The Kills (46 page)

I crawled
into bed before ten, hit with the exhaustion that follows shock and stress.
Sleep helped, and I was up by 8
A.M.
on Saturday, ready for a better day.

The first
call was from Mercer Wallace. "Any trouble getting back into town?"

"The
only easy thing that's happened in days. Look, I've got to-"

He and I
were speaking over each other. I heard him say "I have news for-" but
he stopped and asked me to finish what I had started.

"I've
got to tell you what happened to me during the storm." I described the way
my predator had circled the house trying to get in, and how I had escaped him.
Unlike Chip Streeter, Mercer understood that this was no amateur, no
coincidence, no joke.

"I'll
get on the Spike Logan angle. Check out his car, his uncle. Make sure Hoyt was
really in Nantucket on the boat. Speak to the troopers and see what they came
up with."

"I'm
sorry I jumped in over you. You had something to tell me?" I asked.

"Plate
came back yesterday on that car you thought you saw Robelon driving when you
chased the guy with the gun out of Federal Plaza. It's a rental."

"To
Robelon?"

"Nope.
Ever heard of a Lionel Webster?"

"No.
Who is he?"

"I
think he's the guy who's pretending to be Harry Strait. My lieutenant ran
Webster last night and there's all kinds of info flooding back in this morning.
He's ordered us to work overtime on it all weekend. Best I can tell, Webster is
some kind of soldier of fortune. A mercenary. Services go to the highest
bidder. Knows the caves of Tora Bora as well as he does Paris."

"Armed
services?" I thought of Andrew Tripping and his fascination with all
things military.

"West
Point grad. Taught there for a while until he was kicked out. Stripped of his
commission-"

"For?"

"You're
thinking faster than I can read. I'm not sure it gives a reason in these
papers. We'll get him checked out ASAP."

"Can
you fax over a picture?"

"Hold
your horses, Ms. Cooper. You might have to make an ID, you know. You're not
getting any advance look at my mug shots."

"The
buzz cut fits with the military background, Mercer. I wish we knew if the U.S.
armed services had anything to do with King Farouk." The pieces of the
puzzle were twisting in my mind.

"Only
thing I know about is the Agency and its involvement in Cairo. Not the army.
Although that lovely lady at Treasury we met with before you went to the
country called me back with a nice little nugget of information."

"Lori
Alvino? Don't hold out on me, Mercer."

"I
don't know whether our military had anything to do with Farouk, but it did
touch the wings of the Double Eagle."

"The
coin? Are you talking about the coin?" Mercer knew his mention of new
information was a teaser.

"Yes,
ma'am, I am. That bird is mighty lucky she didn't have her wings clipped."

"What
do you know?"

"Alvino
had gotten us all as far as the Secret Service intercepting Farouk's coin when
it was brought back into the U.S. in ninety-six."

"I
was with you in her office. I heard that."

"She
has tracked down its whereabouts after the ninety-six arrival here, and before
the auction in 2002. Wanted to confirm it for us."

"Nice.
And?"

"It
was actually stored and safeguarded in the Treasury Department vaults during
the legal battles about who owned it."

"You
mean Fort Knox?"

"Closer
to home. For five years, the Double Eagle lived in a vault in the basement of
the World Trade Center. Seven World Trade Center, to be exact."

I thought
again of how often I had looked out my office window at those towers before
September 11. So many lives lost in an instant of evil. The property losses
mattered to me not at all.

Mercer
went on. "A few months before the attacks, the coin was moved. Just a
coincidence."

"To?"

"The
bullion depository of the United States Mint."

"Where's
that?"

"It's
up at West Point, Ms. Cooper. You can't get any more militarily connected than
that. The Double Eagle wound up quartered at the Point, in its bullion
depository, overlooking the Hudson River."

"You
put that upstate tour on the agenda for this week?"

"Mike
wants to wait till the Army-Navy game next month to make that trip," he
joked. "Anyway, he's going to pick you up in half an hour, if that's okay
with you. I'm meeting you both at Peter Robelon's office. I reached him at home
just now and told him it was urgent we see him this morning. We'll try to
confront him about that encounter you had with Harry Strait."

"See
you later."

The phone
rang again as soon as I hung up. "Hello, Alex? You make it back all
right?"

It was
Chip Streeter, the Vineyard cop, checking on me. "Just fine. I appreciate
all the time you gave me. Not to mention a dry place to sleep. I've got to run,
but thanks for calling."

"I
actually need your help for a minute. You know a guy on the island named Logan?
Spike Logan?"

"Yeah.
Yeah, I know who he is." Strange that Streeter should be asking about him.

"Was
he up your way the other day?"

"No.
But-why?"

"Found
his car pulled off the road down by the Stonewall Bridge, coming from the
direction of your house to Beetlebung Corner. Looks like it flooded out during
the storm. Kinda abandoned."

"Anything
in it? Any weapons, any-"

"Just
a pair of boots, Alex. Fit the imprints in the mud around your house. Same
size, same tread design, same maker logo. State troopers confirmed that for
me."

