The Kills

13

Six o'clock on Friday afternoon, I was sitting in Battaglia's office with Mike Chapman, Mercer Wallace, and Brenda Whitney, who was in charge of the district attorney's press relations.

"You think kidnap or you think runaway?" the DA asked. The smoke from his cigar mingled with the smoke of the cheaper brands he had given to Mike and Mercer.

Brenda coughed as I answered. "The foster mother thinks the kid just bolted from her car and took off, while she went into the high school to pick up her older child. But I've never laid eyes on her before," I said of Cicely Wykoff, "so it's impossible for me to gauge her credibility."

"What's the department doing to find him?" Battaglia asked of the cops.

"I called headquarters from the courtroom. Chief of D's put a couple of guys from Major Case on it. We're dumping phones, doing a background on the foster mother and everybody in her orbit, and checking with the crossing guards near the school to see if they can ID the kid," Mike answered.

"Where's Mrs. Wykoff now?"

"Pat McKinney assigned the investigation to the Child Abuse Unit. I'm not sure who's interviewing her. He figures they'll get a lot more information if she isn't worried about me using it in the case. The child welfare agency had drilled that into her."

"He's right, you know," Battaglia said, chewing on the cigar end as he talked. "Besides, you're in the middle of a trial. You can't possibly handle this."

"I know it," I said. "But the kid's life is a hell of a lot more important than the Vallis rape. I hate to say that, but the reason she was attacked was because she wanted to make the boy safe. I'm ready to walk away from this case if it's freaked out the child so much."

"And let him go back to that lunatic father?" Mercer asked. "No way."

"Boss, I know I won't be able to concentrate on the testimony if we haven't found the boy by Monday."

"Don't jump the gun, Alex. Do what you've got to do and trust the PD to do their bit. Can't you buy a little time from Moffett?"

"He looks ready to tank the whole thing. We'll finish the Vallis cross on Monday. Then I've got a waitress from the coffee shop, the cops, and the nurse. Without the boy, the judge is likely to dismiss for failure to make out a prima facie case if Robelon is persuasive when he makes his motion."

"Brenda, how do we handle this? I'm sure DCPI gave it to the press," Battaglia said. He knew how to spin the media better than most people knew how to spell their names.

The NYPD's deputy commissioner for public information would have already released a photograph of Dulles Tripping, asking for help in locating him.

"They're faxing over a copy of their press release. They don't want to connect it to the trial at all. They're just sticking with the missing child approach. The chief was hoping to make it in time for coverage on the six o'clock news. It'll probably be the lead story by eleven."

Mercer had dropped off Paige Vallis at her apartment in TriBeCa and returned to my office before Battaglia had called me in. "You'd better get back on the phone with Paige and explain it to her before she hears it on television," I told him.

"This is going to hit her hard. She'll blame herself for his disappearance," he said.

"There goes my jury," I said, practically groaning. So wrapped up in worry about the boy, I hadn't thought about the need for press announcements to mobilize the public to help find Dulles. My jurors would see the weekend news on television and in print. There had been so much testimony about Dulles, through Paige, that they would certainly connect the fact that he had vanished to our trial.

"Didn't the judge instruct them not to listen to media accounts involving your case?" Battaglia asked.

Chapman blew a smoke ring and stood up, helping himself to another cigar from the DA's humidor. "Yeah. The jurors won't dare read the page-one headlines about the case, just like I'm about to slither into a hot tub tonight for a ménage with Sharon Stone and blondie, here, and like you won't be sitting behind that desk when you're eighty-five years old. Get a grip, Mr. B-they'll devour the story."

"I'll keep you both posted over the weekend," I said to Battaglia and Whitney.

We walked back to my office. Mercer said good night to us, heading over to the sixth floor across the street, which housed the Child Abuse Unit. He was going to bring the detectives up to speed on everything he knew about Dulles Tripping. Nancy Taggart was probably already there, being debriefed.

"So much for bonding with my witness," I said, taking the paper bag from Mike and locking the Yankees jacket in a filing cabinet. "You got anything else for me?"

"Well, before your weekend was ruined, I was going to ask you to come with me for a couple of hours tomorrow morning. Just wanted an extra pair of eyes going over Queenie's apartment one more time."

