Bad blood

37

Ignacia Bliss took over the task of guarding me for the twelve-hour shift starting at 8 p.m. She met me inside the funeral home in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn, where Elsie Evers’s grieving relatives and an honor guard of court officers surrounded the closed coffin. The most skilled technicians in the funeral business couldn’t have reconstructed her face well enough to allow anyone to view the slain woman.

My closest friends from the office-Nan, Catherine, and Marisa-had come to the wake as well, arranging with Ignacia to follow us to my apartment. They were determined to distract me and get a read on my emotional well-being. Fortunately for me, Paul Battaglia had become mired in another matter that required his attention in Manhattan, where the people who vote for him live.

“We’re in charge of dinner,” Catherine said. “Go get into your robe.”

While I changed and Ignacia went into the guest room to make some calls, the three of them poured drinks and opened a bottle of wine.

Marisa called into the bedroom, “Does Swifty’s deliver? Delicious thought, isn’t it?”

“When they get a break in the action, ask them to send a waiter in a cab with the order. Get something for the two cops in the lobby, too.”

I padded out in a short silk robe and my ballet slippers. They were listening to television news in the den, and Nan muted it when she saw me.

“I need to hear it. It’s fine.”

“Mike and Mercer said we shouldn’t let you-”

I rolled my eyes. “I need my pals around me, just like this. I don’t need a censor.”

A seasoned crime reporter was leading off the nine o’clock hour. The chiron below him was running a strip that said BREAKING NEWS across the bottom of the screen.

“We begin with a story about the many possible sightings of the armed fugitive Brendan Quillian, who broke out of a Manhattan courtroom yesterday in a deadly blaze of gunfire.”

In the top right corner, over his head, the news producer had gathered an array of photographs of Quillian that were displayed for several seconds each. Most had been cropped from the social columns, although it was unlikely that the tuxedo-and-bow-tie outfit he was often seen in would translate to someone readily recognizable in casual street clothes.

“The damn eye,” I said, sinking into my most comfortable wing chair. “Why don’t they use that in their description?”

“Frankly, it never seemed as obvious to me,” Marisa said, “the times I’ve seen him in court.”

“He hasn’t glared at you the way he fixes on Alex,” Nan said.

“…and tips have continued to come in to police, as well as to our newsroom, from all over the Northeast. Earlier today, Brendan Quillian was reportedly sighted on an Amtrak train to Washington, as well as in a diner in Poughkeepsie, New York,” the reporter said. “So as you can imagine, it’s quite a task for the NYPD to follow up on all these calls to determine which ones have any credibility.”

“Stay with it,” the anchor said. “We understand there are Keating Properties offices worldwide, owned by the family of Mr. Quillian’s late wife. Is that true?”

“Zap him, will you?” I asked Nan as I sipped my Scotch. “I don’t think the Keatings are likely to shelter the bum, here or abroad. Any word on Lawrence Pritchard?”

“He’s dug his heels in. He’ll be served with a grand jury subpoena, but my guess is we won’t get anything from him. He’s clammed up as long as Quillian is on the loose.”

“Did you get any information on how Artie’s doing? And Oscar?”

“Artie’s coming along fine. Can’t wait to get back to work so he can tell and retell his version of the events. Oscar?” Marisa said. “I think retirement’s the next step.”

“C’mon, tell us about the wedding,” Catherine said. “Everything.”

I went through all the details of the weekend, including my meeting with Luc, while we waited for dinner to arrive.

“Why isn’t the Frenchman here tonight?” Marisa asked.

“Ignacia’ll be out any minute,” I said, holding my finger to my lips. “You think it’s possible for me to have a romance-even for a couple of weeks-without the homicide squad running a rap sheet on the guy or doing surveillance? Just a head start with a bit of privacy when this madness ends-that’s all I’m asking for.”

“A Frenchman,” Nan said, mocking a sigh. “The three of us married-with-children soccer moms will be living vicariously from the moment you get into bed with him.”

“Forget the sex,” Catherine said. “Imagine the meals. You may have to take us to France with you to chaperone this deal. Nothing less or I squeal.”

Ignacia had taken off her jacket and rejoined us. “A little wine?” Marisa asked.

Ignacia shook her head. “I’ll take a rain check, once we find this bastard.”

“Anything new from the lieutenant?” I asked. “What are the guys up to?”

“Mike and some of the others are going underground with the sandhogs.”

“What do you mean?”

