Lethal Legacy

THIRTY-ONE

“I gotta tell you, Mercer, I took one look at the guy’s messed-up paw and I was ready to throw the cuffs on and collar him,” Mike said, turning off Central Park West for the ride through the park to my apartment. “We gotta slow this down before I make a mistake.”

“I never saw Mike turn on a dime so fast,” I said from the back seat, patting him on the shoulder. “He went from executioner to social worker in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, what makes you such an expert on self-mutilation, kid? I don’t think I’ve ever had one of these.”

“Alex and I have seen more than our share of it because the highest incidence is among teenage girls.”

“Does it mean that Travis Forbes is suicidal?” Mike asked.

“Not necessarily,” Mercer said. “It’s a form of intentional self-harm without actually having the wish to die.”

“So why do they do it? I mean, not the psychobabble, but what do you know about it?”

“The docs tell me that self-mutilation is some sort of outlet for strong negative emotions,” I said. “Usually anger or shame. Anger at someone else that’s then directed against the self.”

“So maybe he’s embarrassed about Eddy,” Mike said. “Mad at him for ruining the family name, being such a jerk to get caught. Is it always done by cutting?”

“Knives and razors,” Mercer said. “They’re the most popular. Biting or bruising yourself, pulling out hair, putting out cigarettes on your skin.”

“That fourteen-year-old we had last year,” I said to Mercer. “Remember? The one whose mother blamed her when the baby brother died?”

“Yeah. The shrink said she was dissociating. That her mind just split off that memory, which was too painful to keep in her conscious awareness. Whenever she hurt herself, she felt alive again.”

“Well, I should have given Shalik a bigger reward. He saved me from making a fool of myself with Forbes.”

“And it doesn’t seem that Travis has his brother’s book interests. I mean, you wouldn’t keep rare books in a junk heap like that,” Mercer said.

“We’ve still got to get to Eddy. His name just comes up in this too many times to ignore,” Mike said. “I’m dropping you at home, Coop?”

“Please.”

“I’ll hang with you for the autopsy,” Mercer said to Mike.

It was almost four when I got out of the car and walked into my lobby. I stopped for the mail and went upstairs, as anxious to know whether Luc was waiting for me there as I was to step into the shower and clear my head of the day’s confusion.

I unlocked the door and went inside. “Luc?”

He didn’t answer, and I was almost relieved to have a brief respite to myself.

There was a bouquet of white lilies on the table in the foyer, and a piece of notepaper next to the vase.

Darling-Must be you had a very busy day. I missed hearing your voice, even to tell me you had no time to talk. Joan reserved for the four of us at 7:30 at Patroon. Très Americain, which suits me fine. Dreaming of a great steak, a serious Burgundy, and a night with you. Am off to some appointments and will see you there. À toute a l’heure, ma princesse.

I didn’t want to leave the comfortable cocoon of my home. I wanted to give Luc all my attention before he left for the West Coast in the morning.

His professional world-completely luxe and extravagant-was so diametrically opposed to the trauma that surrounded my colleagues and me that sometimes it was hard for me to imagine how we communicated at times like this. An overdone salmon, not enough mustard in the vinaigrette, or a table that couldn’t turn over on time seemed to me, an outsider, to be the kind of urgencies restaurateurs confronted. I knew there was more to Luc’s business than that, but on days like this one, it all seemed so frivolous.

I went into the bedroom and stripped off my clothes. I tried to sneak into the bathroom to turn on the water for a steaming hot shower without glancing at myself in the mirror, but there was no escaping how tired I looked, and how overwrought I felt.

I dried off and wrapped the towel around me as I slipped under the comforter to take a short nap, setting the alarm to make sure I didn’t oversleep.

At six-thirty, I awakened and put myself together for the evening. My wardrobe palette was heavy on pale blues and greens, even for fall and winter, but I didn’t feel like color tonight. I dressed in black-a clingy sweater and a short pleated skirt.

The makeup helped, and a crystal barrette to hold back my hair added some sparkle around my face.

I was ready to go downstairs to find a taxi when my phone rang. Caller ID displayed the telephone exchange of the morgue.

“Hey, Coop. Just thought you’d like a heads-up, give Battaglia a shout about the autopsy results,” Mike said. “Dr. Assif called it. Fatal incised wound associated with an air embolism in the jugular vein. The cut is longer than it is deep. Killer just hit the right place. Tina would have collapsed immediately. No struggle. No defensive wounds.”

