Cold Hit

12

Laura stopped me on my way back to my desk, half an hour after I had left Mercer in front of the Four Seasons Hotel. It was almost three and I was making my first appearance of the day at the office. “McKinney was looking for you. He’s assigned someone to the investigation of the dead guy they found in the rail yards last night.”

“Tell him to listen to his voice mail. I called him this morning to tell him it’s part of my case. As nicely as you can say it, Laura, tell him to keep his hands off my corpses, okay? Boss back from Albany yet?”

“Rose said not to worry. He’s in a meeting all afternoon with some of the lawyers on that foreign bank scandal. They’re offering millions of dollars of forfeitures-Battaglia hasn’t even asked about your case since he returned. But you’ve got an unexpected visitor, Alex. Mrs. Braverman is back. I’ve had her in the waiting area since lunchtime, but she won’t leave and she won’t talk to anyone else. You’re the only one who can help her.”

“Tell Max to bring her in. I don’t think I’ve seen her in six months, have I?”

“Got that search warrant ready for me yet?” Chapman asked. I knew he’d come down to meet me when he had finished at the M.E.’s Office, but I hadn’t expected him to walk through my door quite so soon.

I lowered myself into my chair and groaned. “Slow down. I just walked in and I’ve got some social work to do. Just stand by for a few minutes. You’re about to meet my favorite witness.”

“Do not ever go to an autopsy of someone run over by a freight train. I’ve seen some pretty gruesome sights, but this was like chopped-”

“Spare me the details. The photographs will be more than I need to know.” It was mandatory for one of the assigned detectives to be present during the medical examiner’s autopsy proceedings on a possible homicide victim.

Max walked in, leading a very obese elderly woman on her arm. Mrs. Braverman was wearing a garishly colored sundress and a chartreuse straw hat with an enormous brim.

“Alexandra, darling, I’m so glad you got down here in time to see me.” The octogenarian dropped Max’s hand and waddled across the room to embrace me as I came out from behind the desk. “And who’s this handsome young man?”

“Michael Patrick Chapman, ma’am, Miss Cooper’s favorite detective,” he replied, giving her his best and brightest grin.

“Is he on my investigation now?” she asked me.

“He’s the man. I brought him in specially for you. He’s solved hundreds of these cases. What’s been going on since the last time you were here?”

She plopped into one of the leather armchairs opposite me, while Mike leaned against a file cabinet and listened to her story. “You were right about Christmas and New Year’s, Alexandra. They must have gone away for the holidays because I didn’t have any problems after I saw you. Then, of course, I went to Boca to be with my son and grandchildren for a few months. Now, ever since I’m back, they’re making life miserable for me.”

“Tell Detective Chapman who they are, Mrs. Braverman.”

“Extraterrestrials, son. In my day we used to call them Martians. But I’ve done a lot of reading up on this, and now I know they could be from anywhere out there.”

Mike kneeled by her side and looked her directly in the eye. “What are they up to this time?”

“They’ve moved into the apartment upstairs, where old Mr. Rubenstein used to live before his daughter shipped him off to a home,” she said, now slipping into a whisper as she talked to Chapman. “They’ve been flashing signals at me, beaming them through the ceilings and the walls. They’re trying to control my brain waves.”

“Are they doing it through the toaster and the television set, too?” he asked, with the same degree of intensity that I had seen him question murder suspects.

“Exactly!” she replied emphatically.

“I told you he was good, didn’t I?”

“Nobody in my family believed me, Mike-I could call you Mike, couldn’t I, sweetheart? The precinct wouldn’t do nothing about it. They sent me down here to see Alexandra after I told them about the time one of them fondled my breasts while I was napping. She’s been wonderful to me, really. I feel better every time I see her.” She cocked her head and looked over at me. “I try not to be a nuisance to her. Then, as soon as I saw her picture in the paper with this lady in the water, the rays became even stronger. I got worried that maybe the same people are after you, sweetheart.”

“We’re gonna solve this for you, Mrs. B.,” Mike said, rising up and pointing to my top desk drawer. “Coop, gimme a couple of boxes of clips, right away.”

“Clips, of course,” I repeated, sliding it open and removing two boxes of paper clips.

