“I’m not baiting her, Mercer. She’s gonna marry the guy. Of course she’d lie for him.”
“I’m not going to marry Luc. I wouldn’t lie to protect him or you or Joan Stafford or anyone else. Where do you get your ideas?”
Silence.
“Did Luc tell you that? Answer me, Mike. Did he tell you I was going to marry him? It’s not happening. I don’t know the man who was sitting in that room with us tonight. I don’t want to go to a ball game with him right now, no less marry him.”
“Oh, Jesus, don’t start to cry on me.”
“I’m not crying. I wouldn’t give you the pleasure of thinking you could say something that would upset me.”
“Let’s take this outside,” Mercer said. The man with the wheaten terrier who was waiting for the elevator was staring at us like he expected me to throw a punch.
“I am telling you,” I said to Mike, ignoring Mercer for the moment, “that I had never seen the guy in that photograph before. Maybe the slit throat threw me off, okay?”
“Maybe if you saw him done up all in white, like with the sheet from the morgue over his body. Maybe he’d look a little spiffier in white, like he was dressed for your dinner in Mougins.”
The couple entering the lobby dressed in evening clothes had opera glasses and programs in their hands. She frowned when she heard mention of the morgue.
“I left that party before Luc did. Could be Luigi and I weren’t there at the same time.”
“Could be you had such stars in your eyes you didn’t see anybody but Luc.”
Mercer put his arm around my back and started to guide me to the front door. He had left his car parked at the end of the driveway. “Hollering in this fancy building is going to get you evicted, Ms. Cooper. A little fresh air will do us all good.”
“Have you got any photographs of Luigi in the car? In your case folder?” I asked.
“Everything but his prom picture,” Mike said.
We approached the old Crown Vic from the rear and Mercer popped the trunk. Mike reached in and grabbed his Redweld, stamped with the word HOMICIDE across the top.
“You’ve called the airlines and Immigration to see what his passport shows?” I asked. “Checked his travel history?”
“Believe it or not, they got DAs as smart as you in Brooklyn, Coop. You’re not the boss of everyone, you know.”
“I hope they’re smart enough to add Gina Varona and Peter Danton to their travel search list. France, Africa, who knows where else.”
“I’m on Night Watch all week. They’ll get me an update when I start working tonight.”
Mercer was still the peacemaker. “Mike’s working overtime for you, Alex.”
I looked away. “I guess that gives him double the justification to pile in on me. Is it that I haven’t thanked you properly for all you’re doing? You’ve overwhelmed me, Mike, with your kindness to Luc. You actually think I would lie to you guys?”
“’Course not,” Mercer said.
Mike handed me a blowup of the picture he’d shown me from his cell phone Tuesday morning. I held it at every angle. “No go. I don’t know this man.”
“Try the ME’s version of dress for success.”
The wound in Luigi’s neck had been carefully sutured. His hair was combed and his eyes closed, although his expression was not to be confused-as people often said-with that of someone who was sleeping. A clean white sheet was pulled up over his chest.
“This man and I were not at the same party at the same time.”
“Here’s a dozen photos his brother brought to the squad. Luigi Calamari at his nephew’s birthday party, Luigi in a tux for his cousin’s wedding, Luigi in sunglasses and a shirt opened down to his navel-looks like it was taken at the beach.”
“No, no, and again no. Good night, Detective. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me-for us-today.”
“Sounds anything but sincere, kid.”
“Must be the company I’m keeping.” I turned to walk twenty feet back to the revolving door of my building.
That’s when I heard the shouts and saw two men running from the entrance of the drive coming directly toward me out of the darkness, one of them screaming my name.
“That’s her!” the voice called out. “Ms. Cooper!”
“Get her,” the second guy yelled.
I froze in place as Mercer caught up with me.
A bright light went off-flashing twice, maybe three times-as Mercer pulled me against his chest and Mike took after the two men, who turned and ran.
THIRTY-FIVE
“So they got you,” Paul Battaglia said, shaking his head. “Right at your own front door.” He had been waiting for me when I walked into his office at 8 A.M. on Thursday.
The district attorney didn’t like it-with good reason-when his lawyers became the headline rather than the backstory.
The New York Post stringer and the photographer who snapped the photos last night had convinced the editor to find room for the dreadful picture of me, cowering beside Mercer with my eyes covered against the blinding flashbulbs, on the front page. Baby Mo still owned the top-of-the-fold space, but there I was with an equally cheap caption just below: MURDER SUSPECT ‘COOP’ED UP WITH PROSECUTOR?
“I apologize, Paul. There’s not much else for me to say.”
“It really compromises your credibility on MGD,” he said, tossing the newspaper on top of the unanswered correspondence on his desk. “I want you standing next to me when I announce the indictment this afternoon. I need you to field questions, and this outing doesn’t help a whole lot.”
“I can do that with you, if it’s what you need. This has nothing to do with my credibility. Luc’s not staying with me. I’m not harboring a felon.”
“That’s kind of missing the point, isn’t it? They’ve tagged your gentleman friend as a murder suspect.”
“The police haven’t.”
“The tabloids have,” he said, lighting what was probably his second cigar of the morning. “How the hell did they get this?”
“Mike says the Homicide detectives squealed. Thought the Brooklyn DA would like it if you had a little egg on your face, in the form of me as the sacrificial lamb, since you get all the big-time publicity.”
“You’re off your game, Alexandra. You should be more careful.”
“I’m not dating a wiseguy or a thief or a-a crooked politician,” I said, causing Battaglia to scowl at me. “The man’s in the hospitality business.”
“Not so hospitable to have folks dropping dead all around him.”
“He’s aware of that, Paul. We both are.”
“What time will the indictment be filed?”
“We’re meeting now to proofread and edit it. We’ll have it in front of the foreman as soon as they convene at two P.M. and get it right up to the clerk’s office. The arraignment has been scheduled for three in front of Judge Donnelly.”
“Four o’clock for my press conference. And I’ll tell Brenda to instruct the reporters that we’re not taking questions about anything else except MGD. No sideshow about the Gowanus Canal case.”
“Understood.”
“When I look your way, you talk. Other than that, you’re silent as the grave.”
Those were the usual rules. Battaglia had always been squeamish about details of sexual assaults. He left it for me to fill in factual blanks that supported the criminal charges.
“Yes, Boss. I’ll see you later.”
The whole team was arriving in the conference room, as planned, each carrying morning coffee and pastries from the cart in front of the courthouse. Mercer pulled his chair up next to mine, potential armor against the slings Pat McKinney was likely to throw.
“You’ve been in with Battaglia?” McKinney asked. “Boy was smoke coming out of his ears when I got here today. You know how to bring out the best in a guy.”
“Still smoking, Pat,” I said.
“I was thinking of going to Umberto’s for lunch today,” he chuckled, “but not if your pal, Luc, has taken over the lease.”