The Kills (37 page)

"October
second, nine-thirty sharp. We'll take the plea and you can prepare to be
sentenced the same day. Bring your toothpaste and pajamas, Mr. Tripping. No
excuses next time." Moffett looked from the defendant to me. "You
want an order of protection, Ms. Cooper?"

Little
good that piece of paper would do if Tripping became unglued. "An
admonition will do, sir. Make it clear if the defendant has anything to say to
me, he can do it in the courtroom or through counsel."

"One
last issue, if I may," Robelon said. "I had talked to Ms. Cooper
about getting her agreement for a single visit between Mr. Tripping and his
son. All the doctors believe it would be the healthiest way for them to
separate, going forward."

"Fine,"
I said, giving up the fight. "As long as it's supervised and on the
condition that it comes to an abrupt end if the defendant does anything at all
to upset the child."

"Then
the last order of business," Moffett said, "is for me to dismiss the
charges of rape in the first degree against your client, isn't that right, Mr.
Robelon."

"That's
correct, Judge."

I left
the courtroom amid the self-congratulatory backslapping of the defense team.

"Where'd
Mercer go?" I asked Laura.

"He
said to tell you that a Detective Squeeks-did I get that name right?-that
Squeeks needed to see him down at the First Precinct on the Vallis murder. Just
routine. Wanted to interview him about your original case. Said he'd meet you
at Twenty-six Federal Plaza for your noon appointment."

The
detectives on the Vallis case were certainly working hard to keep me out of the
mix.

I took
care of a pile of correspondence that had stacked up on my desk, returned a
bunch of nonurgent phone calls, and gathered up some of the Tripping memos from
my file cabinet so that I could write a closing report while I was in the
country. I encouraged my assistants to cover their tails with paperwork. There
were always bizarre defendants-like Andrew Tripping-who were bound to revisit
the system at some future point in time, and it was smart to leave
documentation of why an earlier case had been dismissed.

As I
assembled a case folder to take with me, I came across Dulles's Yankees jacket
in the rear of my file drawer. Returning it to me had been a last act of
kindness by Paige Vallis that I had hoped to use to warm my introduction to the
boy. I stuffed it in a folder to return to Robelon or Hoyt, now that I would not
need to interview him.

"I'm
probably going to go right from this meeting to the airport, Laura. I'll be on
the Vineyard for the next couple of days, if anyone's looking for me. I'm
hoping to clear my head. Sarah's in charge," I said, locking up behind me.

The Jacob
Javits Federal Offices were just a few blocks south of our building, in the
middle of Foley Square. A modern high-rise mix of granite and glass, it was
home to a host of government agencies, and I had made frequent visits there for
conferences, most of them with the FBI on cases involving joint investigations.

Security
had always been tight at Federal Plaza. I readied my photo ID and headed for
the queue that allowed government employees access. I was reclaiming my folder
and cell phone from the metal detector when I looked up and saw a familiar face
across the lobby. I was sure it was the man Paige Vallis had known as Harry
Strait.

I grabbed
my things and hurried across the tiled floors, slick from the water-soaked
shoes that had traipsed through the corridors all morning. Dozens of people
crisscrossed my path, coming into the building for work or appointments,
leaving the area to go to lunch or run errands.

I didn't
want to break into a run as long as I had Strait in my sights. I knew there
were enough armed men around to pull me aside and see what my problem was if I
looked hysterical or unstrung.

He seemed
to be alone, heading for an exit on Duane Street, a narrow one-way road that
cut across Broadway and ended in Foley Square, at the foot of the federal
courthouse. He went out the door and stood at the top of the steps, looking
about before trotting down to the sidewalk.

Strait's
brief pause allowed me to get within twenty feet of him. My eyes swept the
crowd for a sign of any other friendly face to help me try to corner and
identify the guy. I was running a bit late for the meeting, and I hoped that
Mike or Mercer would also be late.

I flashed
my badge at a uniformed guard standing near the door. "You work
here?"

"Yes,
ma'am, I do."

"I've
got to catch up with my old boss," I said, handing him my folder.
"Could you hold on to this for me?"

He didn't
know how to respond, but looked at the logo stamped on the label with the
words:
OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT
ATTORNEY-HOMICIDE.

He took
it from me and called after me, "I get relieved at two o'clock."

I turned
and gave him a thumbs-up and continued on out the door. Strait was walking west
now and I started after him. When I closed within five feet, I yelled out his
name.

"Harry?"

There was
no response to my tentative call.

"Harry
Strait," I said, in a louder voice.

Without
breaking his stride, the man turned his head and looked directly at me. He said
nothing but veered left into the street, past the African burial ground, and
quickened his pace. Cars were stopped at the traffic light and I cut between
them, keeping him in my sights.

Now he
began to run, and I ran behind him, watching as the distance grew between us.
He pushed people on the sidewalk out of his way, but was gone before they could
express their annoyance at him. It was I at whom they hurled insults when I
passed them. "Where the hell do you think you're going in such a
hurry?" "Why don't you slow it down, lady?"

