Hell Gate Page 5

  “Hey, Mercer,” I said, as his number appeared on my cell screen. “Where are you?”

  “Still out at the wreck. Two more bodies. Males, apparent drownings.”

  “Coming in soon?” It was after five o’clock and darkness had enveloped the city.

  “I hope so. Real drop in temperature. We’ve been moving folks off the beach all day. I think we’re almost done.”

  “You must be running on fumes. Are you still planning to be at the ME’s office?”

  “Yeah. Something weird happened, I thought you ought to know.”

  “What?” It was usually this way in complex cases. Rarely was there a linear unfolding of events, with cops taking one clear turn after another.

  “Salma Zunega. Know who I mean?”

  “Yes, Mercer. Lem’s handling Ethan Leighton’s case. He’s already made his first hands-on appeal. This is the girlfriend, right?”

  “Exactly. Well, she called nine-one-one an hour ago.”

  “What for? Something happen to the baby?” That was my worst nightmare in a heated domestic.

  “Not the baby. She was treated and released. You know how kids run high temps,” Mercer said. His son, Logan, was almost three years old. “I haven’t heard the tape yet but Salma was screaming that Leighton was going to kill her. Talking in Spanish, mostly.”

  “Lem knew Ethan was going to be ROR’d today, after he left my office at two fifteen,” I said. A public official with no criminal history would be released on his own recognizance for anything short of murder. “But it’s not possible he got out of the courtroom, past the paparazzi, and all the way up to Ninety-first Street to get to Salma by an hour ago.”

  “His behavior in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly what you’d have predicted either.”

  “I’m not saying that after this performance he couldn’t be that stupid, but Lem would have corralled him for a sit-down the minute they left the building. You know how rigid he is about client control.”

  “Did Howell talk to you about the woman at all?”

  “Exactly this way. Says she’s high-strung and hysterical. Kelli thought Lem was just setting me up for Ethan’s defense. What happened when the cops got there?”

  “Nineteenth precinct uniform responded.”

  “She let them in?”

  “Yeah, Alex. But she denied making the call. Said she didn’t do it. Two detectives took a ride over just to double-check that she was okay. Looked like she’d been napping, still wiped out from the night’s activity.”

  “But the call came in from her phone number?”

  “Definitely. Salma’s landline. That’s what shows up on the sprint report.”

  “So, you’re suggesting she’s nuts too? Lem’s already laying that groundwork.”

  I saw the door below open, and the aide poked his head out, probably looking for me. The guard who had shooed me away earlier pointed, and I held up a finger to ask for another minute.

  “I’m only the messenger, Alex. I haven’t met her yet,” Mercer said. “I just think we’re going to have a handful with Salma. Maybe you ought to plan to meet with her pretty soon—nip this in the bud. Reach out to her before the problem officially lands in your lap. Just keeping you up to speed.”

  “I’m at City Hall with Battaglia. About to meet Statler. Call you later.”

  I went downstairs and the aide stepped aside so that I could enter the room.

  Paul Battaglia had his back to one of the five large arched windows that overlooked City Hall Park. Tim Spindlis had tucked himself into a corner of the room, positioned to catch everything that went on. The DA lifted a hand to gesture to me, formally introducing me to Mayor Statler, who came forward to greet me.

  “Want to close that?” he said, his deep voice resonating like a friendly growl as he gestured to someone behind me.

  I turned to see that he was talking to Rowdy Kitts, standing behind the door, beneath the portrait of some long-forgotten politician. Not only was Rowdy back on the mayoral detail, but he was clearly welcome and trusted in the inner sanctum.

  “Thanks for coming over, Alex. I know you’ve had a long, difficult day. Roland, here, told me you were out at the scene of the disaster quite early. He’s told me even more about you than your boss. You’ve done some fine work for the city, young lady. I can’t think of anything more despicable than men who abuse women and children.”

