Killer Look (24 page)

I was still soaking in the tub when Mike got home.

“How cold is that water?” he asked. “Because the food is piping hot.”

“I'll join you in a minute,” I said, getting out of the bath.

I dried off and wrapped a silk robe around me. Mike had turned on the TV in the den and plated our dinner.
Jeopardy!
was on, but he had muted it until the final answer was revealed.

“For once you followed instructions,” he said. “No alcohol. Relaxing hot bath.”

“Yes, Mike.”

“Now I'm going to hear that—those two words—for the rest of my life?”

“That's what you asked for. You want me tepid, like my bathwater.”

“You sound hostile, babe. What happened since I left?”

“Not hostile. Just flat.”

“Let's have a drink,” Mike said. “That'll unflatten you.”

I curled up in a corner of the sofa. Mike poured me a generous scotch, for a change, and sat beside me.

“You smell good,” he said, pressing his nose against the side of my head. He kissed me over and over again, working his way down my clean hair to nibble on my ear.

“Won't help,” I said.

“How about if I turn off the television and we go inside for a while. Will that help?”

“Could make things worse.”

“In the bedroom?” Mike asked, reaching beneath the silk panel and stroking my thigh. “That would be worse than this?”

“I talked to Ryan,” I said.

“I begged you not to call anyone,” he said, removing his hand and slapping it against his chest. “For your own good, babe.”

“I can't believe you told him not to talk to me,” I said, looking straight ahead and drinking some of my Dewar's.

“It's Ryan's case. You'd be livid if anyone put his or her nose into your business.”

“Tepid. That's all I am. Lacking enthusiasm, as the dictionary defines the word. I've been reduced to tepid. I couldn't be livid if I tried.”

“Then don't try,” Mike said. “Besides, my chicken parm is getting cold.”

Mike unmuted the TV. Alex Trebek was about to introduce the final answer.

“Tonight's category is
ASTRONOMY
. It's astronomy,” Trebek said.

“We might as well pass,” Mike said. “Too bad Mercer isn't here. It's his kind of subject.”

“Show me your twenty bucks.” I was pushing my Caesar salad around the plate. I was more interested in drinking than eating.

“I'm good for it.”

The contestants had written wagers on the electronic slates on their podia, and then the final answer flashed onto the screen.

SHE WAS THE FIRST WOM
AN PROFESSIONAL ASTR
ONOMER

“I hate when this happens,” Mike said. “Some blatantly feminist question disguised as a serious subject.”

“What's not serious about feminism? It wasn't all that long ago when women were not allowed to try felony cases in Manhattan's criminal courts. No lady prosecutors in the office,” I said. “What would you have done for amusement back then?”

“I'd have found you somewhere.”

“I'm not sure our paths would ever have crossed,” I said, tousling his thick, dark hair. “Want to double down on the answer?”

“Lady astronomer? Nope. Not Venus,” Mike said, “not Pluto. I hate that you know the answer to this.”

None of the male contestants came up with it either.

“Who was Maria Mitchell?” I asked.

“Who?”

“She discovered a comet in the 1840s, not a planet. Miss Mitchell's Comet,” I said. “First faculty member at Vassar College when it opened its doors. First woman astronomer. It's the kind of thing they drilled into us at Wellesley.”

“Here I thought you were just interested in black holes in the galaxy. Dark matter. All you've been lately is dark.”

“I'm trying to get back, Mike. There's nothing I'd like better.”

“I'll bet another twenty dollars I can change your mood.”

“Sometimes you do make me laugh, despite myself,” I said. “I'll do the dishes and—”

“No dishes. I'll take care of that later,” he said, pulling me off the sofa and kissing me, long and deep. “I need a shower. That Bolognese sauce is sticky.”

“I'm clean,” I said, ready to be romanced. “Don't waste time when you could be cheering me up with some TLC, right in the bedroom.”

“You missed a spot behind your left ear,” Mike said, running his finger down my spine. “And you didn't scrub your back. You'd be lost without me.”

He took me by the hand and led me into the master bath suite. I let him run the shower as hot as he could stand it, slipped out of my robe, and stepped in behind him.

He turned around, took my face in his hands and held it up toward the showerhead. “I want you to feel safe again, babe. I want you to wash out all the toxins, all the poisonous venoms that have been coursing through your brain.”

