Street where George Kwan’s town house was located, it was almost six o’clock in the evening.

  Mike parked the car and we left Mercer in it to walk up the steps of the building and ring the bell.

  When the door was opened, behind the handsome wrought iron gates, I assumed it was one of Kwan’s bodyguards who asked what our business was.

  “To see Mr. Kwan,” Mike said.

  It wasn’t the bodyguard who answered. It was George Kwan himself.

  “About what?” Kwan asked, his bodyguard right behind him, adjusting a camel hair overcoat on the businessman’s shoulders. They seemed to be about to leave the house.

  “A few questions,” Mike said, holding up his gold shield. “This is Ms. Cooper, and I’m Detective Chapman. Homicide. We met at the offices of the Savage family early last week.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “May we come in?” Mike said, his hand on the door, ready to push it back.

  “I’m on my way out, as you can see,” Kwan said. “A dinner engagement.”

  “Surely you can spare us a couple of minutes. You don’t look like the early-bird-special type, Mr. Kwan.”

  The bodyguard held the door firmly in place by the large brass handle.

  “We can talk on the way to my car,” Kwan said, waving the bodyguard to follow him out.

  “It’s murder,” Mike said. “It deserves a sit-down, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve wrapped up that mess around Wolf Savage, haven’t you?” Kwan asked.

  No one moved—neither in nor out.

  “Mr. Kwan,” I said. “If you would just give us fifteen minutes. You were at the gala on Monday night, and we have some questions about what you saw there and what time you left.”

  “My condolences, Ms. Cooper. Perhaps this is about the district attorney’s death, and not Wolf Savage after all?”

  “We’re still missing one perp in the Savage case,” Mike said. “I was hoping you could help us with that. You knew most of the people in that family business.”

  “I’m glad to answer your questions. You have my numbers,” Kwan said. “Just call for an appointment. Your timing tonight is most inconvenient.”

  Kwan was taller than Mike, and leaner, too. He had an elegant air about him and was trying to be cooperative even though we had ambushed him.

  He angled his body and walked between Mike and me, through the gates and down the steps. When he reached the sidewalk, he stopped and waited for us to descend.

  “There’s some urgency to finding the fugitive who was part of Wolf Savage’s murder,” I said. “The sooner you can sit down with us, the faster we can get moving.”

  “I understand, Ms. Cooper.”

  “And since you mentioned the death of Paul Battaglia, we’d like to ask you some things about that, too.”

  “Shocking. Completely shocking, for you, I’m sure—and for this city,” Kwan said. “You know I left the museum only an hour or so before Battaglia was shot.”

  I appreciated his candor. Kwan looked me in the eye and didn’t blink when talking about the dead DA.

  “Then it must have hit you very hard, too,” I said. “I know you were friends.”

  “Friends? Me,” he asked, “and Paul Battaglia?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d hardly call it that, Ms. Cooper. We were acquaintances.” Kwan lifted his arm, pulled back the sleeve of his coat, and looked at his watch. “I really have to be going, if you don’t mind.”

  The bodyguard opened the rear passenger door of the navy-blue Bentley. Kwan ducked his head and stepped into it.

  “That’s so odd,” I said. “Battaglia described your relationship so differently to me.”

  Kwan put his window down. “What was that?”

  “He was so grateful for your support in the Animals Without Borders fund-raiser that honored him,” I said. “I know, because I worked on the event with him.”

  “One of my own causes, Ms. Cooper. The world would be a much sorrier place without all the Asian and African species that are so threatened,” he said, smiling at me. “On the edge of extinction.”

  “I must be wrong,” I said, mustering all the false humility that I could. “I just remember that Battaglia spoke about you on much more familiar terms.”

  Kwan shook his head as he pressed the button to raise the window.

  “Two years ago, at the time of that dinner?” he said, pausing it halfway up. “I hardly knew him.”

  “Much more recently than that.”

  Kwan seemed interested now. “Really? When was that? I mean, the last time you spoke with him about me?”

  “On Monday. On the day he died,” I said. “On the day he was assassinated at the museum.”

  “I can’t think of any reason he would have done so,” Kwan said.

  The tinted window closed and the dark car drove off down the street.

  EIGHTEEN

  “The usual for Mercer and me,” Mike said, “and a Shirley Temple for the broad.”<
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  We were in the cozy bar at Aretsky’s Patroon, the upscale restaurant on East Forty-Sixth Street, catching the Final Jeopardy! question on the small TV mounted on a corner wall, before going to our table to wait for Vickee.

