“This must be her son,” I said to Mike. She was dressed in a light-colored suit, the slim skirt covering her calves, and a Mamie Eisenhower-style hat and handbag complementing the outfit. She had her arm around the boy’s shoulder, and he looked even younger than Dulles Tripping. They were standing at the base of the Washington Monument.
“You think this kid is African-American?” Mike asked, looking at the fair-skinned child with the sandy blond hair.
“Well, Queenie Ransome was pretty light-skinned herself. Maybe his father was Caucasian.”
“Check this one out,” Mike said. “She’s in uniform.”
It was another picture of Ransome on a stage, dressed in khakis designed to look like an army uniform. She was tap-dancing, it appeared, and her hand was about to salute someone with a touch of her cap. A USO flag hung from the bunting behind her. I took the photo off the wall and turned it over.
“Same year as those nightclub photos you brought to the office yesterday, 1942. This one looks like she was entertaining the troops.”
“Here’s another James Van Derzee portrait,” Mike said. “Pretty spectacular.”
It was a studio shot of the stunning young woman, again signed by the photographer, and probably taken after the Second World War, when she was still in her twenties.
Set against the faux backdrop typical of the period, she was dressed in a satin evening gown, her hair coiffed in a large bun atop her head, reclining against a marble column.
The gallery stopped at the far wall, which had a small bookcase across its end. Every book had been pulled off the shelf and strewn on the floor. I stooped to pick up a few-popular novels of the fifties and sixties-flipped through their pages but found nothing loose or stuck inside.
“What do you give me for a first-edition Hemingway?” Mike asked.
“For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
“Nineteen forty. That fetches a sweet number today.” He knew I collected rare books. “I think the last one went at auction for about twenty-five thousand.”
“Does his signature add value?”
“You’re joking. Let me see.” I took the book from his hand. The dust jacket was pristine, but whoever dumped it on the floor had cracked its spine by throwing it there. “‘For Queenie-who is, herself, a moveable feast-Papa.’ Take this one with you and voucher it. Let’s look over all the books before we’re done.”
“Guess she didn’t only kick up her heels for the boys in the ‘hood. Don’t you wish you’d had a chance to meet her?” said Mike, changing the record. “Just sit in this room and listen to her stories? She must have been something.”
I turned the corner into the bedroom, flipping on the light. “Any reason I can’t touch things in here?”
“Everything’s been processed,” Mike said, following me in.
The dresser drawers were all ajar, contents spilled out, as Mike had told me. The black fingerprint powder covered Queenie’s old pink leather jewelry case. “Was there anything in this when you found it?”
“Just what you see.”
There was a long strand of fake pearls, knotted the way that flappers once wore them. There were several large brooches that seemed to be made of colored glass, and lots of dangling earrings in bright colors, made of Bakelite or plastic. Some flea market vendor would relish this stuff, but none of it had any street value, and even the pettiest of thieves would have left it behind.
I opened the closet doors and separated the hangers.
“So much for those gowns and tiaras. Wear ‘em while you can, Coop. This is what it all comes down to in the end,” Mike said. There was an assortment of checked and flowered housedresses, and a couple of outfits that looked suitable for church-or burial. “The ME asked me to have you pick out a dress for Queenie to be buried in.”
“Is there actually a funeral?”
“The squad’s doing one. Nobody’s been able to locate the nieces in Georgia, and all the guys want to arrange something for her. It’ll be next week-I’ll let you know what day.”
It was an unspoken tradition among the elite homicide detectives that if there was no family to put a victim to rest with dignity, they often did it themselves. Queenie would go in a plot near the still-unidentified toddler known to the squad as Baby Hope, and the homeless man dubbed Elvis who played his guitar in the 125th Street subway station, slain for the few bucks he had picked up panhandling.
“What’s on the floor?” I asked.
“Bastards even dumped out all her shoe and hatboxes. Took whatever cash she had left. That’s just the pocket change you’re playing with.”
