Death Angel

TWELVE

I knew that would get Mike’s attention. Like most good homicide detectives, Mike developed a special bond with his victims. It started at the scene of the crime, when he saw the body at its worst, with the reveal of all that the murderer had done to take a human life. How much force, how many blows, what kind of injuries and how many of them were needed to cause death or were just an additional outpouring of some interpersonal venom.

He was there for the autopsy, when the brilliant pathologists coaxed more of the story from the bones and the tissue, the trunk and the limbs of the deceased.

And then he stayed on it, with fierce determination and a unique skill set-part from his father’s DNA and the rest from his own training and experience-until he could see that some measure of justice was done.

The detectives hammered Commissioner Davis with questions for another hour. We took notes of every mention, interested as always to see in how many different directions each one of these investigators could go with the same information.

The meeting broke up at two o’clock, most of the men as anxious to grab lunch as they were to get back to work.

Davis had invited Peterson, Chirico, Mike, and me to come to his office and had instructed his assistant to call out for sandwiches.

While he returned some of the calls that had come in during our session, Sergeant Chirico took me aside, steering me by the elbow into an alcove outside Davis’s office.

“It doesn’t help things if you start going rogue on me, Alex. Jumping up on the table in the boathouse to threaten to take your clothes off, letting go with a line about being lovers in front of the whole gang…”

“Look at the faces of your men, Sarge. I don’t think Judge Pell’s wrath is a well-kept secret. And according to Vickee, DCPI might as well put out a press release confirming that Mike and I are a couple. Whatever plan you think you have, I’m guessing it’s too subtle. I think you need to fight Pell’s fire with fire.”

“How?”

I exhaled. “I don’t know. Let me think about it. You just can’t let her win this battle.”

“Alex? Manny?” Peterson called from down the hallway. “Where are you two?”

We walked back to the commissioner’s office in silence, past the handsome murals of nineteenth-century soldiers in formation, a reminder of the original purpose of the building.

Davis asked to see the three photographs I had taken of the vouchered items. He studied the angel with intense focus. “All I can suggest is sending someone to the Columbia group with this figure, to see if it looks like anything they uncovered in the dig.”

“Will do,” Mike said.

“And these miniature statues of the fort and the Obelisk, they’re really interesting. Do they have any maker’s marks?”

“I left them at the lab the other day, just to see if they might have any forensic evidence on them. But that was a negative. So once the mud is off them, we can check for that.”

“What I need to do, Detective, is introduce you to the head of the Conservancy. This is the kind of thing that looks unusual enough that she or someone on her staff might be familiar with it.”

“That would be great,” Mike said, steno pad in hand to take down her information.

“Her name is Mia Schneider. My secretary will give you her number. But she’s out of town for another two days, and no one knows the Park’s history as well as she does.”

“Then I’ll pick them up tomorrow and be ready when she’s back on Wednesday or Thursday.”

“I can do better than that,” Davis said. “Wednesday evening is the annual Conservancy fund-raiser. It’s held in the Park-in the Conservatory Garden. It’s a pretty spectacular way to see Central Park. My wife and I have a table. Why don’t you be my guest, Detective? I can introduce you to anyone connected to the operation that you might need to know.”

“Thanks, sir, but I can’t-”

Gordon Davis’s eyes twinkled as he talked. “Sure you can, can’t he, Lieutenant? Hell, you can even bring your-Ms. Cooper here.”

“We’re not really involved,” I said. “I was just joking.”

Davis liked being mischievous. “I’ve got a sense of humor. I can roll with that.”

“It’s a good idea for you to go, Mike,” the lieutenant said. “Alone.”

“Sure,” Davis said. “After all, what if one of the zookeepers is the killer? Or a trustee? Might as well get to know the players. See them in their natural habitat.”

“Loo, I think the commissioner’s right,” Manny Chirico said. “No disrespect, Loo, but I think Alex needs to go with Mike. I’ll explain my reasoning later.”

Chirico clamped his lips together and nodded at me. If he didn’t have a plan to deal with Jessica Pell earlier, he was developing one now.

Mike planted his left hand on his hip, and the fingers of his right hand began working his hair. “Bad idea, Sarge. Let’s save the dirty laundry for when we get out of the commissioner’s office, but me and Coop? Not happening.”

Davis pointed a finger at Mike. “I’m expecting you, Chapman. You and Ms. Cooper. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I know Coop looks very Downton Abbey on the outside, Commissioner, but this broad is totally Homeland. There’s a Carrie Mathison inside her, obsessed with me like I’m Nick Brody, waiting to burst out,” Mike said, faking half a smile, “and I’d just hate to see it in full bloom at your fund-raiser.”

“Black tie, Detective. Cocktails at six, dinner at seven.” Davis said, dismissing us. “Anything else right now, Lieutenant Peterson?”

“Thanks, sir. Thanks for your time.”

Davis’s secretary gave us a small office so that we could eat our sandwiches. I carried them in, and Mike slammed the door behind me.

“Deal breaker. I don’t own a tux, Loo.”

“It’s a good opportunity, just like Davis says. Rent one.”

“I’ve got to spend a hundred bucks to go to fund-raiser for the squirrels and wildflowers?”