  Kitts came around to stand beside the mayor, and I smiled to acknowledge him and his effort to make up with me, before I thanked Statler.

  “You’ve been here before, I know,” he said, watching me take in the elegant appointments of the reception area. “It’s my favorite place in City Hall.”

  The Governor’s Room, I had learned from many long waits through council testimony, had been named that because it was used almost two hundred years ago whenever New York’s governors were visiting the city from Albany. It boasted a brilliant collection of American portraiture, and had played host to everyone from the Marquis de Lafayette to Albert Einstein. It was the backdrop for both Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant when they lay in state in the adjacent rotunda, and the desk that Statler sat at had belonged to George Washington, in the days when New York was the nation’s capital.

  “Easy to understand why it is.”

  “I’m going to have to give a press conference tonight, Alex. There’s been an enormous amount of pressure on my staff about both of these breaking cases, and for a change, it’s national media that’s wanting to know details. It’s not just a matter of the Post making up ridiculous headlines over nothing at all.”

  “I think I’ve told you everything Alex knows, Vin,” Battaglia said, walking to the center of the room. “You’re not going to have her standing next to you for this media circus. It’s simply not appropriate.”

  Battaglia didn’t like his assistants talking to the press. He was a genius at manipulating reporters himself—even entire editorial boards—on issues of great significance or on petty personal gripes, but he was right to expect us to try our cases in the courtroom, and not on the steps of the courthouse or City Hall.

  Statler stared at me, not responding to the district attorney. “Roland has given me a pretty good idea of what went on with all the detainees this morning. And the poor victims who died. It would be very helpful if you were available to answer questions about trafficking and, well, sort of how these women are duped and used by the perpetrators.”

  “I’m not going to expose her to that kind of publicity before the investigation is even under way, Vin.”

  The mayor continued to stare at me. I felt stupid not being able to answer for myself, but those had been Battaglia’s orders.

  “Roland says you’re the only person who has the experience and credibility on this issue to speak for me,” Statler said.

  “He’s exaggerating, of course.” I didn’t think Battaglia would mind if I politely demurred.

  “Use Donny Baynes,” Battaglia said. “It’s his goddamn task force.”

  “What do you think happened to that one young woman on the boat, Alex?” the mayor asked, ignoring Battaglia. “The one who might have been killed on board ship.”

  “Go on, tell him what you told me,” Battaglia said, removing the cigar from his mouth and pointing it at me with eyes as sharp as a cattle prod.

  “I’ll know more by tomorrow. I think it would be premature for you to say anything about that victim’s specifics until there’s been an autopsy. I’m sure Detective Kitts has explained that the ME’s preliminary observation suggests some causality other than drowning.”

  “I think they’re going to want more specifics than that, Alex. This isn’t going to be covered just by local kids on the crime beat. I’m talking Brian Williams and Katie Couric and Larry King. This is a major disaster on our beach, in our city. It’s an international story.”

  “Use Donny Baynes,” Battaglia said again.

  Tim Spindlis nodded his support across the room. I wondered i
f he knew how foolish he appeared to be to the rest of us. I wondered why Battaglia had felt it necessary to cart Tim along to this meeting.

  The mayor turned toward the district attorney and took his hands out of his pants pockets. “I can’t very well use Baynes and you know it, Paul.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Donovan is one of Ethan Leighton’s closest friends. Weren’t you aware of that?”

  I had forgotten to tell Battaglia about Baynes’s relationship with Leighton. It hadn’t seemed important as we rode to City Hall. The district attorney looked at me and scowled. Tim Spindlis mimicked his expression.

  “I put Baynes next to me on the podium and when these reporters move on to story number two, the congressman who mistook his penis for a brain—excuse me, Alex—they’ll jump all over Donny. ‘Did you know about the love nest? Ever meet Leighton’s girlfriend? Donny, did he tell you about the baby?’ ” Statler was shaking his head. “Baynes is a good guy. I can’t hang him out that way.”