The dark closet floor was littered with silver coins, which gleamed against the wooden background. I kneeled again and scooped up a handful. “This must be the stash she used to tip the kids who bought her groceries.”
I let the coins run through my fingers and clink against each other as they fell. Both Mike and I knew victims who had been killed for far less money than was sitting on the floor of Queenie’s closet.
“I want you to promise me that someone’s going to do a careful inventory of all these things,” I said. “It may not look like much of value to you, but there’s a lot of memorabilia here that shouldn’t be thrown away.”
“What I wanted you to do is look at these photos,” he said, sweeping the bedroom walls with his hand. “You ever see anything like this? It’s like a shrine to herself. I mean, it’s a damn good body she had, but could these photos-could her own personal history-have anything to do with her murder?”
I recognized the bed on which her body had been found from the crime scene photos. The detectives believed that’s where she had been killed. In addition to the Van Derzee portrait that had been above her head, there were seven other shots-all taken in different locations-which were erotic in nature. They weren’t pictures of Queenie dancing, nor were they posed on a stage or in a studio. They were, pure and simple, pornographic.
This was not a situation I had seen before in a criminal case. Although the images’ purpose may have been to arouse sexual interest sixty years ago, I couldn’t imagine anyone responding to the partially paralyzed octogenarian in the same way today.
There was a dressing table opposite the bed’s footboard. To the right of the mirror was another photo of the young Ransome, dancing as Scheherazade, wearing gauzelike harem pants and clasping tiny cymbals above her veiled head.
“Beats me,” I said. “Can’t rule it out.”
To the left of the looking glass was a photo of two women facing each other in profile, both in strapless satin dresses, with trains hanging to the floor and pooling behind them. “Here’s one more you’ve got to see. It’s Queenie, nose to nose with Josephine Baker,” I said, recognizing the American dancer who had lived much of her life in Paris and was considered to be one of the most sensual performers of all times.
“Later for the talent show, Coop. Are you getting anything in here?”
“Like what?”
“Vibes,” Mike said, sitting on the stool at the dressing table and leaning on Queenie’s metal walker. “Sometimes, when I just sit here alone, in the middle of the victim’s world, with all his or her belongings around me, I get a sense of who might have come here to hurt them, or what it is they were looking for.”
“How about if it’s just random?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Sometimes the place and its people speak to me,” he said softly. “This one’s so incongruous. I wanna feel like she’s my own grandmother, but this-this scene-”
“The photos bother you?”
“Don’t they bother you?” he asked me.
“They’re quite beautiful, actually,” I said, tousling his hair. “It’s your parochial school upbringing, Mikey.”
The ringing of my cell phone interrupted the quiet, with only Ellington’s tunes playing their scratchy sounds in the background on the old Victrola from the other room.
“Hello?”
“Alex, it’s Mercer.”
&nbs
p; “Any news?”
“No sightings. But a ray of hope. I just got into work-we had a late night trying to interview everyone who saw the boy yesterday, before he disappeared. Did you hear from Paige?” Mercer asked me.
“No. But she’s in the middle of cross. You know she’s been instructed not to talk to me.”
“She left a voice mail for me at the office, at about ten o’clock last night. I didn’t pick it up until this morning. Dulles Tripping called her after I dropped her off from court. She had given him a slip of paper with her phone number on it, that first morning in the coffee shop. Paige said he sounded fine, just scared and lonely. Have you got a cell number for her?”
“For Paige? No. I’ve always found her at her office, or at home. Does she know where he is?”
“No. That’s the point. There’s no answer at Paige’s apartment and I thought you’d know how to reach her. She called to say she’s trying to bring the boy in herself.”
15
The three-dimensional building, set back in tiers like a giant birthday cake, has the most distinctive windows in New York. They were modeled to look like the bulbous aft end of old Dutch sailing ships, and as we drove up to the front of 37 West Forty-fourth Street-the New York Yacht Club-its century-old limestone facade seemed like a throwback to another era.
