Likely to Die (31 page)

 “G’morning. I gather Mike called you about the attack up at Columbia? I’m going over to the hospital now to see what I can pick up. Would you ask Laura to pound out a subpoena for Dietrich’s bank? I called over there when they opened up this morning. Got someone who told me he’s way deep in the hole. Racked up a huge bunch of debts and owes people a lot of money. She wouldn’t give me specifics without a grand jury subpoena—”

 “Will she take it by fax? I’ll have one ready in fifteen minutes.”

 “Fine. It’ll give me something to do while you and Chapman are having tea with the Queen. See you later.”

 I hung up but saw that the button for the second line was still lighted. Obviously, a persistent reporter whom Laura couldn’t shake loose. “Alex, the guy on line two says he’s not looking for news, he’s got a tip for you. Won’t tell me what it is and won’t tell it to Brenda’s office. Want him?”

 “Sure.” I switched the line and the high-pitched voice of a young researcher for the local channel piped up to introduce himself to me.

 “Miss Cooper? We know you’re handling the investigation at Mid-Manhattan. Your people know anything about the break-in last night at Metropolitan Hospital?”

 No point bullshitting him if he knew more than I did. I pulled a pad into place and began making notes as I told him I didn’t know a thing about it. “What’ve you got? Any patients hurt?”

 “That’s what we’re looking for. So far, they’re denying patient involvement, but we just don’t know whether to trust the information or not. Nobody wants it to be another Mid-Manhattan, and I take it you’ve already heard about Columbia.”

 “Yes. What’s your story on Metropolitan?”

 “They’re playing it down. Saying the guy never got past the administrative offices on the ground floor. Patients and medical staff were never in any danger. Usual disclaimers.”

 “Who discovered it?”

 “Night cleaning staff. Lady came in and found lights on in the billing department at 3A.M. Heard footsteps but couldn’t see anybody running out. Door lock had been jimmied.”

 “I know you’re not going to give me your source, but—”

 “Not an issue. It’s all over the place here. The cleaning lady does one shift at Met, then she does our offices back to back. She was real upset when she got here this morning. All she could talk about was the burglar in the hospital—practically in the president’s office, in the middle of the night. She doesn’t want to go back to work there—had enough of hospitals after the last two weeks.”

 “I’ll drink to that. Tell her she’s not the only one.”

 “Well, the reason I called was to see if you got word that anything else happened at Metropolitan last night. You know, was this guy on his way in or his way out when our cleaning lady spotted him?”

 “Quite frankly, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I owe you, next time you need a lead I can help with. Give me a number and if there’s anything I can tell you on this one, I’ll give you a call back. Thanks for the info.”

 I dialed Mercer immediately. “Glad I caught you before you walked out. One more tidbit. Stop at Metropolitan sometime this morning if you can and check out this story.” I repeated what the caller had told me and both of us expressed relief at a break-in that had not resulted in physical injury to anyone.

 “Let’s hope he was just looking for some checks to steal or some cash lying around,” said Mercer. “No reason for hospital management to have called us on this one, but I’ll see whether they reported it to the precinct and if anything was actually stolen. You’ll have a full report later today.”

 I had three indictments to review before they were filed, a dozen calls that had come in yesterday that had to be returned, and a luncheon meeting in Rod Squires’s office with all the bureau chiefs to discuss proposals to change the hours of the late-night arraignment shift.

 Faith Griefen stuck her head in and flashed the time-out signal with her hands as I held the phone to my ear waiting to be connected with one of the advocates at the St. Luke’s Crime Victims Intervention Program. “Sarah said you’re a size A and you always have spares. Got anything in an off-white?”

 I nodded my head and held up a finger, suggesting she wait until I finished answering the question about how to recommend that the woman who was getting counseling be advised about the importance of testing for HIV infection after her rape.

 “I’m about to do a summation and I snagged my panty hose on the table leg when I stood up to make an objection,” Faith said, displaying a two-inch-wide run that started above her hemline and ran into the heel of her shoe. “That old wooden furniture in Part 52 catches me whenever I’m about to reach an important point in a trial. I hate to stand up there for an hour with this grotesque hole down my entire side. Might be somebody on the jury who thinks it’s tacky enough they’d vote to acquit.”