“Not those, the giant-size ones. Those ordinary ones don’t work with E.T.’s.”

I took two boxes of large clips out and Mike ordered me to make it four.

“Now, here’s what you do. When you get home, take a couple of dozen out of the box, make yourself comfortable, and start to string them together, know what I mean?”

Mrs. Braverman’s eyes were gleaming with delight at the attention she was getting. “Sure, sure. This I can do.” She nodded as Mike looped the metal pieces together to demonstrate to her.

“Then, you take the top one and you attach it to the belt on your dress. You gotta have enough clips to make the chain reach to the floor. Then-you’re grounded. You’re completely safe because the signals run right through the chain and onto the carpet, missing you completely. Who lives beneath you?”

“Mrs. Villanueva. Dominican, but very nice.”

“No problem. Sometimes the waves go through to the apartment below, but Dominicans are immune to extraterrestrial interference. She’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Braverman got up from her chair while I put the four boxes of clips in a plastic bag and handed them to her. “Costs the city a dollar forty-five, but it’s worth every penny for your peace of mind. Just call Coop if you need a refill.”

“I’m gonna kiss you for this, Mike.” She puckered her lips and reached out for his face, planting herself firmly on his mouth. “Could I make a shiddach with you and Alexandra here?” I recognized the Yiddish expression for a brokered marriage.

“Hey, Mrs. B., you’ll excuse me, but I don’t have the balls to take on a broad as tough as this one. Don’t you have a daughter for me?”

“Three sons. An oral surgeon, an accountant, and one we don’t talk about. Plays the horses, best I can tell. I’ll leave you two to your business now. And you, don’t use that kind of language in front of my girl here,” she said laughingly. “Someday she’s gonna meet a nice man who’ll take her away from all this, right, Alexandra?”

“Right, Mrs. Braverman.” I walked with her and Max to the door so that I could accept another hug and sent her off to the elevator.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could solve two percent of our cases that simply?” Chapman asked. I came back to my desk and waved him out of the way so I could get to the word processor to work on the search warrant for the Galleria Caxton Due. I told him about Marina Sette and showed him the letter she had given me.

“Looks like we need another visit with Lowell Caxton. And you’d better do a subpoena for Omar Sheffield’s prison records. Be sure and include the visitors’ log. Let’s check to see when Deni made her appearance there.”

“Make yourself useful,” I said, as I filled in the facts to establish probable cause for a search of Daughtry’s gallery, from all of Deni’s property through the contents of Omar Sheffield’s locker. “Go tell Laura what you want and she can type up the subpoenas for me to sign. And ask her to hold all my calls for an hour so I can knock this thing out. That way you can execute it tomorrow.”

I had almost finished the application when Chapman came back in the room and reached across the desk to pick up the blinking phone line of a call that Laura had put on hold.

“She assured me you’d want to be interrupted for this one. Jake Tyler, with an overseas operator patching him through.”

I took the receiver from Mike’s hand and spoke into it. “Hello?… Hello?” I waited for a response but there was none.

“I thought this technology worked all over the world.”

“So did I. My luck, he’s in the one little village in the middle of nowhere that can’t pick up the signals.” I held on for several more seconds and then hung up the phone.

“So, what’s all the secrecy about this romance with Jacob Tyler, blondie?”

“For one thing, I only met him last month-Fourth of July weekend, at a clambake on the Vineyard. It’s still very new. And for another, you know what a gossip mill this place is.”

“Jeez, you’d think Mercer or me was gonna slit our wrists if you were getting laid.”

The next look I flashed at him wasn’t so pleasant.

“Mercer or I?” he asked.

“It’s not the grammar I’m so worried about this time, it’s the sentiment.”

Mike’s feet were up on my desktop now. “What do you hear from your friend Drew? I felt kinda sorry for that guy.”

“He just wasn’t ready for anything that intense yet. As much as we liked to be together, he was still getting over the death of his wife. When Milbank offered him a transfer to their new law office in Moscow, he took it.”

“Like my pal Scanlon says, ‘The camel shits. The caravan moves on.’ I agree with little old Mrs. B. You need to get a life before this job sucks everything out of you, kid.”