I was a few minutes late for my meeting with Graham Hoyt. Mike had decided to work with Mercer, figuring I needed no help in bartering a deal with Dulles’s lawyer.
“Beep us if he knows anything,” Mike said to me.
“Of course. You do the same.”
“Sure they’ll let you through the front door? The lieutenant says it’s tougher to get into this yacht club than into your pants.”
“For certain I’m a cheaper date than trying to pay the dues here,” I said, slamming the car door. “Speak to you later.”
I had spent a lot of time in the building across the street from the club-the Association of the Bar of the City of New York-and I’d downed my share of cocktails in the sleek lobby of the Royalton Hotel. But this architectural beauty, with its galleon-styled windows, was one of Manhattan’s great mysteries. Its elite membership, its fabled pedigree, and its prohibitive fees had long made it an object of curiosity. One couldn’t buy his way in with money-it took a real knowledge of boating to penetrate the ranks. Despite myself, I was impressed that Graham Hoyt was a member.
Hoyt was waiting for me inside the lobby, so the doorman just nodded and let me pass through the grand salon.
“Shall we talk in the Model Room?”
“Whatever you like. I’ve never been here before,” I said.
It was clear that the room was the centerpiece of the club. The entire history of yachting seemed to be displayed in its cavernous space, with hundreds of models of members’ ships, with globes and astrolabes, and with braids of seaweed draping its huge mantel and wall trim.
“Is Chapman joining us?” Hoyt asked as we settled into a pair of corner seats.
“No. He’s actually working on another case. Have you heard anything from Dulles?”
“Afraid not. I’ve got Jenna-my wife-sitting by the phone. I’m determined not to panic either one of us until another day goes by.”
He leaned forward and cupped his hands over his knees. “Alex, why don’t you just lay out what you’ve got, and tell me what you think the solution is? Perhaps we can fashion something that I can sell to Andrew, to convince him that pleading guilty would be in the boy’s best interest.”
“I think he’s pretty well aware of the strengths of my case-and its weaknesses.” I didn’t trust anyone enough to reveal my personal thoughts about the witnesses.
“I knew from the discovery material you had turned over to Peter Robelon before the trial that Paige Vallis had accidentally killed a man. What’s that about? Don’t you think Peter’s going to rip her to shreds on cross-examination?”
“Look, Graham, I’m sure you can understand why I’m reluctant-”
“I’m not a litigator, Alex. Strictly corporate law. Forgive me if you think I’m stepping on your toes. I’d just hate to see the jury find her less than credible, and throw out Dulles’s case with hers.”
I let Graham tell me about how he and his wife had bonded with the boy over the past years, how they wanted to help him-maybe even have him as a member of their own family. It seemed clear they had better expectations for his future.
“When we’ve got him safely back,” Hoyt said, “I can probably persuade the people at the child welfare agency to let him sit down with you, as long as we can find a noninstitutional setting in which to do it-I don’t want him subjected to another police station or courtroom. And on the condition, of course, that I can be present.”
“I assume there’s some quid pro quo for this, something you want from me,” I said.
Hoyt straightened up. “I want you to offer Andrew Tripping a deal. A plea bargain. Something that will speed this along and have him sentenced so that he’s in jail-immediately-and Dulles can breathe more easily. You can’t imagine how this hangs over the child’s head-this love-hate thing with his own father that the shrinks will testify about.”
All the psychiatrists spoke of the same findings. The boy had a natural filial love for Andrew, but his fear was even greater. He knew that telling the truth could make him safe, but if the judge or jury didn’t believe him, he would be back at his father’s mercy and in more danger than before.
“Tripping’s been offered a deal from the get-go,” I said. “I talked to Peter about a charge of third-degree rape instead of first.”
“Sorry. I don’t know the criminal law. What’s the difference?”
