Killer Heat (19 page)

“The highest point,” he said, lifting his arm to show us,
“that's Fort Jay, the original island fortress, built starting in
the late eighteenth century, complete with a moat.”

As we started to climb the hill, a shiny red fire truck barreled
off the roadway and blocked our ascent. From behind our position,
two black vans pulled up and eight men in dark suits and
sunglasses- agents, no doubt-spilled out and walked toward us.

“Who's Chapman?” the lead man asked.

Mike raised his hands in the air. “Got me, man. Walking on
National Park grass, right? Felony or misdemeanor? But I swear we
haven't picked any flowers.”

The two firemen-the island's only permanent residents-laughed as
they watched the encounter from the cab of their truck.

“I'm Avery. Steve Avery, FBI. You seen enough?”

“Actually, I was hoping to buy a ticket for the twilight tour,”
Mike said. “The one that gets us inside the buildings before
sunset. I think the mayor would kind of like us to.”

“Well, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District hasn't put
them on sale yet. Tell Battaglia to get in line. Besides, there
really won't be much of a sunset tonight.”

“The federal prosecutor is-?”

“National Park. National Monument up there,” Avery said,
pointing at Fort Jay. The dark clouds overhead were thickening.
“One West Point cadet dead. And you guys haven't been able to
figure it out, have you? So we're gonna put the three of you back
on that boat, sail you over to America, and let you get on with
your work, Detective Chapman. We'll check out the island and spare
everybody any hysteria before tomorrow's event. It's a big
fund-raising day for the island restoration project, and nobody
wants to spoil that.”

“My tax dollars at work with you guys in charge of security. I
feel better already.”

“Now why don't you get yourselves into one of the vans and we'll
give you a proper send-off at the ferry?”

Mike turned and whispered to me out of the side of his mouth.
“Give him your beautiful whites, Coop. Shake those blond curls. Lay
on the charm.”

I stepped forward and put on my best smile. “I'm Alexandra
Cooper. I work for Paul Battaglia. It would make so much more sense
if we put a team together and got this done before there's any more
trouble. It's not crazy to think our perp may have been on
Governors Island, at some point. That there may be something to
help us identify him-maybe something that he left behind-if he was
using this place around the time he killed Amber Bristol. Why don't
we do it that way?”

“Because the sandbox isn't big enough to hold Battaglia this
time. Your boss has grabbed too many cases from the U.S. attorney,
and he doesn't seem to like anybody else sharing the spotlight with
him.”

“We really have a jump start on you guys, so you might as well
let us help,” I said, pushing a damp clump of hair out of my eyes,
as drops of rain rolled down my neck.

“I hate to tell you you're all wet, Ms. Cooper,” Avery said,
returning my smile. "But you really are all wet.

We stopped at headquarters so that Mike could tell Lieutenant
Peterson what needed to be done on Governors Island to coordinate
with the feds. In addition to coverage of the next day's muster,
Peterson planned to work with the FBI to allow uniformed cops to
search the buildings.

Guido Lentini's assistant had taped the press conference, so we
watched the replay for twenty minutes. The mayor and Commissioner
Scully had taken a sober approach in their short remarks, warning
about the possible connection between the deaths of the three women
but urging New Yorkers to remain calm.

They downplayed the idea of a military connection-because of
the lack of evidence in Amber Bristol's case-and, as was customary,
withheld certain facts, like the cat-o'-nine-tails, Elise's
heirloom West Point ring, and the green blankets in which two of
the bodies were wrapped.

It was after eight when we reached my apartment, and I was
aching with exhaustion. The exhilaration of my night with Luc was
losing its juice, and I needed some rest before thinking about what
tomorrow might entail.

The doorman gave Mike the old cardboard boxes that the cops had
delivered from his aunt Eunice's home in Brooklyn, and he and
Mercer carried them onto the elevator

What's the story with that Super 8 Motel?" I asked.

"In the 1960s, when the coast guard took over the island from
the army, they put in a motel and a bowling alley and a movie
theater. Stuff to make it easier for guys stationed there to have
their families visit.

“How come you went there?” Mercer asked Mike.

“You remember my uncle Brendan. His army buddies from the Second
World War used to meet on Governors Island for reunions. Exmilitary
guys and their relatives were allowed to use the place, even after
the coast guard inherited it. Brendan took me there now and then on
a Sunday morning to see a polo match.”

“Polo?” Mercer said, laughing. “You and the sport of kings?”

I opened the apartment door and they put the boxes inside. “Just
leave your wet jackets on the back of the chairs to dry off. I'm
starving. Let me order something in.”

