Death Angel

TWENTY-FOUR

“Calm down, Coop,” Mike said. “It’s just a doll.”

“But he’s demented. I know Verge didn’t kill anybody just now, but that was a sick thing to do, wringing the puppet’s neck.”

“There’s got to be a psych history on this dude, Mercer. You looking?”

“I am now. I’ll start with his sister in Queens and see what we get.”

Mike had replaced the marionette-with her multiple fractures and a completely snarled set of strings-in the crate for pickup and repair. I watched with dismay as Verge Humphrey walked away from us, headed off the path into a grove of trees, and disappeared.

“I hate that he’s roaming around on his own,” I said. “Between him and Tanner, I feel like driving through the Park and scooping up all the girls who are out there tonight, thinking it’s a safe place to be.”

“Hold that thought. I don’t think social work’s your strong suit.”

“Are you going to the garage?” Mercer asked Mike.

“Yeah. It’s just a few blocks over.”

“Taking Alex?”

“Yup.”

It was after five o’clock. “I’m starving,” I said. “And tired. Let’s do that and make a plan for tomorrow, and maybe I’ll have an early night.”

Mercer wagged a finger at me. “Not so fast. How about dinner?”

“With you?”

“With us.” He looked over my head to Mike and nodded.

“Something up?” I asked. It was one thing if Mike wanted to spend the evening alone with me, and if not it would be a smart idea to get some rest.

“It’s a good time to organize where we stand,” Mercer said, “what we need to do with the weekend approaching.”

“Come to my place for takeout?” They both usually liked that idea. The bar tab was cheap, the digs were comfortable and private, and they could watch the Yankee game while we ate.

“We can do better. Call me when you’re done at the garage. I’ll get us a table.”

Mike and I walked out of the Park and across 79th Street till we came to Amsterdam.

“You want to talk?” I asked him.

“We’re on the clock, Coop. On the job.”

“So it’s going to be that way?”

“Course it is when we’re working.”

“You have any second thoughts about last night?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“You just don’t want to-?”

“Discuss it right now,” he said.

“I don’t either.”

Mike turned his head to me, bit his lip, and laughed.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m easy.”

“Highest-maintenance broad I know, and you’re suddenly easy? Sweet.”

“So how do we make sense of Vergil Humphrey?”

“Let Mercer figure him out,” Mike said. “I just want to understand why so many of these roads are leading back to the Dakota.”

At the southwest corner of 77th Street and Amsterdam Avenue we came up to the drab old building bearing a beat-up sign: THE DAKOTA GARAGE.

There was a man in the ticket booth and two attendants, one young and one who looked older than Verge, sitting on wooden chairs with their feet up on the metal railing that separated the one-room office from the rows of parked cars.

“Mike Chapman, NYPD.”

He had the attention of the younger fellow, but the older guy still stared straight ahead, gnawing on a toothpick.

“There’s no trouble,” Mike said. “I’ve just got some questions about the building.”

“What do you want to know?” the kid asked.

“How long have you worked here?”

The older man spoke without glancing at us. “That’s not about the building, is it?”

The kid answered anyway. “Me? Only eight months. Abe’s been here fifty years.”

“Fifty-six. But if you’ve got no trouble, why are you asking?”

“You must have started working before child labor laws,” Mike said.

“Dropped out of high school, wiseass. One of our cars gone missing?”

“Nope. Maybe one of your horses.”

Abe stood up and stretched. “Long before my time.”

“That’s what I want to know,” Mike said. “Was this really a stable?”

“Certainly was. From here to 75th Street was called Stable Row. See those portals? Each one was an individual stall,” Abe said, pointing his toothpick toward the warm orange brick arches that lined the long room. “This place was built to hold more than a hundred horses, and space for three times that many carriages on the second floor.”

“But the Dakota apartments-they’re a couple of blocks away,” Mike said. “Why would the stables be built this far west?”