  “Tonight’s category is AVIAN FEATS,” Trebek said. “All about our winged friends.”

  One contestant smiled and two others looked puzzled as they decided how much of their winnings they’d bet on the birds.

  “Stake me to the twenty, will you, Coop?” Mike said.

  “When’s payday?” I asked, nipping an olive from his vodka martini.

  “Friday,” he said. “I’m good for it.”

  Mercer and I put our money on the bar. We made small talk with the bartender, whom I hadn’t seen in weeks, waiting for the answer to be posted.

  “SATELLITES CAPTURED IMAGES OF THIS BIRD STAYING ALOFT—WITHOUT TOUCHING DOWN—FOR TWO MONTHS.”

  As the lilting theme song played in the background and the on-air contestants wrote out their questions, Mike pointed at me.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I pass.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I don’t know. What is the bald eagle?”

  “Bad guess, Coop, really bad. But a raptor kind of suits you, kid,” Mike said. “How about you, m’ man?”

  “I’m going with vulture,” Mercer said. “What’s a turkey vulture?”

  “Getting warmer, Mercer. Also a raptor, but rides thermals, huge wingspan.”

  “No bird can go without touching down for two months,” I said.

  “Once again, you would be wrong, Ms. Cooper,” Mike said, taking Mercer’s money and mine off the bar. “The video is streaming live on the Discovery site. You gotta see it.”

  “What is—?” I asked.

  “The frigate bird,” Mike said, just before Trebek confirmed his question was correct. “Rides the wind like a roller coaster. Glides forty miles without flapping its wings.”

  I got off the barstool and walked toward the dining room. “Why in the world would you know that?”

  “Because they were named for fast warships, Coop,” Mike said. “Frigates were built for speed and maneuverability.”

  “Warships. Of course you’d know.”

  Mike and Mercer followed me to our regular booth in the front corner at Aretsky’s Patroon, our destination whenever they wanted the best New York strip steak and I had a craving for Dover sole.

  “Are you sure, Alexandra? C’est vrai?” Stephane asked, looking incredulous as he seated us and heard Mike order me a Diet Coke. “Pas de Dewar’s?”

  I adored the maître d’ and his divine accent. I could almost forget there was any violent crime in the city when I was nestled into the padded leather banquette and coddled by Stephane, even though it was a bad sign when the waitstaff could anticipate my every cocktail.

  “I feel like nursing a glass of a full-bodied red wine,” I said. “Would you pick one for me?”

  “Bien sûr,” Stephane said.

  Mike, Mercer, and I were joined ten minutes later by Vickee, who squeezed my hand across the table when she sat down.

  “The commissioner sends regards,” she said to me.

  “You told him we’d be having dinner together?”

  “I think Scully knows our friendship is—well, thicker than blood, to be blunt about it,” Vickee said. “He actually wants me to hang out with you. He thinks you’ll be candid with me—that I have a lighter touch than the US attorney. Maybe something we all talk about will get you thinking.”

  “I’m not holding anything back, Vickee,” I said. “I want this thing solved.”

  “Scully knows that. Everyone does.”

  “What’s come in?” I asked. “What does he expect us to talk about?”

  “Back down, Coop,” Mike said.

  “You know how it goes,” Vickee said. “Once we offer money to the public, the TIPS hotline lights up like a Christmas tree. We’ve got three officers screening the calls.”

  “Anything real?”

  “Two residents of Fifth Avenue co-ops who were stargazing on Monday night saw the whole thing,” she said, sipping from a glass of sparkling water.

  “What’s the whole thing?” I asked, practically hoisting myself on the table.

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I’m joking, of course. One of the callers can describe Mike to a tee—she must have had binoculars trained on him,” Vickee said. “She’s not sure what he did, but she thinks he’s guilty.”

  “I’m always guilty of something,” Mike said.

  “The other?” I asked.

  “The second tipster is sure it was one of the fashionistas, waiting till after the gala. Mike’s accuser was anonymous, but this one gave her name and everything. She’s convinced there’s so much jealousy in that industry that it had to be another designer, who mistook Battaglia for a rival.”

  “And me?” I asked. “It could have been me who was killed.”

  “That lady looking out her window probably pegged you for Anna Wintour, Coop,” Mike said. “The devil wore my blazer over her shoulders.”

