“Well, that gives us some breathing time.”
“Rethink that one, Alex,” Ryan said, “because the black panther is roaming back in your sights. You want to see Ellen Gunsher’s knees wobble like jelly, you should have been at the arraignment when Lem showed up.”
The picture was coming into focus now. It was one thing for Mercer to want my help, but clear to me that Battaglia picked up the phone to order me back when Lemuel Howell III entered a notice of appearance with the court.
I let out a low whistle. “What a smart move. The Ivorian economist and rising political star represented by one of the top-tier trial lawyers in the country, who happens to be African American. Lem won’t just play the race card, he’ll have a whole deck of tricks up his sleeve.”
Lem had been one of my first supervisors in the office, dubbed the blank panther by Mike Chapman not because of his skin color, but because of his sleek elegance and smooth moves, inside and out of the courtroom. He’d been nicknamed Mr. Triplicate by his adversaries. It wasn’t just the trio of Roman numerals after his name, but his habit of rephrasing all his arguments three times. I didn’t need to read the arraignment minutes to know that Mohammed Gil-Darsin had undoubtedly been railroaded on the flimsiest of evidence, gossamer threads of lies, and unsubstantiated wisps of a complaint.
“You understand why the district attorney reeled you in, Alex,” Mercer said. “He knows you have a great track record against Lem, not to mention he’s soft on you.”
“Soft on me? Are you crazy? Lem just thinks he taught me everything I know, and that if he pulls the right strings he can control me like a marionette.”
My phone rang. I checked to make sure it wasn’t Battaglia’s hotline to me, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Bring your crew over to Brenda’s office.” It was Mike Chapman, who was obviously still in the building. “There’s breaking news on the telly.”
“What-?” I tried to ask about it, but Mike hung up on me.
Brenda Whitney was the DA’s press secretary. Her office was also on the eighth floor, and she had the difficult task of herding the unruly reporters whenever a media frenzy outbreak occurred. No assistant DAs were allowed to talk to reporters, so policing that rule and trying to prevent leaks was as important a part of her job as actually pitching stories or writing press releases.
“Mike’s in Brenda’s office watching TV. Something’s up.”
Ryan didn’t wait for me to clear the corner of the desk before leaving the room. Mercer put his arm around my shoulder and walked me slowly down the hall. “You must be exhausted. It’s after midnight your time.”
“I slept on the plane.”
“Things okay with you and your man?”
I didn’t answer.
“You want to talk? Grab some dinner?”
“That would be nice.”
He squeezed me tightly to his side before letting go and opening Brenda’s door. She was at her desk and would probably be there all evening. Two of her staff members were in cubbyholes at the rear of the room. Mike was seated with his feet up on an empty table, using the remote control to switch channels on one of the televisions that lined a shelf in the press room.
“Who’s talking?” Mercer asked. “I didn’t think Lem would waste any slingshots after the evening news cameras shut down.”
“It’s not Lem,” Mike said. “It’s Alex Trebek.”
I hadn’t given any thought to the time of evening because of the long travel day. But we all knew Mike was addicted to betting on the Final Jeopardy! question at the end of the half-hour show. I had been with him at dinner parties and bars, morgues and murder scenes, and no amount of good taste or restraint ever stopped him from turning on the set to take all comers for the night’s big question.
Trebek was squared off in front of the oversize blue box as he announced the Final Jeopardy! subject. “That’s right, gentlemen,” he said to the three male contestants, “tonight’s category is baseball. Major League Mishaps. Let’s see what you good sports know about our national pastime.”
“From the looks of those brainiacs I’d guess they know as much about baseball as I know about physics,” Mike said. “What do you say, Mercer? Blow the bank and go for a hundred bucks?”
Our usual ante was twenty dollars. “You still dipping into your mother’s change purse when you take her to church? Where’d you come up with a Ben Franklin?” Mercer asked.
“I’m feeling flush. I collared an international horndog this weekend and got my favorite blonde back in town to boot.”
“I’m in,” I said. The three of us were rabid Yankee fans who went to scores of baseball games, though I took a lot of grief for my pinstripe enthusiasm from Red Sox Nation neighbors on the Vineyard during the summer.
Ryan never flinched. He was as naturally generous with his spirit as with his income, bolstered by the fact that his wife ran the legal department of a large pharmaceutical company. “Me, too.”
The board scrolled back to reveal the answer. “The only batter in major-league history killed by a pitch,” Trebek said, turning to the three men, who were frowning at the words on the big board.
“Double or nothing,” Mike said.
“So much for your poker face. Not happening, Detective,” I said. I blanked on this one, while Mike clearly knew the answer.
The Jeopardy! clock was ticking along with the theme music. Mercer was shaking his head and Ryan wasn’t playing either.
“Who was Ray Chapman?” Mike asked.
“Chapman? Foul ball,” Mercer said. “You can’t use the family tree to cheat us out of our money.”
“Poor guy wasn’t good-looking enough to be a County Cork Chapman. Not related, so show me the wad of money.”
The first and third contestants hadn’t even ventured guesses. The second man had scrawled, “Who was Doc Powers?” on his podium screen.
“I’m so sorry,” Trebek said. “Powers died off the field two weeks after slamming into the outfield wall chasing a fly back in 1909. No, the correct answer is, ‘Ray Chapman.’”
Mike muted the volume to tell us that Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman was hit in the head by a Yankee pitcher at the old Polo Grounds in 1920. “Never regained consciousness. That’s why the spitball was banned from baseball.”
“I should have known better than to go against you in this category,” I said. “C’mon, let’s see what Battaglia has up his sleeve.”
“Baseball? You know a lot about baseball.”
“Mishaps, Mike. You’re the king of mishaps.”
“I’ll wait here for you guys. I’m buying dinner.”
“Did I hear him right?” Ryan asked.
“Sorry, I’ve got plans,” I said, hoping Mercer would get the hint so we could have a quiet meal together and I could get his thoughts on what was going on in my life.
“I saw that pathetic glance you just threw him. You were gonna lean on Mercer’s great broad shoulders to whine about me breaking up your love life. Get over that, kid. Finish up with Battaglia now. I’m buying the chow tonight.”
We left Mike with Brenda and returned to the conference room. Paul Battaglia and Pat McKinney had their heads together at the far end of the table. Everyone was present except June Simpson.
“Let’s get started. June’s on a call. She’ll be right back in,” McKinney said.
“Good evening, everyone. Welcome back, Alexandra,” Battaglia said, standing to face the group. As always, he ignored city laws about smoking inside office buildings and spent most of the day with a lighted cigar plugged between his lips. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve accomplished these last forty-eight hours. I have supreme confidence in the team we’ve put together-led by Pat-and relying as well on Alexandra and Ryan. We’ve got the country’s premier sex crimes unit, so they’ll be the face of this case to the world.