“Did you ever smell the likes of a hundred horses and all the slop that goes with them?” Abe asked. “This here couple of blocks was close enough to be convenient to the staff, but far enough away for the odors and the sounds of the animals not to bother the rich people who lived over on the Park. I have all that from the old-timers that worked here when I came on. Once upon a time, when it was built, the Dakota had horses right in the courtyard, and a special entrance in the rear so hay could be delivered without bothering anyone. But that’s all ancient history now.”

“When did this become a garage?” I asked.

“By the 1920s, I think.” Abe’s toothpick broke in half. He took both pieces and tossed them in a trash barrel.

“Do you know the name Lavinia Dalton?” Mike said.

“What’s the problem now? The chauffeur claiming I dented one of the cars? I didn’t think you guys were insurance adjusters.”

“We’re not.”

“So if there’s no trouble, what’s the trouble?” Abe asked.

“I’m curious is all. Miss Dalton can’t answer questions herself. Some property went missing from her home, and I’d like to look in her car, just to satisfy my boss we checked everywhere.”

“Cars. Five of them. Suit yourself,” Abe said. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

The elevator creaked its way to the second floor. Abe limped as he made his way down rows of automobiles until we reached the farthest corner of the building. An entire section was roped off, and four of the five machines in it were covered with blankets that appeared to be designed for each.

“These all belong to Miss Dalton,” Abe said. “The Mercedes sedan here, that’s not covered, that’s the one her chauffeur uses. Does all the errands in it, takes her out to the doctor when she needs to go, and sometimes ferries guests back and forth.”

“You mind if I look?”

“Don’t belong to me. Do anything you’d like.”

Mike opened each of the doors, looking under the seats and in the glove compartment, finding nothing except the registration and insurance form. He opened the trunk, but it was as clean as a whistle, with only a spare tire and a lap blanket folded neatly to the side.

Abe pulled the covers off the other cars. There was an SUV, two smaller sedans, and then an enormous car that looked like the stuff of royalty.

Mike let out a low whistle.

“The Dalton Daimler,” Abe said. “A 1965 four-door saloon. A rebadged Jaguar Mark 2. You know cars? This one’s a real beauty.”

Mike was taking in every inch of the vintage luxury vehicle. It was the color of champagne, with black trim, a fluted grille, distinctive wheel trims, and a gleaming black enamel steering wheel.

“Good as it gets,” Mike said as Abe opened the hood to show him the works. “Two-point-five-liter V8.”

“I was just a kid when Miss Dalton bought this. My boss never let me touch the damn thing, but late at night I used to climb in and sit behind the wheel, just pretending.”

“Not a bad fantasy,” Mike said, looking at every interior inch, as well as the boot. “How often does the Daimler go out for a spin?”

Abe patted the roof of the car. “You know about Miss Dalton’s grandbaby, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“This is the car Miss D had used to go out to her fancy ladies’ luncheon the afternoon the baby was snatched. She’s never allowed it to be driven since,” Abe said. “She probably doesn’t realize the chauffeur has to take it out every now and again-that it isn’t good for it just to sit. And it has to be inspected and all that. But as far as her using the car? Time seemed to stand still once Lucy disappeared.”

“The police,” I said, “did they talk to you back then?”

Abe, with help from Mike, replaced the covers on the cars and then he slowly limped back toward the elevator.

“That would be too polite a way of saying what they did. We were all guilty, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t a living soul who didn’t think it was an inside job-the kidnapping, I mean. Any of us who had any contact with the grand lady’s staff, we were made to look like lowlifes and thugs. Questioned and then questioned again. Rousted out of our beds in the middle of the night if anyone in the Dakota said they knew us. Half the cars parked here came out of those apartments. ’Course we all knew folks who lived there.”

“Did you know Lavinia Dalton?” I asked.

“Never laid eyes on her. She liked to be picked up at the front door of the building and dropped off there as well. I doubt she had a clue where her cars were garaged.”