“They must have had a bunch of army and coast guard brats
running all over the island,” Mercer said. “They'd know every nook
and cranny. Who do we call to get a list of everyone stationed
there, working backwards from the nineties?”

“That's the feds again,” I said. “That'll take forever.”

“Alex, can I use your computer? I'll bet they've got a Web site.
Everybody does.”

“Sure. The one in my office is a mess, with all the papers from
my trial. Use the one in the bedroom.”

Mercer went inside while Mike filled the ice bucket and headed
straight for the bar. I grabbed a towel from the powder room to dry
off my hair and stretched out on the sofa with the portable
phone.

“What do you want to eat?” I asked, as Mike handed me a
Scotch.

“Call Patroon. Ask Ken to send over three of the biggest New
York strips he's got. Black and blue. Mashed potatoes, onion rings,
sautéed spinach. Caesar salad. Pronto.”

I dialed the number of the best steak house in town and ordered
our dinner while Mike carried over the cardboard boxes and sat in
the chair beside me as he opened the first one.

“You've got three messages on your machine, Alex,” Mercer called
from the bedroom.

“Play 'em back for her. Could be important,” Mike said.

“Just leave them, Mercer. I'll deal with them later.” I knew
that at least one of them must be from Luc. I wanted to savor that
in private. “Anything urgent would be on my cell, and I checked
that five minutes ago.”

Mike winked. “Burning the candle at both ends leaves a lot of
melted wax in the middle. You look like you're fading. I'll set the
table. Why don't you rest until the food gets here?”

“Let me know if you find anything interesting, okay? I just need
a catnap.” I took a sip of the Dewar's, then rolled on my side and
closed my eyes.

The insistent ring of the house phone, announcing the delivery,
awakened me at nine o'clock.

I signed for the order and plated the food in the kitchen. Mike
and Mercer had set out the china and opened one of my better
bottles of red wine. The velvet voice of Smokey Robinson sang
softly from the CD player in the den.

Mercer came to the table with papers printed from the computer,
and Mike got up from the living room floor, where he was searching
Bannerman's catalogs.

My stomach had been growling for hours. I sliced into the tender
steak and began to eat.

“Here's one way around the feds,” Mercer said, patting his pile
of papers.

“What's that?” Mike asked, chewing on some rings.

“I just used the search engine to check Governors Island plus
military plus brats-and got to a site immediately. Looks like there
are a few others, too.”

“What did you find?” Mike asked.

“It's angelfire.com. Adults discussing about what it was like to
live there when they were kids. They talk about the buildings and
the schools and playing inside the forts. I sent out a few
questions-let's see what comes back.”

“How about asking was anybody frigging nuts? Anybody locked up?
Anybody like to play inside the prison cells? Anybody freaking out
the little girl brats?”

“I hear you. I'm on it.”

“What's the matter?” Mike said, turning to me. “You're eating
like you haven't had a meal in days. The guy didn't feed you?”

“Lay off her, Mike. She doesn't want to go there. What'd you
find?”

“Nothing, yet. When we're done with dinner, you can give me a
hand before we head home.”

I cleared the table and washed the dishes before resuming my
position on the sofa. Mike and Mercer were on the floor at my
feet.

“Go to bed, Coop. We'll let ourselves out,” Mike said.

I don't know how long I had been dozing before I heard Mike's
yelp.

“Show me,” Mercer said.

I sat bolt upright.

“Bannerman's. Winter 1938. Look at the photograph,” Mike said,
leaning over to show Mercer. “Blankets. Dark olive green, it says.
Surplus World War I stock, made for the U.S. Army of pure Scottish
wool. Even the stitching on the edges is the same.”

“Got a manufacturer?”

“Yeah, McCallan Brothers. You saw the tag, Coop, didn't you? The
one Dickie Draper found on the blanket? The last three letters were
L-A-N. Eureka!”

Mike and Mercer exchanged high fives.

“Well, there's not going to be anyone around who can trace a
sale from that year with a company that's been out of business half
a century,” I said. “I don't know what you're so excited
about.”

“Where's your sense of adventure? You know what this does? It
opens up the possibility that the killer's link to Bannerman Island
wasn't a coincidence. Maybe his old man was as wacky as Uncle
Brendan. Maybe instead of keeping useless magazines, he had a
cellar full of blankets and weapons and things he actually bought
from the catalog. Things somebody might know about and that could
lead us to this sicko.”

“Mike's right. Both Elise Huff and Connie Wade were wrapped in
blankets like this.”

