Death Angel

THIRTEEN

“Is anyone in there with him?” I asked Rose on my way into Battaglia’s office.

“No, he’s alone.”

I had spent the first two hours of the morning returning yesterday’s calls and setting up a case file for all the reports from the squads and foot soldiers taking note of everything that happened in the Park. Then Battaglia arrived at 10:30 and called for me.

“If I scream for you, Rose, come bail me out.”

She continued filing the DA’s massive amount of incoming mail rather than make eye contact with me.

“Good morning, Paul.”

“Morning,” he said, turning away from the computer screen where he’d been checking the stock market’s opening activity. “How long are we going to drag this thing out?”

He reached for a match and lit the cigar that was clenched between his teeth.

“I’d like to think until we solved it, but I imagine the department will give it one week of going through the Park with a fine-tooth comb and then back off.”

“It’s one thing to put all this manpower into a case if it looks like we can make it. It’s quite another to have you all out there spinning wheels and getting nowhere.”

“I wish I could agree with you.”

“What?” He cupped his good ear and turned it to me. “Now, what’s all this crap going on with you and Chapman? Jessica Pell called me at home on Sunday.”

“She’s crazy.”

“She’s not so crazy that she doesn’t know what’s going on before I do. You swore to me a couple of years ago that you and Mike were just buddies. I wouldn’t have let you work cases with him if I thought you two had crossed that line.”

“I told you the truth then and it’s still the truth today. Even though it’s none of your business.”

“That time I heard you, Alexandra,” Battaglia said, removing the cigar from his mouth to articulate more clearly. “Everything that happens in this courthouse is my business.”

“But-”

“I won’t have you trying murder cases with your main witness on the stand, and some high-powered, high-priced mouthpiece cross-examining him, asking whether he held a gun to the suspect’s head because his demanding girlfriend won’t let him back in bed if he doesn’t come home with a confession.” Battaglia stabbed at his desktop with his forefinger. “Are you or aren’t you?”

“Am I what?” I was standing in front of the DA, flushed with anger and defiance.

“Are you in bed with Mike Chapman?”

“I was stupid enough to answer you once. Now you’ll have to decide for yourself whether it matters because I’m declaring that subject off-limits for discussion between us. You’ve got five hundred lawyers in this office. Are you policing all of their bedrooms, Paul? ’Cause that is one monstrous job, if you’re up to it.”

“I’m not policing anything. You’ve got the high-profile cases, Alex. You live in the glare of the lights, if you can.”

“You put me in that position years ago, Paul. I can live with that, and with whatever I choose to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to work.”

“Consider yourself lucky that I did this one-on-one. I left McKinney out of it. I’m not trying to hurt you, Alex. There are things I just need to know.”

“How fortunate can I be? There’s your man McKinney, who left his wife and kids for one of your least-talented lawyers-the laughingstock of the trial division, really-whom you only hired because her mother, at the time, was a major television news reporter. See what that got you, Paul? The mother lost her job because of some on-air tirade, and you’re stuck with the harebrained kid, who sits in the chief’s office all day drinking tea and mooning at him. Shall I move on to the next bedroom?”

“Don’t walk out on me,” Battaglia shouted as I headed for the door.

“I’ll be back as soon as I have case news to report. If it’s gossip you want, I’m pretty much up to speed on that, too. My sources are even more reliable than yours.”

I swept past Rose’s desk and back to my own. Laura was in my office, helping Mike unwrap the two metal miniatures of Park landmarks.

“Hey, Mike. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Mercer’s on his way to Columbia, and the lab cleaned up these little beauties for me.”

The castle and obelisk had both been given a bath. Mike handed me Cleopatra’s Needle, and I turned it upside down. Engraved on the bottom was the name of the silversmith who had designed the objects and the year in which they were made: Gorham and Frost. 1910.

“Laura, have you tried to call information?”

“The company doesn’t exist anymore, Alex. I’ve called and checked online.”

“Surely these must be part of a larger set.”

“Could be any of the structures in the Park that existed by that time,” Mike said.

“And they must be extremely rare. I can’t imagine they were lying around the Park very long or they would have been picked up. By a groundskeeper or a thief. They’re really quite beautiful.”

“I’ve called the Conservancy,” Mike said. “They’re going to check records to see whether they can connect them to any exhibits they’ve ever had. Our best bet may be the Schneider woman, when we see her tomorrow night. Gordon Davis says she’s a walking history of the Park.”

“Shall we take them up to be photographed?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll be back in half an hour, Laura. Hold the needy at bay for me, please.”

Mike and I had enough case-related things to discuss to keep away from the personal. I didn’t tell him about Battaglia’s comments, or about my answers.

After we left the photo unit, I said good-bye to Mike at the elevators.

Back at my desk, I went through the list of parolees that Laura had assembled, but none matched the description of the man in the Ramble yesterday morning. I busied myself with the flood of anonymous tips that accompanied this kind of case, and with catching up on the cases of the other lawyers in the unit.

My posse of close friends-Nan, Catherine, Marisa-made a point of coming by at lunchtime with salads, to see if they could take any assignments over for me.

At the end of the day, having heard nothing else from Mercer or Mike, I went home and ignored the television, ordering in from my local deli. I drew a deliciously scented hot bath and relaxed for the evening.

This was the rhythm of many major cases I’d worked. Things started off with a frenetic unfolding of evidence and information and, if not solved immediately, settled into peaks and valleys of developments. I was glad to have this night alone to myself.

The first time the phone rang it was close to 10:30. I was in my den, in a bathrobe, enjoying my drink.

The incoming number was Mercer’s. I was hoping he had information about Seneca Village.

“Hey. Good to hear from you.”

“Not so good as you think, Alex.”

I sat up straight and dropped the book I’d been reading onto the floor.

“What is it?”

“An attempted rape.”

“Damn. How’s the victim?”

“She’s going to be okay. I’m with her at the hospital now.”

“Did they get the guy?”

“Not yet. And it was after dark, so she’s not sure she can make an ID.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Mercer.” He was good to call me so I could arrange for someone to handle the new matter first thing in the morning. Even though there was no arrest, someone in the unit could get started working with the victim. “It’s more than that,” Mercer said. “The attack was in Central Park.”

“What the hell-? What’s going on?”

“Don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“But the Park is flooded with cops.”

“Not the north end. Most of the police presence has been south of 80th Street since Friday.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Up north. At the foot of the Ravine, at about 106th Street. Just under Huddlestone Arch.”

And yesterday Gordon Davis had remarked on how spooky the arches get after dark.

“So because it’s only an attempt, I take it there’s no seminal fluid. No DNA.”

“Very little to go on, Alex. Medium-complexion black man. Average height, average weight. The only thing our vic is sure of is that the guy had a tattoo on his hand. Two words-not pictures-but she couldn’t make them out.”

Kill, I said to myself. I didn’t want to speak the whole expression out loud. A rapist on the loose with KILL COOP inked into his skin.