Hell Gate (45 page)

“And a rich sugar daddy to give her whatever she desired,” Mike said, folding a sheet from a legal pad on the table. “Salma didn’t want for cash.”

Liz walked toward Mike. “You think Rowdy went to Salma’s apartment intending to kill her?”

“Yeah, I do. Check the phone and e-mail action between Kendall Reid and Rowdy Kitts all day. That’s the whole plan behind the spoofing.”

“What kind of plan?”

“I gotta say, I was wrong. Coop called it on the spot. Spoiled my dinner, but she was right. She didn’t know about the murder, but she figured the idea behind the spoofing.”

I glanced at Mike—it was so rare for him to give me credit for anything—and Mercer patted my hand, winking at me.

“Those repeated nine-one-one calls did just what they were supposed to do,” Mike went on. “We haven’t tried to make a match to the woman who actually made them for Rowdy—voice print technology will help us do it—but you can bet she’s one of the young Mexicans trafficked in by him and by Reid. Setting Salma up as an out-of-control hysteric, Rowdy Kitts knew exactly what would happen.”

I picked up the thread. “The responding cops told Salma that they wouldn’t come back the next time she called. That’s what prompted me to fuss about going there with Mercer in the first place. Salma didn’t want detectives snooping around, but didn’t think she was in any danger with Kitts coming over. And he knew that even if things got out of hand when he attacked her, the next nine-one-one call—the one she tried to make from her cell phone before he killed her—would be ignored by the cops, who thought she was acting irrationally all through the day and evening.”

“The spoofed calls set the scene for Salma’s murder,” Liz said. “Now I see it. Let Kitts get the job done and gave him time to dispose of the body. The precinct cops had washed their hands of her.”

Another rap on the door and a federal marshal pushed in without waiting for an invitation. “Fifteen minutes, Ms. Arrington.”

She scowled at him. “I get it. We’d like some privacy.”

“You, Counselor,” he said, pointing at me. “You’ve got a fan club.”

Mike tossed the paper plane he’d been crafting in my direction. “Coop never travels light. Those girls are loyal, I’ll give her that.”

“More like a stage-door Johnny,” the marshal said as he backed out.

“What is it, Coop? Didn’t trust us to get the job done? Call in the French Foreign Legion?”

Mike turned his back to me and looked out the window again.

I was thoroughly confused. If Luc had chosen this moment to surprise me, he had picked the wrong time. “I didn’t call anyone.”

“I did,” Mercer said. “I thought it would be good for you right now. Blame me for this one.”

“Capitaine Luc Rouget,” Mike muttered.
“Légionnaire extraordinaire.”

“What am I missing?” Liz asked. “The French authorities are involved?”

“Yeah. French toast and French fries. Truffles and foie gras. Detective Wallace is clearly of the view that too many cooks don’t spoil the broth.” Mike started to pace around the table. “Really professional, Coop. Spare me the courtroom hand-holding, okay?”

Mercer stood up and Mike came to a stop. “I’ll explain this to you, Liz.”

“I’m beginning to get it.”

“You want us standing by in here during the arraignment?”

“Yes, please, Mercer. The judge may ask something I can’t answer without your input. You think Ethan Leighton is looking at a collar?”

“Down the line, yes. Depends how deeply he got himself entangled with the trafficking, by design or unintentionally,” I said. “There’s so much to be done before you’ve got all the answers.”

“And Liz has the troops to do it, Alex,” Mercer said. “You get to take a break.”

“Look, I’m going to help you and Mike.” That seemed far more important to me than entertaining Luc, no matter how far he had traveled. Something about the timing of his arrival felt all wrong to me, especially after my flirtation with Mike at Mercer’s house on Friday night.

Mike barely met my gaze as he waved me off. “There’ll be plenty for you to do next week. Give it a rest, Coop.”

“Have you made any decision about what becomes of all the passengers on the boat?” I asked.

Liz Arrington smiled at me. “This may be a first, Alex. We’re going to ask Washington to give amnesty to everyone on board. We’ll do some more background checks to make sure we haven’t got any young men with criminal records who slipped on in Ukraine, but I think the attorney general wants to use the Golden Voyagers as a public lesson about the trafficking problem.”

“The United States of America against Kendall Reid,”
Mike said. “Sounds a hell of a lot better than just the
People of the State of New York
. Got the whole nation going against him in this court. Wish Kitts had lived long enough to hear the clerk say that with his name in bold print.”

Liz gathered her papers and jotted the last few notes on the file. “Can you give me a few hours today?”

“Of course,” I said.

Luc would understand this was the place I needed to be, the work I had to get done. Tonight, I could put thoughts of the prosecution aside and unleash the flood of emotions that were bottled up inside me.

