Killer Heat

TWENTY-SIX

We stopped at headquarters so that Mike could tell Lieutenant Peterson what needed to be done on Governors Island to coordinate with the feds. In addition to coverage of the next day's muster, Peterson planned to work with the FBI to allow uniformed cops to search the buildings.

Guido Lentini's assistant had taped the press conference, so we watched the replay for twenty minutes. The mayor and Commissioner Scully had taken a sober approach in their short remarks, warning about the possible connection between the deaths of the three women but urging New Yorkers to remain calm.

They downplayed the idea of a military connection-because of the lack of evidence in Amber Bristol's case-and, as was customary, withheld certain facts, like the cat-o'-nine-tails, Elise's heirloom West Point ring, and the green blankets in which two of the bodies were wrapped.

It was after eight when we reached my apartment, and I was aching with exhaustion. The exhilaration of my night with Luc was losing its juice, and I needed some rest before thinking about what tomorrow might entail.

The doorman gave Mike the old cardboard boxes that the cops had delivered from his aunt Eunice's home in Brooklyn, and he and Mercer carried them onto the elevator

What's the story with that Super 8 Motel?" I asked.

"In the 1960s, when the coast guard took over the island from the army, they put in a motel and a bowling alley and a movie theater. Stuff to make it easier for guys stationed there to have their families visit.

"How come you went there?" Mercer asked Mike.

"You remember my uncle Brendan. His army buddies from the Second World War used to meet on Governors Island for reunions. Exmilitary guys and their relatives were allowed to use the place, even after the coast guard inherited it. Brendan took me there now and then on a Sunday morning to see a polo match."

"Polo?" Mercer said, laughing. "You and the sport of kings?"

I opened the apartment door and they put the boxes inside. "Just leave your wet jackets on the back of the chairs to dry off. I'm starving. Let me order something in."

"They must have had a bunch of army and coast guard brats running all over the island," Mercer said. "They'd know every nook and cranny. Who do we call to get a list of everyone stationed there, working backwards from the nineties?"

"That's the feds again," I said. "That'll take forever."

"Alex, can I use your computer? I'll bet they've got a Web site. Everybody does."

"Sure. The one in my office is a mess, with all the papers from my trial. Use the one in the bedroom."

Mercer went inside while Mike filled the ice bucket and headed straight for the bar. I grabbed a towel from the powder room to dry off my hair and stretched out on the sofa with the portable phone.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked, as Mike handed me a Scotch.

"Call Patroon. Ask Ken to send over three of the biggest New York strips he's got. Black and blue. Mashed potatoes, onion rings, sautéed spinach. Caesar salad. Pronto."

I dialed the number of the best steak house in town and ordered our dinner while Mike carried over the cardboard boxes and sat in the chair beside me as he opened the first one.

"You've got three messages on your machine, Alex," Mercer called from the bedroom.

"Play 'em back for her. Could be important," Mike said.

"Just leave them, Mercer. I'll deal with them later." I knew that at least one of them must be from Luc. I wanted to savor that in private. "Anything urgent would be on my cell, and I checked that five minutes ago."

Mike winked. "Burning the candle at both ends leaves a lot of melted wax in the middle. You look like you're fading. I'll set the table. Why don't you rest until the food gets here?"

"Let me know if you find anything interesting, okay? I just need a catnap." I took a sip of the Dewar's, then rolled on my side and closed my eyes.

The insistent ring of the house phone, announcing the delivery, awakened me at nine o'clock.

I signed for the order and plated the food in the kitchen. Mike and Mercer had set out the china and opened one of my better bottles of red wine. The velvet voice of Smokey Robinson sang softly from the CD player in the den.

Mercer came to the table with papers printed from the computer, and Mike got up from the living room floor, where he was searching Bannerman's catalogs.

My stomach had been growling for hours. I sliced into the tender steak and began to eat.

"Here's one way around the feds," Mercer said, patting his pile of papers.

"What's that?" Mike asked, chewing on some rings.

"I just used the search engine to check Governors Island plus military plus brats-and got to a site immediately. Looks like there are a few others, too."

"What did you find?" Mike asked.

"It's angelfire.com. Adults discussing about what it was like to live there when they were kids. They talk about the buildings and the schools and playing inside the forts. I sent out a few questions-let's see what comes back."

"How about asking was anybody frigging nuts? Anybody locked up? Anybody like to play inside the prison cells? Anybody freaking out the little girl brats?"

"I hear you. I'm on it."

"What's the matter?" Mike said, turning to me. "You're eating like you haven't had a meal in days. The guy didn't feed you?"

"Lay off her, Mike. She doesn't want to go there. What'd you find?"

"Nothing, yet. When we're done with dinner, you can give me a hand before we head home."

I cleared the table and washed the dishes before resuming my position on the sofa. Mike and Mercer were on the floor at my feet.

"Go to bed, Coop. We'll let ourselves out," Mike said.

I don't know how long I had been dozing before I heard Mike's yelp.

"Show me," Mercer said.

I sat bolt upright.

"Bannerman's. Winter 1938. Look at the photograph," Mike said, leaning over to show Mercer. "Blankets. Dark olive green, it says. Surplus World War I stock, made for the U.S. Army of pure Scottish wool. Even the stitching on the edges is the same."

"Got a manufacturer?"

"Yeah, McCallan Brothers. You saw the tag, Coop, didn't you? The one Dickie Draper found on the blanket? The last three letters were L-A-N. Eureka!"

Mike and Mercer exchanged high fives.

"Well, there's not going to be anyone around who can trace a sale from that year with a company that's been out of business half a century," I said. "I don't know what you're so excited about."

"Where's your sense of adventure? You know what this does? It opens up the possibility that the killer's link to Bannerman Island wasn't a coincidence. Maybe his old man was as wacky as Uncle Brendan. Maybe instead of keeping useless magazines, he had a cellar full of blankets and weapons and things he actually bought from the catalog. Things somebody might know about and that could lead us to this sicko."

"Mike's right. Both Elise Huff and Connie Wade were wrapped in blankets like this."

"And Amber Bristol wasn't. I'm just saying you shouldn't get too excited."

Mike's cell phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it and flipped it open. "Chapman," he said, getting to his feet, catalog in hand.

He listened as the caller gave him some news.

"It's not even eleven o'clock yet. Make sure you keep an eye on him. Mercer and I will be there in half an hour."

"Where to?" Mercer asked. "What's happening?"

"It's the guys from the bar car, Manhattan South. Looks like with all the gin mills in the world, they finally stumbled into the right one."

I stood up. "Where?"

"A couple of blocks from the Pioneer," he said. "Ever hear of Ruffles?"

"No."

"It's a pretty new joint on Prince Street, off Lafayette."

"What's there?"

"The owner is a kid named Kiernan," Mike said. "He's tending bar tonight."

Barbara told us that Elise had been hoping to hook up with a guy named Kevin or Kiernan. The latter wasn't very common, so maybe things were beginning to break our way.

"Nice going," I said, stretching as I got up.

"I know, Coop. But wait until I tell you the rest of it."

"What?"

"Think Jimmy Dylan, okay. Amber's boyfriend. The owner of the Brazen Head."

Mercer and I both nodded.

"This is his number-two son, set up downtown with a place of his own. The bar is called Ruffles, and the owner's name on the license is Kiernan Dylan. You want to join me for a nightcap?