“And Amber Bristol wasn't. I'm just saying you shouldn't get too
excited.”

Mike's cell phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it
and flipped it open. “Chapman,” he said, getting to his feet,
catalog in hand.

He listened as the caller gave him some news.

“It's not even eleven o'clock yet. Make sure you keep an eye on
him. Mercer and I will be there in half an hour.”

“Where to?” Mercer asked. “What's happening?”

“It's the guys from the bar car, Manhattan South. Looks like
with all the gin mills in the world, they finally stumbled into the
right one.”

I stood up. “Where?”

“A couple of blocks from the Pioneer,” he said. “Ever hear of
Ruffles?”

“No.”

“It's a pretty new joint on Prince Street, off Lafayette.”

“What's there?”

“The owner is a kid named Kiernan,” Mike said. “He's tending bar
tonight.”

Barbara told us that Elise had been hoping to hook up with a guy
named Kevin or Kiernan. The latter wasn't very common, so maybe
things were beginning to break our way.

“Nice going,” I said, stretching as I got up.

“I know, Coop. But wait until I tell you the rest of it.”

“What?”

“Think Jimmy Dylan, okay. Amber's boyfriend. The owner of the
Brazen Head.”

Mercer and I both nodded.

"This is his number-two son, set up downtown with a place of his
own. The bar is called Ruffles, and the owner's name on the license
is Kiernan Dylan. You want to join me for a nightcap?

Isqueezed in between two twenty-somethings and took the last
stool at the bar. Mike planted himself behind me and threw down a
fifty-dollar bill-mine, of course-to get the attention of one of
the bartenders. The scene was too white and too young for an
over-forty African-American, so Mercer waited in the car across the
street

I'm surprised there was no line to get in," I said

It's not midnight yet, and that rain has to dampen the
enthusiasm of even the most desperate broads looking to get
lucky."

The downtown scene picked up between twelve o'clock and four on
weekends. Velvet ropes blocked access to the hottest doors in town,
and bouncers were usually on hand to dispatch the unruly as well as
to select the sexiest to jump ahead of the crowd.

“Welcome to Ruffles,” a short, stocky guy with sandy hair said,
squaring off opposite me. “What are you drinking, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart's starting with a club soda,” Mike said. “She got
hammered last night, so we'll tune her up a bit later. What have
you got in single malts?”

“If this stuff is too heavy for you, I do a wicked watermelon
martini.” The bartender was talking to me as he handed over a small
Lucite stand framing a list of drinks. Printed on one side were
microbrews and wines by the glass; on the other was the assortment
of fine Scotch.

As Mike looked over my shoulder, I pointed at the logo and
message written in italics across the bottom of the page: Ruffle: To create a disturbance (Webster's Dictionary). Kiernan
Dylan, Proprietor.

“Make a decision?”

“I'll take a Lagavulin. Neat,” Mike said.

“Intense, man.” The bartender turned to the well-stocked shelves
behind him and brought over a full bottle of the smoky,
amber-colored Scotch.

I swiveled on the stool and took in the scene. After Mike got
the call about Ruffles, I had put my hair in a ponytail to affect
my most youthful look and dressed in a tank top and tight
jeans.

Fresh-faced young women continued to arrive in twos and threes.
Guys at the bar looked them over, some moving in on the groups
before they had even settled at one of the small round tables
against the wall. The place was filling up, and while young men
chatted up girls on their first and second drinks, those anxious to
hook up with someone before last call would begin a more frantic
pursuit as the hours wound down.

Waitresses in white ruffle-trimmed blouses and black cotton
slacks worked the floor from the service bar, not far from where I
sat.

“Dylan's Law,” Mike said, pointing as new arrivals stood in the
doorway. One looked poised for a walk down a Seventh Avenue runway,
while the other had thick makeup troweled on and enough dark
eyeliner to resemble a raccoon.

“What law would that be?”

“For every pretty girl, there's an ugly roommate.”

“Jimmy Dylan?”

“You got it. I told you he was a pig. He'd stroll through the
Brazen Head watching all his kids' friends getting their load on,
passing judgment on the crowd.”

The bartender was keeping an eye out for glasses that needed a
refill.

“You Kiernan?” Mike asked.

“Nah. Wouldn't be working back here like an ordinary stiff if I
was one of Dylan's kids,” he said, wiping the water marks off the
wood. “I'm Charlie.”

“Good to meet you, Charlie. I'm Mike. I thought Kiernan takes a
turn every now and then.”

“Sure he does. Covers for us while we take our breaks, when he's
here. For him, though, it's just amusement. He walks away when he's
got something better to do and leaves me with all the drunks. You
looking for Kiernan?”