“Did you know anyone on her staff?”

“I saw the chauffeur-sometimes two of them worked for her-just about every day. That one is dead now. Had a stroke ten years or so after the snatching. Been a few since. Good people.”

“Any of the women in the household?”

“Not as I recall.”

“Did you ever go to the Dakota apartments?” Mike asked.

We were out of the elevator, heading back to the ticket office. “Not Miss Dalton’s. But certainly I went to the building from time to time. Some folks liked their automobiles brought to them right there. Sometimes I went to pick up a rent check or give a person bad news that I’d dinged a fender. You gonna lock me up for that?”

“No, sir,” Mike said. “But that reminds me, Abe. You ever know a guy who worked here way back called Vergil Humphrey?”

Abe snorted at the sound of the name. “Verge? He was nuttier than a Snickers bar. His father was one of the supervisors here when I started. We could tell every time Verge got himself in a jam because the next day he’d wind up helping out with us.”

“What kind of jams?” I asked.

“Verge couldn’t keep his privates in his pants, if you understand me. Liked the girls a little too much.”

“Young girls?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He was a teenager then and so were they, from what I remember. I don’t think he ever hurt anybody. Verge was slow. Got made fun of a lot. Guess that’s called bullying today. His father liked to keep him around the cars ’cause we got so full of grease and sweat none of us had much time to think about girls.”

“Was Verge working here when the Dalton baby was kidnapped?” Mike asked.

Abe thought for a minute. “Sure he was. Had a harder time with the cops than I did, probably ’cause he was black and ’cause he couldn’t think straight or talk straight. Nobody ever knew when to believe Verge Humphrey.”

“Did he have anything to do with Lavinia Dalton and her cars?”

“His father was too smart for that. Verge might have been the only person working here who had no connection to the Dalton staff. Wasn’t allowed near the cars, you can be sure.”

“Other young men,” I said. “Would he have made friends working here?”

“More than any of us cared to have,” Abe said. “These cars were like magnets for every kid in the neighborhood. Finest makes and models sitting here all shiny and clean and sparkling. Kids were always hanging out, eager to take a rag and help us polish them up.”

“Any of them connected with Lavinia Dalton?” I asked.

Abe gave me an exasperated sigh. “You’re pushing me now, young lady. Sure, Miss D had a staff the size of a small army, and a few of the ones who were married had sons who’d hang out around here. All the boys did. Could I name ’em now for you? Not a prayer.”

There were three cars lined up at the entrance, waiting to be parked. The other attendant was calling to Abe to help him out.

“Did you ever hear of Seneca Village?” I asked.

“What’s that? An Indian reservation?” Abe said. “One of those gambling casinos?”

“Not important.”

“Have I answered all your questions, then?”

“Yes, you have,” Mike said. “Thanks for your time.”

“You keep Verge away from me, now, will you? Man never made a lick of sense. If you’re relying on him for help, you’ll be sorry.”

Mike was quiet as we made our way back toward the Park, where he had left his car.

“That was a dead end,” I said.

“Seems to be. I actually asked the lieutenant to send for the case file on Baby Lucy.”

“Not enough on your plate, I guess.”

“I’m just interested in the whole picture. It’s odd they never were able to solve it after all this time.”

“Start off with they never found a body,” I said. “That didn’t help.”

“Most people who followed the Lindbergh kidnapping figure Bruno Hauptmann couldn’t have pulled it off alone. Would have taken two guys-one to hold the ladder while the other took Charlie from his crib and out the second-story window.”

“You’re never been a conspiracy theory kind of guy,” I said.

“I’m not. But Lindbergh’s case just screams out for a mastermind behind Hauptmann.”

“I guess there’s always someone coming along to take a second look. Might as well be you.”

Mike pulled out his phone to call Mercer. “Coop and me, we’re ready to bag it. Everything in place?”

