The Kills

by Fairstein, Linda

  “I’m sure you can give me a general idea.” I needed to get those interview audiotapes before he altered or destroyed them. “We’re beyond the statute of limitations for theft, Mr. Logan,” I said, smiling at him. “It’s quite fascinating.”

  “I’m not the only one who knows,” he said, as if he were justifying his reasons for telling me. “Some jewelry. I mean, Farouk actually gave her stuff during the time they were together. But I guess, in the end, she got her hands on some uncut gems he had stashed away. Sold ‘em off or pawned them from time to time over the years. Farouk also collected rare stamps and valuable coins, odd things that she really didn’t know the value of,” Spike said.

  Then he looked at me, as if to gauge my reaction before going on. I didn’t display any.

  “Queenie was able to survive for about ten years on one of the treasures she scored.”

  My raised eyebrows gave away my interest. Spike went on. “You know what a Faberg�� egg is, Ms. Cooper?”

  The brilliantly jeweled objects had been made by Carl Faberg�� for the Russian czars, and the ones that survived the revolution had been collected and traded by the richest men in the world. “Sure I do. Farouk had those, too? Queenie took a Faberg�� egg? My admiration for her taste keeps growing.”

  Spike Logan didn’t care whether I approved of Queenie’s methods or not. “Some antiques dealer in London bought it from her. I looked him up on the Internet but couldn’t find any recent trace of him. She joked that Farouk was better than the goose that laid the golden egg-he mislaid it and she took it. That single egg kept her and Fabian going for the next ten years, till the boy died. Queenie realized she got stiffed when she sold some of these objects ‘cause she didn’t have any proof of ownership. The dealers knew she had stolen goods, otherwise she would have made enough money to live in style the rest of a very long life.”

  “Didn’t Farouk miss any of these things? Didn’t he send people out to the States to try to find her and get them back?”

  “You speak any French?” Spike asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “Touche pas!Know what that means?”

  “Don’t touch,” I answered.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “When the king wanted to play with his toys, he’d go into the rooms in his palace where everything was stored, taking Queenie with him. I’m talking dozens of enormous rooms. They’d sit on silk cushions, laid out on the floor, for hours and hours. He’d let her try on tiaras and necklaces, run gold pieces through her fingers, and place Faberg�� goblets in her hands. But when it came to the pieces he prized dearly, the things that were most rare, most valuable, he’d scream at her, ‘Touche pas! Touche pas!’ She wasn’t even allowed to hold them. Faberg�� goblets, yes, but the jeweled eggs-no.”

  “So it was easy for her to tell what the best treasures were, I guess.”

  “That’s what she thought. Queenie told me that when she was packing her bags to leave the palace, she made one last sweep of the joint. She figured Farouk had so many collections, so many toys, that if she was careful, he wouldn’t begin to know what was missing. She headed right for the things that she had never been allowed to touch. Instead of taking all his precious eggs, she just took one. Same for the gemstones and the other valuables. When he opened his closets and vaults, he’d still see dozens of sparkling objects-he’d never stop to count. The most obscene thing is that he probably never knew any of the things she took was even missing.”

  “She had no trouble smuggling these things out of Egypt?”

  “Farouk had turned his sights to a younger girl, the war was over, and everyone around the king was delighted to get Queenie out of the palace. She put her finest prizes right in her handbag, took her chances with what she’d concealed in the luggage, and got on the next plane to Portugal, then home.”

  “What became of all the other valuables?” I asked.

  “She spent some of the money she raised by selling them. But after Fabian’s death, and because Farouk had never responded to the boy’s photographs, she went into a profound depression. Spent five years institutionalized in a private sanitarium-mental hospital in Connecticut. That chewed up most of what she was able to hock.”

  “And the rest?”

  “She didn’t have legitimate title to these things, so she found herself selling to some pretty shady characters. There was no way to prove-what do you call it?”

  “Provenance,” I said.

  “Yeah. She had some rare stamps that don’t go for much on the open market. And some foreign coins that might have been worth something as part of a larger collection, but she never got more than face value. And then she just ran out of juice, Ms. Cooper.”

