Too many women had told me too many times how violated they felt in the hands of an abuser. The idea that Raymond Tanner was stalking me-doubly ironic that the high visibility of the cases I handled made the task so easy for him-was chilling. He was skilled at evading capture, brazen enough to make his way into Grand Central just as it was about to be flooded with police.
“Know what would help?” Mike said, pushing his plate toward me. “A bivalve. Pure protein.”
“I’m too nervous to eat.”
“You need to coat your stomach with something or that Scotch will bore clear through to your toenails, Coop.”
“Who’s out on the street looking for Tanner?”
“Everybody but us,” Mercer said. “And you need to slow down on the alcohol.”
“So he creates a complete diversion from the triple homicide, and I’m the patsy for it.”
“Maybe not complete,” Mike said. “The A team stays focused on the triple. Scully can use minor leaguers to hunt for your lunatic.”
“Thanks. Very gratifying. Minor leaguers on the hunt for my stalker. Maybe Scully can bring in some wannabes as well. Boy Scouts or Dora the Explorer.”
“I just mean that the perv is making it easier for them to find him. Showing himself at the courthouse and following your every move in the media.”
“You’d think some Good Samaritan would have noticed a madman pinning me to the wall.”
“You’re only the center of your own universe, Coop. Must’ve looked like you were pleased the guy was jumping your bones. You are such the image of a broad running home to her blond, green-eyed peeps in some white-bread part of Connecticut, saying good-bye to the inner-city dude who’s got your number.”
“Sick imagination, Mr. Chapman.”
“Tanner’s breaking your concentration, Alex.” Mercer was also working his way through a dozen oysters while he tried to get me to chill. “We need your brain back in the case.”
“It’s out to lunch.”
“Stick on it, girl. I know that’s easy for me to say right now. We’ll find that fool,” Mercer said, reaching over and taking my hand off the drinking glass. “Vickee’s got the guest room all made up. I told Rocco we’d stop and pick up your toothbrush and some clothes for the morning, and I’d keep your mind off things overnight.”
I looked at Mike. Why couldn’t I just stay at his place instead of being the third wheel at Mercer and Vickee’s comfortable home in Douglaston?
“Maybe Mike could just-?”
“Oh, no, kid. Can’t have you pawing at me all night. I’m twenty-four/seven into my work right now.”
“And Logan will be out of his skull to wake up and see you in the morning,” Mercer said, tousling my hair.
“Yeah, it’s not every four-year-old who has a full-on head case for his godmother,” Mike said. “Just don’t let him smell your breath when you give him a kiss. The fumes might kill him.”
The bartender told us that our table, a small corner one in the back, nestled under the vaulted white tile ceiling, was ready. There were still a few dozen diners lingering over their meals, many of whom seemed to be working their way through oversized seafood platters. The red-and-white-checked tablecloths added cheer to the room.
“You folks ready to order?” the waiter asked. “Young lady?”
“I’m not hungry. Just a glass of white wine, please.”
“She’ll have sparkling water,” Mercer said. “And a bowl of clam chowder.”
“I’ll have the chowder if I can have some sauvignon blanc, too.”
“Deal.”
“The Coopster’s in no position to make deals, Mercer.”
“Wine has a very calming influence on me, guys.”
“And for you, gentlemen?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll have the Maine lobster. I’d like a three-pounder,” Mike said. “All the sides, okay? Fries and onion rings and coleslaw. And have you got Sierra Nevada Pale Ale on draught?”
“Yes, sir. And for you?”
“The grilled salmon, please. Another Grey Goose martini straight up. Three olives.”
“Now here’s how you regain your center,” Mike said to me. “Where are we?”
“The best seafood restaurant in Manhattan. Is that what you want me to say? Landmarked and all that?”
“Nope. I want you to channel your favorite place on the planet.”
Martha’s Vineyard. My home on a hilltop in Chilmark. My escape from all things prosecutorial.
“Close your eyes for a minute,” Mike said.
I’d bought the old farmhouse with my fiancé, Adam Nyman, who’d been a medical student at the University of Virginia during my law school years. The night before our Vineyard wedding, on his drive from New York to the romantic island, another driver ran him off a bridge into a riverbed below and Adam was killed in the crash.
“Okay. I’m thinking the Vineyard.”
“Then take some deep breaths. Imagine the clam chowder you’re about to eat is from the Bite,” Mike said, referring to the tiny shack in the fishing village of Menemsha where the Quinn sisters served up the most spectacular chowder and fried clams. “And that Mercer’s oysters and my lobster are from Larsen’s Fish Market. You almost home, Coop?”
I opened my eyes and looked at Mike, who was naming my favorite island haunts. “Almost there. But my recurring nightmare is that Raymond Tanner will be along for the ride.”
“He’s got Mercer and me to contend with. And over your shoulder? Lieutenant Correlli’s about to crash our little soiree.”
I looked around. Rocco was walking toward our table from the bar, carrying a glass of red wine.
“Safety in numbers, I guess.”
“I just want to apologize to you, Alex,” he said, as he lowered himself into the fourth chair at the table.
“You didn’t do anything, Loo. No need to apologize.”
“I mean, this bastard keeps giving us the slip. I gotta say he’s really good at it.”
“Serial rapists? If they weren’t good at extricating themselves from every kind of situation, they’d be one-time offenders.”
“Scully talked to Battaglia,” Rocco said. “I told Mercer-”
“Right. That’s how you knew we’d still be here. The commissioner and the district attorney have got me under wraps for the night.”
The waiter arrived with a steaming bowl of New England clam chowder. The restaurant’s air-conditioning-and the chills I’d had since Tanner put his hands on me-made the soup a welcome sight, despite the temperature on the street.
“Just till we nab him, Alex,” the lieutenant said, gnawing on an unlighted cigarette.
“I hear you’ve got your best guys on the hunt. So I guess I should just hibernate until Groundhog Day? Don’t want to be a strain on your resources.”
“Don’t lose it now, Alex.” Rocco Correlli leaned in and clinked his glass against mine. “We figured out the link. Like Mike says, nothing’s a coincidence.”
“What link?”
“Between the sociopathic rapist who’s stalking you and the cannibal cop.”
I almost gulped a helping of my wine. “What’s that?”
“Gerardo Dominguez and Raymond Tanner,” Rocco said. “They both grew up in the same project. Fulton Houses, on 17th Street.”
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more nervous. “How did-?”
“Scully had someone go back practically as far as the maternity ward. We’re with you, Alex. I promise. The pair of pervs have been linked together since childhood.”
Mike Chapman cracked the claw of his lobster. “Two scumbags under the same roof, Coop. Must have been something in the water over at Fulton.”
TWENTY-SIX
“Some days I’m simply more trouble than I’m worth,” I said.
I got into Mercer’s car and slammed the door shut. It was 7:05 in the morning, and Vickee wanted us out of sight before she got Logan out of bed.
“Sorry.”
“Everybody keeps apologizing to me. Cut it out, Mercer.”
“Vickee thought it would be too disruptive for Logan to get all juiced up if you surprised him before she put him on the bus for day camp. You’ll see him tonight.”