"He threatened her?" Squeeks asked.
"She denied that. Just told me he scared her because he used to be so demanding when they were dating." "Scared her to death" were the exact words Paige had used. "She had promised to tell me more about it, but I wasn't allowed to talk to her after she got off the witness stand. That's why she called Mercer to tell him something about trying to find Dulles, Tripping's son. She wasn't supposed to call me."
"Tell him about the glut of lawyers, Coop."
I let out a sigh. "I suppose you should know about everybody involved. There's a guy called Graham Hoyt," I said, spelling his name for Squeeks. "He's the boy's legal representative. Claims to be very interested in adopting Dulles. Says he and his wife, Jenna Hoyt, have a relationship with the kid, and thinks he'll be the one to win his confidence.
"And he's helping one of my colleagues at the DA's office with an investigation into a deal that the defense attorney for Tripping is caught up in. Robelon. Peter Robelon." I gave him the name of the firm at which he worked. "Hoyt claims Robelon's got his hands dirty in some kind of securities fraud."
"You got more on that?"
"Check with Jack Kliger in the investigations division." I paused. "There are several other lawyers, too. One from the foundling hospital and another from the child welfare bureau. Their names and numbers are in my files."
"And the snitch. Don't forget about the snitch."
"Mike's right," I said. "Seems like it happened so long ago it must have been another trial. I was thinking of using an informant on my case. His name's Bessemer."
"Heard about him," Squeeks said, smiling for the first time since we arrived at the station house. "Guess some guys got flopped for that one. He was in this mess, too?"
"I hadn't met with him yet. He was being brought in to talk to me when he skipped. He had been Tripping's cellmate in Rikers."
"You think Bessemer knows anything about Paige Vallis?" Squeeks asked.
"Only what Tripping might have told him. No sign that he ever had any contact with my witness. But he's on the loose and I have no idea what his agenda is."
Detectives had come and gone all through the hours between midnight and two, as we talked about Paige Vallis and these other characters. It had been quiet for quite a while, and the ringing phone on the front desk jarred all of us.
Mike walked over to answer it. "First PDU," he said, expecting the call to be for an officer in the First Precinct detective unit. "Yeah, Mr. B. She's still here. We got her in the hot seat." He listened to a message then hung up the phone to relay it to me.
"That was Battaglia. Got through to Langley and they called him back with the information you wanted," Mike said to me. "Harry Strait? He's ex-CIA. No longer with the Agency. Here's the contact guy who'll give you his background facts."
"He must get a pension check or some kind of retirement benefit. They still have to have some way to find him," I said, taking the paper from Mike's hand.
"Hard to do, blondie. Even for a crackerjack operation like the CIA. Harry Strait died almost twenty years ago."
17
I crawled into bed next to Jake at about four o'clock in the morning. He didn't move when I slipped in beside him, and I couldn't tell whether he was feigning sleep in order not to engage me in a self-pitying dialogue about my victim's death. I ran my finger down the length of his spine and kissed the small of his back, but got no response.
When I opened my eyes at seven, the other half of the bed was empty. I picked Jake's shirt up from the back of the chair, where he had draped it when he'd undressed last night, and put it on.
I found him in the den with a cup of coffee, reading the first section of the Sunday Times. I stood in the doorway, waiting for him to look up from the paper. "Good morning," I said. "Sorry about last night."
"Not your fault."
"How was dinner?"
"I wasn't in the mood to go with them. I just came back here when the show ended. Did you get anything to eat?"
"My stomach was too roiled up," I said. "I'm going to pour myself a cup of coffee. Want some more?"
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
I walked into the kitchen and filled a mug. I was starving, and put an English muffin in the toaster oven. While it was cooking, I went back into the den. Now he was fixed on the Style section. "Those weddings must be riveting."
"Some sweet stories, actually," Jake said.
"The bride majored in classics at Columbia and is writing her doctoral thesis on sexual mores in ancient Rome. The groom is getting an on-line degree from the University of Paducah. They both like beagles, hang gliding, and pepperoni pizza," I said, mocking what had become of the marriage announcements in the Old Gray Lady. "The bride, who is Catholic, and the groom, who is Jewish, were married on the beach in Southampton by a Buddhist priest. More than I need to know."
"I'm just trying to see what obstacles some of these couples overcome on their way to the altar. Maybe it'll inspire me."
"I didn't know you were short on inspiration."
Jake put the paper down and looked at me. "Most of the time I'm not, Alex. But I'm at a loss right now. I know how devastated you were last night, and I understand why you had to go downtown with Chapman. Now what am I supposed to do to pick up the pieces? I get tired of asking you about a case and being told you don't want to talk about it. Or worse than that, having your boss tell you not to discuss it with me because I'm a reporter. I'm damned if I don't and I'm damned if I do."
I stood up to go back to the kitchen. "I've been very open with you about the Tripping case. Friday night I told you everything that had happened in court. I don't want to exclude you from anything that's important to me."
I called back to him over my shoulder, "You ready to tell me who Deep Throat is?"
Jake followed me into the kitchen. "What are you talking about?"
"You know you're not about to reveal any of your sources on a big story. Obviously there are times I'm not going to be free to tell you everything I know."
"That's not what I mean, Alex. I want what you keep bottled up inside. I want what you're thinking and feeling when this stuff is chewing your guts apart and keeping you up at night like you had toothpicks stuck in your eyelids."
The muffin had burned to a crisp. I tossed it in the garbage and opened the package for another one. Jake took it from my hand and started the process over.
"There was a call last night. Right about midnight. Peter Robelon."
"Shit," I said, sitting at the dining room table. The body wasn't even cold yet and the vultures were beginning to pick at it. "Did he know about Paige?"
"He said he heard a late news story on one of the local stations. They didn't give her name, but he recognized the address and Peter said he knew it was a loft building with only a few residential tenants."
"Of course he knew exactly what the setup was. He'd hired a private investigator to snoop around the neighbors looking for dirt on Vallis. Don't tell me he was unctuous enough to be calling with his condolences?"
"He sounded perfectly appropriate. Thought it was tragic, wanted to make sure you knew about it-that kind of thing."
"You make it sound like a pleasant conversation."
"It was, actually. I guess he knew we're a couple. Said he recognized my voice from the tube. We talked for a couple of minutes. Did the six-degrees-of-separation thing. Friends of mine who are friends of his."
I didn't say what I was thinking.
"Whoops, did I screw up again? You've got that Cooper pout on your face. Peter Robelon isn't your enemy, even if his client is guilty."
"I know he's not my enemy. You want to chat with him, do it from your office. I don't trust the guy for a minute. You shouldn't either."