“I feel safe when I'm here, Mike. I feel safe when I'm in your arms.” I tucked in against his chest and held him tight.

“This is where we'll be, then.”

“You think I've lost it, don't you?”

We both looked like we'd been caught in a torrential rainstorm, but neither of us moved from beneath the downpour.

Mike's answer to my question was another kiss.

“If you stay with me,” I said, “I know I can make it back from this.”

“I'm in it for the long haul, kid. That's why I want you to see the shrink.”

I nodded. “I'll leave a message for her tomorrow.”

Mike picked up the washcloth, soaped it, and ran it along my arms and body. I stepped out, toweled myself dry for the second time in an hour, and walked into my bed, pulling back the covers and snuggling between the sheets.

We made love, slowly and gently, for the next hour. I hadn't felt this secure, this calm, since before my abduction.

It was the beginning of the weekend, too, and it promised a sense of normalcy that helped to relax me.

We watched an old movie—a classic western called
Stagecoach
—instead of the murder mysteries that were our usual fare, and when it was over, Mike went into the den to refresh the ice in our drinks and let me finish the evening with a nightcap.

I slept well for the first time all week, and when morning came we braced ourselves for the cold and walked up to the corner for breakfast at PJ Bernstein. I was hungry for a change, and went whole hog with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and a toasted bagel.

I had packed a tote bag with my dance clothes in it. When we finished eating and I had worked most of the
Times
Saturday crossword, Mike put me in a taxi to send me over to the studio on the West Side where I'd taken lessons most Saturdays since I graduated from law school.

“What are you doing after class?” he asked, closing the cab door.

“I'm coming directly back here, tackling the paper mess that has grown in my home office over the last month, reading a novel—something dense and Victorian—and waiting for you.”

“I'm meeting Mercer. He didn't get very far on the hotel search yesterday. I'll be home in time for dinner.”

I had missed so many ballet classes while I was on the Vineyard that it felt especially good to stretch and bend and plié to the soothing music. Acquaintances expressed their concerns about me in the dressing room, but the nonverbal setting of the actual studio—the exercises at the barre and on the floor—made it a wonderful place for me to be.

I took my time dressing. I wasn't going out for coffee with any of my classmates, so I kind of lagged behind.

When I got home, I got right to work reading and filing the mail and bills that had piled up. It felt good to purge myself of paperwork I'd been avoiding and to clean my nest of some of its clutter.

I wasn't sure whether it was Mike's convincing display of affection the night before or the prospect of having to engage with a psychiatrist in the upcoming week, but I was optimistic about reentering the kind of lifestyle that had seemed so foreign to me as I wallowed in my self-absorption.

I was able to concentrate on the plot line of a book, keeping an occasional eye on the crawl of the local news network. I hadn't lost my desire to know whether there were any developments in the two death investigations and how the Battaglia-Blackmer meeting went, but I had a stronger grip of control on my curiosity.

Mike was home by seven
P.M
. He told me that he had nothing to fill me in on. I told him about my healthily uneventful day and how much pleasure the peace and quiet had given me.

We braved a light flurry of snow to walk to the Beach Café for dinner. My intense morning workout had left me yearning for a tasty cheeseburger and fries. The neighborhood go-to for comfort food and friendly service never failed, and we even got through an entire dinner without any mention of crime.

I skipped hard liquor in favor of a nice bottle of Cabernet.

We took the long way around back to the apartment, strolling arm in arm and stopping to throw snowballs at each other on a patch of ground where the snow had stuck.

Mike took several phone calls out of my presence, in the den, but even that didn't set me on edge as it usually did.

I took an Ativan to ensure another good night's sleep, and closed my eyes while Mike was still watching a college football game.

On Sunday morning, we got up early and drove to Brooklyn so we could take Mike's mother—whom I adored—to church. It
was only the second time since we'd been together that we did it, but it was obvious that she was happy to have us both beside her.

The Catholic service, rich in symbolism, was a reminder of how long it had been since I had gone to synagogue.

After Mass, we took Mrs. Chapman for lunch at her favorite restaurant, hugged her while she implored both of us to “stay safe”— her mantra—and came back to the apartment to spread out on the living room floor with the Sunday
Times.

