The Kills

by Linda Fairstein

  "I wish that were the case, Your Honor. Unfortunately, it's a lot more serious than that. My client was attacked last night-a vicious street crime-repeatedly stabbed in the back in a senseless act of violence."

  "You know about this, Alexandra?" the judge asked.

  "I don't think it's quite as serious as it looks, Your Honor."

  "Now Ms. Cooper's a doctor, too," Robelon said. "Mr. Tripping was released from the hospital at two o'clock this morning. He's in great pain, and he's got a schedule of follow-up medical care that has to be kept. He-he can't even get out of this chair."

  "That's ridiculous, Judge. He's got some superficial wounds in his upper back. I know all about this. If you'd just order him out of the chair, he's perfectly able to stand up and go forward with the plea that counsel and I have discussed."

  Moffett pointed his gavel at me and shook it. "The last time I tried that, young lady, at the direction of one of your buddies, I was censured by the appellate court."

  I had struck the wrong chord. Years ago, in an incident that had made tabloid headlines, cops had been pulling the leg of one of my rookie colleagues. The perp being arraigned was a notorious career criminal, who had frequently been a malingerer and faked diseases to avoid judicial proceedings. The night he was brought up on charges of homicide, the arresting officer insisted to the assistant district attorney that despite his protestations, the killer could get out of his wheelchair and stand before the court.

  The prosecutor passed the message along to the judge, neither of them knowing that the victim's brother had just broken the defendant's kneecaps with a golf club. Moffett barked at the guy to stand up, five or six times, threatening to hold him in contempt if he refused. When the man tried to stand, he collapsed on the floor of the courtroom, and the Legal Aid Society brought a complaint against Moffett that almost caused him to be denied reappointment.

  "Your Honor, there has actually been some progress to report, if you'll give us some breathing space here. I've had a conversation with Ms. Cooper. My client has authorized me to accept an offer of a misdemeanor plea. We had every intention of going ahead with that this morning, but in light of Mr. Tripping's physical condition-his injuries-"

  "Judge, this is ridiculous. Yes, we had plea discussions. And this-this sudden bunch of scratches on the defendant's back are nothing more than an insurance policy for the strategy planned by Mr. Robelon. Although he told me he thought there could be a disposition of the case, he wanted additional time out of jail for his client. When I told him I would not go along with that condition, this sham is apparently the solution they devised to buy some time out of Rikers."

  "What does he need time for, Alexandra? He pleads guilty, so he gets a week or two to tie up loose ends. What's the big deal?"

  "I have no idea why he wants it. Maybe he doesn't intend to surrender himself. Maybe he has plans to abscond. Maybe-"

  Robelon was livid. "Stop with the fantasies, Ms. Cooper. Where do you come off throwing out these absurd ideas to prejudice the court against this defendant?"

  "Look at him, Alexandra," Moffett said, pointing at Tripping. He had slumped down in his wheelchair and both arms were hanging over the sides. "He can't even hold himself together. They give you any medication, Mr. Tripping?"

  Tripping looked dazed. He was nonresponsive.

  Moffett tried again. "You, Mr. Tripping. You with me?"

  "I'm sorry, Judge. I'm in terrible pain-"

  Robelon interrupted. "I really don't want my client speaking on the record, Judge. Yes, he's been given MorphiDex. It's a morphine derivative, Judge. Obviously," he said, sneering at me, "someone believes he's in pain."

  "Here's what we're gonna do. You lose, Ms. Cooper. I can't take a plea from somebody who's doped up on narcotics."

  "You do it every day of the week, Judge. Just different narcotics."

  "The boy, Dallas-"

  "Dulles," I said.

  "Dallas, Dulles, whatever-he's out of harm's way?"

  "Doing very well," Robelon said. Hoyt, Taggart, and Irizzary all nodded up and down, like a row of bobble-head dolls.

  "Let's put this over till the beginning of October. I try and allocute him today, and he'll come back wanting to withdraw the plea. It'll be a complete waste of time."

