Likely to Die (26 page)

 By the time Trebek got to the highlight of the show, the legally blind linguist from Tampa was leading both other contestants by four thousand dollars. “Today’s Final Jeopardy category,” he announced, “is Art. We’ll be right back after a commercial break.”

 Mike yelled at the television screen. “How the hell can they ask a blind man a question about art? That’s a disgrace—it’s discrimination, it’s—”

 “It’s basically because you’re ignorant in that area, Detective Chapman,” I said, winking at Mercer and imitating the tone of a cross-examining attorney, “is it not?”

 “Five dollars, Coop. That’s my bet.”

 “Sorry once again, Chapman. House has a ten-dollar minimum. I’m willing to go to fifty on it with you. Get my money back.”

 Mercer was the referee as usual. “Ten dollars is the bet.”

 Trebek looked at the tense trio before him and revealed the answer. “Seventeenth-century Dutch portraitist famous for his miniature paintings of wealthy burghers, whose best-known work isThe Peace at Münster. ”

 While the theme music marked the time, Mike ranted at the ridiculous notion that any of the contestants would know the answer to such an obscure query.

 “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Kaiser,” Trebek told the first contestant. “Frans Hals is a good guess, but you’re a century off.”

 “You want me to tell you beforehe does so you know I’m for real?” I asked Chapman as the second contestant misfired with a try at Rembrandt.

 “See, Mercer? This is the kind of bullshit they teach at a Seven Sisters school. That’s why they’re all so arrogant when they get out of those places. Who is it, Blondie?”

 “Who is Gerard Terborch?” I said, complying with the basic rule by, putting my answer in the form of a question.

 Trebek was consoling the blind man, who didn’t have a clue and had left his Braille answer card completely blank.

 “I can’t believe how useless the stuff you learned in college is. It’s amazing you can hold down a job.”

 “I didn’t learn it there,” I said as Mercer waited for Trebek to confirm my answer before he turned off the television, pressed the CD changer to startRod Stewart in Concert, and led us back to the kitchen.

 “I know, I know. Your old man probably has one, right? That little painting of the guy with the bald head and the pipe in his mouth used to hang near the coat closet in the old house before they moved, right? My mother’s got Norman Rockwells she ripped off the cover of theSaturday Evening Post in 1952 still pinned to the wall in every room of the house, Mercer.

 “No point in my paying up, Coop. You could sell that little sucker—that Terborch—and support the three of us for the rest of our lives if you were a real sport. Let’s eat.”

 We carried the food to the dining-room table. I lit the candles and sat between my two friends, happy for the diversion the evening provided from the problems of the case.

 I pushed the anchovies to the side of the plate and lifted the first forkful to my mouth. I had forgotten about Gemma Dogen for almost half an hour until Stewart’s gravelly voice came on to remind me that the first cut is always the deepest. Cuts, blood, crime scene. I had forgotten to compare my list of initials to the stains on the office carpet.

 18

 THERE WAS A MESSAGE FROM ROSE MALONEon my voice mail when I got into the office at eight on Tuesday morning. “Alex, Mr. Battaglia called from his car. He’s got a meeting with the Police Commissioner at nine. Wants to see you as soon as he gets in after that. Wanted me to try and catch you before you go out to do interviews on your case.”

 C’mon, Rose, give me a hint. Good tidings or bad? Her tone was businesslike and I couldn’t make a guess.

 I spent the first hour at the word processor writing some disposition letters to witnesses whose cases had been resolved and responding to mail Battaglia had received about proposed changes in stalking legislation. Rod Squires came by to catch up on details of the investigation and tell me about his wife’s new job.

 His collegial drop-in was to camouflage the message that Patrick McKinney was up to his old backstabbing tricks. Rod had overheard Pat tell Battaglia that some of the detectives, who still thought Pops and Can Man were the likely culprits in Dogen’s death, felt I was persecuting the professional staff at Mid-Manhattan and Minuit.

 “Dammit. That’s probably why the boss wants to see me. If I’m making too many waves at the medical center, the board of directors—including Mrs. B.—will be looking for me to lay off. You think it’s time for me to go over to Stuyvesant Psych and get myself fitted for a straitjacket or will you defend me if I take a shot at McKinney?”

 “I have you covered, Alex. Just thought you should know that some things never change. Pat’s still out to get you.”