 “I guess juror number twelve’s still focused on your legs, huh? They’re certainly better than the evidence you’ve got,” I noted, walking to the file cabinet nearest my desk and tugging at the drawer marked “Closed Cases.” It pulled open to reveal a neat stack of Hanes Silk Reflections in a variety of colors, several pairs of Escada pumps in different heel heights, basic makeup items, toothpaste and a toothbrush—a little service station for lady lawyers in distress. I fished out a pair of stockings for Faith and reminded her that one of the worst things about starting in the office a decade earlier, as I did, was the very small number of women on the staff. The men had been great friends and fine mentors, but once Battaglia made an effort to recruit more of us to do the trial work there was an entirely different flavor to the camaraderie that was unthinkable under his predecessor. Not only could you now talk about something other than free agents, the Big East, and Demi Moore’s implants, but you could find an emergency supply of panty hose, Tampax, and emery boards without dispatching a paralegal to Bloomingdale’s on her lunch hour.

 Faith was off to the ladies’ room to change her underwear and Rose Malone walked in with a copy of the remarks that Battaglia had planned to use for his opening statement at the panel meeting in England on Thursday afternoon.

 “The District Attorney wanted you to have a copy of this. He suggested that you draft something yourself but include the positions he’s outlined here on gun control, drug treatment, and the death penalty. He said you should add some of your own comments on sexual assault and family violence, okay?”

 “That’s fine. I’ll work it over right now so Laura can type it up for me. Any other instructions?”

 “Mr. B. has called Lord Windlethorne and explained the substitution. They’re very gracious and happy to have you. Geoffrey Dogen will drive out to Cliveden on Friday morning, and since your main event will have been completed you and Mike can spend as much time as you need with him. Mr. B.‘ll expect to see you back here first thing Monday morning, of course.”

 I thanked Rose and told her about the night’s events at Columbia-Presbyterian and Metropolitan so that she could bring Battaglia up to date. “He knows where to find me if he’s got any questions. See you next week.”

 Paul’s speech was short and to the point. I knew his stand on most issues quite well, and it was easy for me to present his arguments and augment them with the topics that had come to be my specialties. By the time I had crafted my remarks and passed them along to Laura, she told me the group was beginning to assemble in the conference room for Rod’s meeting.

 My having spent the previous afternoon in the hospital boardroom, the contrast was especially striking. Fourteen of us—Rod, Pat, six bureau chiefs who led Trial Division teams, special unit heads like me, and assorted directors of training and misdemeanor complaints—were crowded around two Formica tables that were placed end to end to run the length of the room. No glossy wood furniture in the city budget lines—just faux paneling, vinyl seat covers, plastic frames showcasing cheap reproduction photographs. Bring your own sandwich, the memo usually ran, and eat it while disregarding the green pellets on the floor in each corner, which had once poisoned the rodent population of the building although now they seemed to gobble them like candy.

 Rod had been my favorite supervisor throughout all my tenure in the office—smart, funny, reasonable. He was easy to approach on any issue, personal or professional, and his judgment was reliable in crises of every kind. I had stopped counting the number of instances in which he had saved my neck by thinking through an issue with me before I responded hotheadedly. His friendship was as valuable to me as his wisdom.

 I pulled a chair up to the table and sat against the wall next to John Logan, opening the tab on my lite yogurt while he unwrapped a ham and cheese hero that smelled delicious.

 We all kibitzed with each other while Rod and Pat went over the agenda for the meeting, waiting for the last stragglers to settle into the room. “Heard about last night’s attack on the resident. How does that cut for you?” Logan asked.

 “If you know anybody who wants to confess to both crimes and put me out of my misery, let me know.”

 “Right. I’m still waiting for an ID on that mob hit at Rockefeller Center. Don’t hold your breath. You got any sample voir dires on sexual abuse cases? One of my guys has a misdemeanor about to go to trial—a playground flasher. I told him I’d get some materials from you.”

 “Sure. Laura’s got an entire file on jury questions. She’ll dig it up for you on your way out.”

 Rod was ready to begin. “Let’s get to work. There isn’t much time this afternoon before we have to see Cooper and Chapman off on their honeymoon in the Cotswolds.”