“Don’t start with me, Mike. It’s everyone else I know outside these doors who can’t understand why I love what I do and who just doesn’t get it. From my pals, I at least expect that you agree that this is the most fascinating job in the world. How many people get up in the morning and look forward to going to work? You and I have never had two days that have been at all predictable in our entire careers, and no two that have been even remotely alike. And on top of it, you do a little bit of good for somebody else in the mix.” I knew I was preaching to the choir, but Mike was just in one of those moods that swept over each of us from time to time.

“Jacob Tyler. Isn’t he the guy who’s like a baby Brian Williams?”

“I don’t think that’s quite the description he’d favor.”

“But he’s the one who sits in for Brian Williams when Williams sits in for Tom Brokaw, right? Anchorman-to-be. Deep voice, lots of hair, best-looking striped shirts on the airwaves.”

“When you’re ready to tell all about your love life, I’ll buy the drinks and we’ll compare notes for an entire night, if you’d like.”

“All I need is half a minute. The story of my love life’d fit on a matchbook cover. C’mon, let’s get this thing signed so I can rattle Bryan’s cage tomorrow morning.”

As we returned to the office from the courtroom, Catherine Dashfer and Marisa Bourges, the two senior members of the Sex Crime Unit, were waiting for me. “Did you forget that Rich was on trial?” Marisa asked, referring to one of our colleagues, who was in court with his first date-rape prosecution.

“Damn it, I forgot completely. I’m so wound up in this that I’m not paying attention to the daily routine.”

“That’s okay. When he heard you weren’t in, he called and we went over to help him. The medical testimony was on today, and his witness handled it extremely well.”

In more than 70 percent of reported sexual assaults, the victim suffers no gross physical injury. And even though physical injury is not an element of the crime of rape, most jurors expect that they’ll hear evidence of bruises and lacerations. Frequently we need an expert physician to explain the absence of visible trauma, as well as the elasticity of the vaginal vault.

“Thanks for covering for me. Michael Warner is such a prick, I thought he’d make mincemeat of Rich’s doctor.” The defendant’s attorney was a mean-spirited character as well as a screamer, and though the physician who had examined the victim was an experienced practitioner in an emergency room setting, he had never testified in a courtroom before.

“I think Rich has a lock. Dr. Hayakawa held up beautifully. Every time Warner went back at him, he held his ground, described his findings, and concluded that they were consistent with the victim’s version of the events. Finally, Warner was halfway across the room and yelled out at the doctor at the top of his lungs, mocking him for dramatic effect. ‘I want you to tell the jury why it is, Doctor, that you did not expect to find any lesions or tears, even though this woman had described to you an absolutely brutal and life-threatening encounter.’

“Dr. Hayakawa never lost his cool. He just looked straight at the jury and said, ‘Because actually, penis not so awesome weapon, ladies and gentlemen.’ ”

Catherine broke in. “The foreman cracked up and the rest of the jurors followed. I never saw anyone run for his seat as fast as Warner. Rich is going to sum up tomorrow. We took him through it when we got out of court tonight and he’s going to do fine. You still have time to go to the hospital to visit Sarah and the baby?”

It was after six. “Sure. I told Nan Toth to be downstairs at my Jeep at six fifteen.”

“You two ride with me,” Chapman said to Catherine and Marisa. “They can meet us up there.”

I finished returning phone calls before going out to meet Nan. We headed up First Avenue to New York University Medical Center and parked the car on Thirty-fourth Street, stopping to buy flowers before going in. Keith Raskin was getting off the elevator as we waited for it on the ground floor. A brilliant orthopedic surgeon, he had painstakingly reconstructed the bones in my right hand after they were shattered in a horseback riding accident several years earlier. I flexed my fingers and made a fist to demonstrate how successful the operation had been.

“After that Dogen murder case you worked on this spring, I never thought I’d see you inside a hospital again,” Keith remarked, referring to the tragic slaughter of a neurosurgeon inside one of the city’s largest medical centers.

“Just a visit to the obstetrical floor, Doctor. In and out as fast as I can make it.” We caught up with each other briefly, and Nan and I continued on our way to Sarah’s room.

