Mike got to his feet. "What do you say, Coop? We got our own wings right outside. Take you anywhere you want to go."
I leaned my head back and tried to clear my mind of its deadly whirling images of the past week. Dark shadows in the hurricane, Hoyt's sneer as he reached for the wrench in the cockpit of his boat, the sailor's knot that was probably looped around Paige Vallis's neck.
"Fly you to the moon?"
I ignored Mike's chatter. "Where's the boy? What's going to happen to Dulles?"
Mercer took me by the hand and helped me up. "Ms. Taggart and the folks at child welfare have been looking into that for weeks. They never much cared for Hoyt or his wife. Seems Mrs. Hoyt was always too worried about Tripping's involvement and probably afraid of her husband, too."
"I can't bear to think of what becomes of the child in all this."
"Could be good news. Tripping's second wife-the one who left him because he beat her? She always had a good relationship with Dulles. She's married now, living in Connecticut with her husband and two kids. Says if Andrew is ready to do the right thing and let go for good, she'd be willing to adopt Dulles."
Mike wouldn't stop. "See, there's nobody to worry about anymore except you. Forget these sandwiches. They're already stale. We'll pack a picnic basket and fly-um, can we make it to Paris in this buggy? Anybody know?"
"The coin, Mercer, is anybody looking for the coin?" I asked. "Hoyt must have taken it from the apartment the day he killed Queenie."
Mercer hooked his elbow in mine, as we walked out of the building toward the blue-and-white helicopter with the NYPD logos on it. "Teams have blocked off Hoyt's apartment, his office, and the yacht till they can get warrants for all that and his bank vaults. We'll find it."
Mike took my other arm and guided me down the path as the pilot started the engine and the rotors began to spin. "It's going to be a perfect night. The moon is waxing to full; we can set this baby down in the middle of Times Square and dance till dawn."
Mercer made a signal of some kind over my head, probably telling Mike to cut it out.
"It's okay," I said. Mike Chapman knew me every bit as well as I knew myself. I didn't want to go home just yet. I didn't want to spend the night alone.
I ducked under the blades and climbed up on the pontoons, into the seat behind the pilot. I had been in a similar chopper scores of times, riding with the DA's office photographer to take aerial photos of crime scenes. Someone would return tomorrow to do that over the river and bay, down to the Kills.
After Mike and Mercer got in, the pilot lifted the helicopter in the air, hovering behind the great green lady. He swooped down and to his left, circling from behind her enormous arm holding the torch aloft, past her strong face, illumined at dusk by the lights in her crown.
"Lady Liberty, Coop. She watched over you today. Quite a beauty."
My head rested against the window and I stared back at her, saluting her silently in gratitude.
"Personally," Mike went on, "the Liberty on the gold piece is a bit sexier, in my book. This one's got her hair all tied up neat in a bun. The one on the Double Eagle? Hers is all loose and wild, kinda like yours looks right now."
The sun was setting behind us, west of the Hudson, and straight ahead the elegant Manhattan skyline was showing off its stunning array of lights.
We were over the river, then above the Chelsea Piers, passing close to the Empire State Building and the Art Deco spire of the Chrysler Building, coming in for an easy landing along the East River, in sight of the old deadhouse at the tip of Roosevelt Island.
A phalanx of detectives was waiting at the heliport to brainstorm with Mike and Mercer, and to hear my story of the day's events.
"The commissioner wants to see Ms. Cooper before he goes home tonight," one of them told Chapman as he brushed them out of the way.
"Give me an hour. I gotta buy her a new pair of shoes. Then we'll have her down to headquarters." He spotted a friend in the crowd. "Joey-get us uptown fast as you can, lights and sirens. The broad needs a bath bad. She got too close to Jersey today-smells like Secaucus."
We were at my front door fifteen minutes later. I unlocked it and the three of us went inside. "Clean yourself up, blondie. Go heavy on the perfume."
"Do I really have to go to headquarters tonight? I'm drained," I said, opening the bedroom door and pausing there while Mike and Mercer headed for the ice cubes and the bar glasses respectively.
"You bet your sweet ass you do. The commish had all of Manhattan South scouring the town for you-air, sea, scuba-every hand on deck. And after you're done thanking him, you've got the two of us to deal with."
I called back out to Mike, "What do you mean by that?"
Mercer answered. "It's payday. We're going to keep you out all night. Dancing, wining and dining, hanging out with your friends."
"And when we deliver you back here at daybreak, you'll be so exhausted you won't be able to give me any orders for at least a month. You'll sleep like a baby," Mike said.
"I'm not sure I can keep up with-"
"Unless you'd rather we go on ahead and you just take your shower, pull the covers up over your head, and stay here feeling sorry for yourself. Sulking, pouting-your usual MO."
"Give me half an hour," I said. "Don't leave without me."
I went into my bedroom and stripped off the sweatshirt and damp pants. The message light was flashing on the answering machine, and I could see there were seven calls. I pressed the erase button and held it down until every one of them was deleted. Whoever had been looking for me today could try again tomorrow.
Acknowledgments
The rare and magnificent object that captured my imagination-"such stuff," the Bard once said, "as dreams are made on"-first came to my attention in an article in The New York Times. Other helpful sources included William Stadiem's Too Rich-The High Life and Tragic Death of King Farouk; the Sotheby's/Stack's catalog of the July 30, 2002, auction of the 1933 Double Eagle; John Rousmaniere's history of the New York Yacht Club; and Seitz and Miller's The Other Islands of New York City.
I am grateful to Susanne Kirk and all my friends at Scribner and Pocket Books who have made my transition from the prosecutor's office to my writing room such a delightful step.
Esther Newberg is the best friend any writer could hope to have.
My friends and family give me more joy than I can express. And although Justin Feldman is only a cameo in the world of Alexandra Cooper, he is everything to me.
About the Author
Linda Fairstein, America's foremost expert on crimes of sexual assault and domestic violence, led the Sex Crimes Unit of the District Attorney's Office in Manhattan for twenty-five years, leaving in 2002 to write and lecture full-time. A fellow of the American College of Trial Lawyers, she is a graduate of Vassar College and the University of Virginia School of Law. Her first novel, Final Jeopardy, which introduced the character Alexandra Cooper, was published in 1996 to critical and commercial acclaim and was made into an ABC Movie of the Week starring Dana Delany. Likely to Die, Cold Hit, The Deadhouse, and her most recent novel, The Bone Vault, also achieved international-bestseller status. Her nonfiction book, Sexual Violence, was a New York Times Notable Book in 1994. She lives with her husband in Manhattan and on Martha's Vineyard.
