“He was in a hurry to leave. I knew that.”
“But suppose he’d forgotten his phone, say, or his briefcase, and returned to get it. Didn’t that possibility frighten you?”
Blanca cocked her head but didn’t answer.
“Did you touch anything in the room?” he asked.
Blanca had reentered the crime scene before reporting the attack. It was impossible to know whether she had compromised any of the physical evidence, intentionally or not.
She hesitated before answering. “No, I didn’t touch anything. It made me sick to see the bed where he attacked me. I just looked around and then I left.”
“There are two bathrooms in the suite, Blanca,” I said. “Did you go into either of those, to see whether they needed to be cleaned?”
She shook her head from side to side. “I told the police no. I never went into either one of them.”
So she went in for the express purpose of changing the linens-sheets and towels-but now says she didn’t do that. In his softest voice, Mercer asked, “Did he leave any money for you-like a tip-on the dresser or night table?”
That idea had not even occurred to me. What if the exchange had been sex for money, and Gil-Darsin had promised to leave cash in the room? That would be a strong motivator for Blanca to return, and a reason for her to get back at him by crying “rape” if he had skipped out without paying.
“Are you accusing me of taking money, Detective Mercer? Is that what you think? I’m telling you again this isn’t about the money,” Blanca said, working herself into a real huff.
“I was talking about a tip, Blanca, for your housekeeping services.”
“And one more thing-and I don’t mean no offense to you personally, Detective, but this is ’xactly how I feel. Nobody-nobody-could pay me enough to put my lips on a black man. You understand me?”
Everyone around the table froze. Class, power dynamics, and international politics were all in the mix-and Blanca Robles had just thrown in a wild card that would offend almost every juror in Manhattan.
“Blanca-we need to talk about this,” Pat said.
There was a knock on the door and Laura poked her head in the room. “Mickey Diamond just called from the courthouse steps,” she said, referring to the veteran crime reporter for the New York Post. “He wants to know if Battaglia will comment about the four o’clock press conference.”
“What conference?” Pat McKinney asked as Mercer walked to the window and looked down.
“Law and Order filming downstairs again?” I asked.
“This time it’s a reality show,” Laura said. “It’s called The Evening News.”
“What now?”
“Mickey says Byron Peaser’s taking center stage any minute. He’s waiting for Ms. Robles to come down.”
Blanca rose to her feet, picked up her purse, and gave us all a very self-satisfied smile.
Pat McKinney reached out his arm toward Blanca. “What’s this about? We’ve done everything possible to protect your identity and keep the wolves away from your door. You’re not appearing at any press conference, no matter who’s calling the shots.”
“Peaser’s filed his lawsuit against Gil-Darsin,” Laura said. “Fifty million dollars.”
“What?” McKinney was practically screaming. “Before we go to the grand jury?”
“Blanca called Peaser from my office this morning,” I said. “She told him we’d caught her in some lies. This is a stunt to hold Battaglia’s toes to the fire, to keep the pressure on him to get an indictment sooner rather than later.”
“I don’t want you out there with him, Blanca. There’s no reason for you to go public at this point. Do you understand me?” McKinney said.
“Mr. Peaser’s my lawyer, Mr. Pat. He believes in me,” she said, scanning the room as she stared each one of us in the eye. “He’s the only one looking out for my good.”
TWENTY
Pat McKinney came back from Battaglia’s office in less than ten minutes. “I can’t get an audience. He’s in with the rackets guys gearing up to release the hedge fund story.”
“So what’s the plan?” Mercer asked.
“Let’s all be available to brainstorm with him at 9 A.M. tomorrow. Answer all his questions, and take Blanca into the grand jury in the afternoon.”
“You think she’ll come back?”
“He’s got to bring her in. She’s his meal ticket. I agree with Alex that he’s just grandstanding to push us forward.”
“We could slow this down,” I said. “Take a week or two to make sure we have all the documents we need to support Blanca’s story. Baby Mo can obviously make substantial bail-even a million or more-and we take his passport away. Where’s he going?”
McKinney’s head whipped in my direction. “Lem gets his hands on you for five minutes and you roll over like a spineless jellyfish.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Lem.”
“How did Papa Mo escape the revolution in the Ivory Coast? Somebody did him the courtesy of sending a private jet, and he’s never looked back yet. Any fifteen-year-old can buy a passport in Times Square, and our perp is airborne over the Atlantic. The press would crucify Battaglia if MGD skipped town.”
“I hear you,” Mercer said. “Nine tomorrow.”
“I’ll call Peaser myself,” McKinney said. “You got the first outcry witness locked in?”
We were all walking out of the conference room.
“Yes,” Mercer said, referring to Blanca’s colleague from room service, who was the first person she asked for help after the assault. “And the security team from the hotel who called 911. Everybody’s on board.”
Laura stepped into the hallway from her cubicle and motioned to me. I broke away as the group finished their conversation.
“I’ve got Mike on hold. Can you pick it up at your desk?”
I handed my files to Laura and ran for the phone. “What’s up?”
“I thought I’d come in early today. Caught up on my sleep and I’m ready for a little action.”
“What do you know about Luc?”
“Steady, girl. They’ve had one conversation with him, which I only know ’cause one of the guys in Brooklyn South owes me a few. Luc was very cooperative, very open with them. Don’t get your nose all out of joint.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“What? Now I’ve got to babysit your lover?”
“Sorry. I’m just rattled by all this and I don’t like being cut off from him when he might need me most.”
“You got a pair of jeans in the closet?”
“Always.” We had all been called out to crime scenes and grimy station houses at the unlikeliest times, and could occasionally sneak off to Yankee Stadium for an afternoon game. “Where to?”
“Grunge up, Coop. Checking into the Adonis of the Gowanus before the sun sets. We’re going fishing.”
TWENTY-ONE
“It stinks,” I said.
Forty-five minutes later, in jeans and a baseball cap that covered half of my face from the curious eyes of the Harbor Unit cops, Mike and I were walking along the edge of the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn.
“Kind of that dead-rat-on-a-wet-doormat stench, don’t you think? You are so not an outer-boroughs girl, blondie, but it’s good for your soul.”
On the ride over the Brooklyn Bridge, I’d brought Mike up to speed on the difficult day with Blanca Robles. Mercer seemed glad that I was going off with Mike for whatever distraction that offered, and Mike tried to assuage my concerns about the homicide investigation involving the unidentified man floating in the canal last night.
“This place is an environmental disaster. How could it be good for anything?”
“You’re on probation once you leave Manhattan. Don’t piss off the locals.”
The water in the canal was speckled with dark slimy spots. Aside from the usual city trash-broken bottles, used condoms, and empty syringes-there were dead crabs and tiny mollusks lodged in the algae along the canal walls.