Killer Heat

EIGHT

"Alex, there's a gentleman waiting for you-he says he's been here for an hour, but he won't give me his name. I've got him in Maxine's office," Laura said. "He says you're expecting him. And he's terribly nervous". Max, my paralegal, was on vacation. Her quiet office around the corner was the ideal place to meet with Herb Ackerman.

"Mercer, why don't you explain to Kerry that there may be some ringers in the courtroom this morning and that it has nothing at all to do with her case?"

"Fine. And I'm calling Lamont's clerk. I want to make sure they'll have your back covered." Because Mercer was a witness in this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the other witnesses testified.

The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge criminal court building housed the executive wing, public relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure of the district attorney.

I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.

"I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?" he said. "I'm Herb Ackerman."

"Good to meet you."

He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in months.

"Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here."

"Didn't Paul explain?" he asked, preferring to stand and pace.

"He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol."

"No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to meet with him," Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.

The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice for yet another hot, humid day.

"Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office," I said, rising from my chair.

"No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well, it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young lady."

I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing things. "This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it is you're going to talk about stays between us."

His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room, ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since the unit was created. "You're not taping me, are you?"

"No, sir. I'm not."

"I suppose you know who I am?" His nose wrinkled and he pushed his glasses back in place.

"I do."

"I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been very good to him over the years," Ackerman said, hiking his pants up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. "I hope that counts for something."

"Mr. Battaglia told me that you knew Amber Bristol. Why don't we focus on that?"

He paced again, away from me, and lowered his head. "I'm not a crime reporter, Ms. Cooper. I've written about significant cases when they've had an impact on social issues. My experience is more, shall we say, global than street-smart."

"How did you meet Ms. Bristol?"

"At a cocktail reception. Yes, about a year ago. A cocktail party."

"Where was the event, Mr. Ackerman?" There was no need to scare him off yet by taking notes. "I need to know exactly how you became acquainted."

"Um. Let me think. Must we be that specific?"

"We certainly must."

"No, I guess it was online. I must have met her online. I'm mistaken about the party."

It was going to be a contest with Herb Ackerman. He was going to test me to figure how much he could fudge without giving me the facts I needed.

"Do you remember the site?"

"Probably she just began a correspondence because she admired something I'd written. One of my columns," he said. "People write to me every day, Ms. Cooper. I couldn't possibly keep track."

This interview was clearly not going to finish before I had to go to court with Kerry Hastings. I needed to take better control of the witness and let him know that the tabloids would like nothing more than to make this arrogant intellectual fodder for their gossip columns, if not their crime headlines.

"That's not a problem for us. Our forensic computer cops can retrieve documents-even things you've deleted-once we get hold of your hard drive." I smiled at Ackerman as he squirmed and turned to face me. "The technology is amazing. Your people probably do it at the magazine all the time, just to find drafts of old copy."

"You'll-uh, you'll actually look for, um, proof of what I'm telling you?"

"So far, sir, you haven't told me anything. I just thought that if you were having difficulty remembering how you and Ms. Bristol got to know each other, we could try to support your memory with paperwork. From the little I know about her, I suspect she wasn't a regular correspondent with your editorial board. I just assumed you might have met in a chat room or something of that nature."

He exhaled and his chin settled down into his collar while he thought about what he wanted to tell me.

"You could be right, Ms. Cooper. I spend such a lot of time on my computer. Perhaps I'm confusing her with someone else. Yes, yes-I might have come across her while I was surfing the Web."

The Middle East peace process, car bombings in Iraq, UN peacekeeping in Africa, poverty in urban America-and an escort service in New York, with a possible emphasis on sadomasochism. A natural progression in an Ackerman online search.

"Here's what we'll do, Mr. Ackerman. I'll go up to court and try my case, because that's extremely important to me right now. I've got a woman who actually wants me to help her. You think about this again and when you're ready to have a candid conversation, just give me a call."

"Please don't go," he said, reaching his hand out to grab mine. "Do you understand how difficult this is for me?"

"Amber Bristol is dead, Mr. Ackerman. How tough was that for her?"

"I called Paul Battaglia because somehow-somehow I became involved in a relationship with Amber," he said.

I tried to look him in the eye as the words spilled out more quickly, but the thick line of his bifocals distorted my view.

"I was in my office last evening when the story about her murder came over the wire. I was mortified, naturally, and thought that if I reached out for the authorities instead of waiting for them to find a reference to me in her Palm Pilot, there might be a way for me to keep my name out of this." He met my stare. "Do you think there is?"