"What about Sarah?" I asked.

"Somehow, I don't feature going over a crime scene with Sarah's toddler and infant in tow behind her. Too much drool minimizes the potential to pick up DNA."

"Why is it that everybody is so sympathetic to motherhood?" I asked, smiling. "I haven't got any excuses that stack up against breast-feeding, Saturday-morning soccer games, runny noses, or a trip to Costco to stockpile Pampers."

"Hey, if the choice is encouraging you to stay in bed or come with me to Harlem, it's not even a close call. Pick you up after your ballet class?"

Mike knew the drill. I had studied dance since childhood, and used my weekly lesson now not only as a form of exercise, but as a way to relieve some of the tension of this all-consuming job.

"Ten o'clock, in front of William's studio."

"And do me a favor this time. Shower before you get dressed. Last time I met you after class, you smelled like a goat."

"Last time," I reminded him, "you appeared in the middle of class to drag me out because you found a dead rapist Mercer and I'd been after for two years. Trust me, I'll even put perfume on."

"I'll up the ante for you. Remember I told you the kids claimed that Queenie danced for them?"

"Yeah."

"Well, apparently before she had the stroke, she could really shake it up." Mike removed some photographs from the Redweld he carried as his case folder. "You'd have gotten along well with Queenie. She was a dancer, too."

I reached for the faded black-and-white pictures that Mike handed to me.

"See what I mean?" he asked. "Just a bit more exotic than you. Think of the money she saved on costumes."

In most of the images, there was nothing between the body of McQueen Ransome and the lens of the camera. A rhinestone tiara on her head, long black satin gloves up over her elbows, and some high-heeled strappy sandals-her exquisite figure was displayed with great confidence and pride. She appeared to be onstage, dancing for an audience. No wonder great photographers like Van Derzee had worked with her.

I turned over a few of the photos looking for anything that identified the time or place. On the back of several was a handwritten notation of the year, 1942.

"Where did you find these?" I asked.

"In one of the piles of stuff that had been dumped out of the drawers."

"Any more up there?"

"There are lots of photos. I just grabbed a couple of these to lure you in. I'm wondering if someone found all this old kinky stuff and it turned him on."

"Let's hope not. Queenie could hardly be confused with the nineteen-or twenty-year-old in these pictures. But you're right, I'm in for your morning trip," I said, gathering up my files to head for home.

"Aren't you going to stay for Jeopardy!?" Mike asked.

"Jake's back in town. Dinner at home. Why don't you scoot and take Val out someplace for a change?"

"Still here?" Lee Rudden asked, standing in the doorway with a bottle in each hand. He was one of the best young lawyers in the unit. "Want a cold brew, Alex?"

"I'm out of here, thanks." By the end of the business day on Friday, most of the bureau chiefs brought in some six-packs to end the week with a collegial get-together.

"Let me take that off your hands," Mike said, taking the offered beer from Lee.

"Got a minute? Can I run something by you real quick?"

I took the brass hourglass from my desk and turned it over. "I'll give you three, and the meter is running." One of my favorite law school professors had amused us with a similar response. Every time a student asked for a minute, it inevitably had turned into no less than ten, and now it was the same with the members of my unit.

"You know that case you assigned me on Monday?" Lee asked.

I nodded at him, but the beginning of the week seemed like a lifetime ago.

"The girl who came in from Long Island for the Marilyn Manson concert, remember?"

"Yeah. Someone spotted her standing alone on the train platform at Penn Station, crying her eyes out. Called the police."

"Right. Well, I finally got her in for the interview today. Twelve earrings in her left ear, a pierced tongue and a navel to match. Eighteen years old. She came in to Madison Square Garden with her friends, but they all got separated before the concert. The others went to buy some dope."

"And your girl?"

"She just waited for them near the stage door, holding up a poster she made at home to get the attention of the bassist."

"I'll bite. What'd it say?" I asked.

"'Fuck me, Twiggy!'"

Chapman laughed as he swigged his beer. "Don't tell me she's complaining that he actually did?"

"Nope," Lee continued. "Along came an enterprising young man who said he was part of the band's stage crew. He offered to get Alicia front-row tickets in the mosh pit, in exchange for a blowjob. So Twiggy could see the sign real good."

