The Kills (23 page)

"He
sounded perfectly appropriate. Thought it was tragic, wanted to make sure you
knew about it-that kind of thing."

"You
make it sound like a pleasant conversation."

"It
was, actually. I guess he knew we're a couple. Said he recognized my voice from
the tube. We talked for a couple of minutes. Did the six-degrees-of-separation
thing. Friends of mine who are friends of his."

I didn't
say what I was thinking.

"Whoops,
did I screw up again? You've got that Cooper pout on your face. Peter Robelon
isn't your enemy, even if his client is guilty."

"I
know he's not my enemy. You want to chat with him, do it from your office. I
don't trust the guy for a minute. You shouldn't either."

"So
I'll cancel my lunch date with him."

"Keep
it. Fine. Don't let me interfere with your endless efforts at intelligence
gathering. When he gets indicted by one of my colleagues, Jake, I sure as hell
don't want fifteen-minute phone calls showing up on the records from my place
to his and vice versa."

"What
do you mean, indicted?" he called after me as I headed into the bathroom
to shower and dress.

"He's
a sleaze," I said, closing the door behind me.

When I
got back to the kitchen twenty minutes later, Jake had eaten the muffin and
returned to the den. I fixed myself a bowl of cereal instead, and ate it alone
at the table.

"What
are you going to do today?" I asked when I finished eating.

"Read
the paper. Go to the gym. Find someone who wants to have brunch at a charming
sidewalk café like Swifty's and enjoy this beautiful day. Any
takers?"

"If
you can hold off brunch until two and let me go down to the precinct for a few
hours to see what they've got, I promise to come back in a better mood."

"I
don't care if your disposition is better or worse, as long as you explain it to
me. Help me understand it."

"And
you'll make an early-morning shuttle to D.C. tomorrow?" I asked.

"No.
I'll go back on the six tonight. There's a White House briefing at nine and I
can't take the chance of missing it."

It was a
subtle way of pressuring me. No chance for a bedtime reconciliation, so I had
better get back uptown in time for brunch. I was disappointed, but also
relieved. It was easier to have Jake out of town while all this mayhem was
swirling around me. That, in itself, told me something about our relationship
that I had been slow to acknowledge.

Nothing
had developed at the First Precinct in the few hours since I left the squad
room. Squeeks and his partner had slept on cots in the locker room and were
already back at the crime scene, scouring for clues and tips.

I drafted
a bunch of subpoenas for telephone records, even though no results would be
available until the business offices opened again on Monday. I used numbers
Paige had given me that were in my trial folder to call several of her
coworkers at the investment bank-her supervisor and two friends-to notify them
about the murder before they read about it in the newspapers. Mostly, I sat at
a desk feeling useless and unhappy.

At
one-thirty I went downstairs and hailed a cab, calling Jake to tell him I would
meet him on Lexington Avenue, at the restaurant.

"A
bit of good news for you, Alex. Peter Robelon just called again. He said to tell
you that both he and Graham Hoyt had calls from Dulles Tripping today. The boy
sounded fine. Said he had saved his allowance and taken a bus back upstate to
the town he had lived in with his grandmother. Quite a mature ten-year-old. He
was going to a friend's house. And yes, darling, he did have caller ID on the
phone. The operator confirms he was calling from a pay phone upstate. I'll
bring the number with me."

"Thank
God he's all right," I said. "I've got my cell phone with me. You
could have told Robelon to call me."

"After
you said you didn't want phone records showing up between the two of you? I was
trying to do the right thing, Alex. Sorry if I made another mistake."

"No,
no, no. You're right. I'm just so anxious to resolve this with the kid. I don't
want him spinning further out of control when he finds out that Paige was
killed."

I took a
Post-it out of my checkbook. "Read me the number of the pay phone. I'll
call it in to the detectives and they can pinpoint exactly what town it's
in." I wanted to get the business out of the way before I met him for
lunch.

Jake was
seated at a small, round table for two, surrounded by a chic-looking assortment
of Upper East Side regulars.

"Did
you take care of that message?"

"Yes,
I did. The cops had actually tried to find the principal of the school in
Tonawanda, to get a list of kids' names and addresses. Can't be done until
tomorrow. The school's shut down completely for the weekend."

I paused
while the waiter took my order of a chopped Cobb salad and a Virgin Mary. It
wasn't worth drinking in case we got lucky with a break in the case. Jake got
the twinburgers with a vodka and tonic.

"Shall
we start the day over? Aren't you going to ask me how I feel?" I asked.

"Sure,"
Jake said, smiling. "As long as you want to talk about it."

I
described how painful it was to learn about Paige's murder, and how much more
it hurt to have some of the detectives think that I had failed to protect her
in her final hours. I explained her complexities and how much she had chosen to
keep hidden from me, despite my best efforts to elicit her trust. I talked
about her willingness to tell me she had accidentally killed the burglar,
without any probing, but that she had withheld information about one of her
sexual partners.

"Do
you think you know everything there is to know?"

"I
don't believe that ever happens," I answered. "Subconsciously or not,
we always filter what we tell other people."