  Why, I wondered, did Spike Logan ask us about what had become of McQueen Ransome’s possessions? Why had he let himself into the empty apartment, and had he been looking for anything in particular when the police arrived?

  “Do you think, Spike, that she still had any of Farouk’s valuables that she kept in the apartment? Objects she had mentioned to you? Or possibly something that she didn’t even know had current worth?”

  He stretched his legs again and crossed his arms. “I think she would have told me. Queenie trusted me, Ms. Cooper. I think this watch was about all she had left to give.”

  She may have trusted him, but could we?

  “Did you ever see a fur coat?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “In her crib? Nope. But I never had reason to look in her closets, and we never went outside together in the winter. We could look through the old photographs and I’m sure they would tell the story. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Queenie would have liked a nice fur coat in her prime.”

  Mike Chapman came back into the room with lunch for Spike Logan. “Would you excuse us for a few minutes?” I said, walking out with Mike before going upstairs to my office.

  I filled Mike in on what Logan had told me. “The uniformed guys give you any sense of what Logan was doing in the apartment when they arrived?” I asked, opening the lid and sipping the hot coffee Mike had brought me.

  “Sniffing around pretty good. You believe he didn’t know Queenie was dead when he got there?”

  “All I have to go on is what he says. We’ll see if phone records tell a different story.”

  “You gonna honor your word?” Mike asked. “Let him go home?”

  “All we got is a trespass. No judge is going to hold him on that. Might as well get the goodwill by showing we trust him.”

  “You got enough Vineyard contacts to get the local police to keep an eye on him.”

  “I’m not as worried about Logan as I am about getting my hands on the tapes that he’s got stored in the bank before he does anything to them. Queenie may have said things that would have no significance to him, but would give us some direction. I gotta get started on that. Would you be sure to get all his contact information before you let him go? And the key to the apartment.”

  “You wanna hold on to that gold watch from the Duke of Windsor, too?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Sarah Brenner offered to work on the interstate subpoena, since she would be handling the grand jury investigation of the Ransome homicide. I went to my desk to phone the Oak Bluffs Police Department, to give them a heads-up on Spike Logan.

  As I hung up the phone, I noticed Laura standing at the doorway between her desk and the hall. A man was speaking to her, and she was keeping him out of my way until she determined whether I wanted to see him, guiding him to the conference room.

  “It’s one of those days,” she said, coming back to tell me about it. “Doesn’t anybody call for an appointment anymore? It’s Peter Robelon-and actually, he’s with that other lawyer, Mr. Hoyt. They were in the building and wanted to know whether you had a few minutes for them.”

  I took my coffee down the hallway, curious to know what delaying tactic they had in mind at this point.

  They stood up when I
walked in the room. “Alex, I’m so sorry about Paige Vallis. We both are.”

  I was stone-faced. “Let’s not put your credibility on the line, guys. I’ve really been trying to take you seriously up to this point. I take it this isn’t a condolence call.”

  “C’mon, Alex,” Graham Hoyt said. “You can’t take every one of these cases home with you. Don’t blame yourself for-”

  “I don’t, thank you very much.” Stay out of my personal life, I thought, looking daggers at him. “I blame the killer.”

  “Look, Alex, Graham’s been working on me all weekend. I just spent the last couple of hours with Andrew Tripping. I think maybe we ought to revisit our discussion of a plea, especially now that the circumstances have changed so dramatically. Will you sit?”

  I pulled out a chair and joined them at the table. “You’ve been jerking me around since the get-go, Peter. If that’s what this is about, forget it. Why would Tripping possibly see the light of day at this point?”

  “Because the girl was the sticking point. With all due respect, Alex, he wasn’t ever going to jail because he did anything he would admit was wrong to Paige Vallis. She’s dead now. Can you understand you’ve got nothing to go forward with in regard to the charge of rape? You’re headed straight to a mistrial.”