I wondered what Mike meant by that as he waited for an answer.

“Okay, that’ll work. See you in fifteen minutes.”

“What was that about? What did he put in place?”

“Mercer’s the man. Scored us a table at Rao’s.”

“No wonder the secrecy,” I said, high-fiving Mike for the good news. “How’d he do it?”

“The big man has his ways.”

We got in the car and headed east. There was no place in New York like the fabled eatery in East Harlem, a tiny building on the corner of Pleasant Avenue and 114th Street that was run more like a private club than a restaurant. Reservations were harder to come by than tickets to an inaugural ball. The owners, Frankie and Ron, didn’t even list the phone number, and if you were lucky enough to get in their good graces, they would tell you when to show up-it was impossible to pick a date and reserve it.

Mercer was waiting for us in the first booth-there were only twelve tables-opposite the bar where Nicky Vest, whose nickname came from the 136 colorful jackets he owned, mixed the meanest drinks in town. Some regular had turned in his table for the night, and Mercer’s persistence had paid off.

We were greeted by the waiters like long-lost friends-since we managed to slip in a couple of times a year-and were about to sit down beneath the wall-to-wall display of autographed photos of A-list celebrities, athletes, politicians, and authors when Mike reminded us that if we went into the back office right now we could catch the Final Jeopardy question.

As we waited for the category to be revealed, we caught Mercer up on our short visit to the old stable. He told us he had nothing to report either.

“Tonight’s category,” Trebek said, “is WEATHER.”

He repeated the word three times as the contestants logged in their bets.

“I’m an automatic loser,” Mike said. “Doppler Alex here is always on patrol for hurricanes and blizzards. Worst-case-scenario kind of broad.”

“I am not.”

“You’ll get this one, girl. And the winner buys.”

“I’m in,” Mercer said.

Trebek stood beside the blue board as the final answer was displayed: “Intense dust storm carried on an atmospheric gravity current.”

“What’s a sirocco?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “A sirocco.”

Two of the three contestants made the same guess, and Trebek told all of us we were wrong. “No, gentlemen, it’s not that Mediterranean wind that blows off the Sahara.”

“What’s a haboob?” Mercer said.

“The correct question is ‘What is a haboob?’ A haboob, folks. They’re commonly found in arid regions around the world.”

Mercer smiled and patted Mike on the back. His knowledge of geography was unparalleled. He had grown up studying all the airline maps that his father had accumulated in his job at Delta, and knew as much about foreign cultures and customs as Mike knew about the military.

“They were first described in the Sudan,” Mercer said as we walked back to our table, “and they often happen when a thunderstorm collapses. The winds reverse and become a downdraft, creating a wall of dust that can move at sixty miles an hour.”

“A dust storm,” Mike said.

“Same thing. That’s what it’s called out west.”

“Then I would have gotten it right. Like Coop says when she trips over her tongue, it’s just semantics.”

Nicky brought our cocktails, and we clinked glasses. I was still thinking of the Arsenal rooftop when I looked across at Mike and said, “Cheers.”

There was no menu at Rao’s, and all the food was served family-style. We started with baked clams, roasted peppers-maybe the best anywhere-and a seafood salad.

“So what’s the word?” Mike asked Mercer.

“Scully’s got four teams from SVU out looking for Raymond Tanner. He’s public enemy number one.”

“In Central Park?” I asked.

“And all his old haunts. But the Park is still saturated. They’ve moved some anticrime guys to the North Woods, so he figures they have that covered.”

“But a lot of those men will come out this weekend,” Mike said.

“No question. The body in the Lake gets back-burnered.”

I shook my head and counted on the Scotch to calm me down.

“What’s tomorrow like for you?” Mike asked Mercer.

“I’ll be at Verge’s sister’s house early. No call, just a knock on the door. Then they’re probably throwing me onto the Tanner task force. You?”

“I feel kind of stalled,” Mike said. “Did you get a chance to talk to Chirico?”