  I didn't have a prayer in this skirmish, but there was one more fact for the court to know. "Your Honor, are you aware that this incident-this charade-happened less than two blocks away from my home?"

  "You really are over the top, Alex," Robelon said quietly before standing up again to address the court. "Judge Moffett, this attack happened a block away from the Frick Museum, it happened a block away from the Ukrainian embassy, it happened a block away from the Nineteenth Precinct. Fortunately, none of the occupants of those buildings has any reason to be paranoid either. We don't have martial law in this city, do we? Mr. Tripping was enjoying an evening on the Upper East Side."

  "He told the police, Your Honor, that he was coming to find me. I think you know I'm not an alarmist about these things, but it is quite disturbing to think the defendant believed he had any legitimate reason to be talking to me."

  "Is that true, sir? You couldn't wait for this morning to see Ms. Cooper?"

  Robelon leaned over and grabbed Tripping's arm, telling him not to answer. He straightened back up. "My client says that's absolutely ridiculous. That's a lie."

  "October second, nine-thirty sharp. We'll take the plea and you can prepare to be sentenced the same day. Bring your toothpaste and pajamas, Mr. Tripping. No excuses next time." Moffett looked from the defendant to me. "You want an order of protection, Ms. Cooper?"

  Little good that piece of paper would do if Tripping became unglued. "An admonition will do, sir. Make it clear if the defendant has anything to say to me, he can do it in the courtroom or through counsel."

  "One last issue, if I may," Robelon said. "I had talked to Ms. Cooper about getting her agreement for a single visit between Mr. Tripping and his son. All the doctors believe it would be the healthiest way for them to separate, going forward."

  "Fine," I said, giving up the fight. "As long as it's supervised and on the condition that it comes to an abrupt end if the defendant does anything at all to upset the child."

  "Then the last order of business," Moffett said, "is for me to dismiss the charges of rape in the first degree against your client, isn't that right, Mr. Robelon."

  "That's correct, Judge."

  I left the courtroom amid the self-congratulatory backslapping of the defense team.

  "Where'd Mercer go?" I asked Laura.

  "He said to tell you that a Detective Squeeks-did I get that name right?-that Squeeks needed to see him down at the First Precinct on the Vallis murder. Just routine. Wanted to interview him about your original case. Said he'd meet you at Twenty-six Federal Plaza for your noon appointment."

  The detectives on the Vallis case were certainly working hard to keep me out of the mix.

  I took care of a pile of correspondence that had stacked up on my desk, returned a bunch of nonurgent phone calls, and gathered up some of the Tripping memos from my file cabinet so that I could write a closing report while I was in the country. I encouraged my assistants to cover their tails with paperwork. There were always bizarre defendants-like Andrew Tripping-who were bound to revisit the system at some future point in time, and it was smart to leave documentation of why an earlier case had been dismissed.

  As I assembled a case folder to take with me, I came across Dulles's Yankees jacket in the rear of my file drawer. Returning it to me had been a last act of kindness by Paige Vallis that I had hoped to use to warm my introduction to the boy. I stuffed it in a folder to return to Robelon or Hoyt, now that I would not need to interview him.

  "I'm probably going to go right from this meeting to the airport, Laura. I'll be on the Vineyard for the next couple of days, if anyone's looking for me. I'm hoping to clear my head. Sarah's in charge," I said, locking up behind me.

  The
Jacob Javits Federal Offices were just a few blocks south of our building, in the middle of Foley Square. A modern high-rise mix of granite and glass, it was home to a host of government agencies, and I had made frequent visits there for conferences, most of them with the FBI on cases involving joint investigations.

  Security had always been tight at Federal Plaza. I readied my photo ID and headed for the queue that allowed government employees access. I was reclaiming my folder and cell phone from the metal detector when I looked up and saw a familiar face across the lobby. I was sure it was the man Paige Vallis had known as Harry Strait.

  I grabbed my things and hurried across the tiled floors, slick from the water-soaked shoes that had traipsed through the corridors all morning. Dozens of people crisscrossed my path, coming into the building for work or appointments, leaving the area to go to lunch or run errands.

