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Authors: Linda Fairstein

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Likely to Die

BOOK: Likely to Die
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LIKELY TO DIE
Alexandra Cooper 02
LINDA FAIRSTEIN

The bestselling suspense novels of

LINDA FAIRSTEIN

win nationwide acclaim!

LIKELY TO DIE

“Step aside, girls. Here comes Manhattan sex-crimes prosecutor Alexandra Cooper in a red Escada suit, trailing a cloud of Chanel No. 5…. Fairstein gives her sleek—and single—D.A. a whopping whodunit…. There are plenty of suspects to keep Alex clicking along in her Manolo Blahnik heels…and sizzling sexual tension between Alex and NYPD detective Mike Chapman. With its taut plot and classy setting,Likely to Die is an uptown act.”

—People

“This gritty, harsh book has a strong sense of authenticity.”

—Chicago Tribune

“A first-rate mystery novel by someone who writes about what she knows and truly knows about what she writes.”

—Hilma Wolitzer, New YorkDaily News

THE DEADHOUSE

“Darkly woven, with a shocking history of New York asylums, penitentiaries, and plagues,The Deadhouse conjures up a horrid past to solve a baffling modern murder.”

—Patricia Cornwell

“The Deadhouseoffers, along with the author’s usual beguiling mix of murder, romance, and suspense, an intriguing history lesson…. Fascinating…. An extraordinarily well-knit mystery that the author wraps tightly in suspense before unfolding it with a flourish…. The crime novel easily make[s] my list as one of the best of the year.”

—Dick Lochte,Los Angeles Times

“Linda Fairstein writes tough, beautiful prose about a world she knows firsthand.”

—Lisa Scottoline

“Like its predecessors,The Deadhouse allows Fairstein to display her firsthand knowledge of crime and investigation…. The storm-toss’d, struggle-to-the-death finale…is superb.”

—The Washington Post

“The city that never sleeps is ably guarded by Linda Fairstein’s Odd Couple, sex-crimes D.A. Alexandra Cooper and Detective Mike Chapman…. Their emotional bond anchors Fairstein’s absorbing and well-plotted [novel]…. Fairstein excels at conveying the reality of Coop’s days…. Four stars out of four stars.”

—Detroit Free Press

COLD HIT

APeople Magazine “Page-Turner of the Week”

“Readers of this fast-paced thriller will get a view of today’s art world unlike anything taught in Art History 101…. [A] stylish study in criminal expressionism.”

—People

“A skillfully executed plot, by a crime novelist whose powerful characters are drawn from her real-life expertise…. Absorbing, intricately woven—bring on the next.”

—Patricia Cornwell

“A shining protagonist, comfortable in the upper echelons of New York society but eager to roll up her sleeves at work, her heart aching for her staff and the victims they defend.”

—Publishers Weekly(starred review)

“Fairstein is dazzling in her third Alexandra Cooper mystery…. Smart, sexy, and indefatigable, Alex is relentlessly likeable…. Fascinating and fast paced.”

—Library Journal

“Thoroughly tension-filled and pulse-pounding.”

—Midwest Book Reviews

FINAL JEOPARDY

“Raw, real, and mean. Linda Fairstein is wonderful.”

—Patricia Cornwell

“Put downFinal Jeopardy and you almost expect to find crime-scene grit under your nails. Dead-on details are no surprise in this taut mystery.”

—Usmagazine

“If it is authenticity you demand,Final Jeopardy has got it in spades…. There is an anger and a passion in Alex Cooper that is clearly not fictional.”

—The Times(London)

“From itsLaura -like opening, which hooked me completely, to its astonishing denouement, I was held hostage byFinal Jeopardy.”

—Dominick Dunne

Books by Linda Fairstein

Sexual Violence: Our War Against Rape

Final Jeopardy*

Likely to Die*

Cold Hit

*Published by POCKET BOOKS

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1997 by Linda Fairstein

Originally published in hardcover in 1997 by Scribner

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Scribner, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-9021-5

For

ALICE ATWELL FAIRSTEIN,

the best

 

Acknowledgments

 Every crime described in this book is based on an actual event.