"I obviously don't know enough to give you an answer to that. I'll start with you now, but you'll have to talk with the homicide detective, too. He's got the lead on the case until we get to the arrest phase."

"You're close to an arrest?" Ackerman was breathing deeply. "What can you tell me about that?"

"You've got this backwards, sir. There's nothing I can tell you."

"My name? Do the police have my name?"

"Assume that they do, Mr. Ackerman. When's the last time you saw Ms. Bristol?"

"It was a Friday night, the week before last. It was always a Friday. Her Palm Pilot has everything in it. It's where she kept all her information."

Two nights before her birthday, before she was supposed to meet her sister, Janet, at the bar.

"Where was that, Mr. Ackerman?"

"In my office. We met in my office."

I would need Battaglia to sign off on a forensic psychiatrist to work with me. I'd need to understand the risks Amber Bristol had been willing to take with her life. Now the case would be confused with psychobabble about why one of the most distinguished journalists in the city would meet with a hooker at the Tribune's power offices.

"Always at work?"

"Amber's been to my apartment from time to time," he said. "I'm a widower, Ms. Cooper. I invited her there occasionally, but then there are doormen to deal with in my co-op, you understand."

"And her home?"

"Never. I don't even know where she lived." He clasped his hands together and appeared to be confused by that question. "Well, if she ever told me, I've forgotten. She had a boyfriend. Obviously, she didn't want our paths to cross. I thought maybe he lived there with her."

"You know his name?"

He shook his head and his wrinkled neck jiggled. "I never asked. I think he worked in a bar. At least that's what she said. It's a problem for me to separate the stories she told me-which ones were real and which were, well, fantasies."

"It must have been even harder to get her past security at the Tribune than into a residential apartment building. Wouldn't she have to sign some kind of log?"

"Indeed, I'm sure there's a record of her visits," he said. "But believe me, if Herb Ackerman called down to say I was expecting a guest at nine or ten o'clock, and a well-dressed young woman showed up with a press pass, then-"

"A press pass? Did you help arrange that?"

He waved his hand across the desktop. "Any kid can put his or her hand on one of those. Summer interns, students at local schools, freelance writers."

"You got one for her?"

"Yes."

"With a photo and the magazine logo and her name?"

"Yes. Well, that was part of the game we played."

"Game?"

"She didn't use the name Bristol," he said, with a chuckle that I could only hope was a nervous reaction. "Amber Alert. That's what she called herself when she was with me."

Perhaps this small-town girl with an unhealthy imagination liked the fact that her alias appeared on billboards all over America.

"Let me ask a few more questions, Mr. Ackerman. Then we'll make an appointment for a longer interview."

"I'd like to get this done now."

"The last night you were with Amber, did you and she engage in any sexual acts?"

"Sexual? Oh, Ms. Cooper, you're completely mistaken," Ackerman said, his chin crawling back down onto his short neck. "Our relationship wasn't about sex."

I stood up to conclude the meeting. "I was counting on your candor to help us, Mr. Ackerman. That's the only way we can be of any use to you."

"But Amber and I never had sex," he was almost whining as he looked at me.

"Then you tell me what your get-togethers were like." I didn't want to give him any information about whips and handcuffs until he raised the subject himself.

Ackerman reached under his glasses with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and massaged his closed eyelids.

"She diapered me, Ms. Cooper. That's what she did."

"She what?"

The forensic psychiatrist I had in mind, an expert in psychosexual disorders, would probably double his rates when I gave him the case hypothetical.

"It's a-a problem I have."

"A medical problem?"

"No. No. Nothing I need," he said softly. "I like to be diapered."

"Amber Bristol diapered you? In your office at the Tribune?"

I had been taught in my early years never to appear to be judgmental, but sometimes it was harder to feign indifference than others.

"Yes."

"And there was no other sexual contact of any kind?"

"None. None at all."

"Did she bring anything else with her when she visited you?"

"What kind of things do you mean?"

"You mentioned the word 'fantasy.' Any objects that went along with what you two did. And how was she dressed, Mr. Ackerman? Did she carry a handbag? Did she bring any kind of tote with her?"

"Amber was dressed-we laughed about it, actually. She looked like something off a sailing ship, is what I told her. She had just bought herself a jacket-sort of white cotton, double-breasted affair. It had gold buttons and epaulets, with some gold braid on the shoulders. I made fun of it, I guess, but she thought it was quite the style."

The short-waisted military-style jacket had been the rage in the spring, sold all over town by department stores and boutiques knocking off the high-end version.

"The last I saw of her is when she walked out of my office. I saluted her and told her she looked like a ship's captain."

The description of the clothing might be useful if it turned out Amber Bristol had been killed that night.