“The amount of time he’d have to serve. It’s still a felony, but he wouldn’t be exposed to as many years in state prison,” I said. The case was complicated. The top charges in the indictment related to the rape of Paige Vallis. I had added misdemeanor counts of physical assault and endangering the welfare of a child-counts that involved Dulles’s abuse-knowing that they might be taken more seriously in the higher-court forum where the rape trial would be heard. It was an unorthodox way to proceed, but I thought it was worth the chance.
“Can’t we still-?”
“It’s too late for that, Graham. I told the defense team that once Paige gave sworn testimony, once she had to go through the experience of telling her story publicly, the offer was withdrawn. The ball was in Andrew’s court for months and he didn’t want to play.”
“But you’d save her the embarrassment of cross-examination. She can’t be looking forward to Monday.”
“You know something that I don’t?” I asked. “You want to tell me what other surprises Peter has to hit her with?”
Was he bluffing now, I wondered, or did Robelon have more dirt on Paige Vallis, something else she had omitted from her narrative of events?
Graham Hoyt cocked his head and thought for a moment. For too long to make me comfortable. Why was it the prosecutor was so often the last to know?
“I’ve got a four-thirty appointment across town,” I said. “I think we both agree there’s nothing more important than Dulles’s mental health. For that, I’ll make almost any deal you want. But we’ve got to find him quickly or there’s no point negotiating.”
“Finding him, and finding him safe, is our first concern, of course.”
We talked for a few minutes more about the police efforts and the fact that there had been no bad news as of yet. “It actually helps me to hear how optimistic you are about Dulles,” I said, smiling as I stood up to leave.
“I have to be. Jenna is set on doing the right thing for this boy. It’s broken her heart to be childless, and this seems like such a chance to solve both sets of problems,” Hoyt said. His somber expression passed in seconds. “Want to have a look around before you go? J. P. Morgan’s folly.”
Maybe I could do some reconnaissance for Paul Battaglia on his future political opponent. It would behoove me to be sociable for fifteen
minutes, especially if I could bring home some information about Peter Robelon, follow up on the hint Hoyt had dropped last evening. It never hurt to have some professional gossip for the Boss. “Sure. I didn’t realize Morgan was responsible for this place.”
“Not for the club, initially. That was started in 1844, on a yacht anchored in New York Harbor. But he was responsible for the acquisition of this great building. That’s his portrait over the stairwell. And those are some of his yachts.”
The painting of the Commodore was of minor interest compared with the models of his boats. “The Corsair II, ” Graham said. “Two hundred forty-one feet.”
“That’s not a yacht,” I said, “that’s a-”
“A behemoth. Precisely. Do you know that when the Spanish-American War broke out, the government asked Morgan to turn over the Corsair to be converted into a gunboat, to blockade the Spanish at Santiago Harbor?”
I might not only get some scoops for Battaglia, but some trivia for Chapman. “Did he get the yacht back?”
“No, he simply built a bigger one. Corsair III. Three hundred and four feet. Faster and stronger, more than six hundred tons and twenty-five hundred horsepower. ‘You can do business with anyone,’ Morgan liked to say, ‘but you can only sail with a gentleman.’ I look at what’s happened in boardrooms across the country these last few years, and I have to admit that he wasn’t wrong. Do you enjoy sailing, Alex?”
“I like anything on the water. I’ve got a house on the Vineyard,” I said, remembering Hoyt’s reference to nearby Nantucket. I thought of Adam Nyman, and how, when we were engaged, he loved to take me out on his sloop. “I used to sail quite a bit.”
“When this is all behind us,” Hoyt said, talking about the trial, “I’ll make it a point for Jenna to put a date together with you, on the islands. There are a few hurricanes kicking around in the Caribbean, so let’s hope they blow past northeast without any damage.”
“Well, this is the season for them. Is there a model of your boat in here?”
Hoyt walked me to a point on the far wall, below an ornate balcony, and pointed at a black-hulled vessel that looked as though it would have put him back a couple of million.
The Kills Page 13