The Kills (19 page)

I opened
the closet doors and separated the hangers.

"So
much for those gowns and tiaras. Wear 'em while you can, Coop. This is what it
all comes down to in the end," Mike said. There was an assortment of
checked and flowered housedresses, and a couple of outfits that looked suitable
for church-or burial. "The ME asked me to have you pick out a dress for
Queenie to be buried in."

"Is
there actually a funeral?"

"The
squad's doing one. Nobody's been able to locate the nieces in Georgia, and all
the guys want to arrange something for her. It'll be next week-I'll let you
know what day."

It was an
unspoken tradition among the elite homicide detectives that if there was no
family to put a victim to rest with dignity, they often did it themselves.
Queenie would go in a plot near the still-unidentified toddler known to the
squad as Baby Hope, and the homeless man dubbed Elvis who played his guitar in
the 125th Street subway station, slain for the few bucks he had picked up
panhandling.

"What's
on the floor?" I asked.

"Bastards
even dumped out all her shoe and hatboxes. Took whatever cash she had left.
That's just the pocket change you're playing with."

The dark
closet floor was littered with silver coins, which gleamed against the wooden
background. I kneeled again and scooped up a handful. "This must be the
stash she used to tip the kids who bought her groceries."

I let the
coins run through my fingers and clink against each other as they fell. Both
Mike and I knew victims who had been killed for far less money than was sitting
on the floor of Queenie's closet.

"I
want you to promise me that someone's going to do a careful inventory of all
these things," I said. "It may not look like much of value to you,
but there's a lot of memorabilia here that shouldn't be thrown away."

"What
I wanted you to do is look at these photos," he said, sweeping the bedroom
walls with his hand. "You ever see anything like this? It's like a shrine
to herself. I mean, it's a damn good body she had, but could these photos-could
her own personal history-have anything to do with her murder?"

I
recognized the bed on which her body had been found from the crime scene
photos. The detectives believed that's where she had been killed. In addition
to the Van Derzee portrait that had been above her head, there were seven other
shots-all taken in different locations-which were erotic in nature. They
weren't pictures of Queenie dancing, nor were they posed on a stage or in a
studio. They were, pure and simple, pornographic.

This was
not a situation I had seen before in a criminal case. Although the images'
purpose may have been to arouse sexual interest sixty years ago, I couldn't
imagine anyone responding to the partially paralyzed octogenarian in the same
way today.

There was
a dressing table opposite the bed's footboard. To the right of the mirror was
another photo of the young Ransome, dancing as Scheherazade, wearing gauzelike
harem pants and clasping tiny cymbals above her veiled head.

"Beats
me," I said. "Can't rule it out."

To the
left of the looking glass was a photo of two women facing each other in
profile, both in strapless satin dresses, with trains hanging to the floor and
pooling behind them. "Here's one more you've got to see. It's Queenie,
nose to nose with Josephine Baker," I said, recognizing the American
dancer who had lived much of her life in Paris and was considered to be one of
the most sensual performers of all times.

"Later
for the talent show, Coop. Are you getting anything in here?"

"Like
what?"

"Vibes,"
Mike said, sitting on the stool at the dressing table and leaning on Queenie's
metal walker. "Sometimes, when I just sit here alone, in the middle of the
victim's world, with all his or her belongings around me, I get a sense of who
might have come here to hurt them, or what it is they were looking for."

"How
about if it's just random?" I asked.

"Doesn't
matter. Sometimes the place and its people speak to me," he said softly.
"This one's so incongruous. I wanna feel like she's my own grandmother,
but this-this scene-"

"The
photos bother you?"

"Don't
they bother you?" he asked me.

"They're
quite beautiful, actually," I said, tousling his hair. "It's your
parochial school upbringing, Mikey."

The
ringing of my cell phone interrupted the quiet, with only Ellington's tunes
playing their scratchy sounds in the background on the old Victrola from the
other room.

"Hello?"

"Alex,
it's Mercer."

"Any
news?"

"No
sightings. But a ray of hope. I just got into work-we had a late night trying
to interview everyone who saw the boy yesterday, before he disappeared. Did you
hear from Paige?" Mercer asked me.

"No.
But she's in the middle of cross. You know she's been instructed not to talk to
me."

"She
left a voice mail for me at the office, at about ten o'clock last night. I
didn't pick it up until this morning. Dulles Tripping called her after I
dropped her off from court. She had given him a slip of paper with her phone
number on it, that first morning in the coffee shop. Paige said he sounded
fine, just scared and lonely. Have you got a cell number for her?"

"For
Paige? No. I've always found her at her office, or at home. Does she know where
he is?"

"No.
That's the point. There's no answer at Paige's apartment and I thought you'd
know how to reach her. She called to say she's trying to bring the boy in
herself."

The
three-dimensional building, set back in tiers like a giant birthday cake, has
the most distinctive windows in New York. They were modeled to look like the
bulbous aft end of old Dutch sailing ships, and as we drove up to the front of
37 West Forty-fourth Street-the New York Yacht Club-its century-old limestone
facade seemed like a throwback to another era.

