Death Angel

THIRTY-FIVE

It was after eight P.M. on Friday evening-past Jeopardy!-and the three of us had lost all sense of time when we pulled into Mercer’s driveway in Douglaston, a handsome neighborhood of private homes in Queens.

Vickee was at the front door, and the moment she opened it four-year-old Logan Wallace ran down the steps in his pajamas-which were printed with brightly colored dinosaurs of all varieties-flying into Mike’s arms and begging for bedtime stories. I got the second-best greeting and held the child’s hand as we walked inside the house.

I stopped short at the sight of Manny Chirico sitting on the living room sofa. Mike was behind me and did the same.

“It’s okay, Mike,” the sergeant said, getting to his feet and walking toward him. “It’s only good news I’ve got. Jessica Pell stepped down from the bench tonight.”

Mike wrapped his arms around Chirico, grabbed his face between his hands, and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

“Peterson told me you were in the middle of something serious,” Chirico said. “Besides, I wanted to deliver the news in person. I heard about the plan for Alex to stay here and texted Mercer to drag you along.”

“Bar’s open,” Mercer said, slapping Mike on the back.

“How’d you do it, Manny?”

“Believe me, Mike, I don’t really know. It didn’t hurt for Alex to go to bat with Battaglia.”

Mike turned to me, but I held up my hands in protest. “Keep me out of this one.”

“Did you-?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”

Vickee was trying to get Logan upstairs, but he was too excited by all the backslapping and high spirits to leave the company. “You hold on to your godson, Alex. I’ll make the drinks.”

I picked him up to give him a hug.

“Why are you crying, Lexi?” he asked.

“I’m not crying. I’m just-um-I’m just so happy to see you. It’s been a month or two.”

“But there are tears in your eyes.”

“Then wipe them away, sweetie. You, Master Logan, have the power to make me smile anytime you want to.”

I walked toward the screened-in porch that faced the backyard, staying in earshot of everyone but staring off into the night. The rooms were only separated by a tall archway. The guys were talking about how crazy Jessica Pell was and what balls Battaglia showed in getting the mayor to twist her arm to step down. I rocked Logan back and forth in my arms.

I didn’t think tonight would put an end to the problems Mike’s dalliance with the madwoman had caused.

Mike was toasting Chirico and Mercer for their friendship and support, and I sat down on the porch sofa with Logan, who was still asking for a story, even willing to accept one from me.

“Here’s your drink,” Vickee said. “I’m going to order some pizza. You cool with that?”

“Absolutely.”

Logan stood up on the sofa next to me and started tugging at Vickee’s hand. “Lexi was crying, Mom. She was crying, but I made her stop.”

“That’s my boy,” she said, patting both of us on our heads. “Ten more minutes and you are history, young man. Way past your bedtime.”

The child pouted a bit and then curled up next to me, resting his head on my thigh as I started to make up a story for him.

“Where’s Coop?”

“Out on the porch,” Mercer said.

Mike came to find me and clink glasses. He started to say something to me, but I put my fingers to my lips. Logan looked up, and any thought I had that he might have calmed himself down was gone in a flash. He jumped up and reached out for Mike to pick him up.

“I’ll be back for that,” he said, pointing to the vodka martini that Vickee had mixed.

He walked off with Logan, headed for the staircase to the boy’s bedroom, undoubtedly telling another of the tales about how he and Mercer tackled a Tyrannosaurus rex in Central Park when they were rookie cops.

I carried my Scotch into the kitchen and helped Vickee set the table for the five of us. Mercer took the opportunity to come in and embrace me, asking if it was okay if he told Mike about my confrontation with Pell.

“No way,” I said. “At least not yet. Let’s let him think this was resolved on its merits.”

“Whatever you say, Alex. You’ve earned it.”

The pizzas arrived, and the five of us were having a cozy celebration. At the heart of the matter, though, I was still peeved that Mike had left himself open to such a dangerous liaison.

At ten, while we were still gabbing and eating, Mercer got up to switch on the local news.

“It’s ten P.M.,” Manny said, laughing as he mimicked the old public service message about knowing where your children are. “Do you have any idea where your favorite stalker is?”

“Looking for work, I hope,” Mike said as he uncorked another bottle of wine.

The anchor led with a car crash in Times Square that took the life of one driver, followed by the drowning of a teenager in a public pool on Staten Island.

“There’s just no good news anymore,” Chirico said.

“I got all the good news I could want for one night,” Mike said. “I’m going home soon, and I expect to have pleasant dreams for a change.”

“Home?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

This wasn’t the right time or right place to take our relationship to the next step, I knew, but it was such an odd thing to be celebrating the end of Mike’s hookup with Jessica Pell with him going home alone after our night together on the Arsenal rooftop.

“It’s the summer solstice, you know?” I said. “Longest night of the year.”

Mike leaned over to refill my wineglass and whispered in my ear. “Think of it this way, kid. I owe you two short ones.”

The commercial break was followed by a story about a domestic stabbing, then another about a child abuse case in the Bronx. The body in Central Park was last week’s headline and didn’t even merit a mention.

A picture of Jessica Pell flashed on the screen. “In news that seemed to take City Hall by surprise this evening, rising judicial star Jessica Pell-a favorite of the mayor’s staff-tendered her resignation from the bench. Reporters followed her to her home, but as you see in this clip, the former judge began ranting at them-language we can’t quite use in prime time-and sped off in her car just a couple of hours ago.”

“Maybe some of those reporters got a hint of her potential for rage,” Mike said, reaching for another slice.

“Sources tell New York One that Pell has been under a lot of pressure recently because of threats she received, connected to her work in the courts. When she complained about the denial of police protection, one of her friends at City Hall green-lighted her application for a gun permit two weeks ago.”

The anchor spun away from his teleprompter, making an effort to inject a bit of humor into his commentary. “So a warning to all you reporters and paparazzi out there looking to get in the judge’s face like we tried to do tonight, Jessica Pell is armed and extremely angry.

“Now over to you for the weather forecast,” he said to the woman standing next to his desk.

“Lucky to be out of that one,” Mercer said, clicking off the TV. “There’s no taste like bad taste, Mike. I hope she’s on to her next target.”

I put my fingers against the scratches on the side of my face. I was thankful not to be alone tonight.