Hell Gate

FORTY-FIVE

“Get in the car and lock the doors,” Mercer said.

We could both see Mike jogging back to us.

“I got Coop,” he said. “You want me to try to run that guy down?”

“Nobody needs to ‘get’ me. Do what you’ve got to do.” I was in the front seat of the Jaguar, shaking ever so slightly. It was not the most vigorous protest I’d been known to make.

“What about the well?”

“There’s a solid cap on it. Doesn’t look like it’s been touched in years. Take off, Mr. Wallace.”

Mercer got into the Toyota and sped off out of sight, turning right at the end of Jumel Terrace in the direction of High Bridge Park.

Just as he made the turn, the RMP pulled in behind us and two uniformed officers got out.

“Sorry to pull you here, guys,” Mike said.

“That’s okay,” one answered. “You got a problem?”

“I’m not sure. We’d like to go in and have a look.”

“The lieutenant said to tell you that your man left the precinct.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Mike asked. “Not the congressman?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn it. Nobody watching him?”

“Curb your annoyance,” I said. “As long as he didn’t take the baby, we had nothing to hold him on.”

“The baby’s safe, ma’am. She’s doing fine.”

Mike slammed the flashlight against his fist. “So Ethan Leighton is roaming the streets like a loose cannon, and we’ve got his old man’s car.”

“C’mon, Mike. He wasn’t any help. He’ll catch hell on the other end when he gets home.”

The second cop leaned against the window to say hello. “Hey, Counselor. Remember me? I had that domestic with the baseball bat last spring.”

“Yeah. Sure, I do.”

“You know this place is haunted,” he said, opening the door for me.

“Actually, I had no idea it existed.”

“The ghost of Eliza Jumel,” he said, laughing at me. “That was one unhappy hooker. The folks say she stands up on the balcony and bays at the moon. At least it keeps all the neighborhood kids away. Regular ghostbusters, they are.”

“When you guys aren’t doing comedy, you have time to help me with this?” Mike asked.

“We’ve only got three cars on patrol this tour for the whole precinct. We’ll stay as long as we can.”

“I’d like one of you to come in with me,” Mike said. “The other waits here. Coop? You in or out?”

“I’m with you.”

Three of us made the approach to the elegant old house. “This place get a lot of use?” Mike asked.

“Just functions. It’s open two afternoons this time of year. More in the summer. But there’s people in and out some. Doesn’t give us any trouble.”

“Not a fixer?”

“No need,” the cop said. He meant that the mansion was never made a “fixed post” patrolled by the department, like many sensitive security sites had been. “It’s got some kind of fancy trust that runs it. They come and go on their own.”

We were at the front door, and the cop was working the set of keys that opened the two locks.

“So you drive by at night and see lights on inside, it’s not unusual?”

“Nah. They got dinners, they got parties. They got ladies’ lunches and garden tours. Like I said, they got functions. That’s what my boss tells me. That’s the word he uses, supposed to cover everything that goes on in the place,” the cop said. “Here we go. Let me just disarm the alarm code.”

The door swung open and Mike pushed it wide, stepping inside. The officer followed him and pressed the keypad. “Whoever was here last didn’t reset it. The alarm’s not on.”

Mike glanced at me. “Figures. Could be our guy, Coop.”

“Or ghosts,” I said.

It was like stepping back into another century to come in the house. The light I’d seen from outside was a wall sconce that illuminated the entrance and hallway. The Federal Period furniture-an ornate crystal chandelier, an elegant grandfather clock, settees, and sofas-had been carefully restored and beautifully maintained, just as in Gracie Mansion.

The officer led us off to the left, into the dining room. The polished surface of the table gleamed in the dim light, but gave no sign of a recent dinner party. To the rear of the first floor was a large room, shaped like an octagon.

The back door of the house, probably the one that we’d heard slam, was in the octagonal room. Mike turned the knob and the door gave easily. He pushed it closed and locked it.

Then he doubled around and came to the staircase. I stayed behind him, with the cop trailing me. The floorboards creaked but that was the only sound beside our voices.

“Well, hold on,” Mike said, waving me into the master bedroom.

An elaborate antique sleigh bed was centered beneath reams of powder blue silk drapery and lace trim that almost shrouded it from view. But I could clearly see that the spread had been removed, the linens had been disturbed, and it appeared someone had left the room in disarray.

“I can’t say if it’s Eliza Jumel, or Mama and Papa Bear,” Mike said. “But I can tell you one thing, Ms. Goldilocks-someone’s been sleeping in this bed.”