Killer Look

THIRTY-SEVEN

The dental hygienist took my cell phone away from me while she scraped and cleaned my teeth. It wouldn’t have mattered. There were no messages when I got out of the chair.

I walked home, fifteen blocks, knowing that if I kept a fast pace it would allow me to blow off some of the steam that was gathering inside me.

I called the office number of Mike’s psychiatrist. She must have been in session. I told her that I wanted to see her and asked if she had any time today. I wasn’t as tethered to reality as I needed to be.

I was home by one P.M. and eating a yogurt while I watched local news.

The same reporter had pushed herself close to the front of the pack. Her tenacity had paid off.

“An hour ago,” she said, “detectives emerged from the hotel with several boxes that appeared to contain ledgers of some sort-perhaps a guest register.”

The footage showed Mike following two squad members holding large boxes. He was gloved and carrying a green plastic garbage bag.

“Rumors are circulating that Tanya-who stayed here several times throughout the last three years-does not actually go by the last name ‘Root.’ We hope to have more for you on that by tomorrow.

“She was known to be a jazz aficionado, and liked the proximity of the Madison to the Apollo Theater.”

There was always a desk clerk to squeal, in every hotel in the world, if the price was right.

“Police are planning to release sketches of the three males-two African American and one white man-in whose company she was seen last month,” the reporter said.

This was the first mention of any male suspects of color since the case had come to my attention.

“The two are thought to be acquaintances of the white male, with whom she drove off around the time she was last seen at the hotel.”

An older man or a younger one, I wondered.

I called Vickee Eaton’s number at headquarters. The press office would know as much as any of the detectives, and Vickee had no reason to shut me down.

“Sorry,” some nameless phone-answering police officer said. “Detective Eaton’s out in the field. May I have a callback name?”

I hung up the phone.

I tried Catherine Dashfer, who was keeping my seat warm at the DA’s Office. She couldn’t possibly avoid me by not taking the call-all of our phone numbers showed as UNKNOWN when incoming.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Don’t hang up.”

“Alex? Are you all right?” Catherine was among my closest friends: wise, loyal, and tough as steel.

“Basically.”

“’Cause what I’m hearing-”

“I’m seeing the NYPD’s psychiatrist this week,” I said. “I should be cleared to come back after the holidays. You can fly off to Tuscany for a vacation in January, I promise you. I’ll be back at my desk by then.”

“Take your time, Alex. It’s even nicer over there in the spring.”

“Any chance you can slip out for an hour this afternoon and meet me?”

“That would mean they’d be stuck looking for a permanent filler for me if I get spotted hanging out with you,” Catherine said. “I’d be safer planning a rendezvous with Charles Manson.”

“Did Battaglia send out a memo about me? An AMBER Alert?”

“You know he’s way too smart to do that,” she said. “A few of us got called in, one by one. Nothing in writing. No paper trail. Just an understated comment or two about how you needed space to get your head together.”

“I don’t want any more space,” I said. “I want my life back. I want my friends, but most of the people I want to see are employed by the man who’s making me persona non grata.”

“I tell you what,” Catherine said. “I’ll put something together for Friday night, okay? Come to my place and I’ll cook, and I’ll get as many of the gang together as I can.”

“Sweet,” I said. If I had to hold out until Friday, I’d do it. “Will you throw Ryan in?”

“Alexandra Cooper! That’ll be the last thing Ryan does, okay? Count on it,” she said. “You can be sure Battaglia walked all over him with golf shoes on, in regard to Ryan’s contact with you.”

I took a few deep breaths.

“Is everything okay with you and Mike?” Catherine asked.

“It’s fine. I thought we had a great weekend,” I said. “Next thing I see, he’s on the news, carrying evidence out of a hotel that I know nothing about.”

“As it should be.”

“If anything changes-I mean, if you get a real itch to see me, Catherine-just call and come on up.”

“You know I miss you, Alex. If I get that particular itch, I’ll need to buy a disguise to visit.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in a bad spot. I’m going a little stir-crazy, and since all my buddies cut me off it’s really hard.”

“Why not go back to the Vineyard?” Catherine asked. “You love it there.”

“I probably will,” I said. “Let you know before Friday.”

Things were so bad that my friends from the DA’s Office thought they had to disguise themselves in order to visit the apartment. They must have been afraid that reports of their contact with me would get back to Paul Battaglia.

I fiddled with overdue correspondence to out-of-towners who’d heard about my ordeal, and thought about cleaning out one of my closets. That was too daunting a project.

I kept going back to Catherine and her offhanded comment about disguises.

I looked in my contacts for the telephone number of Joan’s mother, who lived in an enormous duplex on the East River.

“Mrs. Stafford?” I said quite cheerfully into my cell. “It’s Alexandra Cooper.”

“Darling, how are you?” she asked. “My Joanie told me you might call.”

“I’m doing much better now, thank you.”

“I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“My bad. But I hear you’re doing very well,” I said. “Did Joan tell you what I’m calling about?”

“She did. Will you come spend a little time with me this afternoon?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Someone who actually wanted to see me. How refreshing, I thought. And she happened to be in possession of part of the disguise I needed to get me into the Temple of Dendur.

“I’ve had that lovely dress taken out of its wrappings and steamed for you,” Mrs. Stafford said. “You’re still thinner than Joan, I’m sure. But you’ll take up the difference in your height.”

I had abandoned all thoughts of crashing the Savage show at the Met that evening in the aftermath of Mike’s tough-love talk with me. But now my paranoia overwhelmed me. It seemed that everyone had abandoned me to my own devices, and I was mad at the thought of being discarded by them all.

“I’ll be over at five, Mrs. Stafford. I’m trying to surprise some of my friends.”

“I love conspiracies, dear Alex. Your secret will be safe with me.”