"And
Logan? Have you looked for him?" I asked more frantically than I meant to.
"Have you been to the house he stays in? Have you asked-?"

"Made
a lot of calls and visits last evening and stopped by again this morning. Just
wanted to know whether he was an acquaintance of yours," Chip said.
"Just wanted you to know that he's out there somewhere. Pretty sure he's
gone off-island."

I was
waiting inside the lobby of my apartment building when Mike's car drove up in
front. "Yo, blondie," Mike shouted. "Let's hit the road."

Mercer
had called to tell him about my Vineyard experience, and he was furious with
me. "You lied to me, Coop. You let me think Jake was going to be there
with you."

"It
was true when I first told you that."

"He
wimped out? Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"No,
he didn't. The flights weren't going and I didn't want him to drive up.
Adam," I said quietly. "You know."

"So
you and Bigfoot played hide-and-seek instead, huh?"

"And
now the police just called because they think my visitor might have been Spike
Logan." I told Mike what Streeter had said about the washed-out car and
the boots that were in it.

"Or
his passenger. Coulda had somebody with him. Sounds too obvious to me to leave
his car right where it was bound to be found. Maybe it's a setup," Mike
said. He looked over at me as we headed uptown. "That won't stop you from
scanning the horizon for the Spikester, right?"

I was
staring off at the boats churning up water in the East River. "Tell me
something good, then. Take my mind off mindless things. How's Val?"

He drew
in breath before he answered. "That's a heartbreaker. She doesn't want me
to tell anyone, but you gotta know. The docs found some more nodes. More-what
do they call it?-involvement."

I looked
over at him but he kept his focus straight ahead. "They doing chemo?"

"First
surgery and then chemo. She's the toughest fighter I've ever met."

I reached
over and put my hand on Mike's wrist, but when he made a left turn onto the
Drive, his arm moved and I wasn't holding anything.

He
continued to ask questions about the storm most of the way, and to
cross-examine me about what had happened at the house. We parked around the
corner and met Mercer in the lobby of the large commercial complex that housed
Robelon's office.

Robelon
was expecting us. "What's the posse here for?" he said, looking at me
but pointing to the men on either side of me.

"This
time I'm just the witness, not the prosecutor. They've got some questions for
you."

"Like
what?"

"Like
who's your buddy?" Mike asked. "The guy who enjoys pretending he's
the late great Strait."

"What?"

"The
dude who sat in the back of the courtroom when Paige Vallis testified?"

"How
would I know who was sitting behind me? I was looking at the witness."

"Let
me-what do you say, Coop?-let me refresh your recollection, Counselor. The
uptight guy who looks like he had his hair cut by Sergeant Bilko. The one whose
rental car you were tooling around town in last week," Mike said.

Robelon
pushed back from his desk and played with a pencil, tapping it against his left
thumb. "I've got no idea what you mean. I thought you had something urgent
to discuss, Mr. Wallace? Try not to act like you've picked up all your
techniques on television, Detective." He raised his right leg and rested
it on a desk drawer. His disdain for Chapman was palpable.

"Shit,
you're probably right. I woulda been a bartender if it wasn't for
Law and Order.
Wouldn't have to put up
with empty suits like you. There's the lovely Miss Cooper, running down the
street last week in those ridiculous high heels she favors, trying to hail a
cab, and you didn't even stop for her. Downright rude."

"I
don't know what the hell you're talking about. Alex? Cab?"

"Thomas
Street," I said, "you were-"

"Keep
a lid on it, Coop. Think back to Wednesday, Counselor. A black sedan with
rental plates. Parked on Thomas Street. Maybe it was a stranger who screamed at
you to open the door and jumped inside holding a gun, is that it?"

Robelon
kicked the desk drawer shut and crossed his legs. He yelled to his secretary,
"Mrs. Kaye, you want to show these people the way out?"

She
hadn't heard him clearly and came to the door of his office to look inside and
ask him to repeat what he said.

"Lionel
Webster, also known as Harry Strait. You got a second job as his limo
driver?" Mike asked.

Mrs. Kaye
looked confused. "Did you want me to get Mr. Webster on the phone?"

Robelon
was fuming. He held up his hand and spun it around, motioning the secretary to
back out of the room. Sorry, no doubt, he had made her come in for the
impromptu weekend meeting.

Mike was
on his feet, lifting the lid on the humidor and helping himself to a cigar.

"I'm
so glad you weren't about to give me that 'I don't know any Lionel
what-did-you-say-his-name-is?' Give that broad a raise. She saved your ass just
now."

"Yeah,
and I'd like to tell you what to stick up yours if there wasn't a lady
present."

"Who,
her?" Mike said, pointing the cigar at me. "That's no lady. Help
yourself. She's just a louche broad masquerading behind a Wellesley degree and
a fine pair of pins. Nothing you can say to me she hasn't said herself. So
about Lionel Webster, what can you tell us?"

"Haven't
seen him in a dog's age."

"Why
don't you just talk to me about him? Everything you know."