  “That’s why you want Alex? Hang her out for press potshots? It’s not happening, Vin,” Battaglia said. “Sit down. Alex’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know about human trafficking right now. Then we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Give me the basics, will you? Tell me the relevant laws while you’re at it.”

  I knew how smart Statler was, and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to educate him about this difficult subject. The questions that would most interest the media—who the snakeheads were, where the Ukrainians would have been sent if they’d landed, and what would become of them now—were things that no one could answer tonight.

  Battaglia folded his arms and listened as I told the mayor what information I thought he’d need for the press conference. Watching over us—hanging on the walls of the stately room—were all the major politicians from the time of the Revolution, heroes of the War of 1812, and luminaries from every walk of the city’s history.

  When I paused to think of what other legislative issues might be raised, the mayor took another direction.

  “What do you know about Leighton and his lady friend?” the mayor asked. “There must be some details you can tell me.”

  “Not her case,” Battaglia snapped.

  “But I understand one of the detectives who’s involved in the investigation also met with Alex on the beach. Someone from the task force.”

  “Don’t let the press go there,” Battaglia said. I’d filled him in on what Mercer had told me. “They’ll have all they need from the criminal court arraignment. That’s been finished by now. Public hearing. More facts than we’ve got to give you.”

  “Ethan’s a sick kid, don’t you think, Paul? Terrific wife and family, throws it all away for some little—who, who is she? What do you know about the girlfriend?”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” the district attorney said. “Do we, Alex?”

  I didn’t want to lie to the mayor, but I didn’t want to lose my job either.

  “Don’t put Alex on the spot, Mr. Mayor,” Rowdy said. “We can have all that from the department. I’ll get a call into DCPI for those facts.”

  The NYPD’s deputy commissioner of public information, Guido Lentini, would give the mayor’s aides anything they needed.

  “The girl’s Hispanic, isn’t that right, Alex?” Battaglia said, realizing there was no need to stonewall Statler completely. He didn’t want to look like he didn’t have as much info as DCPI.

  “She’s from Mexico,” I said. “Her name is Salma Zunega.”

  “And there’s really a kid?”

  “Yes, a baby girl.”

  “This Ms. Zunega, is she here legally?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said.

  “Where was Ethan coming from when he had the accident. Spanish Harlem?”

  Battaglia laughed. “Don’t let your constituents hear you, Vin. Bad ethnic profiling. She lives across the street from you.”

  “From me?”

  Like Bloomberg and Koch before him, Statler kept his own apartment, a lavish co-op on Fifth Avenue, rather than live in the mayor’s official residence, Gracie Mansion.

  “Well, spitting distance from the mansion. That fancy new condo on East End, just below Eighty-ninth Street.”

  “Moses Leighton always thought his kid was going to be the first Jewish president,” Statler said. “Poured his heart, the last fifteen years of his life, and about thirty million dollars into trying to make that happen. For what? For this?”

  “Are you looking for facts about Ethan’s case,” Battaglia asked, “or just ways to shove it down his father’s throat? Lots of politicians have had second acts after a sexual indiscretion or two.”

  The door opened and Statler’s assistant stuck his head in. “The speaker would like a word with you, sir.”

  “Hold her off a minute, okay?” Statler said. He was standing practically nose to nose with Battaglia now. “Anything else I ought to know?”

  “Tell me who you want Alex to keep in contact with. You’ll get whatever we get.”

  “Very good, Paul. I’ll have my office set up a liaison. In the meantime, Alex,” the mayor said as he put his arm around my shoulder to escort us out of the Governor’s Room, “let me know what you find out about the nine-one-one call this Zunega woman made earlier this afternoon, will you?”

  Battaglia snapped his head to look at me. “What call?”

  “What did you tell me, Roland?” the mayor said, turning to Rowdy Kitts, whose pipeline to case information was proving far better than mine. “Something about Ethan Leighton threatening to kill his paramour.”

