Night Watch

TWENTY-EIGHT

It was six-fifteen when Laura said good night and Mercer told me that Mike wanted to have dinner with us to talk about things.

The grand jury vote was not a matter of public record until the filing of the indictment with the court, so Battaglia would have no shot at a press conference this evening. The papers would be signed by the foreman at two tomorrow afternoon, and then an arraignment in the higher court would take place on Friday.

“I don’t want to hang out tonight. I’m whipped.”

“I’m all spiffed up with nowhere to go,” Mercer said.

“Take your wife to dinner. She’s hardly seen you this week. Let Mike quiz her about her love life, ’cause I’m off duty as of right now.”

“Vickee’s got a girls’ night out, and I think Logan prefers the babysitter’s cooking to mine. Who said anything about your love life?”

“Mike won’t talk to me about the cases. I get that. It’s just-I’m not up for being a punching bag tonight.”

“I’ll give you a ride uptown. You’ve got a few miles of snarled traffic that might make you change your mind,” Mercer said, turning off the light switch and closing my office door behind us.

It was one of those rare nights I could leave all my folders behind on my desk. I was looking forward to a quiet evening alone. I daydreamed about drawing a hot bath and sipping Scotch in the tub while I tried to let myself relax. I needed to make sense of what a train wreck I’d made of my romance.

We took the elevator down and walked around the corner to Mercer’s car. In just a few minutes, with local radio news telling us the FDR was jammed, Mercer began the slow crawl up the Bowery to the East Side. We passed the time talking about everything except what mattered most to me. Mercer was sensitive, as always, to my mood.

My cell rang and caller ID showed it was Mike’s home phone. “You can pick it up, Alex,” Mercer said. “I’m fresh out of interesting gossip. He’s not interrupting anything.”

“He’s going straight to voice mail, my friend. Mike’s interrupting my attempts to get in touch with my saner self.”

“That’s a Herculean task, Ms. Cooper, right at this very moment.”

Now the text function began to vibrate. “Whoops. I love it when he gets desperate and has to communicate with me silently,” I said, pressing the button to open it.

I looked at the message and laughed out loud. We were stopped at a red light and I held the screen up in front of Mercer: C›~~~~~~.

“Keyboard sperm,” he said, also chuckling at the image Mike had sent, a Sex Crimes Unit shorthand detectives often sent prosecutors when DNA results came in. “I hope he’s trying to tell you something professional, not personal.”

“Fingers crossed on that count,” I said, pocketing my phone.

“You’re not even answering the text? C’mon, see what the boy wants.”

“I’m not having dinner with you guys, period. I’m ordering in from Shun Lee and that’s the end of it. I don’t want to talk to Mike or text him or take any of his crap tonight. Over and out.”

Mercer’s phone rang next.

“He’s relentless,” I said, as Mercer answered it.

“Yes, indeed, Detective Chapman. I am holding one beat-up blond hostage in my car, and she wants absolutely no part of you,” Mercer said, pausing for the reply. “Oh, it’s me you wanted?”

He listened while Mike explained something to him, then spoke again. “Okay, so dinner’s not happening?” Another pause. “Yeah, I’ve got the lab report with me. Sure thing. Alex can run it up.”

I assumed I looked as exasperated as I felt.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, girl.”

“I’m sorry to break up your dinner plans, but-”

“Not a problem.”

“But I’m not running anything up to Mike.”

“When he goes in tonight, the lieutenant wants the DNA report on that rape-homicide we’re working together. That was a professional sperm symbol Mike e-mailed to you. I picked up the lab papers today on my way in, when I stopped for the certified copy of Baby Mo’s results.”

“It’s too creepy in Mike’s apartment. It’s still like a shrine to Valerie. He’s got to get her clothes out of there. I’m not going up.”

“Ancient history. Vickee took care of that a couple of months ago.”

“Really? You guys are great. That was a sweet thing to do.”

“And just because I’m asking you to, you’re going to take that gray envelope out of my briefcase and go upstairs. I don’t care if you don’t go inside, I don’t care if you don’t want to see him. Just slip it under Mike’s door while I stay double-parked, then I’ll drop you at home. The dude’s been doing double-duty for you all week, Alex.”

“Guilt me, Mercer. Just lay it on.” I slouched down in my seat. “I’ll take the papers upstairs, okay?”

“I promise to wait for you,” he said, turning up the radio so I could listen to Smokey Robinson tracing the tracks of his tears. The ride from there was chatter bemoaning a Yankee season without Posada and trying to schedule a May weekend on the Vineyard for Mercer, Vickee, and Logan.

Mercer stopped the car in front of a fire hydrant close to the dilapidated brownstone where Mike lived. I got out with the folder and opened the door to the vestibule. Instead of his name on the plate next to the bell for 4A, the typed tag read COFFIN. I pressed it, and thirty seconds later the buzzer went off, admitting me to the hallway.

I grabbed the banister and started trotting up the steps. With each flight, the cracks and chips in the paint seemed to be longer and deeper.

I reached the fourth-floor landing and stopped to catch my breath. Mercer was right about Mike’s concern for me this week, and all he had done on my behalf.

I knocked and said, “It’s me, Mike. I’ve got your papers.”

The door opened. Luc Rouget smiled at me and took me in his arms.