  I hadn’t finished the legal research to see whether it was possible to sustain that count if I was lucky enough to get Dulles to testify honestly about the events of the day and evening. The medical evidence and DNA results proved that sexual intercourse had occurred. Maybe Dulles could establish the fact that there had been threats. I knew the chances looked pretty bleak. I didn’t answer.

  “Suppose I move to dismiss the rape count of the indictment,” Robelon said, Hoyt sitting patiently by his side. “I’m not asking you to do that. I’ll make the motion-oppose it if you want. You’ll be clean on the record, if that makes you feel any better about it, and Moffett will rule on it. My way.”

  “Guess you’ve already had that conversation with him. Ex parte.” I was certain that out of my presence the judge had given Robelon the go-ahead on his plan.

  “You’re too emotional about this, Alex. Moffett’s got no choice,” Robelon said.

  “You don’t either, if we’re talking realistically.”

  “And the assault charge on Dulles Tripping? Andrew will plead to that?”

  “Graham and I think that if we work on him together, we can get you that plea. The misdemeanor-assault in the third degree.”

  “Jail time?” Just the abuse of his son should have earned him the better part of a year behind bars.

  Robelon pursed his lips and stalled for a minute. “We’re just starting that part of the discussion. When you were talking rape, he knew he was facing state prison. That was out of the question. This is just city jail. I think we can bend him.”

  “Why the change of heart? Besides Paige Vallis, I mean?”

  Graham Hoyt spoke. “Andrew Tripping knows he’s not fit to have custody of his son. He loves him-or at least he wants to love the boy, but he’s totally unequipped to take care of him. He’s not going to say that in open court, Alex, but I think-are we off the record?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think he’ll admit that to Peter and me. He’s like any other parent-he simply wants what’s best for the boy. Among us, we’ll figure out what that is.”

  “And the other lawyers,” I said, referring to Nancy Taggart and Jesse Irizarry, from the city child welfare agency and the foundling hospital, “they’ll go along with whatever you propose?”

  “We haven’t talked with them yet. Not till you say you’re on board,” Robelon said.

  “Andrew Tripping will do a full allocution?” I wanted a complete admission to the assault on Dulles, no weasel words or excuses.

  “We’ll work on that with him.”

  “On Wednesday morning, when we report back to Moffett?”

  “Yes, but-” Robelon started to answer.

  “Why doesn’t it surprise me that there’s a ‘but’? Why is it always an angle with you guys?” I asked. “What’s this one?”

  “He pleads guilty on Wednesday morning. He admits to hitting the boy, causing the injuries. We’ll give you everything you want on that. But we put the sentence off for three weeks. Let him get his affairs in order, see the boy one more-”

  “No way.”

  “No, what? It’s a misdemeanor charge. A short adjournment to tie up loose ends, secure his belongings, make arrangements for his bills to be paid while he’s in jail. Nobody in your office ever objected to that kind of thing.”

  “It’s the boy, Peter. I don’t want him seeing the boy.”

  “One time. Supervised. You’ve read all the reports. You know the kid loves him. Since when are you some kind of expert on child psychology, Alex? That Dr. Huang will be present to supervise. Andrew needs to have one face-to-face with the kid. Apologize to him, explain why it’s better that he gets help before he thinks about asking to raise Dulles by himself. What the hell do you know about how this kid’s gonna feel that his father’s in jail for a complaint that the child himself made to the doctors?”

  I couldn’t respond to Peter’s tirade. If there was a single visit, with close supervision, I suppose it might be a necessary part of the child’s recovery process. “Let me talk to our shrinks,” I said.

  Graham tried to be the diplomat. “Look, Alex. It’s late in the day, and we’re hitting you with this by surprise. Think about it overnight, talk to your people tomorrow, and let’s see if we can work this out by Wednesday. I really believe a plea would resolve this quite reasonably for everyone involved.”

  “Everyone except Paige Vallis,” I said, thinking of how her death had taken her interests completely out of the criminal case. “And now I’m supposed to leave Andrew Tripping out of jail even longer, risking the possibility that he’ll never surrender, but I don’t have a clue whether he’s responsible for the Vallis murder.”