"This guy's taking scalping to a new level," Mike said.

"Alicia didn't mind the price a bit. They went into an alley around the corner, on Thirty-third Street, and she did the deed. The mook didn't come up with the tickets, though. She never reconnected with her buddies, and she ended up using the money for her train ride home to buy a cheap seat in the peanut gallery to hear the band and hold up her sign hoping Twiggy could see it."

"So the tears?"

"Tears for Twiggy and the lost opportunity. Says she lied to the cop and told him she was raped 'cause she once had a friend who was assaulted in the city, and those cops drove her little buddy all the way home to Syosset, free of charge."

I shooed both Mike and Lee out the door. "Doesn't sound like you need me at all."

"Just want to know whether you want me to charge her for filing a false report."

"Who'd the cops lock up? The guy she had oral sex with?"

"Yeah. Originally she claimed he forced her. Now she admits it was consensual. But he's been in jail for five days."

"How much time did the cop put in on this?" Mike asked.

"Spent half the night with the kid at the hospital, then schlepping her home to Mom and Dad and explaining the whole situation. The parents broke his balls, even though he was just the messenger."

"Book 'er," Mike said. "Whaddaya say, Coop?"

"I'm with Mike. Let's go, guys."

We turned the corner into the main hallway, which was dark and quiet. A figure was sitting at the security desk opposite the elevators, talking on a cell phone, his back to us. It was long past the hour the guards remained on duty anyplace in the building except the entrance lobby.

As we passed the desk, the man in the chair spun around and spoke. I recognized Graham Hoyt just as he said my name. "Ms. Cooper? Alex? Could I speak with you?"

I took Mike by the arm, knowing that he would recognize that as a signal to stay with me. I wanted him there as a witness to any conversation I had with Dulles's lawyer. "Sure. How'd you get in here at this hour?"

"Oh, I dropped by to see one of my law school classmates, and had this idea I wanted to talk to you about. I went by your office on my way out, and when I heard voices, I decided to wait for you."

"Who's that?" Mike asked, with an edge in his voice. "Your law school classmate?"

"Jack Kliger, in the Rackets Bureau. Took him a bottle of champagne. He and his wife just had a baby."

Jack was a bit older than I, and had gone to Columbia. It was true that his wife had recently given birth to their third child. I could check Hoyt out with him next week, but it seemed obvious he knew Kliger.

"What did you want to see me about? I've got an appointment I'd like to keep this evening."

He looked at Chapman, and then back to me.

"Mike Chapman," I said to Hoyt. "Homicide. He stays."

"I'm in the middle of a difficult situation," Hoyt said, with some hesitation. "Peter Robelon doesn't know I'm here. I think he-and Andrew Tripping-would take my head off if they thought I was talking to you about Dulles. But I think you and I ought to find a way to agree on some kind of solution that would be in the best interest of the child."

"I smell a setup here, Mr. Hoyt." I walked to the elevator and pressed the button. "Aren't you the same guy who told the court just yesterday that Dulles's injuries came from playing lacrosse? I don't think we're likely to agree on anything."

"You've got the detective here as a witness. What if I told you I think I can find a way for the boy to talk to you?"

I turned to face him.

"I'm very willing to do that, Ms. Cooper."

"Then why the hell did you say that to Judge Moffett about his bruises?"

"Because I was standing in court next to Peter Robelon and Andrew Tripping. That's been the party line, the defense to that portion of the case. You knew that."

"First things first. Do you know anything about where the boy is right this minute?" I pointed to the window that faced my colleagues' offices in the Child Abuse Unit. "There's a massive man-hunt to find the child. If there's something you know, that's our first obligation."

"I'm well aware of that. I haven't a clue at the moment, but I'm here to see you because I believe that if Dulles ran away from the Wykoff home-and that's what I'm hoping, as opposed to someone snatching him- ifhe ran away, he's very likely to try to contact my wife or me before he calls Robelon."

"Because you're the legal guardian?" I asked.

"Because we've known him since he was born."

"What's the connection?"

"Andrew, Peter, and I all were at Yale together. I met Peter first, freshman year. We were both in a lot of the same classes all the way through, we were both heading for law school."

"And Andrew?"