 Rod had watched out for me since my rookie days and I counted on his loyalty and support whenever I was too busy to look over my shoulder for slings and arrows.

 Laura wasn’t in yet so I answered the calls when the phone started to ring after nine. The third one was from Drew.

 “Good morning. And I do mean morning. It’s only six on this coast. Am I interrupting anything?”

 “Perfect timing. My supervisor just left and the customers haven’t started lining up yet.”

 “Well, I’ve just opened the curtains. I’m up at the peak of Stockton Street, looking out over the bay, and it’s glorious. Wanted to give one more shot at getting you out here this weekend—”

 “Can’t do it, Drew. I have no idea where this is going, but we’re smack in the middle of it.”

 “Will you hold some time for me over the weekend, then? I’ll take the red-eye back on Thursday night. Dinner Friday?”

 “Absolutely.”

 “Pick the place. I’ll call you later, Alex.”

 I flipped the pages in my desk diary to check my schedule. No wonder my mood was improving so dramatically. Not only a new man but the beginning of a new month.

 Laura came in with a coffee cake she had baked the night before. “Have some of this,” she said, placing a slice in front of me. “I don’t know how you go all day without starting off with a good breakfast.

 “Patti called. She’s been in ECAB”—the Early Case Assessment Bureau through which all new arrests were channeled every day from 8A.M. to midnight. “She’s got a case you ought to know about so she’s on her way up here with the cop. And your dentist’s office called. Should I confirm your appointment for a cleaning next Monday?”

 “Please. I’ll take care of Patti.”

 Chapman arrived minutes later accompanied by Mickey Diamond, who was making his daily sweep through the executive wing on his way to the press office. The tall, lean reporter with his silver hair and beat-up brown leather bomber jacket was a morning fixture. I tried to move him along on his way so I could find out what the new case involved before he did, and I was sure he sensed my brush-off and would be back to determine the reason for it.

 Patti Rinaldi, another senior member of the unit, rounded the corner just after Mickey left. She was smart and intense, slim and as tall as I am, with lots of dark, curly hair. She and police officer Kerrigan, whom I had never met before, came in while Chapman sat in the corner and perused the tabloids.

 “Two new cases came through so far today. The first was a date rape. No problem, I’ll put it in to the grand jury tomorrow. Very credible witness. She’s a grad student at NYU.

 “This one’s really weird and I thought you and the boss should know about it. The defendant’s name is Fred Werblin. Ever heard of him?”

 “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Should I?”

 Kerrigan was chuckling, clearly anxious to get his two cents in. He had a thick brogue and a friendly smile as he told me his news. “He’s a rabbi, Miss Cooper. Can you imagine that? A rabbi who sexually abused these women.”

 “Easy, Brian,” Chapman cautioned. “Miss Cooper’s Jewish.”

 “Oh, well,” he said a bit surprised. “I didn’t know that, did I? Couldn’t tell from the name, now, could I?”

 “Ellis Island neutral,” Chapman shot back. “Didn’t leave the old country that way. Somebody just shortened it up when Grandpa got off the boat, right, Coop?”

 “Well, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Kerrigan said. “It’s just that—well, the papers made such a big fuss and all when that priest was convicted up in Rhode Island last week. Molesting those boys. Terrible thing for the Church. It just made me feel better to know it’s not only us that has this kind of problem. I didn’t mean to offend you now, Miss Cooper.”

 “No offense taken, officer. Yes,” I said, “Iam Jewish. And one thing I can tell you about sex crimes cases is that they really cover the waterfront. We’ve had defendants from every ethnic, racial, social, religious, and economic background. Let me hear what you’ve got.”

 “It’s really a tragedy,” Patti began. “Werblin’s fifty-five years old, lives in the East Sixties. Doesn’t have a congregation, Alex. He’s a scholar and writer. He’s also a diagnosed manic-depressive.”

 “Anybody treating him?”

 “Says he was being treated at Payne Whitney. He’d been on lithium but took himself off it, which is when these episodes began.”

 “Episodes? More than one.”

 “Yeah,” Kerrigan offered. “We got three complaints. Different ladies.”

 “What happened?”

 “There’s a cleaning service. Name of Happy Elves. Call them and you can have someone come in and clean your apartment or your office.