When he
reached Broadway, he had the light in his favor and crossed with it. I couldn't
make it in time, cars honking at me madly as I ventured too far into the
roadway, waiting for traffic to let up. Then I got snarled in the line waiting
outside McDonald's. I was sure I could see the top of Strait's head making for
Church Street.

Another
sharp turn and I followed him around the corner from Duane Street into the
alleyway of Thimble Place. I was completely winded now, going too slowly to
catch him. I had been a long-distance speed swimmer in high school, but had
never sprinted well enough to make this effort worthwhile.

I caught
my breath after I made the turn from Thimble onto Thomas Street. A black sedan
pulled out of a parking space and stopped at an angle. I took a deep breath and
rushed toward the car, as Strait-or whoever he really was-pulled at the door
handle with his left hand. I heard him yell, "Unlock it, dammit!" at
the driver.

I rushed
toward him and he turned to face me, pointing a gun at me with his right hand.
"Back up and get the hell out of here," he screamed.

He got
into the passenger seat and the car sped off toward Broadway. I could have
sworn Peter Robelon was driving.

"Of
course he has a gun," Mike said. "He's an agent."

He,
Mercer, and I were in the reception area of the Secret Service offices.
"How the hell do you know he's an agent?" I asked. "We don't
have a clue who he is. He pulled a gun on me a couple of hours ago and you're
defending him already?"

"Yo,
blondie. You saw him right here in this building, at high noon, where
security's tighter than the inseam on your slacks. I assume he's legit. Maybe
old Harry had a son. Maybe he's a junior-Little Mister Agent Strait the Second.
He must have had some way to get in and out of this building without causing a
stink. I truly doubt he pulled a gun on you. He must have had it drawn for a
good reason."

"And
I'm telling you that I was that very reason."

"Fine.
So we made a report. You got a partial plate, and there'll be a make on the car
by the end of the day. You're chasing the guy down the street like a banshee.
Maybe he thought he had to defend himself."

"How
do we figure out who he is? There must be photo IDs of everyone who works here
in Federal Plaza."

"You
weren't even able to describe him with any detail when the agents came to your
office the other day. What are you gonna do now? Sit here and look at thousands
of pictures of buzz-cut pasty-faced white men and hope for a match?"

"Yeah,
I could do that. I didn't have any trouble picking him out of the crowd
today."

It was
going on two o'clock. My delay had taken us into the lunch hour, and the agent
who had agreed to meet us had stepped away to keep another appointment.

A trim
woman, younger than I, came through reception and directly over to the three of
us. "Alvino. Lori Alvino. Sorry about your problem today. You ever get
your man?" she asked, greeting me with a handshake.

"She
never does, for very long. Don't you start worrying about that, too. I'm Mike
Chapman. This is Mercer Wallace, and that's Alex Cooper."

She
guided us into her suite, a good bit larger than most of the agent cubicles I
had visited over the years, suggesting the importance of her position.

"You
must have some juice, Lori," Mike said. "Big digs, glass partition,
nice view of the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I
show them the money," she said, grinning back at him. "That's why the
feds love me. I'm the agent in charge of recovering all assets related to the
National Mint, here and abroad. My boss says you need everything I can give you
on the coin collection of King Farouk, is that right?"

"Yes,
ma'am."

Alvino
established what we knew of the story from Bernard Stark and picked it up from
there. "The U.S. government worked with Farouk's people on a regular basis
back then. We're talking 1944 and thereabouts, during World War Two. He had
already become the king then-just twenty-four years old and richer than
Croesus."

"Had
he started collecting coins by that time?"

"Absolutely.
He had dealers all over the States. They tripped over themselves whenever they
had something unusual to unload, trying to get it under the royal nose. The
more expensive, the better."

"How
did they get the coins to Egypt? Did you just ship things as valuable and as
small as that?"

"No
way. Farouk used his royal legation to make purchases, which were sent to him
regularly by diplomatic pouch. Just about every week. And his staff knew all
the rules, believe me."

"What
rules?"

"After
FDR's Gold Reserve Act became law, it was illegal to export gold, unless the
Treasury specifically issued you a license."

"Even
a single piece of gold?" I asked. "A single coin?"

"You
bet," Lori Alvino answered. "To get that license, you had to be able
to establish that the coin being sent abroad had special, collector's value
before
1933, before we went off the gold
standard."

"How'd
they prove that?"

"The
keepers of the Castle, that was their territory."

"What
castle?" I asked.

"Sorry.
The old Smithsonian Institution-our guys always referred to it as the Castle.
Experts at the Smithsonian decided on the uniqueness of whatever coin was in
question."

"This
happened often?" I asked.

"Pretty
infrequently, actually," Alvino answered. "There weren't a lot of
people during the war who were terribly concerned about their coin collections
while the world was turned upside down. The entire European market was
virtually shut down. It left the field wide-open for Farouk."