Hell Gate Page 8

  “Nauseous?” Mike said. “Seasick?”

  “Yes, is that. Was very sick one day when sea is rough and being thrown up. But she seemed very shy and didn’t want their help.”

  “But does he know even her first name? What city she’s from?”

  The interpreter asked but drew a blank. “Pavlo says the young women slept in different part of boat, ate apart from guys, hardly no mix at all. Doesn’t know.”

  Pavlo was sent back to reception and Mike guided in a second youth named Taras. Like Pavlo, he had been dressed in ill-fitting clothes that the NYPD must have picked up at the nearest thrift shop in Queens. This one was nervous and appeared to be frightened.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” the interpreter asked Mike. “Is all he wants to know. What you going to do with him?”

  “Coop, how do we tell the kid it’s going to get worse before it gets better?” Mike scratched his head.

  “You tell him,” Mercer said, “that the first thing he has to do is help with this. Then I’ll take Pavlo and him inside and explain where they’re going tonight. There’s a facility in Nassau County that’s got beds. It’s actually not too bad.”

  “C’mon, Taras,” Mike said. “Pick up your head.”

  At the sound of the curtains rustling, Taras looked up at his shipmate. Immediately, startled and shaken, he stepped back, bumping into the interpreter and crying as he blurted out what he knew.

  “The boy’s name is Gregor, he is telling me. They went to school together. Yes, he is Viktor’s brother and, yes, is he seventeen. They were very good friends.”

  Mercer stepped over and encircled the young man’s slim shoulders in his strong embrace. “Thank him for us. Thank him for doing this. We know how hard it is.”

  The interpreter conveyed the message, which was merely Mercer’s introduction to a further probe.

  “Were they together last night? Did he see Gregor jump? Does he know why?” Mercer asked the questions slowly, hoping to get answers that would lead us firmly in a particular direction.

  “No, is telling me. No. They got separated when the excitement—how you call it? When the hysteria started. Viktor, the older brother, was one of the guys who got upset when they saw the government boats, like a police boat, coming at them. Viktor is one of the ones who attacked the captain.”

  The interpreter paused and raised his finger, getting more information from Taras while we waited. “Gregor followed Viktor, he is telling. Of course he followed his brother. That’s the last I seen of him, he says. He wants to stop now, okay, Mr. Mike? He’s had enough.”

  “We’re almost done. Tell him,” Mike said, closing the curtain and signaling for the body of Jane Doe #1 to be raised again, “we just need him a few more minutes.”

  When Mike was ready for Taras, Mercer had to nudge his body a few steps forward.

  “Why are you crying?” Mike asked. “You know this girl?”

  The interpreter said something to Taras, then turned back to Mike. “Is crying for himself. Doesn’t know girl. Me, I think he isn’t even looking. Is very upset, Mr. Mike.”

  “And she’s very dead, okay? Pick up your head, Taras,” Mike said in as stern a voice as he could muster in the quiet of the morgue. “Look at her.”

  Taras grudgingly raised his chin and spoke a few words.

  “Doesn’t know her. Never saw before.”

  Minutes later, his response to Jane Doe #2 was exactly the same.

  “I can’t tell if he’s just shutting us down,” Mike said, “or he doesn’t recognize either of the women.”

  “Let him get some sleep,” Mercer said. “We’ll have fresher recruits by morning. There have got to be people who were on that ship who’ll have something to give us, who’ll want something in exchange for information and help. He’s a kid, Mike. It’s not going to help us tonight to keep Taras here.”

  It was like Mike to get on a case and set a relentless schedule for himself and everyone working with him. He lived alone in a tiny walk-up apartment not far from my high-rise, so small that he had nicknamed it “the coffin.” Since the death of his fiancée more than a year ago, he had driven himself even harder, trying to bury his grief by seeking those who had taken human lives without reason.

