The Kills (7 page)

"You're
late.
Ad litem. Come latum.
" Moffett chuckled to himself.

"No
one informed me about this hearing. I just happened to call Mr. Robelon's
office this morning and his paralegal told me what was going on today."

Great.
He's obviously tight with the defendant. For every step forward I try to take,
I get pushed back two or three.

"You
here to oppose the prosecution's motion to interview Dulles?"

"Actually,
no, Your Honor. Maybe I can broker some kind of arrangement that would be
satisfactory to everyone."

I glanced
over my shoulder to reassess Hoyt. This was the first time in six months anyone
had even suggested listening to me to see whether what I wanted was reasonable.
He smiled at me and I reflexively returned the smile.

"How
about saving the court some time. You know what the kid's gonna tell her?"

"The
truth, Your Honor. Dulles Tripping will simply tell Ms. Cooper the truth. He's
going to say he was playing lacrosse the afternoon before he met Ms. Vallis and
got hit in the face by a stick. Happens on playgrounds across America every
single day."

"Be
careful what you wish for," I said to Mercer as I dropped an armload of
case files onto my desk.

"What
now?" He vacated my chair and opened a paper bag with our sandwiches and
two bottles of water.

"I
pushed and pushed to get the kid. Looks like it's going to happen now, but he's
clearly been sanitized. You think I'm better off without trying to use him at
trial?"

Mercer's
judgment and insights were sound. "What's to lose talking to him? Keep
fighting for the interview. We always knew this case was a crapshoot. You're
good with kids. Maybe he'll surprise you and respond to some warmth in his
life."

"The
judge wants us to go on with jury selection this afternoon and do our opening
statements tomorrow. How the hell do I open when I'm not sure what my witness
list looks like?"

He bit
into the baguette full of roast beef and all the trimmings. "Nothing you
haven't done before, Ms. Cooper. Understate what you're gonna give 'em the
first time you talk to them. Robelon gets up next and reinforces that you got
zilch. Then out of the bag, you pull a surprise witness. He's smart,
sympathetic, sincere-puts you over the top. Bingo. Tripping's dead meat."

"And
best of all is that we can try to get Dulles into a better situation as soon as
it's over. Place him in a stable, loving foster home and keep him out of reach
of his crazy father until he's college age. That would be the real blessing of
a conviction in this case."

"Slow
down and eat something."

I sat at
my desk and picked at the wilted greens from the deli on Broadway. "You
should see the courtroom. Five lawyers in the mix, not counting me. Everybody's
got a piece of the pie and I'm sure we haven't seen the end of it. Then there's
these two suits-came in and sat in the back today. Never saw them before and
can't quite figure out why they're here, but they sure look like stereotypes of
government agents."

"You
want me to-?"

"No,
no. You can't be the one to talk to them. You're going to testify next week.
I'll get someone from the DA's squad to sniff them out if they show up
again."

"You
think the CIA still has an interest in him?" Mercer asked.

I had
subpoenaed Tripping's records from the Agency, but as I expected, those had
been purged. It was clear he had worked there for several years, and had some
Middle Eastern assignment that followed the 1993 car bombing of the World Trade
Center. Then came the allegation that he had participated in conversations
about some harebrained plot to kill the president that was exposed before any
overt steps were taken, and the CIA seemed to have misplaced their files on the
entire matter.

"I
suppose it's possible. They didn't let on that they were the least bit
interested in the evidence you found in his apartment after he was in custody,
did they?"

"That's
so typical. We put it under their nose, and they act nonchalant so they don't
have to give you anything in return."

The day
Tripping was arrested, and based on the information Paige Vallis had given me
when I interviewed her at the hospital with Mercer, I had drafted a search
warrant.

Mercer
had executed it that evening.

Tripping's
apartment was more like a military outpost than a family home. His bedroom had
only a mattress on the floor, while Dulles slept on a cot in an alcove off the
kitchen. The walls were hung with a variety of scimitars and scythes, primitive
weapons that looked capable of beheading an enemy with a single swipe. There
was a bayonet and casing on the floor beside the mattress, and several bowie
knives on tables throughout the warren of small rooms.

