that this woman is all alone tonight, her life coming apart on national television, her baby sent off with a relative—”
“Her choice,” Mike said.
“She probably has no idea what she wants right now. Another man shows up at her door staking out rights to the kid, and bottom line? In case anything really does go wrong tonight—like Ethan Leighton deciding to try his hand at calming her down—the police have already told her they’re off-limits to her. Can you imagine? Who’s she going to call if there really is a problem?”
“I’ll take you back there, Alex,” Mercer said, stepping between Mike and me. “Ride up with me.”
“Sweet Jesus. Now you’re walking down Coop’s path? Drinking her Kool-Aid? Tell you what. I got no piece of your action, guys, okay? I’m assigned to the Ukrainian flotilla ’cause I handle real cases like murder. You got a drunken congressman who’s a John Edwards wannabe, go stroke the broad for an hour. Where’s the crime?”
Mike was parked at the corner. He walked over and got in, gunning the gas as he took off up First Avenue before we reached Mercer’s car halfway up the block on Thirtieth Street.
There was no traffic. We cruised up First, catching most of the lights to reach Salma’s building in twelve minutes.
Mercer parked his car across the street, in front of the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded Gracie Mansion. Christmas decorations and lights still covered the outside of the building and the park around it, but the interior of the old house was dark.
The glass tower high-rise sparkled against the sky, a glitzy new addition to the classic prewar apartments that lined this quiet street that bordered the East River. Harry Fitzpatrick recognized Mercer as we approached and opened the door to admit us to the lobby of Salma’s building.
“Evening, sir. I didn’t mean to get you up here again, Mr. Wallace. All’s quiet now. The man hasn’t come back,” Fitz said, swinging his arms across each other like an umpire announcing a player safe on base. “Haven’t heard from Miss Salma. It’s good.”
“I’d like you to ring up to her for me.”
The doorman, built like a linebacker, tried to refuse politely. “Can’t do that, sir. She’s a tough cookie.”
“I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. We need to talk to Salma Zunega. Now.”
“I—uh—I can’t do it, ma’am. It’s after ten thirty. I’m sure she’s resting.”
“Is it the hundred dollars the last guy gave you, Mr. Fitzpatrick? ’Cause you’re not going to get that from me, and I don’t think she’d like to hear you got it from him.”
“I just can’t. I don’t want to lose my job.”
I walked past Fitzpatrick and down the three marble steps that led into the opulent lobby. “Which elevator bank, Mercer?”
“To the right. Ten-A.”
I held open the door for Mercer, then pressed the button. Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to know whether to leave his post and follow us or break his word and call upstairs.
We got out on the tenth floor and I followed Mercer into the corridor. There were only three apartment doors, one on each end of the hallway and one right opposite the elevator. We walked the long hall on thick beige carpeting that muffled the sound of our steps.
There was a brass knocker on the door and a peephole below it, but no name in the small plate that identified most residents.
Mercer struck three times with the knocker.
“You hear anything?” I asked after several seconds.
He shook his head, then knocked again.
“Maybe she can’t hear it if she’s in the bedroom with her door closed.”
“This thing is big enough to make noise in the Bronx,” Mercer said, rapping with the knuckles of his huge hand.
The door at the other end of the corridor opened and a man emerged, pulling the leash of a black Lab that came out slowly behind him. “What’s all the banging about at this hour?”
“Sorry if
“Her choice,” Mike said.
“She probably has no idea what she wants right now. Another man shows up at her door staking out rights to the kid, and bottom line? In case anything really does go wrong tonight—like Ethan Leighton deciding to try his hand at calming her down—the police have already told her they’re off-limits to her. Can you imagine? Who’s she going to call if there really is a problem?”
“I’ll take you back there, Alex,” Mercer said, stepping between Mike and me. “Ride up with me.”
“Sweet Jesus. Now you’re walking down Coop’s path? Drinking her Kool-Aid? Tell you what. I got no piece of your action, guys, okay? I’m assigned to the Ukrainian flotilla ’cause I handle real cases like murder. You got a drunken congressman who’s a John Edwards wannabe, go stroke the broad for an hour. Where’s the crime?”
Mike was parked at the corner. He walked over and got in, gunning the gas as he took off up First Avenue before we reached Mercer’s car halfway up the block on Thirtieth Street.
There was no traffic. We cruised up First, catching most of the lights to reach Salma’s building in twelve minutes.
Mercer parked his car across the street, in front of the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded Gracie Mansion. Christmas decorations and lights still covered the outside of the building and the park around it, but the interior of the old house was dark.
The glass tower high-rise sparkled against the sky, a glitzy new addition to the classic prewar apartments that lined this quiet street that bordered the East River. Harry Fitzpatrick recognized Mercer as we approached and opened the door to admit us to the lobby of Salma’s building.
“Evening, sir. I didn’t mean to get you up here again, Mr. Wallace. All’s quiet now. The man hasn’t come back,” Fitz said, swinging his arms across each other like an umpire announcing a player safe on base. “Haven’t heard from Miss Salma. It’s good.”
“I’d like you to ring up to her for me.”
The doorman, built like a linebacker, tried to refuse politely. “Can’t do that, sir. She’s a tough cookie.”
“I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. We need to talk to Salma Zunega. Now.”
“I—uh—I can’t do it, ma’am. It’s after ten thirty. I’m sure she’s resting.”
“Is it the hundred dollars the last guy gave you, Mr. Fitzpatrick? ’Cause you’re not going to get that from me, and I don’t think she’d like to hear you got it from him.”
“I just can’t. I don’t want to lose my job.”
I walked past Fitzpatrick and down the three marble steps that led into the opulent lobby. “Which elevator bank, Mercer?”
“To the right. Ten-A.”
I held open the door for Mercer, then pressed the button. Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to know whether to leave his post and follow us or break his word and call upstairs.
We got out on the tenth floor and I followed Mercer into the corridor. There were only three apartment doors, one on each end of the hallway and one right opposite the elevator. We walked the long hall on thick beige carpeting that muffled the sound of our steps.
There was a brass knocker on the door and a peephole below it, but no name in the small plate that identified most residents.
Mercer struck three times with the knocker.
“You hear anything?” I asked after several seconds.
He shook his head, then knocked again.
“Maybe she can’t hear it if she’s in the bedroom with her door closed.”
“This thing is big enough to make noise in the Bronx,” Mercer said, rapping with the knuckles of his huge hand.
The door at the other end of the corridor opened and a man emerged, pulling the leash of a black Lab that came out slowly behind him. “What’s all the banging about at this hour?”
“Sorry if
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