“And the weapon?”

“It’s not any of the ones we submitted for comparison, but Assif likes the angles on those conservators’ paring knives. She’ll be testing a slew of them.”

“So sad,” I said. “And still no news of Tina’s mother?”

“Commissioner Scully has the State Department on it now. I’ll let you know what we hear,” Mike said. He hesitated before speaking again, and for some reason I couldn’t explain, I stayed on the line. “Coop? Everything okay?”

“Just thinking about the week, the two women. Tina Barr and Karla Vastasi.”

“You sound down.”

“I just took a nap. I’ll shake it off.”

“Want company? Me and Mercer-”

“No-”

“Sorry. Forgot I was dealing with the grammar police. Mercer and I can come over for a while.”

“Thanks, Mike. You need to chill as much as I do.”

“Call you tomorrow, then. Double or nothing on Jeopardy!”

I left a message on Battaglia’s home machine. In another effort to put the day behind me, I dabbed perfume behind my ears and down the length of my throat.

I wrapped a long cashmere stole around my shoulders, applied a new layer of lipstick, and headed for the lobby.

Oscar held the door open for me and I waved good-bye, grateful for the crisp autumn weather.

I walked to the end of the driveway on Seventy-first Street, knowing the odds were better that I’d find a yellow cab from there. The Marymount College auditorium was just down the block, and weekend nights there was a steady flow of drop-offs for theatrical events at the school.

I stepped off the sidewalk and raised my arm in the air. Three or four cabs were lined up on the far side of the one-way street, queuing to discharge their fares. Another that was already empty flashed his headlights and lurched in my direction.

When I got into the cab, I leaned toward the opening in the Plexiglas partition and spoke to the driver. “Good evening. I’d like to go to Forty-sixth Street, between Lex and Third.”

“You got it.” He started the meter running and I sat back, my head against the window.

After the second light, he made the turn onto Lexington Avenue on our way downtown. The reggae music coming from the speaker behind my head was too loud, but there was no point getting into a squabble during the short ride.

“You got a team, miss?”

“Excuse me?”

“I aksed you if you got a team. Baseball.”

The driver was looking at me in the mirror. I could see only the outlines of his black face highlighted by white teeth.

I returned the smile. “Yankees. I’m a Yankee fan.”

“Dodgers. I like the Dodgers.”

“You’re lucky-you got Joe Torre.”

“That’s not why they my team. It’s Los Angeles. I got family in Los Angeles.”

“Nice,” I said, looking at the designer windows at Bloomingdale’s as we drove by.

“You got family, miss?”

There was no winning. Tell the guy I wasn’t interested in his chatter and I’d be lucky if all he did was call me rude.

“You hear me?”

“I do.”

“Where? Where they be?”

I smiled wanly this time. “All spread out.”

“Sisters and brothers?”

“Two brothers.”

“Here in New York?”

“No.”

We were speeding past the nondescript buildings on Lexington till we were stopped by a red light at the rear entrance to the Waldorf, mercifully close to my stop.

“I aksed you where they be?”

His voice had an edge to it now. I put my hand on the door handle, grabbing a ten-dollar bill from my purse. Then I did what I told every nervous tourist to do in a yellow cab, and looked below the partition for the driver’s permit and photo. The plastic sleeve that was supposed to hold his identification was empty.

“ Texas,” I lied. “ Texas and Minnesota. You want to release the lock, please?” I was pulling at it, but the driver clearly had the controls.

The light changed and he floored the gas pedal, throwing me back against the seat.

“Good to know, miss. Case I want to do my own family search,” he said, laughing at my growing panic. “And you ought to leave Wesley right where he’s at in Los Angeles. Be real good for your health to do that.”

How many days and nights had this cabbie been waiting for me to come out of my building alone?

“It’s Griggs, Miss Prosecutor. Anton Griggs.”

“Open the door,” I screamed at him, trying to grab my phone.

He braked to a halt on the corner of Forty-seventh Street and I heard the click of the lock. I practically fell onto the pavement as I pushed at the door and jumped out of the cab, scraping my arm against the rough edge of the door. The shawl caught on the exposed metal as I slammed it shut.

“You let Wesley be, girl,” he called out to me. “’Cause I got more brothers than you got brains.”

My chest was heaving as Anton Griggs sped away, the cashmere stole hanging from the side of the cab like a limp body being dragged through the city streets.