"You've got the detective here as a witness. What if I told you I think I can find a way for the boy to talk to you?"
I turned to face him.
"I'm very willing to do that, Ms. Cooper."
"Then why the hell did you say that to Judge Moffett about his bruises?"
"Because I was standing in court next to Peter Robelon and Andrew Tripping. That's been the party line, the defense to that portion of the case. You knew that."
"First things first. Do you know anything about where the boy is right this minute?" I pointed to the window that faced my colleagues' offices in the Child Abuse Unit. "There's a massive man-hunt to find the child. If there's something you know, that's our first obligation."
"I'm well aware of that. I haven't a clue at the moment, but I'm here to see you because I believe that if Dulles ran away from the Wykoff home-and that's what I'm hoping, as opposed to someone snatching him- ifhe ran away, he's very likely to try to contact my wife or me before he calls Robelon."
"Because you're the legal guardian?" I asked.
"Because we've known him since he was born."
"What's the connection?"
"Andrew, Peter, and I all were at Yale together. I met Peter first, freshman year. We were both in a lot of the same classes all the way through, we were both heading for law school."
"And Andrew?"
Hoyt was quite direct. "I never liked Andrew very much. I was madly in love with the woman he married. Dulles's mother, Sally Tripping. I dated her for a couple of years. She was also a classmate of ours. Sally left me for Andrew."
"Doesn't say much for you, pal," Chapman said.
"Andrew's illness wasn't really in evidence then. He's quite smart. Brilliant, maybe. He didn't spin out of control until after we left school. I think he was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was in the military."
"Were you still in touch with Sally until her death-I mean, when she killed herself?" I asked.
"No, sad to say. That's one of the reasons I wanted to involve myself in helping the boy. It's a bit of guilt, that perhaps she'd be alive today if I had been a better friend. Of course," Hoyt said, "I still don't believe she took her own life. Maybe things would have been different if you were on that investigation, Mr. Chapman."
I was interested in Hoyt's relationship with Dulles. "Maybe we should arrange for you to talk to the Major Case detectives. Would you mind if we put a recording device on your home phone, in case the boy calls?"
"Not at all."
"Can you take him over to the guys in Child Abuse?" I asked Mike.
"Sure."
"I probably have more sophisticated caller ID equipment than the NYPD, but do what you can."
"What's in it for you?" I asked, puzzled by this offer to help. "I mean, trying to arrange a meeting with me and Dulles."
"I want a good life for this child, Ms. Cooper. I want him to have a life without his father, to be absolutely honest with you. Now that puts me in a sticky situation legally, which is why I hope this visit can be off-the-record. I've made a lot of money in the last ten years."
"Practicing law?" Chapman asked. "All Coop gets is a city paycheck every two weeks and a shitload of aggravation."
"Investments. Clients who've put me into lucrative deals. A bit of good advice and a lot of luck. Bottom line? I've got a wife I adore, an apartment on Central Park West, a beach house on Nantucket, and a ninety-two-foot yacht to sail me there. What I don't have," Graham Hoyt said to both of us, "is a child. My wife and I would like to adopt Dulles Tripping. We can give him a good life, a stable one-maybe even a joyous one."
"And Andrew knows this?"
"Of course not. It's why I'd be thrilled to see you put his ass in jail. The best that happens is that he might step out of the way and clear a path for us to file for adoption. The worst would be that he's out of the child's life, behind bars, until Dulles reaches his majority and can make decisions for himself."
"How about Peter Robelon?" Battaglia didn't trust him, but I assumed part of that stemmed from Robelon's plans to run against him in the next primary. "Does he have any idea what you're interested in doing?"
"Look, Ms. Cooper. Why don't both of you sit down with me for an hour or two tomorrow? I'll lay out everything for you. Hopefully, by then, Dulles will have come to his senses and returned to Mrs. Wykoff-or called me. You tell me exactly what it is you want to get from the child, and I'll give you all the family history I can muster. We have the same basic goal, after all. Fair?"
The day was shot anyway. "In the afternoon?" I asked. "Want to come here?"
"I'll tell you what. Meet me at my club at two o'clock. It's right in Midtown. We can have lunch and figure out a plan."
He reached for another business card and wrote out the address.