  “Today? He threatened her today?” Battaglia said, talking to Statler but looking me in the eye, skewering me as though I’d neglected to tell him another important fact.

  “I just got word from the nineteenth squad myself, Mr. Battaglia. Right before you walked in here,” Kitts said. “Wasn’t any way Alex could have known about it. They’re probably trying to reach out for some advice from her right now.”

  SIX

  “Get everything you can on that nine-one-one call before I see you in the morning,” Battaglia said. He was in the front seat of his official car, and I was trying not to choke on the cigar smoke that wafted back into my face. “Keep Tim in the loop on this. All of it.”

  “Will do.” I hated it when Battaglia inserted Spindlis as an intermediary. I was never sure what he filtered out of conversation with the boss when I passed facts along through him.

  “We’re going to the West Side for a community council meeting. Can we drop you off?”

  “The office is good. I need to pick up some work to take home with me.”

  When the driver stopped for the light at the corner of Centre and Worth, a block south of the courthouse, I took the opportunity to say good-night and hop out.

  I was going against the flow. Lawyers and secretaries waved at me as they rushed downtown toward the large subway hub at the City Hall station. I envied the few who weren’t carrying briefcases or litigation bags full of work, and would be home in time to enjoy dinner with family or friends.

  “Alexandra!” A car door slammed and as I turned into Hogan Place, I saw Lem Howell step out of a black limousine. “Time to call it a day, Ms. Cooper. Let me deliver you home on the way uptown.”

  I blew him a kiss, shook my head, and continued walking toward my office.

  “I promise I won’t say a word about Karim Griffin.”

  “Going home isn’t in my immediate future. Remember those all-nighters at the morgue?” I turned to say good-night to Lem, and he waved me on again.

  “Get your case folder. My chariot awaits.”

  “The cameramen all gone?”

  “Would I be talking to you, young lady, if I had the slimmest of chances, the shortest of moments, the briefest of sound bites to make my case to a tristate viewing audience of millions? Check out the eleven o’clock news. I gave them my best stuff. Be quick.”

  It was
a combination of the cold evening, my long friendship with Lem, and the thought that he might reveal something to me about Leighton—whose personal problems seemed more intriguing to the higher-ups than the mass disaster in Queens—that moved me to accept his ride up to Thirtieth Street and the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

  I pushed through the revolving door, went up to my office to grab the last batch of messages Laura had stacked on my desk, and took a new Redweld with colored folders—blue for the autopsy notes, red for witness interviews, green for the first day’s pile of DD5s—the Detective Division reports of the shipwreck that would grow to overwhelm us within a week’s time.

  When I got back downstairs, Lem was leaning against the limo, talking into his cell, the collar of his trim black overcoat turned up against the wind. I walked toward him and he opened the door so that I could slide across the backseat.

  He got in beside me and before he slammed the door and the driver stepped on the gas, despite the dark tinted windows and the dim lighting in the overhead panel, I could see there was someone sitting across from me.

  “I think you two have met before,” Lem said.

  Ethan Leighton leaned forward out of the shadowy corner. “Hello, Alex.”

  “You taught me well, Lem. But never dirty tricks,” I snapped, trying to keep my temper under control. “Be honorable, you used to say. All you’ve got to trade on is your reputation.”

  “I asked him to do this,” Ethan said. “It wasn’t Lem’s idea.”

  Leighton’s face was lined, his eyes were bloodshot, and his voice quavered. It was completely inappropriate for us to be meeting in secret, given the circumstances, yet I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. I had met him years before when I was cross-designated on a sexual assault investigation that the feds were conducting at a Veterans Administration hospital. He was handsome in a nontraditional way—a prominent, slightly crooked nose, wavy brown hair that was thinning on top, and green eyes set a bit too close, but when he smiled the whole package presented attractively. He wasn’t smiling tonight.