"Did she carry a purse?"

"Yes," he said, nodding at me. "Always did. One of those great big things, with long straps on her shoulder. Did you find that? It's where she kept her Palm Pilot."

"Suppose we found it, Mr. Ackerman. Why don't you tell me what else was in it?"

"Do you enjoy doing this, Ms. Cooper?" He sat up straight and thrust his head forward again. "Humiliating me like this?"

"That's not my plan, sir. I'd prefer not to be asking these questions." They didn't seem a fraction as mortifying to me as the thought of seeing him undressed on a sofa in his office.

"Look, Mr. Ackerman. We know that Amber was also into sadomasochistic liaisons."

He wagged a finger in my face. "Not with me. I'm not involved in any business like that."

"But she was," I said. "That's an indisputable fact. And we believe some of her own devices may have been used to kill her."

"I never touched them. None of them."

"None of what, Mr. Ackerman?"

"Handcuffs, then, okay? Is that what you want? Yes, she brought handcuffs with her sometimes. But I swear we never used them. She took them out of her bag occasionally to show them to me, but that wasn't my thing. God knows what else she carried around with her."

He was distraught now, his head nestled back down onto his chest.

"Anything else?"

"No. Nothing at all."

"Was there anything you would characterize as violent that occurred between you and Amber?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not like that, Ms. Cooper."

I was trying to get a clue as to what Herb Ackerman really was like.

"You understand that we're going to have to get a sample of your saliva, for DNA," I said, in case any other evidence developed. "The detectives will do that later today."

"I'm not a common criminal, young lady. I won't be treated like one."

Many of my witnesses started with that attitude. The idea of Mike Chapman venturing into the Tribune building with a Q-tip to take a buccal swab from Ackerman made me think we'd find a more cooperative way to get it done.

"Did you speak with Amber again after she left your office?"

"You heard me, didn't you? I didn't hurt that young woman. I had nothing to do with her death. And no, I never heard from her again."

"Did you try to reach her? Did you leave any messages for her?"

He tilted his head, ready to test me again. "I don't remember."

"I haven't listened to her answering machine or her cell yet," I said, happy to be bluffing him. "Perhaps I can refresh your recollection after I do."

"Maybe so."

"Other than your office and your home, did you ever go anywhere with Amber? Did you ever take her anywhere else, like out to dinner?"

Ackerman shook his head. "She was a nice girl, Ms. Cooper. But our relationship only had one purpose."

"How much did you pay Ms. Bristol?"

Another deep breath. "Two hundred fifty dollars, in cash. That bought me an hour of her time. And I must tell you something else that you haven't asked."

"Yes?"

"You'll see, if your detectives do their homework, that I wrote about that place where Amber's body was found in an article that was published this winter. In my column," he said.

"Trib-ulations" was Ackerman's sounding board, a weekly opinion piece that let him take on issues of local or national importance.

"The Battery Maritime Building?"

"Precisely."

"You've been to the terminal recently? I thought it's abandoned and-"

"Ferry service to Brooklyn stopped in 1938, as you probably know. But the army used the slip for years when they owned Governors Island. I've been writing, advocating about converting the empty space for other uses."

Mike would be as interested in the military history of Amber's death chamber as in Ackerman's familiarity with it.

"Is that something you and she ever talked about?"

He puffed himself up now, unable to resist the opportunity to gloat. "She made it a point to read everything I wrote. Quite a bright girl. I don't remember discussing that column in particular, but Amber would have been certain to see it."

"You were smart to call the district attorney, Mr. Ackerman. This way, I can arrange for you to meet with Detective Chapman, and we won't have to come looking for you at an inconvenient time."

"There'll be no calls to the office, then?" he asked as I stood up. "No leaks to the media?"

"Mr. Battaglia controls that pretty well," I said, knowing that my boss played the press like a Stradivarius.

"When Amber left you that evening, what time was it?"

"A little after midnight," Ackerman said. "She arrived at eleven o'clock, I'm quite certain of that."

"There'll be a record of when she signed out."

"Probably so."

"And you, did you leave with her?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I see where you're going with that, Ms. Cooper. No, no. Even if I walked her out to get a cab, which I may have done. I sometimes did that, as a gentleman would. But I'm sure I went back to my office to lock up."

"Did Amber tell you where she was going?" I asked, my hand on the doorknob as I tried to escort Herb Ackerman from the room.

"She was meeting someone for a drink. She was mad at her boyfriend, I know that. I think she was planning to meet someone at another bar. Maybe she was trying to make the man jealous. Amber knew just what buttons to push.