“Hey, Coop,” Mike said, pulling out a chair to sit on my other side. “I’m sorry if I was rough on you. I was just trying to keep things light.”

“Got it. Nothing to apologize for.”

“You were right about Rowdy from day one, from years ago. You’ve got good instincts.”

“Bottle that, Alex. Two apologies and a compliment all in one week,” Mercer said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting either from him.”

“Tell you what. We’ll give you ten minutes with Luc in the jury room for a quick reunion. Then he can buy lunch for us. Sound good?”

“You break the news to Luc,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Luncheon for four, after flying all night to get here ’cause Mercer thought I need some shoring up. How very romantic.”

I watched Liz Arrington stand up, smooth out her jacket, prepare herself to face the magistrate judge and argue for Kendall Reid’s remand without bail. I liked her style.

“You ready to let go of the case, Coop?” Mike asked. “It’s not yours anymore.”

“Done,” I said, with an exaggerated brush of my hands.

“I think I need to keep on Ms. Arrington’s tail this time. She’s a little too intense already.”

“You have such a winning way with the ladies, Detective Chapman,” I said. “Just stay out of her path and let her nail the bastards for me. You owe me that.”

“We’re talking debts now? I seem to remember some promises I’m due to collect on.”

“Ready when you are, Mike. Ready anytime.”

The raging currents in the narrow straight east of Manhattan known as Hell Gate made it a watery grave for scores of men and women for centuries. A magnificent bluff that overlooks that deadly passageway was the site of a merchant’s summer home built in 1799, which eventually became the city’s mayoral residence, rich with its own history and intrigue.

The great public institutions of our large cities are well-known and often well-used. But it is a handful of the oldest private homes in New York City—still standing—that captured my imagination as I set out to explore the nature of some of the political scandals that have become so shockingly commonplace in recent times.

The Historic House Trust of New York City brilliantly preserves many of these buildings—the simple cottage that was the last home of Edgar Allan Poe, or the elegant Morris-Jumel Mansion, a Georgian masterpiece that George Washington seized to use as his headquarters in 1776. My favorite of these is the magnificent Gracie Mansion, operated by the Gracie Mansion Conservancy, a member of the trust.

I am grateful to Susan Danilow, director of the Conservancy, who so graciously and warmly introduced me to the treasures of Gracie Mansion, and to the assistant director, Diana Carroll, for whom no inquiry was too insignificant. Although evil things occur around the mansion in this book, they are entirely imaginary and would never happen under the loving eye of the Conservancy, nor during the administration of Mayor Michael Bloomberg, whose generosity is evident throughout the stunning restoration of “the people’s home.”

Of great interest and help to me were the books
New York City’s Gracie Mansion: A History of the Mayor’s House
by Mary Black, and
Gracie Mansion: A Celebration of New York City’s Mayoral Residence
by Ellen Stern. As always, the archives of
The New York Times
proved invaluable in my research of the city’s history.

I’m thrilled and honored to be at Dutton; thankful to Brian Tart for his patience, persistence, wisdom, and good friendship. Ben Sevier, my editor, has used his strong hand to make this book better, and I look forward to many more volumes together. Christine Ball has already proved to be a smart partner in crime, and Melissa Miller is holding my fingers to the keyboard. I like it here.

David Shelley, Hilary Hale, and their great team at Little, Brown UK have been steadfast and loyal through all of Coop’s capers, and so I thank them all again.

Esther Newberg is first and foremost my great friend. That she has also been my agent, guiding me through professional waters every bit as treacherous as Hell Gate, is one of life’s great bonuses. And to Kari Stuart and Allie Green, who I lean on constantly, thanks to you. A shout-out to Katie Cion, who offered me her name to create a fine new character to hang with Mike and Mercer.

Family and friends, as always, are my supreme joy and encouragement. Welcome, beautiful Isla. And Alice Maude, my precious heart, you are always with me.

My fiercest literary critic—and my most devoted fan—is my great warrior, my husband, Justin Feldman. These books are all for him.

And this one is especially dedicated to the women and men who do the very difficult work of special victims investigations and prosecutions—sexual assaults, domestic violence, and child abuse. They have been my colleagues in the New York County District Attorney’s Office and the New York Police Department, and they will always be my heroes.

Linda Fairstein
is America’s foremost legal expert on crimes of sexual assault and domestic violence. She led the Sex Crimes Unit of the District Attorney’s Office in Manhattan for twenty-six years. Her eleven previous Alexandra Cooper novels have been critically acclaimed international bestsellers, translated into more than a dozen languages. Fairstein lives in Manhattan and on Martha’s Vineyard.