 “Werblin orders a cleaning lady. When he meets her at the door in the morning, he’s dressed in a robe. Lady comes in and gets to work straightening up the place. He usually waits ‘til they’re in the kitchen, then he comes out of the bedroom starkers—nothin’ on. He corners ‘em in the kitchen, grabs ’em, and starts fondling and kissing ‘em all over. Each one was able to break loose and get out. He chased this one down the hallway with a wooden-handled fork, like from a barbecue set.”

 “All three reported it?”

 “Well, Miss Cooper, not right away. Y’see, they’re all immigrants. Illegal. Two from Eastern Europe, one from China. The first two didn’t say nothin‘ at all, just refused to go back to the apartment. Bet they were afraid that they’d be deported if they said anything about it. When the last one came forward, the owner of the company asked the others who’d been to the rabbi’s apartment if they’d had any bad experience. That’s when the first two opened up.”

 I addressed Patti. “Have you interviewed the women yet?”

 “No. Officer Kerrigan’s going to set that up for me.”

 “Good. I’ll tell Battaglia about the case when I see him this morning. When you talk to these women, make sure you find out whether you have the whole story.”

 It was common for witnesses, especially those who had some reason to be apprehensive about becoming involved with the criminal justice system, to minimize their victimization. Illegal aliens feared deportation or punishment and rarely expected access to the protection of our laws. Whatever their status, they were entitled to help and to all the support services we could muster on their behalf.

 “Will Patti need interpreters, officer?”

 “Yeah, I’ll find out from the agency what languages they speak. Can you set it up down here?” he asked.

 “Sure.” We had a list of dialects—more than fifty—for which we had per diem translators on call. It always assured a more accurate interview if we could conduct it in the language in which the witness was most comfortable.

 “Schedule it for the grand jury as soon as possible, Patti. I think we can anticipate a psychiatric defense and I’ll work on it with you. Thanks for letting me know about it so quickly. If he’s got any priors, ask for some bail. And make sure these women understand we’ll take good care of them—they’ve got nothing to worry about.”

 My telephone hotline, straight from Battaglia’s desk, rang and lit up as Patti and Kerrigan said good-bye.

 “Got a few minutes?” Battaglia asked. “C’mon in. Bring your sidekick with you if he’s down here.”

 “He wants you, too, Mikey. Let’s go.”

 Rose was cheerful and happy to see us when we reached her desk. “Next time I’m down here, I’ll buy you lunch. You’re the only person in the whole office who gets better looking every year,” Mike greeted her. “All that cigar smoke must do wonders for your skin.”

 “Go right in, Alex,” she said, modestly waving off Mike’s remarks as she always did. Rose had worked around cops for almost twenty years and knew exactly how much credence to give their compliments. But at least her warm reception suggested that I wasn’t facing the firing squad.

 “Sit down, you two,” Battaglia said, biting on an unlit stub, as he waved us to the red leather seats facing his desk. “Just met with your boss, Chapman. I’m trying to beef up the size of my squad here. He can be tough.”

 “Should I ask which side won?”

 Battaglia’s lips pulled back around the cigar into a wide grin. “He’s notthat tough. I got six more detectives coming on board a month from now.

 “While I was there, I asked him if we could borrow you for a few days. Guess I better ask you first.”

 “Whatever you need, Mr. B.”

 “My wife got a call at seven o’clock this morning. Director of the board of Mid-Manhattan, who tells her that Geoffrey Dogen called him. Geoffrey’s the ex, right? Very gung ho to help. He consults at the University of London. Had the brochure for this conference I’m supposed to go to this week and wanted to know if I’d meet with him if he shows up there. He can’t fly over here right away because he’s been in the Himalayas for almost three weeks and has some surgery scheduled.”

 Battaglia hadn’t wasted a moment. He’d been plotting something since the board director’s wake-up call to his wife and it was aimed clearly at us.

 “You two can save me a lot of aggravation if you go in my place. Alex can sit at the meetings and b.s. with the best of them about crime in the twenty-first century and you can get the answers to the questions you wanted me to ask Geoffrey Dogen. I can stay here—keep on the Senator’s back and make him miserable.”

 “You serious?”

 “Commissioner agreed to pick up your airfare. Room and board is all taken care of by the conference committee. It’s only a forty-eight-hour trip, but if you can make it work for your case, you should go.”