 Several heads jerked in my direction to gauge my reaction, reminding me that the rumor mill had been churning as usual. I was used to Rod’s bait and was beyond blushing.

 “Nice of you to drop by the office for our meeting, Miss Cooper. McKinney told me he wasn’t sure you worked here anymore.”

 “Wishful thinking on his part, Rod.” I smiled at Pat, who pretended to be making notations on his legal pad.

 “Well, if you’re smuggling in any Cohibas for Battaglia, don’t forget to bring home a few extras for your old pals.”

 “You know I wouldn’t dream of doing anything illegal. Cohibas or Monte Cristos?”

 The cigar smokers seemed evenly divided on their votes and Rod moved on to the discussion about staffing the lobster shift. Traditionally, rookie-level assistants manned the arraignment part that operated between midnight and 8A.M. , but it had been so slow and unproductive these past few months that we were debating its usefulness. Everyone around the table voiced opinions while my concentration drifted from that issue to the things I wanted Mercer to work on while Mike and I were away.

 We were about to break up at two-thirty when Rod announced that he had another suspect for us to consider in the Mid-Manhattan investigation. He held up a case opinion that he told us a prosecutor had sent him from Detroit.

 “You looked into this doctor named Thangavelu?”

 “I’ll bite. Who is he?”

 “True story. Doctor was charged with cunnilingus while performing a vaginal exam on a patient. Tried and convicted. Michigan’s appellate court reversed—read the decision—Peoplev.Thangavelu. Judges said the prosecutor never proved that what the doctor did wasnot an acceptable part of the woman’s medical treatment. You think the jury wasn’t able to figure that out by themselves? I’ll tell you one thing. You ever get sick in Kalamazoo, Coop, just keep on driving ‘til you reach Ohio. Don’t get up in those stirrups anywhere in Michigan.

 “Better call and make sure that schmuck didn’t come to New York and set up shop at Mid-Manhattan.”

 “Thanks for the tip, Rod, you’re always such a help. Somehow, we missed that case when Sarah and I were doing our research. I’ll run it down when I get back from England.”

 By the time I checked back in with Laura and picked up my messages, I had less than an hour to tie up all the loose ends. Sarah came upstairs to go over an additional list of items to be subpoenaed and to assure me that she would cover any developments in either of the cases over the next few days.

 I packed the crime scene photos and some of the police reports into a folder, along with a copy of the video that Bob Bannion had made in Gemma’s office. Perhaps Inspector Creavey, or even Geoffrey Dogen, would have ideas when they looked at the bloody setting with fresh eyes.

 “I think that’s Ricky Nelson making a commotion in the hallway,” Sarah said, backing over toward the door. Chapman was serenading Laura and Rod’s secretary to the tune of “Traveling Man,” grinning that splendid smile of his. The small audience was appreciative.

 “I told my saintly old mother that Alex Cooper was taking me to London and I swear she almost had the big one on me. Thought it was an April Fool’s joke. She pleaded with me to make you stop in Dublin on the way back. Meet the family and all that. What do you say, Blondie?” He was playing to the crowd.

 “Why not?”

 “The least I could do was promise her that I’d try to convert you. See if I could wean you off the Dewar’s and onto some good Irish whiskey. That’s my goal, ladies. I’ll lift my glass to you right after takeoff.

 “C’mon, give me your bags. Mercer’s waiting in the car. Wants to beat the rush hour traffic on the Van Wyck.” He came in to pick up my suitcase. “What’s your bet, Sarah? How many changes of clothes for the Duchess in the next seventy-two hours? How many pairs of shoes? If I get a hernia carrying this crap for her, you know I’m going out on disability. Three-quarters, on-the-job injury.”

 Chapman took Sarah by the arm and walked her out to the elevator, holding my bag in his other hand. He whispered something in her ear and I saw her expression change as her body bristled and she clasped her hand to her mouth. I thought I had heard Mike say Maureen’s name.

 “What’s wrong?”

 “Mind your own business, kid. Nothing’s wrong. I just forgot to tell her something about somebody she knows. Let’s go.” The doors opened and the red arrow flashed the down signal.

 I looked from his face to hers but couldn’t get through. “Were you talking about Maureen?”