"I was asking you about Robelon. Don't you think he'd have something to say about this? Tripping must be paying him a good piece of change to defend him."
"Tripping's got no money," Hoyt said.
"But," I answered, "I thought he inherited some when his mother died last fall."
"He inherited a run-down cottage on a half-acre of land in Tonawanda County, a pantry full of his mother's homemade preserves, and his late father's gene for madness."
"And his business?"
"There are enough legitimate former feds to do all the security consulting the government or private enterprises need. Nobody wants to hire someone with Andrew's psych background. He pulls in next to nothing from that. We all throw him some odd jobs now and then, and help him with money to live-and make bail."
"So what's in it for Robelon?"
"Tell Paul Battaglia not to lean on me until after the adoption procedure is completed, and he'll be thrilled to know that Tripping can give him whatever he wants on Robelon. That's the real reason I stopped in to see Jack Kliger tonight. Tripping claims he's got information on several insider trading deals that Peter Robelon engineered."
I was incredulous. "He's blackmailed Peter into representing him for this trial?"
Hoyt picked up his briefcase and walked me to the elevator. "Peter Robelon would kill to keep Andrew Tripping out of jail."
14
Mike put me into a Yellow Cab and said good night, turning back from well-trafficked Centre Street onto Hogan Place, to take Graham Hoyt up to meet the detectives investigating Dulles's disappearance.
The ride uptown took more than half an hour, city streets clogged with bridge-and-tunnel suburbanites who made the Friday-night drive into Manhattan for restaurants, theaters, clubs, and bars.
I put my key in the lock and opened my apartment door. It was good to be home, and I felt happy with the anticipation of an intimate evening. I removed the jacket of my suit, slipped out of my heels, and tiptoed into the kitchen in my bare feet. Jake was thoroughly engrossed in the preparation of what smelled like a divine fettuccine alle vongole, clam knife in hand, struggling over the sink to open a dozen extra cherrystones for an appetizer. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his neck, biting his earlobe as I did.
"Can't you wait until dinner?" he asked, swiveling to meet my lips with his.
"I'm starving. I didn't take much out of you. How about a squeeze?"
"I'm covered in clam juice," he said, holding his arms out away from his side.
"I really don't care, dammit." I lifted the silk shell of my suit over my head and started undressing in the kitchen. "It's been a long week."
"You must have kicked ass in court today. You're awfully frisky."
"On the contrary, I barely got out with my case intact. I may not be in such a good mood when Peter Robelon finishes cross-examining my witness on Monday, so if you want some affection, this is the night to get it." I was standing naked in the middle of the kitchen. "Here, you can't get food stains on anything I'm wearing. How about it?"
"These aren't even oysters and look at the effect they have on you," Jake said, putting down the knife and taking me in his arms.
We emb
raced and kissed each other for several minutes before I took Jake's hand and led him into the bedroom, where we slowly made love.
I almost succeeded at forcing the day's dark thoughts from my mind as I responded to his touch. Too many times in the past months I had allowed the sad business of my work to encroach on the private emotions so essential to our relationship, and it had made my time with Jake much more difficult than it needed to be.
I rolled onto my side and let him caress me, fitting in tightly against his body with my head on his outstretched arm. "Did you hear any news tonight?" I asked.
"I haven't had the television on. I picked up the food at Grace's Marketplace and just started to cook. Why?"
"The little boy in my case is missing. The police are putting out his picture and description tonight. I just wondered how it played."
Jake stroked my hair with his free hand. "We'll have a nice, relaxed dinner, and then we can check out the local news at eleven. How come you're so calm about it?"
"Major Case has the assignment. Battaglia agrees I shouldn't be the one to work it. The kid's lawyer stopped by to see me after court. He's known Dulles since he was born, and he told Mike and me that he's a very resourceful boy. That he's run away many times before, when he lived upstate, and that he always comes back in a day or two."
"Where does he go?" Jake asked.
Riding down in the elevator, Graham Hoyt had told Mike and me that Dulles usually showed up at a school friend's home before bedtime. When he was living with his elderly grandmother, he fantasized about being part of a real family. He'd settle on a classmate whose parents were warm and loving, and where there were other children in the household, sisters and brothers with whom to laugh and play and argue. I explained that to Jake.
