Terminal City

TWELVE

“So you were starting to tell me about Corinne’s brother,” Mike said to Mercer.

“Yeah. He’s as broken up as you might guess. Pug’s going to talk to him. Corinne’s brother gave us all the contact information for Paco, as well as his family. Rocco’s got somebody going out to pick Paco up. Did you divine anything from the photographs, Detective?”

“Corinne’s not talking to me yet, Mercer.”

“Dead girl winds up in the very hotel where the president is coming to stay, and her ex-lover has a grudge against the top dog.”

“That’s a major leap to make,” Mike said, reaching for the remote control and turning on the television set hanging above the whiteboard across the room.

“Well, we’ve got a major case and nothing else that even smells like a clue,” Mercer said, throwing his pad on the table and pausing to look at the pictures. “Turn the volume down before you wake the dead.”

For as long as I could remember, Mike had an addiction to the Final Jeopardy! question on the popular long-running television show. The location didn’t matter-morgue or steak joint, crime scene or courthouse-he’d find a way to the nearest television and tune in to test his own bottomless well of trivial information against whoever was in his company.

The three of us bet against one another every time we were together. Mike’s strength reflected his deep knowledge of all things military-and, like me, great affection for old movies and Motown music. Mercer’s upbringing by a single father who was a mechanic at Delta Air Lines had infused him with a love for world geography and modes of transportation, even in the most remote locales. I had majored in literature before law was ever a career path I’d considered, so I knew a lot about works from Beowulf and The Decameron to the romantic poets and Victorian novelists.

“That’s Alex Trebek rattling the bones downstairs in the autopsy room. Not me,” Mike said. “And don’t tell me ‘not I’ again, Coop, like you’re always doing. I can see you’re in that kind of mood-grammar police on patrol.”

“I gave that business up while you were away. Can’t change the spots on this leopard, that’s for sure.”

Mercer laughed. “Wolverine. I told you wolverine.”

“I get the feeling I’m missing something here.” Mike unmuted the television as Trebek stood in front of the board with the final category.

“Twentieth-Century Words,” the TV host said. He repeated the category, and as the three contestants picked up their pens to write the question down, Trebek reminded viewers that there were new words entering the lexicon all the time. “Your Oxford English Dictionary won’t help you with this one, I don’t think.”

“I’ll throw in my twenty bucks,” Mercer said, “but this has Ms. Cooper written all over it.”

“Just because the kid’s got a sharp tongue doesn’t mean she’s on top of all the street jive. I’m good for twenty.”

The category screen disappeared and was replaced by the Final Jeopardy! answer, right after I had agreed to join in with the guys.

The answer appeared in the giant blue-background box on the screen: COINED IN 1979, THIS WORD MEANS ROMANTIC ATTRACTION THAT RESULTS IN MANIC, OBSESSIVE NEED TO HAVE FEELINGS RECIPROCATED.

Mercer started to laugh again as Mike’s feet dropped to the floor with an exaggerated bang.

“How stupid could I have been, Mercer? Of course she knows this.”

“Don’t go there, Mike,” Mercer said, wagging a finger at him.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the word is or what Mike is talking about,” I said, picking up my case folder. “And now I’m really hungry and I need a stiff drink.”

The first two contestants drew blanks, as had I.

Mike pointed at the screen, as if trying to get the attention of the third player. “C’mon, lady. What is Coopster-itis? It’ll be in all the psych write-ups before too long. Emphasis manic. Emphasis obsessive.”

“None of you have this?” Trebek asked, then tsked them for not knowing the question. “Not even venturing a guess?”

“What is limerence?” Trebek said, repeating the word twice.

Each of the contestants groaned.

“Obsessive love, folks. An infatuation that’s not necessarily reciprocated,” the host continued. “Coined in 1979 by a psychologist named Dorothy Tennov,” Trebek said. “I guess that was a tough one.”

“I got to say, Coop, that’s a word right out of your playbook.”

“Never heard of it.”

“But you live it, girl. Infatuation. Not necessarily reciprocated. Like first there was this investment banker type, then the newscaster dude, then the Frenchman with the frying pan.”

“You are so close to the fire, Mr. Chapman,” I said, “you might get scorched if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”

“Don’t knock my girl off her game,” Mercer said, crossing behind Mike as he tried to playfully muzzle him. “I need her positive energy beaming in on finding a killer.”

“So buy us dinner,” Mike said, flashing his best grin at me. “I’m all tapped out after being suspended without pay for three weeks. Oh, and then there’s the dimes I blew on the rest of the vacation.”

“Dinner it is,” Mercer said. “That’ll give Rocco’s guys time to get to the Bronx and see if they can bring Paco in for questioning. I can flip back down to talk to him after we eat.”

“Let’s shoot up to Primola,” I said. My favorite Italian restaurant was on Second Avenue near 64th Street, a ten-minute ride from the morgue and an atmospheric world away, part of the Upper East Side scene. The food was consistently good and the staff took great care of me and my friends. “I’m obsessing about prosciutto and figs and maybe a half order of pasta. Positively manic about it. My limerence for food is so much more rewarding than a romance.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mike said.

“Now that’s a joke. You’ve probably sublimated more with food than anyone on the planet,” I said.

“Another twentieth-century word I’m not familiar with. Sublimating? What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“She sort of means you eat all the time instead of hooking up with the ladies,” Mercer said.

“Guaranteed less agita in chowing down,” Mike said. “Anyway, I don’t have my car.”