My next-door neighbor had invited us over for dinner, as he often did. He loved to cook and it was so easy to pad down the hall and come back home without venturing into the cold.

I was still happy when Mike left in the morning. He understood me well enough to know what to tell me about his cases and when. I was still antsy about it, but I was trying to regain my balance. I told him I'd keep my plans for my quarterly dental cleaning at eleven and get back into working out at the gym.

I knew that he and Mercer were going to the Met that evening. I recognized that I had no business finding my own route to get in, but I remained jealous of their opportunity—not just to see the show in that setting, which would be lost on both of them, but to watch the interaction among all the Savage satellites.

I sat down at the table with a second cup of coffee and the morning papers. The Wolf Savage/Tanya Root stories were off the front pages, at last. That usually made the work of police and prosecutors much easier.

I had the television on in my bedroom as I dressed in jeans and a sweater for my hour in the dental chair. I was pulling on knee socks and boots, although the forecast was for an unseasonably warm and sunny day.

“At the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” the off-location reporter said, “preparations are under way for a spectacular evening at the Temple of Dendur. You can see there, through the
glass-enclosed northern wing of the Met, that thousands of dollars in flowers—flown in from Holland overnight—are being delivered for display as we speak. Ironically, the fashion extravaganza conceived by Wolf Savage is now a tribute to his life as well.”

The camera then focused in on the reporter herself.

“Meanwhile, I'm live in front of the Madison Avenue North, a small hotel on East 128th Street in Harlem, not far from the famed Apollo Theater.”

She gestured over her shoulder, where yellow crime-scene tape kept her on the sidewalk opposite the hotel, unable to get any closer.

“We got word this morning that NYPD detectives arrived here an hour ago with a search warrant. A longtime resident of the building next door claims that the police believe that Tanya Root—the estranged daughter of the legendary designer Wolf Savage—was staying here at the time of her murder. Police have asked for hotel records, access to the room the young woman occupied, and any other information that might be relevant to her disappearance and death. They're combing the neighborhood in case any locals had knowledge of Tanya and her companions.”

I speed-dialed Mike faster than the reporter could get off the air.

“Stay tuned for breaking news,” she said, signing off.

Of course the message went to his voicemail.

“I didn't think you'd pick up for me,” I said, pacing around my bedroom while I talked into the phone. “I didn't think after all that coddling this weekend and even though I've agreed—at least I agreed on Friday morning—that I was going to see your shrink, that you'd think it important enough to take my call.”

I wasn't anywhere near as in control of myself as I had tried to convince myself that I was just the day before. Everything to do
with solving this case, which seemed to me to be my path to an entry back into my old familiar self, put me on edge.

“Do you really think I deserve to get my updates from a rookie stringer on the street, Detective Chapman? Don't leave me hanging on this one, I beg of you. Don't turn your back on me
now.”

The dental hygienist took my cell phone away from me while she scraped and cleaned my teeth. It wouldn't have mattered. There were no messages when I got out of the chair.

I walked home, fifteen blocks, knowing that if I kept a fast pace it would allow me to blow off some of the steam that was gathering inside me.

I called the office number of Mike's psychiatrist. She must have been in session. I told her that I wanted to see her and asked if she had any time today. I wasn't as tethered to reality as I needed to be.

I was home by one
P.M
. and eating a yogurt while I watched local news.

The same reporter had pushed herself close to the front of the pack. Her tenacity had paid off.

“An hour ago,” she said, “detectives emerged from the hotel with several boxes that appeared to contain ledgers of some sort—perhaps a guest register.”

The footage showed Mike following two squad members
holding large boxes. He was gloved and carrying a green plastic garbage bag.

“Rumors are circulating that Tanya—who stayed here several times throughout the last three years—does not actually go by the last name ‘Root.' We hope to have more for you on that by tomorrow.

“She was known to be a jazz aficionado, and liked the proximity of the Madison to the Apollo Theater.”

There was always a desk clerk to squeal, in every hotel in the world, if the price was right.

“Police are planning to release sketches of the three males—two African American and one white man—in whose company she was seen last month,” the reporter said.

This was the first mention of any male suspects of color since the case had come to my attention.

“The two are thought to be acquaintances of the white male, with whom she drove off around the time she was last seen at the hotel.”

An older man or a younger one, I wondered.