“Use some of the dough you made on all that overtime guarding Judge Pell,” the sergeant said before biting into his roast beef sandwich.

“Whew, Manny,” Mike said. “We’re into tough love now, I guess.”

“Don’t let it ruin your appetite, Mike. I’ve been thinking about how we deal with Pell and-”

I tipped my chair back and shook my head so the sergeant could see me. I didn’t want him blaming-or crediting me-with his strategy.

“I just think we’re smarter to draw her out. That’s why I think it’s a good idea to send Alex with Mike to the Park on Wednesday night. To let them keep working together. If that smokes Pell out into the open, all the better for us. Any other way, she wins.”

I munched on a corner of my turkey wrap.

“And if this gets to Scully?” the lieutenant asked. “It’s the mayor who appointed Pell.”

“For all the wrong reasons,” I said. “And it’s the same mayor who appointed Scully, too. That’s the good news.”

“So far I’m in charge of dealing with Pell,” Chirico said. “We’ll try it my way. What’s the rest of the day?”

“I’m heading back out to see how the canvass is going,” Mike said.

“Me, too. I mean, not the same place you’ll be, but that’s what I’m going to do,” I said.

“Tomorrow morning I’ll pick up the statues and bring them down to the office. Your photography unit can document them, and you can set someone on tracing them.”

“I’ll be free as soon as Battaglia finishes with me.”

“What does he want?” Mike asked.

“I can only guess, but I think it has to do with a pound of my flesh.”

Peterson and Chirico were finishing their lunch and ready to leave. “I’ve had two teams working since yesterday morning on circulating the girl’s photo to some of the homeless shelters. I’d better get a buzz on that,” Peterson said. “And I’m calling SVU. We might as well bring Mercer back in on this, along with some of their other senior people.”

Mercer had been in Homicide for years before asking for the transfer to Special Victims. He liked the rapport he developed with survivors of sexual assault, helping them triumph in the courtroom and restoring their dignity. Mike preferred work that did not involve hand-holding the victim. He saved his compassion for the dead.

Mike and I walked out behind them. “Are you going back to the Point?” I asked him.

“Nah. I’ve had my excitement for the day. I’m going to try the other side of Bow Bridge. See what the shoreline looks like over there. You?”

“Bethesda Terrace.” It was where all the gathered information was being centrally reported to one of the sergeants from Intel. “Best place for me to keep up to speed.”

We fell back behind the bosses as we walked out of the Arsenal. “How late are you staying?”

“Don’t know. It’s getting close to the longest day of the year. Till it gets dark, I guess.”

Many of the Park regulars had evening rituals-jogging, biking, blading, dog walking, in the hours after work. If there had been any kind of confrontation between our victim and her assailant that started at dusk or in early darkness, these would be the people who might have snippets of information.

“So how about if I pick you up at Bethesda at nine tonight? We knock off and have dinner?”

I turned to look at Mike, puzzled by his offer. He was running so hot and cold, frazzled by Pell’s threats and frustrated by the lack of progress in the case, that I still didn’t know how read him. “Me?”

“Is there anyone else in earshot?”

“You must have started at five A.M. today. You know they won’t pay you OT for this?”

“Like I’m in it for the big bucks, blondie? It’s my case, remember? And it’s Mercer’s idea to have dinner.”

“Then I’ll see you at nine,” I said. “Thanks for including me.”

Mike called out to the lieutenant and caught up with his two supervisors. I walked behind the building and headed north again, cutting across paths until I got to the foot of the Promenade on the Mall, walking that single straight line right to Bethesda Terrace.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was uneventful. Tourists were curious about the massive police presence, so it seemed as though as many people were stopping to ask us questions as there were to answer them.

Most of the Park regulars were willing to be helpful, pausing to express concern, ask who the dead girl was, and offer advice of every kind. Police noted descriptions of men who had shouted obscene comments to women joggers, men who had come on to college students in bikinis spread out on blankets on the Great Lawn, and men who had been rowboating on the Lake.

The cops had me spend an hour with an NYU professor who encouraged me to study Dreiser’s An American Tragedy to see if there were any clues in that classic about the drowning of a poor working girl-knocked out of a rowboat in a lake-by the boyfriend who’d found a richer prospect he wanted to marry.

By the end of the day, we had thousands of generic descriptions of unpleasant men who frequented the Park. We had nothing that remotely pointed to a killer.

Shortly after nine, Mike pulled up in his car on the roadway adjacent to the Terrace.

“How do you do this grueling legwork day after day?” I asked him. “I’m beat.”

“Beat is good,” he said. “As long as you’re hungry, too.”

“Thirsty.”

“Even better. Mercer’s holding a table for us at Patroon.”

“Now I’m hungry and thirsty. Nothing could make me happier.”

We headed east, down to 46th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, where my friends Ken and Di Aretsky owned one of the classiest restaurants in the city. Patroon featured the best steaks in town, and a grilled Dover sole that was off the charts. Ken was as nice as anyone in the business, providing a clubby atmosphere that ensured relaxation as much as it did fine dining. And he had been a great resource for Luc Rouget when my Frenchman had tried to open a fancy restaurant in New York earlier this year. Mercer and Mike were taking me to one of the places that I was most comfortable, most pampered.