  “Goddamnit, Alex,” Robelon shouted at me. “If you had a scintilla of evidence to point in his direction, then you and your goons should lock his ass up. Don’t you dare think for a fraction of a second of walking into a courtroom and making that kind of allegation that you can’t support. That’s completely unprofessional.”

  Robelon was on his feet, and Hoyt was pressing the palm of his hand against the taller man’s chest.

  “We all need a break,” Hoyt said. “Let’s wrap it up before the weekend. Gretchen’s on her way. You and I will be out of here.”

  “Gretchen?” I asked, completely distracted by his non sequitur.

  “Hurricane Gretchen. She’s headed for the Outer Banks tomorrow, and then supposed to roll up the coast, hitting us hard on the cape and islands. That’s what this drizzle is about,” Hoyt said, pointing to the gray clouds outside the window.

  “I didn’t even notice. I don’t think I’ve looked out the window since I got here this morning.”

  “I’ve got to fly up to Nantucket to secure the boat before the weekend. Better check on your house,” he reminded me.

  Hoyt was giving me the chance to small-talk my way back into a conversation with Robelon. I’d be damned if I’d apologize for my crack about Tripping. His involvement in Vallis’s death certainly hadn’t been ruled out by the homicide detectives.

  I tried to stay in neutral territory. Bouncing off my interview of Spike Logan, I remembered Hoyt’s lively discussion about collectors when we had been at the New York Yacht Club.

  We closed up the conference room and walked to the elevators. “I’ve got a question for you, Graham. You told me on Saturday that you’re the maven of great collectors. Besides J. P. Morgan, who were the other well-known collectors of the twentieth century?”

  Robelon walked behind us, brooding, as Hoyt answered me. “Nelson Rockefeller, Armand Hammer, William Randolph Hearst, Malcolm Forbes. Dozens more like them, just not as well known. You looking for a rich husband, Alex?”

  “Sk
ip the husband. Just a tiara. How about King Farouk? Would he be on that list?”

  “What’d you say about Farouk?” Robelon asked.

  Tell your client I’m on to him, I thought to myself. “I asked Graham what kind of collector he was.”

  “Something to do with Paige Vallis?” Hoyt wanted to know.

  “No, no. Another matter altogether.”

  “One of the most bizarre collectors of all times. I mean,” said Hoyt, “there were the usual high-end things. Famous jewels, postage stamps, rare coins-”

  Robelon broke in. “Cars. Wasn’t he the guy with the red cars?”

  Hoyt nodded. “He had a passion for red cars. Bright, tomato red. Collected hundreds of them. Passed a law forbidding anyone else in Egypt from owning a red automobile, so when the soldiers saw a scarlet car speeding through town, they knew it was the king himself.”

  “Incredible.”

  “And antique weapons. Had a real thing for them.”

  “Like Andrew Tripping?” I said. Maybe Farouk was the inspiration for the scabbards, daggers, and scimitars that decorated his spare apartment.

  “A little finer than Andrew’s. And quite a cache. If you’re really curious, you can check the old auction books. I think there were more than a thousand pages of cataloged items that Sotheby’s put together, and those were only the things that Farouk couldn’t get out of the country with him when he fled in fifty-two.”

  “Pornography?” I asked. Was there any sex offender twisted enough to kill for an original collection of erotic art, part of which Spike Logan thought was still in Queenie’s apartment at the time of her death?

  “Loads of it. But for some reason, that was all removed from the auction offerings just days before the collection went under the gavel,” Hoyt answered. “The odd thing was that Farouk had piles of junk, too. Paper clips and labels from ketchup bottles, walking sticks and aspirin bottles. He’s not my model, Alex. I prefer the more discerning pack rats, like Morgan.”

  “Autographed pictures of Adolf Hitler,” said Robelon from behind me. “The fat old bastard collected those, too.”

  “How come everyone knows about Farouk except me?” I asked.