"Always?"

I looked
up at him. "Most of the time. And certainly to those with whom we're not
intimate. People like Paige wanted me to think better of her, not be
judgmental, not second-guess her choices."

"So
what do the cops make of this Harry Strait character?"

"A
classic case of identity theft. The real Strait died of a heart attack while
sitting at his desk at Langley. No controversy, no scandal, no crime. Someone
plucked his date of birth and death out of the records or off his tombstone, no
doubt forged a set of documents to accompany the name, and is walking around
pretending to be Strait."

"Any
idea why?"

"Not
a clue. And if he throws the stuff in a garbage pail tomorrow and decides to be
somebody else, they may never figure out who he is. They'll go through
everything in Paige's apartment and office pretty carefully. Maybe he left some
contact information or something else that will reveal him to us."

We walked
back to the apartment and spent a few quiet hours together before Jake left for
the airport. Everything about being with him soothed me and made me happy, if I
kept it in the present tense. It was only when I thought about our future, and
the barriers that had presented themselves in the past, that I made myself
anxious.

I closed
the door behind him and settled down on the sofa for the evening with Thomas
Hardy and the D'Urbervilles. The bleak Dorset landscape and the workings of the
malevolent forces of the universe suited me beautifully.

Monday
morning, I left the house early for the dreaded trip to my office, to prepare
for the fallout when news of Vallis's death spread, and to go before Judge
Moffett.

I kept my
door closed until I went to the courtroom, researching the law on-line. I
didn't find what I needed. When I got upstairs, the scene was not what I
expected. Tripping, Robelon, and Frith were again seated at counsel table. They
all looked relaxed and calm. Behind them was Graham Hoyt, and next to him were
the lawyers for the hospital and child welfare agency.

Now,
however, the two rows behind them were filled with courthouse reporters. I knew
that the tabloids had connected the TriBeCa murder with the fact that Paige
Vallis had been on the witness stand in the case, but my guess was that Robelon
had invited them to come and watch him secure a dismissal of the charges
against his client. I had hoped to put this matter to rest out of the glare of
press coverage.

Judge
Moffett was the last to arrive. The media had always been fair to him, and he
would play with them to get himself some favorable ink. He took the bench and
began by making a statement in open court about Paige Vallis's murder and the
great coincidence that she had spent her last day testifying before him.

"Do
you have an application, Mr. Robelon?" Moffett asked.

"Yes,
Your Honor. At this time, on behalf of my client, I move to dismiss all the
charges against him. We are, obviously, entitled to a mistrial. I had been
looking forward to the now-impossible opportunity of cross-examining Ms.
Vallis. Not only do we mourn her death, but we regret that this deprives Mr.
Tripping of the chance to completely exonerate himself."

Robelon's
grandstanding went on for ten minutes. The judge asked me to respond. I rambled
more than I intended, talking about the rape charge first, disagreeing-most
respectfully-with the court's conclusion that Vallis's death was coincidental
to the trial, and making the point that she was not the sole victim in this
matter. There were still counts in the indictment-assault and endangerment-that
referred to the missing boy.

"What's
the solution, Ms. Cooper?" Moffett asked facetiously. "I'm supposed
to move to strike an entire direct exam? Just ask the jury to forget what they
heard and move on to your other witnesses? You got law on it?"

"No,
sir. I haven't been able to find a single case on point. I'd like some time
to-"

"You
don't need time. You need a miracle," Moffett said, looking to see how
many of the reporters were taking down his repartee.

"We
had open issues on the table. Dulles Tripping is still missing-"

Robelon
stood and interrupted me. "Mr. Hoyt and I can give you an update on that.
The boy is fine. He's upstate with friends. We're happy to arrange a meeting
with Ms. Cooper so she can speak with him herself as soon as we get him back
here."

Graham
Hoyt was standing behind Robelon and winked at me, as though to confirm he had
brokered that deal for me to see Dulles.

"May
I have a few hours to consult with the head of our Appeals Bureau?" I
asked. The most brilliant legal scholar in our office was John Bryer. Whenever
our shoot-from-the-hip trial dogs got into trouble in court, the fastest solution
was to call Bryer. If anyone could fashion a creative solution to keep my case
alive, it would be he. "I might want to submit papers-to write on this,
Your Honor."

"Write,
schmite. Knock yourself out, Ms. Cooper. I'll give you two days. We'll be back
here Wednesday morning. Call my clerk if there's any law on your side. Bring
the jury in, Mac."

The court
officer opened the door and the jurors straggled in. From the way most of them
glanced at me, I knew they had heard the news about Paige. I couldn't fault
them, despite the court's instructions. Several were holding folded newspapers.
One of the tabloid headlines was written in bold-faced type above a photograph
of the earnest young woman from the Dibingham Partners annual report:
WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION-SLAIN.

The judge
apologized to the panel for the inconvenience, reminded them of the now
ridiculous admonition not to read press accounts involving the case and its
witnesses, and excused them until Wednesday morning. I looked straight ahead to
avoid making eye contact with any of them as they filed out of the room.