Hell Gate

THIRTY

“Hold your mouth till we get down the steps,” Mike said.

“Why’d we have to come out this way? The wind is blowing off the river and it’s freezing.” I pulled on my gloves and stiffened the collar of my jacket.

“Just hang out here for a few minutes,” Mike said, walking past the yellow crime-scene tape that enclosed the area of the well and folding his arms as he leaned on the wrought-iron fence. “Don’t tell me the Seine looks any better than this.”

He turned around to talk to me, but I knew he was really checking to see if the mayor or his men were watching us.

“You like the sculpture?” he asked.

Bloomberg had encouraged the Museum of Modern Art to loan the mansion some of its finest pieces. The wide expanse of lawn that rolled down to the river was dotted with impressive works by notable artists-Frank Stella, Isamu Noguchi, Louise Bourgeois.

“I like it all,” I said. “I’d move in tomorrow.”

“He’s nervous.”

“Statler is a no-nonsense guy. He’s pretty miserable with all this stuff swirling around him. It’s killing him that Salma’s body was found here at Gracie Mansion, so he’s taking shots at everyone else.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He’s pointing fingers everywhere. Obviously, tracks this whole thing back to Ethan Leighton. Says what we all know-that Moses Leighton is ruthless and has the money to carry out whatever plans he wants.”

“Who else?”

“Kendall Reid,” I said, while Mike stared back at the tall windows of the library. “Anybody looking?”

“Walk with me, Coop,” he said, leading me to the yellow crime-scene tape that was crisscrossed over the wooden cover of the well. “What does he say about Reid?”

“That he’s the Leightons’ lackey. That he’d pretty much do their bidding. The mayor’s really unhappy with the way Battaglia crashed that indictment Thursday night,” I said.

Mike pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his watch.

“Statler thinks Ethan’s going to try to tough this out and hang on to his congressional seat.”

“Lots of luck.”

“Set up a political battle between the Leightons and Ralevic, who’s already put a price tag on the congressional seat.”

“Stoop down for a minute, Coop. Pretend you see something significant in the dirt.”

“Who’s watching?”

“Either Statler or his boys. Very interested in what you’re looking at.”

I bent over, picked up a stone, and handed it to Mike, so that he could continue the charade.

“I can almost hear the curtains rustling,” he said, examining and pocketing the ordinary piece of rock. “I just like toying with their brains.”

Mike looked back at the house and waved, then started to lead me around to the rear. When we reached the driveway, he steered me left, instead of right out to the street.

“Where are you going now?”

“Stay with me, kid.”

“It’s cold, Mike, and I’ve got things to do.”

The wide path ran behind the redbrick wall that separated the mansion from the acres of beautiful park that ran along the river.

“I bet you’ve never seen Negro Point.”

“Mike-”

“I’m not being politically incorrect,” he said.

Several joggers and dog walkers passed us from both directions, but the cold seemed to have kept most of the babies whose mothers and nannies favored this popular children’s park off the stroll.

He was walking toward the wide promenade that bordered the river, below the wrought-iron fence of Gracie Mansion.

“That southern tip of Ward’s Island, see it? For hundreds of years, on every official map ever made, that used to be called Negro Point. Right there.”

I followed him past the benches to the river’s edge. The swift swirling current looked as unwelcoming as the cold slabs at the morgue. “No more?”

“Just a few years ago the parks commissioner complained. Renamed it Scylla Point, and there’s a playground in Astoria called Charybdis. You go through that dangerous passage in a boat? It’s like managing the Straits of Messina. So now it’s named for the monsters of Greek mythology that guard Messina.”

“Okay, Mike. You’re right. I should know these things. Let’s come back in the spring.”

“One more you gotta know about. The General Slocum. Eighteen ninety-one. A passenger boat, a steamship that caught fire during a Sunday church excursion. The waters were so rough, more than one thousand people died right within reach of where we’re standing. Some burned to death, the rest drowned.”

“I know that story. The city’s greatest loss of life in a single day-until September eleventh,” I said. “I get your point, Detective. This-this death zone is aptly named.”

I was listening to Mike, staring at the rough water in the distance, and was so distracted that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Lem Howell.

“Somehow, my dear Counselor, I always thought we’d meet at Hell Gate,” Lem said.

“Tricky of you, Detective Chapman,” I said, barely able to hide my anger at Mike for arranging this meeting. “Tricky, transparent, and probably more treacherous than this current.”