  I didn't want to break into a run as long as I had Strait in my sights. I knew there were enough armed men around to pull me aside and see what my problem was if I looked hysterical or unstrung.

  He seemed to be alone, heading for an exit on Duane Street, a narrow one-way road that cut across Broadway and ended in Foley Square, at the foot of the federal courthouse. He went out the door and stood at the top of the steps, looking about before trotting down to the sidewalk.

  Strait's brief pause allowed me to get within twenty feet of him. My eyes swept the crowd for a sign of any other friendly face to help me try to corner and identify the guy. I was running a bit late for the meeting, and I hoped that Mike or Mercer would also be late.

  I flashed my badge at a uniformed guard standing near the door. "You work here?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I do."

  "I've got to catch up with my old boss," I said, handing him my folder. "Could you hold on to this for me?"

  He didn't know how to respond, but looked at the logo stamped on the label with the words:OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY-HOMICIDE.

  He took it from me and called after me, "I get relieved at two o'clock."

  I turned and gave him a thumbs-up and continued on out the door. Strait was walking west now and I started after him. When I closed within five feet, I yelled out his name.

  "Harry?"

  There was no response to my tentative call.

  "Harry Strait," I said, in a louder voice.

  Without breaking his stride, the man turned his head and looked directly at me. He said nothing but veered left into the street, past the African burial ground, and quickened his pace. Cars were stopped at the traffic light and I cut between them, keeping him in my sights.

  Now he began to run, and I ran behind him, watching as the distance grew between us. He pushed people on the sidewalk out of his way, but was gone before they could express their annoyance at him. It was I at whom they hurled insults when I passed them. "Where the hell do you think you're going in such a hurry?" "Why don't you slow it down, lady?"

  When he reached Broadway, he had the light in his favor and crossed with it. I couldn't make it in time, cars honking at me madly as I ventured too far into the roadway, waiting for traffic to let up. Then I got snarled in the line waiting outside McDonald's. I was sure I could see the top of Strait's head making for Church Street.

  Another sharp turn and I followed him around the corner from Duane Street into the alleyway of Thimble Place. I was completely winded now, going too slowly to catch him. I had been a long-distance speed swimmer in high school, but had never sprinted well enough to make this effort worthwhile.

  I caught my breath after I made the turn from Thimble onto Thomas Street. A black sedan pulled out of a parking space and stopped at an angle. I took a deep breath and rushed toward the car, as Strait-or whoever he really was-pulled at the door handle with his left hand. I heard him yell, "Unlock it, dammit!" at the driver.

  I rushed toward him and he turned to face me, pointing a gun at me with his right hand. "Back up and get the hell out of here," he screamed.

  He got into the passenger seat and the car sped off toward Broadway. I could have sworn Peter Robelon was driving.

  30

  "Of course he has a gun," Mike said. "He's an agent."

  He, Mercer, and I were in the reception area of the Secret Service offices. "How the hell do you know he's an agent?" I asked. "We don't have a clue who he is. He pulled a gun on me a couple of hours ago and you're defending him already?"

  "Yo, blondie. You saw him right here in this building, at high noon, where security's tighter than the inseam on your slacks. I assume he's legit. Maybe old Harry had a son. Maybe he's a junior-Little Mister Agent Strait the Second. He must have had some way to get in and out of this building without causing a stink. I truly doubt he pulled a gun on you. He must have had it drawn for a good reason."

  "And I'm telling you that I was that very reason."

  "Fine. So we made a report. You got a partial plate, and there'll be a make on the car by the end of the day. You're chasing the guy down the street like a banshee. Maybe he thought he had to defend himself."

  "How do we figure out who he is? There must be photo IDs of everyone who works here in Federal Plaza."

  "You weren't even able to describe him with any detail when the agents came to your office the other day. What are you gonna do now? Sit here and look at thousands of pictures of buzz-cut pasty-faced white men and hope for a match?"

  "Yeah, I could do that. I didn't have any trouble picking him out of the crowd today."

