Hell Gate (34 page)

“The statue?”

“The statue was a person. I mean a model. Back in the nineteen twenties.” Mike stopped again and looked off at the great golden symbol of the city. “Audrey Munson. I’m telling you her name because it’ll never be on
Jeopardy!
Otherwise, I’d try to score the dough off you.
”

“So how come you know it?”

“ ’ Cause she fascinates me, ever since I was a kid. Artists used her for half the famous monuments around town. She’s that strong-looking woman, you know, at the foot of the archway of the Manhattan Bridge. She’s in marble at the Firemen’s Memorial on Riverside Drive. I used to go there with my pop all the time. Fifteen statues in this city, and that one woman inspired them all.”

“She must have been magnificent.”

“That’s not the part that reminded me of you, kid. It didn’t stop her from going mad. Couldn’t live with it when her career ended. Spent more than sixty years in an insane asylum, till she died at the age of a hundred and five.”

“This is my object lesson for the day, Detective?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since you got tagged last night. Then I looked up and saw my girl Audrey just now. It’s a delicate balance you’re living, Coop. You need to step down off that ball every now and then. I’d hate for you to take a fall.”

I hesitated before moving on, staring up at the gilded figure. “Okay, so I forget all my personal feelings about Donny Baynes.”

“He’s made his own bed. Let him sleep in it.”

“Got it. When do I get to do my lifestyle lessons for the Chapman retort?”

“I’m hopeless. Get that through your thick skull,” he said, trotting down the steps. “You’ll never change me.”

As I descended behind Mike, I heard a voice calling my name. Ahead of us, at the southern end of the park, was the grounds supervisor Alton Brady, who had responded when I fell in the ditch on Thursday morning.

“Ms. Cooper? I thought that was you standing up there,” he said, reminding me of his name and introducing the two workers who were trailing behind him.

“We found some things when we cleaned up the site,” Brady said. “I’ve had the men out here all day, after that news story the other night made us look like we couldn’t take care of our own place. Thought you might have dropped stuff when you fell.”

“I don’t think so. But nice of you to ask. What did you find?”

“The police took all the weapons and metal things from us. But we went back to clean everything out and picked up a boxful of odds and ends. It’s in a cardboard carton, right by security. You lose any makeup?”

“You gotta ask that question?” Mike said. “Just look at her. She lost it ages ago.”

“I don’t know, everything dropped out of my bag. I guess I could have left something behind. I definitely had my wallet and keys, but I haven’t looked for anything else. Besides, makeup would be too dirty to use after this.”

“No femurs or clavicles?”

“Say what?” Brady answered.

“Take a look, Coop. Not every day you get a graveyard lost and found.”

Brady trudged up the steps and we went along with him. The cop on duty handed him the box when he asked for it. He untied the string that latched it and opened it up.

“I threw out all the garbage, of course. Food and soda cans and such.”

He scrambled around and came out with a small plastic freezer bag. I could see that it held three black plastic pieces—a compact, lipstick, and a mascara applicator.

“It’s actually the brand I use,” I said, studying the damp baggie. “Do you mind?”

I reached for the corner of the bag. “You found this around the side of the building, where I fell?”

Brady turned to his men. “That where it was?”

“No, not the makeup,” the taller man answered. “I got some other things out of that hole. This was right here in the trench at the bottom of the steps.”

Mike pulled back the lid of the box and poked around inside.

“Not my shades, but it’s all Chanel,” I said. “What are you looking for in there?”

“A smoking gun. A straw, so I can grab at it.”

“I may have the straw after all,” I said. “Look at this, Mike.” I held up the bag between my fingertips.

“What?”

“These three makeup cases. It’s the same brand Salma used. We can check the colors against others in her bathroom. It’s too expensive for most of the women who work in City Hall.”

“Long shot but I’m with you.”

“It gets better. See those nubby little things that are caught in the zipper of the baggie? Sort of off-white wooly threads.”

“Yeah?”

“They look like the same color wool as the blanket that was covering Salma’s body when she was thrown in the well.”