“Nah,” Mike said, “I know his big brother. Just thought I'd say
hello.”

“Junior? You a friend of Junior's?”

“Yeah, you could say that. I know him from uptown. From the
Head. How long has Kiernan had this place?”

“His father set him up over the winter. Six, seven months
now.”

A girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen wedged herself
between me and Mike, extending her arm and putting her empty glass
on the bar top.

“What can I do for you, love?”

“Whatever that last one was you gave me? It was delicious. You
know, that sort of blue thing with the vodka in it?” She was
giggling and flirting with Charlie.

“Coming right up.”

“That guy over there in the corner, with the navy blue T-shirt,”
she said. “He said to put it on his tab.”

While Charlie stepped away to mix a concoction for the kid, Mike
chatted her up. “I know I've seen you somewhere before. Do you go
to Nightingale? I've got a little sister. Maybe you've been to a
party at our apartment.”

“Like, who's your sister?” she said, shaking her head. “I go to
Spence, but I hang with a lot of girls from there. What's her
name?”

Mike had made his point. He pretended he had a sister at one of
the city's premier private schools and got the teenager to admit
she was still a high school student.

“Ava. Ava Gardner,” Mike said, knowing the kid wouldn't have a
clue that he'd named his nonexistent sister for one of his favorite
movie stars.

“I don't think I know who she is,” the girl said with a pained
expression, as if he had asked her to determine the square root of
327. She used Mike's arm to pivot away from the bar with a full
glass of blue liquid, then sipped from it and giggled again. “Don't
tell Ava, but I'm a senior at Princeton for the night. I've got an
older sister, and she'd kill me if she caught me here. It's so fun,
isn't it?”

She headed back to Mr. Navy Blue T-Shirt, who was surrounded by
three other teenagers.

“I'd say we got Kiernan for serving minors, in case he turns
uncooperative,” Mike said to me. “It must be in his genes.”

Charlie was at the service counter, filling an order for one of
the waitresses, before he turned back to us. “Ready for something
else?”

“Actually,” Mike said, “I was hoping to talk to Kiernan. Is he
still around?”

“What do you mean 'still'?”

“One of my buddies was in earlier tonight. A guy who knows him.
Said he was here.”

“You looking for a job? I'll give you a number to call.”

“Nope. It's kind of a personal thing.”

The bartender had braced his arms against the wooden counter,
glancing from time to time at the narrow hallway at the rear of the
room. “Then give him a personal call. This here's his
business.”

“Well, if I knew how to reach him, I might do that.”

“If it's personal you should know how to reach him.” His genial
manner had turned cool.

A second girl, as young-looking as the first, wobbling on
four-inch heels, stood behind Mike and asked for another
margarita.

“Let me see that ID, will you?”

“C'mon, Charlie. It's still just me,” she said, fumbling in her
pants pocket for a driver's license that was undoubtedly fake.

I guessed that the bartender's sudden attention to the rules
meant that he had figured Mike for a cop.

“Lucky for you,” Mike said, “I'm a patient man. Don't you think
if I wait long enough, Kiernan will come around?”

Charlie looked to his left again. There was something besides
the rest rooms down that hallway.

“Lucky for me is that any minute now my two bouncers will show
up and remind you where the door is.”

“Even if I haven't ruffled anything? Caused any
disturbance?”

“Hold my spot, will you, Mike? I need the ladies' room.” I
slipped off the stool and started for the hallway.

Charlie seemed to think about abandoning his busy post to follow
me, but a tall, well-dressed young man moved in next to Mike, put
down some bills, and ordered a Jack Daniel's and a
Cosmopolitan.

The dark passageway had four marked doors. The first two had
symbols for men and women posted above them. The one after them was
tagged with a metal sign for the basement, and at the far end, I
could read the word Office in the dim light from the
overhead bulb.

Mike got off the stool as I approached and started to sit
down.

“Look,” Charlie said to me, “if you're not drinking, love, I've
got people who'll be glad to give me the business. I can use your
seat.”

“I'm not feeling all that well,” I said to Mike, so that Charlie
could hear. “I think I'm going to be sick. Would you walk me back
to the ladies' room?”

I took Mike by the hand and started to lead him through the
groups of drinkers, while Charlie called after us. “Take it
outside, okay? Don't be messing up in here.”

A couple claimed our seats as soon as we were out of the way.
Charlie looked around desperately for someone to give him a hand.
He called out to one of the waitresses, but she couldn't hear him
over the music and laughter.