 Once again, I am profoundly grateful to all the usual suspects for their love, friendship, and sustenance throughout the period in which this book was written.

 Alexandra Cooper thrives on the support of her great friends, some of whom borrow traits like their humor, wisdom, and loyalty from a few friends of my own. Alexandra Denman, Lisa Friel, Jane Stanton Hitchcock, Maureen Spencer Forrest, Karen and (the other) Alex Cooper, Susan and Michael Goldberg, Sarah and Mitch—and Casey—Rosenthal all contribute to the cast. Joan and Bernie Carl provided the very generous introduction to Cliveden. The real Dr. Robert Spector, whom I have known and admired since we were both fifteen, is not the model for the character who borrows his name in this book.

 Bob Morgenthau continues to be my professional inspiration and hero. This, the twenty-fifth year I have served in the Office of the District Attorney of New York County, has remained as challenging and rewarding as all that came before. My colleagues and partners there are the best in this business and continue to work on the side of the angels for survivors of violent crime.

 Perhaps the nicest part of my new career as an author has been the time spent in and around people who love books—the librarians and booksellers who place them so carefully in people’s hands, and the readers who devour them with such eagerness.

 My great fortune in having Susanne Kirk as an editor cannot be overstated.

 Esther Newberg is an extraordinary agent, but she is an even better friend.

 All of the Fairsteins contribute to the spirit of my work, as they always have. My newest sources of inspiration—small but mighty—are Matthew and Alexander Zavislan.

 My husband, Justin Feldman, continues to be my muse and my greatest joy. And my mother, Alice Atwell Fairstein, will always be the very best.

 LIKELY to DIE

 1

 THE ANSWERING MACHINE KICKED IN AFTERa fourth irritating echo from the insistent caller. I listened to my recorded voice announce that I was not available to come to the phone right now, as little hammers pounded furiously inside my head. The last Dewar’s of the evening had been unnecessary.

 I cocked an eye to glance at the illuminated dial glowing an eerie shade of green in the still dark room. It read 5:38A.M.

 “If you’re screening, Coop, pick it up. C’mon, kid.”

 I was unmoved, and mercifully not on duty this morning.

 “It’s early and it’s cold, but don’t leave me dangling at the end of the only working phone booth in Manhattan when I’m trying to do you a favor. Pick it up, Blondie. Don’t give me that ‘unavailable’ stuff. Last I knew you were the most available broad in town.”

 “Good morning, Detective Chapman, and thank you for that vote of confidence,” I murmured into the receiver as I brought my arm back under the comforter to keep it warm while I listened to Mike. Too bad I’d cracked open a window for some fresh air before going to sleep. The room was frigid.

 “I got something for you. A big one, if you’re ready to get back in the saddle again.”

 I winced at Chapman’s reminder that I had not picked up any serious investigations for almost five months. My involvement last fall in the murder case of my friend, the actress Isabella Lascar, had derailed me professionally. It had prompted the District Attorney to direct the reassignment of most of my trial load, so I had taken a long vacation when the killer was caught. Mike had accused me of coasting through the winter season and avoiding the kinds of difficult matters that we had worked on together so often in the past.

 “What have you got?” I asked him.

 “Oh, no. This isn’t one of those ‘run it by me and if it’s sexy enough I’ll keep it’ cases, Miss Cooper. You either accept this mission on faith, or I do this the legitimate way and call whichever one of your mopes is on the homicide chart today. There’ll be some eager beaver looking to get his teeth into this—I can’t help it if he won’t happen to know the difference between DNA and NBC. At least he won’t be afraid to—”

 “All right, all right.” Chapman had just said the magic word and I was sitting straight up in bed now. I wasn’t certain if I was shivering because of the bitterly cold air that was blowing in from outdoors, or because I was frightened by the prospect of plunging back into the violent landscape of rapists and murderers that had dominated my professional life for almost a decade.