  “Mercer’s right. Think long range. Let’s grab a bite,” I said, “and make a plan so that we can pick the aspects of this investigation that we want to concentrate on. We can’t do it all, Mike. There are scores of potential witnesses, and Donovan will welcome our suggestions. We’ve really got to pace ourselves. This could take weeks to sort out.”

  Mike walked away from us, telling the interpreter that he would be free to leave as soon as the officers who were going to escort Pavlo and Taras to the Nassau County detention center arrived.

  He came back, rubbing his stomach, and obviously too wired to call it a night. “Feed me, blondie. Nothing like a day at the beach to work up my appetite.”

  “Want to shoot up to Primola?” I asked. The three of us spent a lot of time at my favorite Italian restaurant on Second Avenue and Sixty-fifth Street. The staff knew us and treated us like family, no matter when we dropped in, nor how casually we were dressed.

  “Sounds good,” Mercer said. “Then I can drop Alex at her place and slip onto the drive. Vickee might even be talking to me if I get home before midnight.”

  Mercer’s wife was also a police officer and the daughter of a well-respected detective. She had a little more tolerance for the terrible hours he kept, even with the addition to the family of their young son, Logan.

  I gathered my things, said good-night to Willis Pomeroy, and walked out onto First Avenue with Mercer and Mike, refreshed by the blast of cold air.

  Mercer’s cell phone rang and he lifted it to his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. Who is this?”

  “Can’t be too important if he doesn’t even know the guy,” Mike said as he kept walking while Mercer stopped to take the call. “You riding with him or me, kid?”

  “Whoever is parked closer,” I said, pulling up the collar of my jacket.

  “Did you get his name?” I heard Mercer ask.

  “Call Fenton,” Mike said, referring to the bartender at Primola. “I want a vodka martini straight up. An olive and three onions. And I want it waiting on the table when we walk in.”

  “You did the right thing, Fitz,” Mercer told his caller. “Just call the precinct if he shows up again.”

  “I’m thinking maybe that lasagnetta with a veal ragù,” Mike said.

  The morgue always depressed my appetite, but never seemed to have an effect on Mike at all. I’d be happy with a shot of Dewar’s and a bowl of soup.

  Mercer seemed in no hurry to catch up with us. I turned to wave him on. “Something wrong?”

  “That was the doorman at Salma’s apartment. Harry Fitzpatrick. I gave him my card when we left there tonight and told him to call me if anything unusual happened.”

  “So what happened? The congressman tried to convene a special session?” Mike asked.

  Mercer walked toward us slowly. “A guy just showed up fifteen minutes ago. Not Leighton, Alex. Don’t worry about that. Made Fitz call upstairs to Salma, but she’d already told him not to bother her under any circumstances. And not to let the police in either. Fitz knew she wasn’t going to answer, but he says he rang her anyway.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Says he didn’t want to create another scene in the lobby,” Mercer said. “It might also have something to do with the hundred-dollar bill he says the guy slipped him.”

  “Who’s the visitor?”

  “Fitz says the guy wouldn’t give a name. He said he was there to pick up his baby.”

  “His baby?”

  “Yeah, Fitz claims the man said that he was the father of Salma’s child.”

  NINE

  “Get in the car, Coop.”

  “It’s fine for you to disagree with me, Mike. I can just head home.”

  “What’s your point?”<
br />
  “Look, maybe Salma’s unhinged at the moment. How could she not be with what’s going on around her?”

  “I’m getting unhinged myself. The combination of cold and hungry kills all my good instincts. It’s twenty-six degrees out here with a wind chill that makes it feel like minus five. It’s right behind that gray SUV. Get in.”

  “Since when did you become Doppler Mike, the weather maven? The woman is scared enough to phone the police repeatedly—”

  “Salma denied making the calls,” Mike said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “They came from her landline. There’s no question about that,” I said. “The cops respond a few times, and when they get fed up, they tell her they’re not coming back under any circumstances.”

  “That’s what she wants. She threatened to make a civilian complaint for harassing her.”