"Whatever
happened to attorney-client privilege, or don't you believe in that
either?"

"Oh,
so now he's your client, not your employee? Wasn't he working for you, trying
to spook Paige Vallis?"

"This
interview is over," Robelon said. "And Alex, don't ever try to
sandbag me again, okay? You want me to answer questions, there's a proper way
to do that. I didn't see Webster on Wednesday and if he had anything to do with
you and some kind of chase, I can promise you I don't have the first clue about
it."

Mercer's
pager went off and he reached into his pocket to shut it down. The loud beeps
seemed to signal the meeting's end.

Peter
Robelon was holding the door open for us. It was probably the wrong time to ask
another question but I gave it a shot.

"Do
you know where Andrew Tripping is?"

He looked
down at his right foot as he pawed at the carpeting. "You guys don't get
it, do you? I represent him, Alex, remember?"

"No,
no, no. I'm not going to do an end run. I mean, can we get to the courtroom in
a couple of weeks and put this whole thing to bed?" I asked.

Peter
seemed surprised by my offer, debating whether to talk with me. "There's
a-there's a meeting this morning. Andrew and the child welfare agency
lawyers-they're getting him together with his son. It's all supervised. Planned
for today so he wouldn't miss another school day. Don't worry, Dulles won't be
alone with him. Give me a call later on."

The
elevator doors opened and the three of us got on.

"What
do you think?" Mike asked. He lighted the cigar as we hit the sidewalk.

Mercer
retrieved the number on his pager as I answered. "That we can't trust him.
He's the target in an investigation pending with my office, remember that? I
just don't think you can believe what he says. Who's the beep from?"

"Unfamiliar
number. I'll call it now," Mercer said.

"You
sure that was Robelon behind the wheel on Wednesday?"

I rolled
my eyes at Mike. "Please don't start second-guessing me. If you two don't
believe in me, who will? I had a pretty good look at the guy and yes, it was
Peter Robelon."

"This
is Mercer Wallace. Did you call me?" He was leaning against Mike's car and
talking into his cell phone. He stood straight and gave us a thumbs-up.
"Sure, I've got time to help you, Mrs. Gatts. No, no, I don't blame you
for not wanting to talk to that homicide detective. Yeah, I can. Sure."

"What
kind of stroke job is he getting now from that tub of lard?" Mike asked.

"The
numbers joint on One Hundred and Eighteenth and Pleasant? You stay put in your
house. I'm on it."

"What's
she got?"

"Bessemer's
back," Wallace said, pounding his fist on the hood of the car.
"C'mon, unlock your batmobile and run me over to One Hundred and
Eighteenth. Kevin Bessemer just showed up, high as a kite and looking to score.
Drugs and the daily number. Sooner or later they all come back round."

"You,
blondie. Backseat. Buckle up and keep your yap shut. Maybe Kevin'll tell you
who the real moneybags is behind the whole operation. Find who paid to hire
Helena Lisi for Tiffany."

Mike
reached under his seat and lifted the red bubble dome to the dashboard. He
tested the whelper to make sure it was working and wheeled out of his parking
space, headed back to the northbound FDR Drive.

Mercer
was on the phone, calling the precinct to talk to the squad lieutenant.
"Get your men over to Limpy's place. Kevin Bessemer, the snitch who-"

The
lieutenant didn't need a scorecard. He knew the players. Especially the one
who'd taken himself out of the lineup.

"Don't
you want to grab him yourselves?" I asked.

"And
take the chance we knew where he was and let him get away again?" Mike
said. "They'll hold him there for us and then we'll get to eyeball
him."

Mercer
dialed again. "Limpy? Wallace here. That scumbag you got hanging out?
Yeah, that's the one. The cavalry's coming. No, no, not to worry. They're not
there to break your balls-they just want Bessemer. Don't let him outta your
sight, okay?"

"Why'd
you give him a heads-up?"

"Good
guy, Alex. He's worked with us for a long time. Runs a pretty clean operation.
Does numbers on the side. Just didn't want him to panic when the men in blue
burst in. Limpy's bigger than I am, so Bessemer won't be going anywhere."

"How's
he going to hold down an out-of-control junkie, high on crack? He limps,
no?" I asked.

"Not
his leg," Mike said. "Limp dick. That's how he got his name. Ex-wife
gave it to him and it stuck."

We were
almost there when Mercer's cell rang.

"Be
there in two minutes," Mercer said. He repeated the rest of the
conversation to us. "Bessemer's acting like a wild man. Limpy has him
pinned in a chair in the basement with the cops at the top of the stairs."

We pulled
up to the building that housed the newsstand that was the front for the illegal
numbers business. Mike and Mercer got out and went inside. I stepped onto the curb
and explained to the two uniformed cops posted beside the open door that I was
just waiting for the detectives to bring the prisoner out.

I could
hear Kevin Bessemer screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a sound like
furniture crashing around the room, and Wallace's deep voice telling him,
"Stop kicking, man. Stop breaking up the place. Calm down."