As we disappeared into the hallway, I looked back and saw
Charlie reach under the bar and come up with a telephone receiver.
“You really overdid it last-”

“I'm fine, Mike. I was just scouting for a place where Kiernan
might be holed up,” I said, pointing to the sign on the last door.
“You want a shot at him? If he didn't see tonight's news, we're way
ahead of the game.”

Mike brushed past me and opened the door. There was a staircase
going up a flight, but no lights. He went up the steps as quickly
as possible and I followed behind him.

At the top was another door, and the sound of scuffling behind
it. I could hear voices, two people talking to each other. Mike
jiggled the handle but the door was locked, so he pounded on
it.

“Whaddaya want? Who is it?”

“Police. Open up. C'mon-right now.”

“Police? What are you, crazy?” a male voice called out. “You got
a warrant or something? I'm gonna make a phone call.”

“I don't need a warrant, Kiernan. I'm not here to search
anything,” Mike said. “Calm down. You don't make a call and I won't
make a call.”

“Whaddaya mean? Whaddaya mean you won't make a call?”

“Walk to the front of the room and look out the window. You're
gonna see a black Crown Vic. We've got the place staked out, up and
down the block. Take a look, Kiernan. I'll wait that long. One call
from me to my crew, they come marching in the front door of Ruffles
and all those cute little twinkies whose blood alcohol level is
higher than their SAT scores? The next time you see any of them-or
a liquor license-you'll be too old to know what to do with
them.”

There was no noise for a minute, and then I could hear the man's
footsteps march away, toward the window facing the street. Slowly,
he made his way back and cracked open the door.

“Chapman, Mike Chapman. NYPD.” Mike left out the homicide
reference. It was often the fastest way to end a conversation.
“This is Alex Cooper. She's with the DA's office.”

“Kiernan Dylan.” He said his name but blocked the entrance with
his large body.

“We'd like to come in.”

“This isn't a really good time. I've got somebody with me. If
you just want to talk, we can do it this way.”

“I'm afraid of the dark,” Mike said, pushing the door open and
walking past Kiernan. “I'd prefer it in here.”

I took a few steps in and heard a sniffling noise from someone
huddled in an armchair in the corner.

Mike found a floor lamp and turned it on. “You okay, young
lady?”

The black-haired teenager wiped her nose with the back of her
hand and looked up at Kiernan before answering. “Uh-huh. Yeah.”

I saw him cover his crotch and heard the sound of his fly
zipping up. In addition to the desk and several file cabinets on
the side of the room, there was a large futon under the window. I
assumed from the disarray of the sheets that we had interrupted an
intimate encounter.

“Can I go?” she asked. Her eyes were red and her nose was
running. Hard to know whether she had been crying or snorting
cocaine, until I saw the razor blade on the glass-topped table. A
bottle of tequila and two paper cups were on the floor beside
it.

“What's your name?” Mike asked, kneeling to make eye contact
with her.

Again, she looked at Kiernan before speaking. “Sally. Sally
Anton.”

“How old are you?”

Kiernan started to answer for her but Mike held out his arm and
he stopped. “I'm twenty-um. I'm twenty-two.”

“Let's see your ID.”

“Look, Chapman. Everybody gets carded here, okay? The SLA has no
beef with me. I don't know why you cops think you can barge
in-”

Mike looked at the license. “What year were you born?”

Sally looked at the ceiling and sucked on her lower lip, trying
to do the math. “Like, um, nineteen eighty um...”

Mike snapped his fingers a few times as he stood up. “You got to
get that down, Sally. Next ID you buy,” he said, pocketing her fake
license, “you've got to learn to memorize the date of birth, not
just your age.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pulled up her strapless
halter top.

“How are you going to get home?” I asked her.

“Well, he was going to go with me.”

Kiernan took twenty dollars from his pocket and handed it to
her. “Tell Charlie to have one of the guys put you in a cab,
babe.”

“What guys?” Mike asked.

“The ones who work the door,” Kiernan said, looking at his
watch. “They'll be on any minute. Take a cab, Sally. I'll call you
later.”

The young woman collected her belongings-pocketbook, cell phone,
and a thong that was on the futon, tangled up in the wires of her
iPod-before closing the door behind her.

“Have a seat,” Mike said to Kiernan. We pulled three chairs in a
circle.

“What's this about?”

Kiernan Dylan was built like a fullback. He was taller than
Mike- at least six three-and looked like he weighed more than 240
pounds. His eyes were set too close and his nose appeared to have
been broken several times.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said, leaning back so that the two front legs
of the chair tipped off the floor.