  “No doubt,” I said, relaxing against the cushioned seat. “Wintour was there too. Let’s ask Stephane to find us a newspaper so I can go over the names when I get home.”

  “Has Scully told James Prescott that Paul Battaglia may have been at the Texas shooting preserve the night Justice Scalia died?” Mike asked.

  “This morning,” Vickee said. “Prescott and the commissioner are going to meet for an hour every day. Prescott promised to put all his cards on the table, and to keep all the info he gets from us as need-to-know.”

  The tension between the NYPD and the feds was real. There was no way Scully could withhold critical information—verified or not—from the US attorney. But once it went from top dog to top dog, there would be hell to pay if anyone on Prescott’s end leaked it.

  “Did Prescott have any reaction?” I asked. “Was he as surprised as we were?”

  “Kept his poker face on for the commissioner. It didn’t seem to set off any fresh leads,” Vickee said. Then she opened her tote. “Here’s the official list, from Citadel Security, of the gala attendees. Scully wants you to study it and make any connections you can.”

  Stephane returned with our drinks and took our orders. Two black-and-blue strip steaks, two grilled soles for Vickee and me, along with sides of onion rings and crispy Brussels sprouts. I was beginning to feel hungry for the first time in days. I wanted to regain some of my strength.

  Vickee waited till we four were alone. “I’ve got nothing for you on the perp front. TARU has blown up stills of the shooter and the driver. Every identification expert we have, every facial recognition tool, is being used.”

  “But—?” Mike said.

  “Nothing of value. Hoods and masks. They both had sunglasses on and the shooter only took them off in front of the museum, to aim his gun and fire. Brown eyes, that’s all we know. Nothing else distinctive about their eyes or lips.”

  “Clothing?” Mercer asked. “Confirmation on the gun?”

  “You guys were right about the weapon. Twenty-two-caliber Ruger,” she said. “Clothes? The shooter had a long-sleeved black tee or turtleneck and some kind of thin gloves on his hands. They were both in all black.”

  “Sounds like they weren’t looking to make mistakes,” Mercer said.

  “And so far as the task force can determine, they didn’t make any,” Vickee said.

  “Race?” Mike asked. “Do we know anything about the race of these men?”

  “We aren’t even sure they’re both men,” she said.

  I put my head in my hands, elbows on the table. I was playing back the moments of the shooting, from the time I saw the DA trotting up the museum steps to approach me.

  “I just put a call in to Lieutenant Peterson,�
�� Mike said, rubbing my back. “He’ll tell Scully tonight. We just stopped at George Kwan’s house, ’cause Coop can’t get this Kwan guy out of her head, just so Scully knows.”

  “How’d that go?” Vickee asked. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Front step flyby. I used the ruse that we had to tie up some loose ends on the Savage investigation, since we’ve got one suspect in the wind.”

  “Get anything?”

  “Besides an invitation to return another time?” Mike said. “We were doing fine till Coop kind of lit a fire under his tail.”

  I picked my head up from the table. “I gave him something to think about, didn’t I? If I didn’t hit a nerve, then no harm, no foul.”

  “And if you did,” Mike said, “he’ll be on a not-so-slow boat to China.”

  “Who had the idea to just wing it?” I asked.

  “Look, why don’t we change the subject,” Mike said, obviously aware that he was losing me to darker thoughts.

  “One more thing,” Vickee said. “From the commissioner. It ties in to what you’re talking about.”

  I looked up.

  “Vickee,” Mike said in his sternest voice. “This is something you think you have to do right now?”

  “Let me just put it on the table,” she said.

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  “So we’ve had a team of cops going through the news footage from Monday night’s gala—the hours before the shooting.”

  Nothing unusual in that.

  “The planners had some of the biggest names from the fashion world there to honor Wolf Savage, and they had the most gorgeous venue in Manhattan—the Temple of Dendur—as a backdrop.”

  I closed my eyes and called up the spectacular setting—before the Savage melee and before the bloodshed.

  “All the local news outlets covered it, and all of them ran video in the eleven-o’clock hour,” Vickee said. “CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox 5, NY1, WPIX.”

  I knew there had been cameras everywhere. But they had been focused on the fashion, not the felons. I hadn’t paid them any attention.

  “That must have been what Battaglia saw,” Mike said. “Something—someone on the news that drove him to head off to the Met.”