“I suppose the lab could give us an answer on that for certain,” Mike said. “Now just find me the perp. I’ve always wanted to put lipstick on a pig.”

“What do you mean who’s been here lately?” I said, tossing a glance back at the burial ground as we walked out of City Hall Park.

“Like Donny Baynes,” Mike asked. We were crossing Chambers Street at five o’clock for the short walk to the entrance of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, practically on the doorstep of One Police Plaza. “I wonder if he’s done any business at City Hall this week.”

“We’re about to find that out,” I said. “Think of it. The mayor goes up those steps every day, along with his bodyguards. Kendall Reid’s office is here. Ethan Leighton came by to see him—against Lem’s orders yesterday—which is really interesting.”

“And you know what, Coop? After the news story about the burial-ground ditches the other night, it would be the perfect place for someone out to nail Statler—like old man Moses—to have evidence planted, if that’s what your little baggie actually is. But don’t get too bent out of shape yet. Maybe the Avon lady dropped her stash.”

We passed through another security post and took the elevators to the task force quarters on the sixth floor. Most of the doors were closed and the corridor was quiet. The federal prosecutors’ offices were much newer and cleaner than our distressed old surroundings. We reached Baynes’s room and I knocked before trying the knob, but it was locked.

“Go around the corner,” I said to Mike. “He’s got a small conference room.”

As we made the turn I could hear voices. One man was shouting at another who kept talking over him—it sounded like Ukrainian to me—and again I knocked.

The shouting ceased. Someone called out, “Yeah?”

I waited for the door to be opened. Seconds later, I was rewarded by the sight of one of the federal agents, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, who begrudgingly cracked it a hair.

“Who you looking for?” he asked as he eyed us.

“Donovan Baynes,” I said.

Chairs scraped the surface of the floor and I heard Donny’s voice calling my name. “Alex? I’ll be out.”

The agent stepped away and Donny emerged from the room. He, too, had removed his suit jacket and tie, and appeared to be as exhausted as I felt.

“Sorry to interrupt you.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes. We’ve had an interesting day.”

“What are you up to?” Mike asked.

“The agents started with some of the boat crew yesterday, trying to reconstruct all the events. Find out what they know.”

“Who you got in there?”

“A couple of my guys, one of the young task-force prosecutors, an interpreter—and that’s one of the engineers from the boat.”

“He doesn’t sound happy.”

“If his happiness were my goal, Mike, I would have gone to clown school, you know?”

The shouting had begun again in earnest, voices overlaying each other, punctuated by the sound of a fist banging on the table.

“You waterboarding in there or just surfing?”

Donny smiled. “This is either the dumbest bunch of seamen who ever crossed the Atlantic, or the crew’s been paid a king’s ransom to take one for the team.”

“Can we talk to you for a couple of minutes?” I asked.

“What’s up?”

“In your office.” I gestured at the sterile corridor.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

He took us back, unlocked the door, and invited us in. It was already beginning to look like the war room of a major investigation. New file cabinets were standing catty-corner to old ones, drawers open, and boxes of documents—just the tip of the iceberg of those that would be collected in the coming months—sat waiting to be organized and filed.

“You look so serious, Alex. Everything okay with the two young women you spirited out of my custody?” He was adjusting the blinds as we lost the day’s light.

“We made some progress with the first interview. Nan and I are both optimistic that we’ll get these girls to open up. And from what we hear they had a great first night in the shelter. Nothing wrong on that front.”

“What, then?” Donny asked, checking his answering machine for messages.

“I think we need to spend some time talking about your relationship with Ethan Leighton,” I said.

“He’s been a friend since law school. A good one. I don’t have to tell you how shocked I am by all this.” Now he was sorting the markers in the front of his desk drawer.

“You do, actually,” Mike said. “That’s just what you have to tell me. How shocked are you? I recall sitting with you Thursday night while Coop charted all the connections between people in this case on her blackboard. I just can’t remember seeing a line that stretched from Salma Zunega directly over to you.”