"How long do I have until dinner's on the table?" I asked, slipping out of the bed.
"As long as you like. Everything's ready to go."
I went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub, filling it with scented crystals. When the steam had clouded the mirrors and the bubbles reached to the rim, I switched on the jets and climbed in for a relaxing soak. Jake appeared with two glasses of a chilled Corton-Charlemagne, and I reached out an arm from within the bubbles to sip it. He kneeled beside the tub, took the washcloth, and gently ran it across my neck and shoulders, while I described my day in court.
It was nine-thirty by the time we sat down at the dinner table, and eleven when we settled in to go to sleep. "Want to see the news?" he asked me.
"Guess it's wiser if I don't. Mercer would have called me the minute Dulles showed up somewhere."
I slept fitfully, thinking of the child and his whereabouts, and was out of bed by 6A.M. I let Jake sleep while I made the first pot of coffee, struggled with the Times Saturday-morning crossword puzzle, and dressed in my leotard and tights to go to class.
I kissed Jake good-bye, went downstairs, and hailed a taxi to take me to my instructor's West Side studio. For the next hour I lost myself in the discipline of the ballet warm-up and exercises. I concentrated on the movements: stretches and pliés at the barre, floor exercises, and choreographed routines to classic Tchaikovsky.
As we changed clothes in the dressing room, my friends and I chatted about the past week's events. I declined an invitation to join two of them for a spontaneous shopping spree to fill in their fall wardrobes, and passed up an opportunity for brunch at an outdoor café on Madison Avenue. I didn't often envy them their daily routines, but when my plate was filled with people whose lives were disrupted by violence, my mind drifted to thoughts of what it would be like to be as unburdened by tragedy as most of them were.
Mike Chapman's department car, a beat-up old black Crown Vic, was double-parked in front of William's building when I came out shortly after ten. He was eating a fried egg sandwich on a hard roll and had an extra coffee container in the cup holder on the passenger side for me. "Want half?"
"No, thanks. I ate before class."
"But you must have worked up an appetite in there. Have some," he said, extending his arm in front of my face.
I pushed him away. "Hear anything about Dulles Tripping?"
"All quiet. Mercer says everyone's being very cooperative. Mrs. Wykoff, your buddy Hoyt, the school authorities. Everybody's optimistic. You know the agency records show he ran away more than a dozen times in the last two years?"
"It's a lot different to spend an overnight at a friend's house in a small town than it is to try and find your way around New York City when you've only lived here for a year, and you're just ten."
"Hey, there are no signs of a kidnapping, and no reports at any hospitals of an injured child. So don't fill that twisted head of yours with evil thoughts," Mike said. He was eating with one hand and steering the car uptown on Amsterdam Avenue with the other.
He parked at a hydrant near McQueen Ransome's tenement building. A uniformed cop had been sent by the precinct commander to meet Mike at the stoop and let us into the apartment. Half a dozen curious adolescents followed us up the steps and asked what we were doing at "Miss Queenie's" place. I closed the door behind us and then opened a window to let some air into the musty rooms, which had been closed tight since her death.
The whole apartment was in disarray. I could see more here than the crime scene photographs had captured. "Was this the way you found it, or is this a result of all the cops being in here?" I asked. Sometimes the investigators made more of a mess than the perps.
"This place was turned upside down by the killer. The landlord was going to give us another week before he boxed everything up and threw it out. The lady who did her banking thought there were a couple of nieces down in Georgia who might come close out the account-there's nothing to speak of in it-and take some of the furniture and the family photo albums."
The small parlor inside the front door had a sofa, two armchairs, a television set, and an old-fashioned record player on a side table, with a stack of 33 RPMs next to it. Mike turned it on, placing a needle on the vinyl disk that must have been the last music Queenie heard.
"Edward Kennedy Ellington. The Duke," said Mike. "Only fitting for Queenie."
The piece was called "Night Creatures." The distinctly American jazz sound filled the room and lightened the pall that the old woman's death cast over us.
The living room walls had a collection of photographs more sedate than that over Queenie's bed. Most of them featured Queenie. Several looked to be posed with family and friends.
"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."
The Kills Page 12