  “Well, I’m not comfortable with it, okay? Salma has absolutely no lifeline to the police right now. You two go on to the restaurant. I’d like to go up to her apartment and have a talk with her. I can’t figure what Lem and Ethan were up to, but it stinks.”

  “It’s almost ten thirty, Alex. What makes you think she’ll let you in?” Mercer asked.

  I stepped off the curb to try to hail a cab.

  “That stubborn streak is going to get her hurt someday,” Mike said, reaching for my hand to pull me back. “Coop thinks the sensitive-broad-to-sensitive-broad approach is always going to work for her. Thinks it’s better for crazy people than twenty-four hours in Central Booking. Meanwhile, all she really wants to do is get up close and personal with Salma before Lem Howell shuts her down.”

  “You guys go have a drink and start eating. I don’t like the idea that this woman is all alone tonight, her life coming apart on national television, her baby sent off with a relative—”

  “Her choice,” Mike said.

  “She probably has no idea what she wants right now. Another man shows up at her door staking out rights to the kid, and bottom line? In case anything really does go wrong tonight—like Ethan Leighton deciding to try his hand at calming her down—the police have already told her they’re off-limits to her. Can you imagine? Who’s she going to call if there really is a problem?”

  “I’ll take you back there, Alex,” Mercer said, stepping between Mike and me. “Ride up with me.”

  “Sweet Jesus. Now you’re walking down Coop’s path? Drinking her Kool-Aid? Tell you what. I got no piece of your action, guys, okay? I’m assigned to the Ukrainian flotilla ’cause I handle real cases like murder. You got a drunken congressman who’s a John Edwards wannabe, go stroke the broad for an hour. Where’s the crime?”

  Mike was parked at the corner. He walked over and got in, gunning the gas as he took off up First Avenue before we reached Mercer’s car halfway up the block on Thirtieth Street.

  There was no traffic. We cruised up First, catching most of the lights to reach Salma’s building in twelve minutes.

  Mercer parked his car across the street, in front of the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded Gracie Mansion. Christmas decorations and lights still covered the outside of the building and the park around it, but the interior of the old house was dark.

  The glass tower high-rise sparkled against the sky, a glitzy new addition to the classic prewar apartments that lined this quiet street that bordered the East River. Harry Fitzpatrick recognized Mercer as we approached and opened the door to admit us to the lobby of Salma’s building.

  “Evening, sir. I didn’t mean to get you up here again, Mr. Wallace. All’s quiet now. The man hasn’t come back,” Fitz said, swinging his arms across each other like an umpire announcing a player safe on base. “Haven’t heard from Miss Salma. It’s good.”

  “I’d like you to ring up to her for me.”

  The doorman, built like a linebacker, tried to refuse politely. “Can’t do that, sir. She’s a tough cookie.”

  “I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. We need to talk to Salma Zunega. Now.”

  “I—uh—I can’t do it, ma’am. It’s after ten thirty. I’m sure she’s resting.”

  “Is it the hundred dollars the last guy gave you, Mr. Fitzpatrick? ’Cause you’re not going to get that from me, and I don’t think she’d like to hear you got it from him.”

  “I just can’t. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  I walked past Fitzpatrick and down the three marble steps that led into the opulent lobby. “Which elevator bank, Mercer?”

  “To the right. Ten-A.”

  I held open the door for Mercer, then pressed the button. Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to know whether to leave his post and follow us or break his word and call upstairs.

  We got out on the tenth floor and I followed Mercer into the corridor. There were only three apartment doors, one on each end of the hallway and one right opposite the elevator. We walked the long hall on thick beige carpeting that muffled the sound of our steps.

  There was a brass knocker on the door and a peephole below it, but no name in the small plate that identified most residents.

  Mercer struck three times with the knocker.

  “You hear anything?” I asked after several seconds.

  He shook his head, then knocked again.

  “Maybe she can’t hear it if she’s in the bedroom with her door closed.”

  “This thing is big enough to make noise in the Bronx,” Mercer said, rapping with the knuckles of his huge hand.