I called Vickee Eaton's number at headquarters. The press office would know as much as any of the detectives, and Vickee had no reason to shut me down.

“Sorry,” some nameless phone-answering police officer said. “Detective Eaton's out in the field. May I have a callback name?”

I hung up the phone.

I tried Catherine Dashfer, who was keeping my seat warm at the DA's Office. She couldn't possibly avoid me by not taking the call—all of our phone numbers showed as
UNKNOWN
when incoming.

“Hello?”

“It's me. Don't hang up.”

“Alex? Are you all right?” Catherine was among my closest friends: wise, loyal, and tough as steel.

“Basically.”

“'Cause what I'm hearing—”

“I'm seeing the NYPD's psychiatrist this week,” I said. “I should be cleared to come back after the holidays. You can fly off to Tuscany for a vacation in January, I promise you. I'll be back at my desk by then.”

“Take your time, Alex. It's even nicer over there in the spring.”

“Any chance you can slip out for an hour this afternoon and meet me?”

“That would mean they'd be stuck looking for a permanent filler for me if I get spotted hanging out with you,” Catherine said. “I'd be safer planning a rendezvous with Charles Manson.”

“Did Battaglia send out a memo about me? An AMBER Alert?”

“You know he's way too smart to do that,” she said. “A few of us got called in, one by one. Nothing in writing. No paper trail. Just an understated comment or two about how you needed space to get your head together.”

“I don't want any more space,” I said. “I want my life back. I want my friends, but most of the people I want to see are employed by the man who's making me persona non grata
.
”

“I tell you what,” Catherine said. “I'll put something together for Friday night, okay? Come to my place and I'll cook, and I'll get as many of the gang together as I can.”

“Sweet,” I said. If I had to hold out until Friday, I'd do it. “Will you throw Ryan in?”

“Alexandra Cooper! That'll be the last thing Ryan does, okay? Count on it,” she said. “You can be sure Battaglia walked all over him with golf shoes on, in regard to Ryan's contact with you.”

I took a few deep breaths.

“Is everything okay with you and Mike?” Catherine asked.

“It's fine. I thought we had a great weekend,” I said. “Next thing I see, he's on the news, carrying evidence out of a hotel that I know nothing about.”

“As it should be.”

“If anything changes—I mean, if you get a real itch to see me, Catherine—just call and come on up.”

“You know I miss you, Alex. If I get that particular itch, I'll need to buy a disguise to visit.”

“I didn't mean to put you in a bad spot. I'm going a little stir-crazy, and since all my buddies cut me off it's really hard.”

“Why not go back to the Vineyard?” Catherine asked. “You love it there.”

“I probably will,” I said. “Let you know before Friday.”

Things were so bad that my friends from the DA's Office thought they had to disguise themselves in order to visit the apartment. They must have been afraid that reports of their contact with me would get back to Paul Battaglia.

I fiddled with overdue correspondence to out-of-towners who'd heard about my ordeal, and thought about cleaning out one of my closets. That was too daunting a project.

I kept going back to Catherine and her offhanded comment about disguises.

I looked in my contacts for the telephone number of Joan's mother, who lived in an enormous duplex on the East River.

“Mrs. Stafford?” I said quite cheerfully into my cell. “It's Alexandra Cooper.”

“Darling, how are you?” she asked. “My Joanie told me you might call.”

“I'm doing much better now, thank you.”

“I haven't seen you in ages.”

“My bad. But I hear you're doing very well,” I said. “Did Joan tell you what I'm calling about?”

“She did. Will you come spend a little time with me this afternoon?”

“I'd be delighted.”

Someone who actually wanted to see me. How refreshing, I thought. And she happened to be in possession of part of the disguise I needed to get me into the Temple of Dendur.

“I've had that lovely dress taken out of its wrappings and steamed for you,” Mrs. Stafford said. “You're still thinner than Joan, I'm sure. But you'll take up the difference in your height.”

I had abandoned all thoughts of crashing the Savage show at the Met that evening in the aftermath of Mike's tough-love talk with me. But now my paranoia overwhelmed me. It seemed that everyone had abandoned me to my own devices, and I was mad at the thought of being discarded by them all.

“I'll be over at five, Mrs. Stafford. I'm trying to surprise some of my friends.”

“I love conspiracies, dear Alex. Your secret will be safe with
me.”