We had Donny Baynes’s complete attention now. He slammed the drawer shut.

“I did not know Salma. That’s a fact.”

“Never met her?”

“No,” Donny said. He wanted no part of being questioned by Mike Chapman. “Alex, I don’t know what gives you the idea—you couldn’t possibly think I held out on you about something.”

“I’m not sure what to think.”

“Why? Where did this come from?”

“Did you ever meet Salma Zunega? Not ‘know’ her, Donny. Just meet her is all I’m asking,” I said.

“Look, can we talk one-on-one?”

“I’ve got no secrets from Mike.”

Donny Baynes hesitated before answering. “What do you have, a photo of me on a rope line at a fund-raiser with Ethan’s girlfriend?”

“I don’t have anything at the moment except a hunch that you are so close to Ethan you must have been in Salma’s orbit every now and then. What am I going to find if I dig a little deeper? Are there photographs? You tell me.”

Mike was letting me take the lead, seeing that Donny was more comfortable trying to angle his way through this with me.

“I didn’t know her, Alex. Can I swear I was never in the same room with the girl? No, I can’t do that,” Donny said. “Because I didn’t have any clue that my good friend Ethan Leighton had gone off the deep end without a life vest. He’s been in one political race after another. There are always attractive young women around in campaigns. It never seemed to get to him, and why would it? He had Claire at home. He had a relationship with his wife that we all envied.”

“You and I stood on the beach together Wednesday morning, with bodies washing up on shore and hundreds of victims whose lives had just been turned upside down. You were furious when Mercer Wallace arrived to tell us that Ethan had crashed his car—and by the way, had a lover, and a child he’d fathered with her. Did you fake that?”

“I didn’t fake anything,” Donny said, pulling on the cord of the venetian blinds. “Ethan kept that side of his life so compartmentalized, I would have given everything I had to believe that Mercer was mistaken. Ethan’s got a public persona that’s different than his private one—sure—but this crazy-ass part of him? I didn’t know it existed.”

“I’ll ask you again, Donny. When you heard about Salma’s death on Thursday—when you sat at my conference table and saw Polaroid photos of the young woman who was hoisted out of the well—did you recognize her?”

“Now you’re asking a different question. Recognize her? Did she look like someone I’d ever seen before? You’re asking that?”

“Sorry if I didn’t make myself clear, Donny. I’m asking that.”

“She looked familiar. She’s a pretty girl.”

“You should have seen her before she went bottoms up in the well, man. She looked a hell of lot better.” Mike had focused his attention on a photo on the wall of Baynes shaking hands with Mayor Statler. “You keeping Hizzoner up to speed on the boat people? He knows what you’re doing over here?”

“Yeah, he does,” Donny said, happy to field a question on another issue.

“Today. You see him today?”

“Last night, when I knocked off,” he said, laughing a bit as he straightened out his blotter. “Jeez, Chapman, I’ve got to answer to you now? Something’s wrong with that picture.”

“City Hall?” I asked. “Did you go to City Hall last night?”

Donny was trying to read my expression. “You don’t mean to imply I should have told you I was going there, do you? Statler called. I walked over and gave him a quick update, Alex. You’ve got nothing to do with the pieces of the case that my guys are working on.”

I was determined to get back on course and stop Mike’s interference.

“I’m glad you went,” I said, thinking of the plastic bag in Mike’s jacket pocket. “Go back to Salma, Donny. I wasn’t done with that.”

“Not much more to say.”

“She looked familiar to you, have I got that right?”

There had been no photographs of the elusive Salma in the newspapers, and it was impossible to believe the battered face of the woman in the well, represented in crime-scene photos, would be recognized by anyone who had only met her in a crowd.

“Yes. Vaguely familiar.”

“Did you ever talk with her?”

“I wish we could sit down with Ethan,” he said, throwing up his hands. “I’m sure he’d confirm I didn’t know her.”

“Next time you have dinner with Ethan,” Mike said, stepping all over my words, “maybe he can refresh your recollection.”