  The door at the other end of the corridor opened and a man emerged, pulling the leash of a black Lab that came out slowly behind him. “What’s all the banging about at this hour?”

  “Sorry if we’ve disturbed you,” I said.

  “Take your business inside, why don’t you?” he said, yanking on the leash again as he and his charge disappeared into the elevator.

  “Call her phone, Mercer. Maybe she took something to help her sleep.”

  He dialed her landline—we could hear it ringing—but she didn’t pick up after six rings, so he hung up.

  “You want to try the door?”

  “What are you thinking, Alex?”

  “I don’t like this whole thing. I don’t want to leave her stranded from everyone who could help her. Just try it.”

  People in New York’s toniest buildings, coddled by doormen and valets and concierges, often left their doors unlocked. There was a false sense of security that the high cost of rent or maintenance and the abundance of uniformed staff guaranteed in many of the city’s finest addresses.

  Mercer put his hand on the shiny brass doorknob and turned it to the right. I heard it click and saw the look of surprise on his face as he pushed it open.

  “Salma? Salma, it’s Mercer Wallace. I’m one of the detectives who was here today. You okay?”

  The lights in the hallway were on and the living room beyond it was brightly lit.

  There was no sound from anywhere in the apartment. Mercer took a couple of steps in and I followed him. He called her name out again, then extended his arm to stop me from going farther.

  “Let’s back it up, Alex. You’re right. Maybe she knocked herself out with some pills and needs a good night’s sleep.”

  “See the coffee table?”

  The living room facing the river was glass windows from floor to ceiling on two sides. There was a striking vista of the river, with the lights of the bridges and highways glittering in the distance.

  “Yeah. A bottle of red wine.”

  “And two glasses. Not exactly the plan she announced to you.”

  Mercer motioned to me to stay in place as he walked to the table, then returned.

  “The bottle’s unopened.”

  “Which way is the master bedroom?”

  “Alex—”

  “What if she tried to hurt herself?”

  “You’re playing with dynamite here. Be ready to duck if she throws something,” Mercer said, pointing to the archway behind me. �
�Over there.”

  I started down the narrow corridor, passing the child’s bedroom first. I peeked in and could see from the moonlight pouring through the window that the crib was empty and the room was neatly arranged.

  I kept walking to the end of the hall, with Mercer on my heels.

  The door was ajar and even without lamplight the tall windows fronting on the open panorama of the bright city sky revealed the emptiness of the room.

  “Salma’s not here, Mercer.” My heart was racing as I tried to guess at where she might have gone and what prompted her to flee. “I’d better call Battaglia right now. Looks like Salma Zunega’s on the run.”

  TEN

  “The woman vanishes and you call that excellent circumstances?” Mike said. “You take Mercer on a break-in into this broad’s love nest?”

  “That’s not what I said. Exigent circumstances. That’s why Mercer and I went into her apartment. Perfectly legal.” I reached over and wiped the pasta sauce off the corner of Mike’s mouth with my napkin. “Can you possibly put your fork down for a minute and get serious?”

  “Giuliano,” Mike called out to Primola’s owner. “Mercer’s sticking to sparkling water but we might need to go intravenous Dewar’s on the princess here. Rapido.”

  “I called the precinct and they’ve got a man stationed at both doors to the apartment,” Mercer said. “We went in the front one and there’s also a service entrance off the kitchen.”

  Another feature of upscale apartments was the rear service door, so that garbage and deliveries—and the servants who managed those duties—were kept out of the carpeted common hallways.

  “Kitchen? Bathrooms?”

  “Not there. I didn’t go into her closets, Mike,” Mercer said. “She’s not in the apartment.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “That’s why we came back to get you,” I said, smiling at him. “CSU responds more quickly when you call.”

  “Crime Scene wouldn’t come out for you?” he asked, mopping the dish with a piece of garlic bread. “I’m supposed to be perplexed by that? You still got nothing, kid.”