Mike was moving swiftly down Fifth Avenue. There was no traffic, and we had the lights with us. “You know why those two dudes-Mr. Olmsted and your buddy Vaux-you know why those guys beat out all the other landscapers who entered the contest to design the Park?”

“I just assumed they had the most experience.”

“What experience? This was the very first landscaped urban park in America.”

“So what then?”

“There were thirty-three official entries,” Mike said. “But your guys were the only ones who insisted that the Park-to work as an artistic pastoral landscape-had to be completely separated from the city streets. No coal wagons or fire engines or dust carts wandering through it.”

“That makes sense.”

“It was their plan-Olmsted and Vaux-to sink all the transverse roads, the ones that cut east to west from Fifth Avenue to Central Park West, below the road surface.”

Of course Mike was right.

“Four huge transverse roads and they’re all below the surface of the Park grounds,” he said. “That’s ingenious. No commercial vehicles at all on Park drives, and nothing that even obstructed any of the views. Pretty damn clever.”

“It is. But you’re thinking about something. About the case.”

“Yeah.”

“That most dump jobs would involve a car, right?”

“Yeah. That if our girl was killed somewhere else-’cause there’s no sign of a struggle near the Lake, and no drag marks around it-then she’s likely to have been killed somewhere else in Manhattan and then dumped from a car.”

“And since there are no transverse roads anywhere near the Lake, the closest place a car could have stopped is where you just picked me up, on top of the grand staircase at Bethesda Terrace.”

“And the Park is closed to traffic from seven P.M. to seven A.M., so that pretty much means if the killer came by car, he would have been hauling the body in broad daylight, at the height of tourist season.”

“Impossible.”

“So where did he come from, Coop?”

“How I wish I knew.”

We were silent until we reached the restaurant and parked several spaces away from the front door. Annie, the hostess, greeted us with her characteristic enthusiasm, and Stephane, who had been maître d’ from opening day, escorted us to the tiny elevator.

“Mr. Wallace is waiting for you upstairs,” Stephane said. “Comment ça va, Ms. Cooper? I haven’t seen Mr. Rouget in quite some time.”

I swallowed hard. “You know it’s his busiest time back in France.”

“Bien sur. I hope you’re managing well without him.”

“Fine, thank you.”

The door opened onto the fourth-floor landing. Patroon was one of the only restaurants in the city to boast a rooftop dining area. The fresh air on this late spring night was exhilarating, and the crowd around the bar made it all so cheerful and refreshing.

Ken was sitting at a corner table with Mercer. They both stood up as we approached, and we exchanged kisses.

“You didn’t happen to TiVo Jeopardy! for me tonight?” Mike asked Ken.

“Give me a break, Mike.” Ken looked dapper, as always, with his custom-tailored suit, a Turnbull & Asser shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. “I didn’t know you were coming in until after the show was over. I’ll buy you a drink instead.”

“That’s a good way to start. At least it will cover my wager. Mercer? Did you see it?”

“Yes, I did. And I lost.”

“What was the category?”

“Russian literature.”

“I’m screwed again. Make it a double, Ken.”

“The answer was something about a Russian nobleman and poet whose great-grandfather was African.”

“Who is Doctor Zhivago?” Mike said.

“And he would be a fictional character,” I said. “Like Alice in Wonderland, Mother Goose, and Norman Bates.”

“You don’t know either, really?” Mike said. “Two nights running? That’s not possible.”

“Don’t humor him, Alex,” Mercer said. “He can deal with it.”

“Alexander Pushkin. Peter the Great adopted a young Ethiopian boy as a member of the royal family. I guess that was better than enslaving him. Anyway, he was the poet’s ancestor.”

Ken knew our drinks and sent over a round for the table. Mike and Mercer ordered the porterhouse for two, I asked for the grilled sole, and Mike piled on all the sides he could think of-fries, onion rings, crispy brussels sprouts, sautéed spinach, and a salad for each of us.

I sipped the Scotch and leaned my head back, knowing it was hopeless to look for the same stars I had seen over the weekend. The city sky was just a milky gray.

“You’re coming into the case,” Mike said to Mercer.

“I know. Peterson called the office this afternoon. Told me to meet you at the lab in the morning.”

Mike asked him to take the small black statuette from there up to the Columbia archaeology team to see if he could get a provenance on it.

We spent the next hour telling Mercer everything we’d learned about the Park and how unsettling it was not to be able to figure out how the body wound up in the Lake.

“And the girl? What’s her name?” Mercer asked.

“Don’t know,” I said.

“I understand that. I meant Mike’s name for her.”

Mike always gave his victims a name. It was another way for him to humanize them, even when we didn’t know their identities. Sometimes he’d gotten heat for his bad taste, like the time a hooker was found in a cardboard shipping container on the sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen. Foxy-his sobriquet for the fox in the box-found its way into the Post coverage of the case. He’d become gentler in the years since that embarrassment.

“There’s only one thing to call her,” Mike said. “Till someone puts a name to that sorry face, she’s Angel.”