“I went to see him after you left for the garage. He was over by the boathouse.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Did you forget about Jessica Pell?” Mike said, holding up his glass and shouting out to the bartender, “Nicky, how about a refill?”

“No, but-”

“Her deadline to tell Scully to bounce me if Chirico doesn’t discipline me is tomorrow. I’m nervous about what she’s got up her sleeve.”

“She’s not going forward with this, Mike,” I said, stirring the ice cubes with my finger.

“Pell’s a wild card, Coop. You don’t know what she’s up to.”

“No, but-” I didn’t want to tell him about my intervention in her robing room earlier today, but I was surprised that she hadn’t yet walked back her complaint.

“But nothing. Did you tell Mercer she was staking out your driveway last night?”

I blushed. “No. No, I didn’t say anything about it.”

“What’d you do?” Mercer asked.

“Just rode around for a while,” I said. “Why’d you go to Chirico?”

“To look him in the eye, so Mike didn’t have to do it himself. Push the sergeant to do the right thing.”

“What would that be?”

“Call Pell before she calls Scully tomorrow,” Mercer said. “I want Manny Chirico to knock her on her ass, is what I really want.”

“What does he say to that?”

“He needs ammunition to do it.”

Now I had a way to start my day if I could figure out how to get involved without leaving my DNA all over Mike’s problem.

“It’s off the table for the moment,” Mike said. “Enjoy the feast.”

The guys ordered rigatoni Bolognese with a side order of the largest, most delicious meatballs in town; Rao’s signature lemon chicken dish; a veal chop with hot peppers; and shrimp parmigiana. I didn’t have room for the homemade ice cream, but it was impossible to refuse a spoonful as I washed it down with my second glass of barolo.

Mercer paid the bill, and we said our good nights to the kitchen crew as we went out the door. “I’ll take you home, Alex.”

I spun around and looked at Mike, puzzled by that decision. “But Mike’s got to pass by my place to get home.”

“It’s all right. She can ride with me, Mercer.”

The Triborough Bridge was spitting distance from the restaurant. Why wasn’t Mercer just going on home to Queens, and why-after last night-wasn’t Mike coming to my place?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’ve got some papers-some stuff-that Mercer’s stopping by to pick up,” Mike said as I got in his car.

We cruised down Second Avenue, and I could see Mercer’s SUV in the rearview mirror. Mike still wasn’t talking-nothing personal at least-and I attributed it to the distraction of Jessica Pell’s threats.

By the time we reached the driveway in front of my apartment, Mercer had overtaken us and nosed into a parking place ahead of us.

I could see a patrol car parked on the sidewalk at the exit of the driveway, and when I turned to look into the glass-fronted lobby of my building, I noticed a pair of uniformed cops.

Mercer opened the car door just as the lights went on in my brain.

“Now I know what you meant when you asked Mercer if everything was in place,” I said to Mike, my eyes flashing fire. “The cool dinner at Rao’s was just a distraction till you could set this up. I guess Scully’s put a bodyguard on me.”

“We convinced him that Mercer and I have got you covered all day,” Mike said. “It’s just at night; he doesn’t want you alone as long as Raymond Tanner’s out there with KILL COOP etched into his skin.”

Mercer put his hands in his pants pockets and walked away to explain the situation to Oscar and Vinny, the two doormen-my good friends-who were on duty.

“What about last night, Mike? What was the point of that? The Arsenal, the rooftop, the-the rest of it?” I slammed the door shut behind me. “Was that just a diversion to keep me out of harm’s way?”

“Look, Coop, last night had nothing to do with Scully’s decision. He called the lieutenant today and ordered this detail put in place.”

“My babysitters are waiting for me, Mike,” I said, walking toward the revolving door.

“I’ll call you later to check in.”

“Don’t bother. I haven’t got anything at all to say to you tonight. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve just checked out.”