“The squad-everyone’s been mobilized. There was a sit-down with the union bosses this afternoon, charting every tunnel and dig and sandhog project in the city. If Quillian leaned on any of Duke’s friends to hide him away, our guys will be looking for him down in the holes.”

“How about his sister, Trish?” I asked.

“A cop is sitting on her house. Mike wants to talk to her,” Ignacia said, putting her feet up on the ottoman. “So far, no luck with her or Bobby Hassett. There’s always tomorrow, Alex.”

“Trish’s phone,” I said. “Did he remember to ask Peterson to dump it?”

“Relax,” Nan said as the intercom rang to announce the arrival of our dinner. “I did the subpoena this afternoon. You can’t run this case anymore, my dear. You’re in somebody else’s hands now. Sit back and let us worry about it.”

The five of us ate dinner together before my friends said good night and Ignacia locked the door behind them. I turned in at eleven, while she was still in the den watching an old movie.

Mercer picked me up at 8 a.m. on Thursday, and I thanked Ignacia as she headed home at the end of her tour.

“You sleeping?” he asked.

“So-so. Anything new?”

“I wish I could tell you something good, Alex. I know you don’t like living this way.”

We parked around the corner from the Hogan Place entrance and Mercer escorted me up to my office. Laura made sure there was no welcoming committee to overwhelm me on my return and kept McKinney at bay while I dealt with the pileup on my desk.

At ten thirty, Mercer and I made our way up to Part 83.

Fred Gertz was ready for his close-up this time. He had opened the courtroom doors to the press and public half an hour earlier, knowing it would be a capacity crowd. Lem Howell was sitting at counsel table, and an all-new crew of court officers-eight of them now-staffed the room. I didn’t recognize the man who had taken Jonetta Purvis’s place, but when he looked up as he saw me start down the aisle, most heads in the room turned around to note my arrival, too.

Shortly after, Judge Gertz took the bench. He strode out of the robing room with an uncharacteristically purposeful attitude, as though he were fit to ascend the bench and take his place among the nine Supremes.

He had prepared remarks to deliver and waited until the two officers in front of the press row had quieted everyone.

For almost fifteen minutes, Gertz droned on about the tragic events of Tuesday morning. He explained that he had excused the jury until next Monday, at which time he expected he would have no choice but to declare a mistrial, because of the media coverage that would have been impossible for any New Yorker to miss. He talked about the courage of the court officers and his staff-with an emphasis on the unimaginable loss of Elsie Evers.

Gertz closed his statement with a self-congratulatory description of how he had used the power and dignity of his judicial status to restore calm after the chaos of the shooting.

He thanked Lem and me for our assistance and waved at Lem to remain seated when he tried to stand to put something on the record.

“There will be no interviews of Mr. Howell and Ms. Cooper. They are still involved in these matters, and while I’m not going to gag them, I think it would be most inappropriate if they make any public comments.”

Then Gertz walked off as briskly as he had entered, and the reporters raced out to call in their stories.

Lem crossed over to talk to me. “That gets the man his fifteen minutes of fame, I’d guess. Or do you think he didn’t want us to talk because he’s afraid we might say that when he was hiding in the kneehole under the bench, I didn’t quite think he was doing much to restore order in the court?”

“He can’t really believe his own statement, can he?”

Lem had clutched my forearm in his usual style. “You okay, Alexandra? I hope you understand that I was as shocked, as surprised, as appalled, as you were by what happened in here with my client.”

“I know that, Lem.”

“Miss Cooper,” the substitute clerk called out. “There’s a call for you on the DA’s phone over here.”

I broke away from Lem and signaled for Mercer to wait for me in the well of the courtroom while I took the call.

“Alex? It’s Laura. I’ve got Jerry Genco on the phone. He said it’s urgent. He asked me to patch him through to you.”

I was standing in the same place I had been when the door had opened on Tuesday and the defendant had grabbed Elsie’s gun to shoot her. I was tethered to the wall by the long beige extension cord, waiting for Genco to come on the line.

“Alex? Forensic biology ran our sample overnight for that prelim I promised you.”

“Yes, Jerry?”

“I never expected to have a result as fast as this, but the match comes up in our own linkage database.”

“To whom? Can you be more specific?”

“The fetal tissue I extracted yesterday, that’s what I submitted to the lab. I don’t know much about the old case, but I never thought I’d be ready to give you confirmation on the paternity as fast as this.” Genco paused to take a breath. “Rebecca Hassett was pregnant with Brendan Quillian’s baby.”