Hoyt was quite direct. "I never liked Andrew very much. I was madly in love with the woman he married. Dulles's mother, Sally Tripping. I dated her for a couple of years. She was also a classmate of ours. Sally left me for Andrew."

"Doesn't say much for you, pal," Chapman said.

"Andrew's illness wasn't really in evidence then. He's quite smart. Brilliant, maybe. He didn't spin out of control until after we left school. I think he was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was in the military."

"Were you still in touch with Sally until her death-I mean, when she killed herself?" I asked.

"No, sad to say. That's one of the reasons I wanted to involve myself in helping the boy. It's a bit of guilt, that perhaps she'd be alive today if I had been a better friend. Of course," Hoyt said, "I still don't believe she took her own life. Maybe things would have been different if you were on that investigation, Mr. Chapman."

I was interested in Hoyt's relationship with Dulles. "Maybe we should arrange for you to talk to the Major Case detectives. Would you mind if we put a recording device on your home phone, in case the boy calls?"

"Not at all."

"Can you take him over to the guys in Child Abuse?" I asked Mike.

"Sure."

"I probably have more sophisticated caller ID equipment than the NYPD, but do what you can."

"What's in it for you?" I asked, puzzled by this offer to help. "I mean, trying to arrange a meeting with me and Dulles."

"I want a good life for this child, Ms. Cooper. I want him to have a life without his father, to be absolutely honest with you. Now that puts me in a sticky situation legally, which is why I hope this visit can be off-the-record. I've made a lot of money in the last ten years."

"Practicing law?" Chapman asked. "All Coop gets is a city paycheck every two weeks and a shitload of aggravation."

"Investments. Clients who've put me into lucrative deals. A bit of good advice and a lot of luck. Bottom line? I've got a wife I adore, an apartment on Central Park West, a beach house on Nantucket, and a ninety-two-foot yacht to sail me there. What I don't have," Graham Hoyt said to both of us, "is a child. My wife and I would like to adopt Dulles Tripping. We can give him a good life, a stable one-maybe even a joyous one."

"And Andrew knows this?"

"Of course not. It's why I'd be thrilled to see you put his ass in jail. The best that happens is that he might step out of the way and clear a path for us to file for adoption. The worst would be that he's out of the child's life, behind bars, until Dulles reaches his majority and can make decisions for himself."

"How about Peter Robelon?" Battaglia didn't trust him, but I assumed part of that stemmed from Robelon's plans to run against him in the next primary. "Does he have any idea what you're interested in doing?"

"Look, Ms. Cooper. Why don't both of you sit down with me for an hour or two tomorrow? I'll lay out everything for you. Hopefully, by then, Dulles will have come to his senses and returned to Mrs. Wykoff-or called me. You tell me exactly what it is you want to get from the child, and I'll give you all the family history I can muster. We have the same basic goal, after all. Fair?"

The day was shot anyway. "In the afternoon?" I asked. "Want to come here?"

"I'll tell you what. Meet me at my club at two o'clock. It's right in Midtown. We can have lunch and figure out a plan."

He reached for another business card and wrote out the address.

"I was asking you about Robelon. Don't you think he'd have something to say about this? Tripping must be paying him a good piece of change to defend him."

"Tripping's got no money," Hoyt said.

"But," I answered, "I thought he inherited some when his mother died last fall."

"He inherited a run-down cottage on a half-acre of land in Tonawanda County, a pantry full of his mother's homemade preserves, and his late father's gene for madness."

"And his business?"

"There are enough legitimate former feds to do all the security consulting the government or private enterprises need. Nobody wants to hire someone with Andrew's psych background. He pulls in next to nothing from that. We all throw him some odd jobs now and then, and help him with money to live-and make bail."

"So what's in it for Robelon?"

"Tell Paul Battaglia not to lean on me until after the adoption procedure is completed, and he'll be thrilled to know that Tripping can give him whatever he wants on Robelon. That's the real reason I stopped in to see Jack Kliger tonight. Tripping claims he's got information on several insider trading deals that Peter Robelon engineered."

I was incredulous. "He's blackmailed Peter into representing him for this trial?"

Hoyt picked up his briefcase and walked me to the elevator. "Peter Robelon would kill to keep Andrew Tripping out of jail."