“Neither do I. Mercer’s the wheelman.”

The three of us said good night to the security guard and walked around the corner to Mercer’s car. I climbed into the backseat and rested my head. Mercer filled Mike in on our day, including my story about Raymond Tanner.

We parked near the restaurant and were greeted at the door by the owner, Giuliano. The bar was crowded and busy, packed with well-dressed Upper East Siders who liked the scene as much as they enjoyed the food.

“Ciao, Signorina Alessandra,” the big man said, sticking out his hand to Mike and Mercer. “Nice to have you here.”

“You have a quiet table in the back?” I asked.

“Right here,” Giuliano said. “I’m going to put you right here at table two, by the window, so Dominick can take care of you. Just give me a minute.”

Giuliano wanted us to have the best service in the front of the always-crowded room, but the seating was too visible for a serious catch-up with Mike.

“The usual, Alessandra?” Dominick asked.

“No Scotch tonight, thanks. Something light and refreshing.”

“I’ll bring you a nice pinot gri, okay?”

“Perfect.”

Mike ordered a dirty martini, super dry, with onions and olives. Mercer, who was counting on going back to work, asked for a large bottle of sparkling water.

“You ready to order?”

“Not yet, Dominick. We just need to relax for a while,” I said.

In the three minutes it took for the drinks to arrive, we were already back in conversation about Corinne Thatcher’s death.

I told Mike about the work she had been doing with returning vets, and Paco’s vituperative rage at the president for his brother’s injury.

“Then she broke up with Paco,” Mercer said.

“So you can’t rule out limericks, can you?”

“Limerence,” I said, correcting Mike.

“See, I knew all along you had that word in your vocabulary.”

“I just heard it for the first time tonight.”

“Obsessive love. Paco makes mincemeat of Corinne.”

Mercer looked at his watch. “I should have a handle on that before midnight.”

We were all aware the clock was ticking and the FBI would be on board by midday tomorrow to do the presidential advance work.

“But why the Waldorf?” I asked. “Too much drama, and he couldn’t get it done alone.”

“I’ve been thinking about those drawings on her skin,” Mercer said.

“The ladders?” Mike asked.

“The double helix is constructed on a ladder,” Mercer said, sketching one with his finger on the tablecloth. “Suppose it’s someone with a familiar DNA profile. A killer who’s already in the data bank, taunting us to figure out who he is. The ladder is the frame for his genetic fingerprint, which is in the system.”

“Has to be a really sick motherfucker to plan one this big. If there were fava beans in her belly at the autopsy, I’d be looking for Hannibal Lecter.”

“No fava beans. Just a lot of green salad,” Mercer said. “And we don’t know this guy, because his turf is some other part of the country.”

“It’s a thought.”

“But your SVU buddies have been checking serial killer cases all day,” I said.

“So they need to go international,” Mercer said. “Maybe Canada, maybe Europe.”

When Dominick saw a break in the conversation, he approached us to take our order. I went first, followed by Mike’s spaghetti alle vongole with a grilled veal chop, and Mercer’s salad with a chicken paillard.

It was almost ten by the time we finished eating dinner. I had sipped two glasses of the chilled white wine and was thinking about whether to top it off with a third.

Mercer dialed Rocco Correlli’s number and waited for him to pick up. Mike was staring across the room and seemed miles away from both of us.

“Loo? I’m hanging close, hoping I can do the boyfriend’s interview tonight.”

I couldn’t hear the lieutenant’s answer but saw the expression on Mercer’s face change.

“When did that go down?” he said, listening again. There was a long pause while Mercer took in information, motioning to Mike for a piece of paper and pulling a pen from his jacket pocket. “What street? Say that again. What kind of track marks?”

Mercer ended the call. “You want the bad news first, or the really bad news?”

“The bad,” Mike said.

“Corinne’s boyfriend took his brother home today.”

“Home?” I asked.

“Yeah. They flew to the DR at nine A.M. Two one-way tickets. Hasta la vista, Paco.”

“So the good news is we can have another round,” Mike said, waving his hand at the bartender. “What could be really bad about that?”

“The really bad news is that the cops just found another body.”

“A woman?” I asked. “Another mutilation?”

“Not this time. It’s a guy, actually,” Mercer said. “And you’d better make that cocktail a roadie. We ought to take a look.”

I didn’t get the link to our homicide. “The hotel again?”

“No. A deserted alleyway in the East 40s. What we’ve been calling ladders? First cops on the scene looked at the same lines and saw them as tracks.”

“Track marks?” I asked. “Like a junkie?”

“Railroad tracks. We’ve been looking at the marks on Thatcher’s body like little ladders, just because that’s how Rocco described them to us the first time he talked about them. That’s the power of suggestion. But these cops find a body right outside Grand Central and they make a different connection.”

“Railroad tracks,” Mike said, repeating Mercer’s words. “What the hell does Corinne Thatcher have to do with something like that?”

“Maybe the killer first saw her on a train,” I said. “Maybe the madman’s a trainspotter. Maybe he…”

“Your maybes can fill a trash can, Coop. As usual,” Mike said. “Who’s the dead man?”

“Thirty years old or so. Caucasian,” Mercer said. “’Bout as filthy dirty as can be. Single stab wound in the back. Could be homeless, ’cept he’s got some decent clothes on. Labels and all that.”

Dominick came over with the bill, and Mercer stood up to pay.

“Found on the loneliest piece of pavement in Manhattan,” Mercer said. “DePew Place.”