 “Is that a yes, Blondie? You with us on this one?”

 “I promise to sound more enthusiastic after some coffee, Mike. Yes, I’m with you.” His exuberance at this moment would be offensive to anyone outside the family of police and prosecutors who worked in the same orbit as he did, since it was fueled by the unnatural death of a human being. The only comfort it offered was the fact that the particular murder victim in question would be the undistracted focus of the best homicide detective in the business: Mike Chapman.

 “Great. Now, get out of bed, suit up, take a few Advil for that hangover—”

 “Is that just a guess, Dr. Holmes, or do you have me under surveillance?”

 “Mercer told me he was in your office yesterday. Got an overheard on your evening plans—Knicks game with your law school friends, followed by supper in the bar at ‘21.’ Elementary, Miss Cooper. The only thing he couldn’t figure was whether we’d be interrupting any steamy bedroom scene with a call at this hour. I assured him that we’d be the first to know when you gave up on abstinence.”

 I ignored the shot and welcomed the news that Mercer Wallace would be part of the team. A former homicide cop, he was my best investigator at the Special Victims Squad, where he caught all the major serial rape cases and pattern crimes.

 “Before you use up your quarter, are you going to fill me in on this one and give me a clue about how to sell it to my boss?”

 Paul Battaglia hated it when detectives shopped around his office to pull in their favorite assistant district attorneys to work on complex criminal matters. For the twenty years that he’d been the District Attorney of New York County, he had operated with an on-call system—known as the homicide chart—so that for every twenty-four-hour period, every day of the year, a senior prosecutor was on standby and ready to assist in the investigation of murder cases in any way that the NYPD considered useful. Questioning suspects, drafting search warrants, authorizing arrests, and interviewing witnesses—all of the tasks fell to the assistant D.A. who was “on the chart” and had the first significant contact with the police.

 “You’re a natural for this one, Alex. No kidding. The deceased was sexually assaulted. Mercer’s right—we really need your guidance on this one.” Chapman was referring to the fact that I am the bureau chief in charge of the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit—Battaglia’s pet project that specializes in the sensitive handling of victims of rape and abuse. Often, since many of those crimes escalated to murder, my colleagues and I were designated to handle the ensuing investigations and trials.

 I was stretching across to the drawer of the night table to find this month’s homicide chart, to check whether I’d be stepping on the toes of one of the D.A.‘s fair-haired boys, and how much flak I’d be heading for. “Well, until eight o’clock this morning, Eddie Fremont is catching.”

 “Oh, no, you gotta save me from him,” Mike responded. “Son of a senator. That’s about as useful as having my mother at the station house. Fremont’s a whackjob of the first order—I don’t think he’d know probable cause if it bit him in the ass.”

 Chapman often did a stand-up comic routine at the bar at Forlini’s, the courthouse watering hole, with the monthly calendar and chart in his hand, calling out the name of the assigned assistants and reliving some embarrassing episode from the career of each of us as he rolled off the dates. Fremont was an easy target, one of those brilliant students with impeccable academic credentials that simply failed to translate to the courtroom. Everyone assumed he had been hired as a “contract,” because his father, the former senior senator from Indiana, had been Paul Battaglia’s roommate at Columbia Law School.

 “Or if you wait until a few minutes after eight, you can have Laurie Deitcher,” I countered, aware that she would be responsible for decisions on anything coming in during the next twenty-four hours.

 “The Princess? Never again, Blondie. The only time I had a high-profile case with her, it was a disaster. During the lunch hour, instead of prepping witnesses and outlining her cross-examinations, she’d make us wait in the hallway while she plugged in her hot rollers and troweled on some more makeup. Then she’d belly up to the jury box like she was Norma Desmond ready for her close-up. She looked great for the cameras, but the friggin‘ perp walked. Nope. You just call Battaglia and tell him Wallace and I woke you up in the middle of the night because you were the only person who could answer our questions. Hang tough with him, Cooper. This is your case.”

BOOK: Likely to Die
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