We arrived in time to join Catherine, Marisa, and Mike in admiring the baby as she squinted up at us through teeny brown eyes. The room was well stocked with bouquets, Beanie Babies, and oversized stuffed animals, and the phone rang constantly while we each took turns holding Janine in our arms.

When the aide came to take her back to the nursery, Sarah put on her slippers and padded down the hall for a few laps of exercise around the maternity floor. Mike grabbed the clicker and turned the television on to Jeopardy!, having timed his visit to be sure to get in for the final question. The screen lit up just as Trebek displayed the category for the night, which was Famous Quotations.

We looked at each other and I shrugged my shoulders, knowing this could go any which way, depending on the subject of the quotation. “You guys in for ten?” Chapman asked all four of us.

Marisa, Catherine, Nan, and I each dug in our pocketbooks to match the ten-dollar bill that Mike had thrown on Sarah’s bed.

“And tonight’s answer is: John Hay referred to it as ‘a splendid little war.’ ”

“So much for all your fancy degrees and the twelve years of law school among you. This is the quickest fifty bucks I ever made,” Chapman said, scooping up the money and fanning it in our faces.

There was not much about American history-and nothing about military history-that Mike Chapman didn’t know. I looked at the other women and told them I conceded defeat. Not one of us had a serious guess.

Before any of the contestants revealed their answers, Mike announced, “The Final Jeopardy question is: What was the Spanish-American War?”

“That’s exactly right,” Alex Trebek said, remarking on the answer given by the poultry inspector from Lumberton, North Carolina, which earned him $ 8,700 and the evening’s championship.

“Eighteen ninety-eight was the year. And John Hay, ladies,” Chapman continued, “was our ambassador to Great Britain during that conflict. Later he was secretary of state. His comment may have seemed appropriate at the time, since it was a very short and one-sided war. Now, more than a hundred years later, we’re still dealing with the fallout-Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines.

“A little less time shopping at the Escada sample sales and a bit more with your noses in the books-and I don’t mean Dorothy L. Sayers or Anthony Trollope, Mrs. Toth-and you’ll be able to hold on to your husbands’ well-earned money. C’mon, blondie, we got work to do.”

“We’re meeting my friend Joan Stafford for dinner. She claims to have some inside poop about the deceased. See you in the morning.”

We said good night to Sarah and the others near the nursery. It was a quick ride up to Forty-sixth Street and the quiet elegance of the best steak house in Manhattan, Patroon.

Mercer and Joan were already seated at the front corner table when we entered. I kissed the top of her head before sliding into the banquette and told her how much I missed having her in town, now that she was spending all her time in Washington with her fiancé. Ken Aretsky, the owner, sent a round of drinks over to the table.

Mike was already buried in the menu and banking on Joan’s inimitable generosity. “I’m starting with a dozen oysters. Then the veal chop with the garlic mashed potatoes. Let’s order so we can talk business.” He raised his glass in Joan’s direction. “Cheers. So whaddaya know that we don’t?”

“Here’s the thing. I never knew Deni personally, but a lot of my friends did. And I’ve met Lowell more times than I can remember-at his gallery, at auctions, and even dinner parties. But there have been stories floating around town for years, for whatever they’re worth.”

“You gave Mike the names of two of her lovers when you called. Any significance to that?” I asked.

“I ran rap sheets on both of ’em,” Mike broke in. “Came up clean. Look like legit businessmen.”

“There’s Preston Mattox, who’s an architect,” said Joan. “Not much talk about him. The other one nobody really gets. He’s Frank Wrenley, an antiques expert and dealer. Scratch a bit below the surface on him and I’m not quite sure the kind of guy you’ll find. Maybe it’s just that he’s such new money. Sprang up on the art scene out of nowhere, and suddenly he’s in the big leagues, running side by side with Deni Caxton.”

“I’m telling you, Coop. This case has everything for an art caper except Nazis,” Mike said, eschewing the dainty shellfish fork in favor of slurping up an oyster.

Joan Stafford picked at her warm foie gras. “So it’s Nazis you vant, Herr Chapman? Then it’s Nazis I shall give you.”