  It was going on two o'clock. My delay had taken us into the lunch hour, and the agent who had agreed to meet us had stepped away to keep another appointment.

  A trim woman, younger than I, came through reception and directly over to the three of us. "Alvino. Lori Alvino. Sorry about your problem today. You ever get your man?" she asked, greeting me with a handshake.

  "She never does, for very long. Don't you start worrying about that, too. I'm Mike Chapman. This is Mercer Wallace, and that's Alex Cooper."

  She guided us into her suite, a good bit larger than most of the agent cubicles I had visited over the years, suggesting the importance of her position.

  "You must have some juice, Lori," Mike said. "Big digs, glass partition, nice view of the Brooklyn Bridge."

  "I show them the money," she said, grinning back at him. "That's why the feds love me. I'm the agent in charge of recovering all assets related to the National Mint, here and abroad. My boss says you need everything I can give you on the coin collection of King Farouk, is that right?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Alvino established what we knew of the story from Bernard Stark and picked it up from there. "The U.S. government worked with Farouk's people on a regular basis back then. We're talking 1944 and thereabouts, during World War Two. He had already become the king then-just twenty-four years old and richer than Croesus."

  "Had he started collecting coins by that time?"

  "Absolutely. He had dealers all over the States. They tripped over themselves whenever they had something unusual to unload, trying to get it under the royal nose. The more expensive, the better."

  "How did they get the coins to Egypt? Did you just ship things as valuable and as small as that?"

  "No way. Farouk used his royal legation to make purchases, which were sent to him regularly by diplomatic pouch. Just about every week. And his staff knew all the rules, believe me."

  "What rules?"

  "After FDR's Gold Reserve Act became law, it was illegal to export gold, unless the Treasury specifically issued you a license."

  "Even a single piece of gold?" I asked. "A single coin?"

  "You bet," Lori Alvino answered. "To get that license, you had to be able to establish that the coin being sent abroad had special, collector's value before 1933, before we went off the gold standard."

  "How'd they prove that?"

  "The keepers of the Castle, that was their territory."

  "What castle?" I asked.

  "Sorry. The old Smithsonian Institution-our guys always
referred to it as the Castle. Experts at the Smithsonian decided on the uniqueness of whatever coin was in question."

  "This happened often?" I asked.

  "Pretty infrequently, actually," Alvino answered. "There weren't a lot of people during the war who were terribly concerned about their coin collections while the world was turned upside down. The entire European market was virtually shut down. It left the field wide-open for Farouk."

  Mercer leaned in to speak. "This stuff doesn't quite qualify as ancient history, but it's a bit remote from what you're handling today. How come you know so much about all this? You had a refresher course recently?"

  Alvino blushed. "I had a chance to look over the files a couple of weeks back. I had to pull all this paperwork together for someone else who came in for a briefing," she said, gesturing to the several folders full of documents related to the Farouk collection.

  Chapman gave her his best trust-me-and-you-won't-know-I'm-working-you-over grin. "Anyone I know, Lori?"

  She returned the smile and shrugged. "Can't help you there. My boss gave me orders to arrange all this for a presentation he had to make to some government officials. But I wasn't invited to the actual meeting, so I don't know who was involved."

  Now he ran his fingers through his thick mane of black hair, moving on to his most serious mode. Mike was about to try to bluff her out of some information. "I've got a homicide to solve. The lieutenant told me those guys were a real threat," he said, flashing Mercer a glance. "Now I'm wasting precious time trying to catch up with what they already know."

  Lori caught his sense of urgency. She wanted to be helpful. "Are-are we talking about the same people, do you think?"

  "They were here to talk to your boss about Farouk, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Let's make sure we're on the same wavelength. Which coins from his collection were you focusing on?" Mike asked, flipping through his notepad as though looking for specific names to match against things she said.

  "I gave them a bunch of information-some silver pieces from the Civil War period, some gold ingots from San Francisco, circa 1849. The only kudos I got from my boss was for the research I came up with on the Double Eagle."