I was a
few minutes late for my meeting with Graham Hoyt. Mike had decided to work with
Mercer, figuring I needed no help in bartering a deal with Dulles's lawyer.

"Beep
us if he knows anything," Mike said to me.

"Of
course. You do the same."

"Sure
they'll let you through the front door? The lieutenant says it's tougher to get
into this yacht club than into your pants."

"For
certain I'm a cheaper date than trying to pay the dues here," I said,
slamming the car door. "Speak to you later."

I had
spent a lot of time in the building across the street from the club-the
Association of the Bar of the City of New York-and I'd downed my share of
cocktails in the sleek lobby of the Royalton Hotel. But this architectural
beauty, with its galleon-styled windows, was one of Manhattan's great
mysteries. Its elite membership, its fabled pedigree, and its prohibitive fees
had long made it an object of curiosity. One couldn't buy his way in with
money-it took a real knowledge of boating to penetrate the ranks. Despite myself,
I was impressed that Graham Hoyt was a member.

Hoyt was
waiting for me inside the lobby, so the doorman just nodded and let me pass
through the grand salon.

"Shall
we talk in the Model Room?"

"Whatever
you like. I've never been here before," I said.

It was
clear that the room was the centerpiece of the club. The entire history of
yachting seemed to be displayed in its cavernous space, with hundreds of models
of members' ships, with globes and astrolabes, and with braids of seaweed
draping its huge mantel and wall trim.

"Is
Chapman joining us?" Hoyt asked as we settled into a pair of corner seats.

"No.
He's actually working on another case. Have you heard anything from
Dulles?"

"Afraid
not. I've got Jenna-my wife-sitting by the phone. I'm determined not to panic
either one of us until another day goes by."

He leaned
forward and cupped his hands over his knees. "Alex, why don't you just lay
out what you've got, and tell me what you think the solution is? Perhaps we can
fashion something that I can sell to Andrew, to convince him that pleading
guilty would be in the boy's best interest."

"I
think he's pretty well aware of the strengths of my case-and its
weaknesses." I didn't trust anyone enough to reveal my personal thoughts
about the witnesses.

"I
knew from the discovery material you had turned over to Peter Robelon before
the trial that Paige Vallis had accidentally killed a man. What's that about?
Don't you think Peter's going to rip her to shreds on cross-examination?"

"Look,
Graham, I'm sure you can understand why I'm reluctant-"

"I'm
not a litigator, Alex. Strictly corporate law. Forgive me if you think I'm
stepping on your toes. I'd just hate to see the jury find her less than
credible, and throw out Dulles's case with hers."

I let
Graham tell me about how he and his wife had bonded with the boy over the past
years, how they wanted to help him-maybe even have him as a member of their own
family. It seemed clear they had better expectations for his future.

"When
we've got him safely back," Hoyt said, "I can probably persuade the
people at the child welfare agency to let him sit down with you, as long as we
can find a noninstitutional setting in which to do it-I don't want him
subjected to another police station or courtroom. And on the condition, of course,
that I can be present."

"I
assume there's some quid pro quo for this, something you want from me," I
said.

Hoyt
straightened up. "I want you to offer Andrew Tripping a deal. A plea
bargain. Something that will speed this along and have him sentenced so that
he's in jail-immediately-and Dulles can breathe more easily. You can't imagine
how this hangs over the child's head-this love-hate thing with his own father
that the shrinks will testify about."

All the
psychiatrists spoke of the same findings. The boy had a natural filial love for
Andrew, but his fear was even greater. He knew that telling the truth could
make him safe, but if the judge or jury didn't believe him, he would be back at
his father's mercy and in more danger than before.

"Tripping's
been offered a deal from the get-go," I said. "I talked to Peter
about a charge of third-degree rape instead of first."

"Sorry.
I don't know the criminal law. What's the difference?"

"The
amount of time he'd have to serve. It's still a felony, but he wouldn't be
exposed to as many years in state prison," I said. The case was
complicated. The top charges in the indictment related to the rape of Paige
Vallis. I had added misdemeanor counts of physical assault and endangering the
welfare of a child-counts that involved Dulles's abuse-knowing that they might
be taken more seriously in the higher-court forum where the rape trial would be
heard. It was an unorthodox way to proceed, but I thought it was worth the
chance.

"Can't
we still-?"

"It's
too late for that, Graham. I told the defense team that once Paige gave sworn
testimony, once she had to go through the experience of telling her story
publicly, the offer was withdrawn. The ball was in Andrew's court for months
and he didn't want to play."

"But
you'd save her the embarrassment of cross-examination. She can't be looking
forward to Monday."

"You
know something that I don't?" I asked. "You want to tell me what
other surprises Peter has to hit her with?"

Was he
bluffing now, I wondered, or did Robelon have more dirt on Paige Vallis,
something else she had omitted from her narrative of events?