Vallis
claimed Tripping had threatened her by holding a cold metallic object against
her head, telling her it was a gun. She never saw it. Dulles led Mercer to a
closet in the bedroom, from which he recovered an air pistol, with its pellets
and case. None of these things was illegal to own, and only chargeable if the
defendant had actually used them against another person.

There had
been books and papers everywhere. Beside a lamp in the living room, under a
black-sheathed stiletto, was a leather-bound copy of
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom,
the private edition published
in 1926 and signed by T. E. Lawrence. Mercer had vouchered all the scraps,
receipts, and correspondence, and we had spent days trying to find anything of
significance among the writings that were in our safekeeping.

"A
guy just can't get any luckier than this," Mike Chapman said, walking into
my office. "Here we are, less than one hundred shopping days until
Christmas, and Ms. Cooper's gift just falls into my lap. Now, Mercer, I suspect
you want to give a tired guy like me who's been up all night keeping the city
safe half of that fat sandwich you're filling up on."

He laid
out a full-length fur coat across my papers and files.

"Not
that Tiffany Gatts has agreed I can have this yet, but it would look mighty
snappy on you, come the first frost."

"What'd
she say?" I asked.

"Her
exact words were a bit too crude to use in this refined company, but it was
something like, 'I don't have to be talking to you, do I? Get me a
lawyer.'"

"You
mean you didn't get a thing out of her? Nothing about Kevin Bessemer? Nothing
about where the coat came from?"

"All
she kept saying about the fur was, 'It's
mines.
' Over and over. I asked where she got it, whether she had a
sales slip for it, whether Kevin gave it to her. No use. Then when I started
asking her about Kevin, she clammed up completely."

"The
coat's stolen, right?"

"Trying
to find that out. Lieutenant Peterson's got guys working the phones, checking
to see if anything like this has been reported missing lately. Precincts around
the city, Major Case Squad, Robbery Squad. Brought it for you to look at. See
what you think. I only know about one kind of fur and it isn't this."

"Keep
that thought to yourself," I said, picking up the heavy garment and
examining the pelts.

The deep
mahogany skins had rich color and fine long hair. They seemed dry to the touch,
but they were clearly of good quality and fine styling. I spread the coat out
on my desktop to look inside at the lining and label.

"Ever
hear of that furrier?"

I shook
my head from side to side. "Matignon et Fils. Rue Faubourg, Paris. That's
a pretty pricey neighborhood."

I picked
up my phone and dialed a number in Washington.

"You
calling Interpol?"

I
laughed. "No. Joan Stafford." My girlfriend knew more about shopping
on the Faubourg-St. Honoré than all the
flics
in France.

She
answered on the first ring.

"You
kept me up way too late last night reading the novel, which I adored. Your
favorite detectives want to know if you'll help us solve a little caper this
afternoon, since I'm so worn-out."

Joan was
living in D.C., engaged to a foreign affairs columnist for a major newspaper.
She was one of my closest friends.

"Will
Chapman give me his gold shield if I do?"

"At
least that. Think fur. Think France." I told her the name of the maker.

"You're
out of luck to get a bargain, if that's what you're in the market for,"
she said. "Gregoire Matignon closed his doors in the 1960s."

"Was
he a big deal?"

"Just
the biggest, Alex. One of those old families that started out in Russia,
dressing the czars and czarinas. Then moved to Paris to service the royal
families of Europe. The Duchess of Windsor, Grace Kelly-you know that classic
photo of her when she started dating Rainier, wearing a golden sable, stepping
out of an old Bentley in front of the Grimaldi Palace? That kind of clientele.
As the monarchies became threatened with extinction, the minks thrived and
Matignon went out of business."

I ran my
fingers over the faded red stitching on the old label. "That's a help.
I'll call you later."

"What'd
she say?"

"That
it sure wasn't made for Tiffany Gatts. You find a monogram?"

"Where?"
Mike asked.

I folded
back the lapels of the broad collar and scanned the lining. "It's pretty
traditional to sew the client's initials into the lining."

"Jeez.
And to think my mother used to mark my labels with a felt-tip pen, so the other
kids at school didn't make off with my leather jackets. This winter I'll get
her to try embroidery."

"See?"
Near the bottom of the left front of the coat, in a deep chocolate shade of
thick silk thread, was an elegant script monogram. I read the letters aloud.
"R du R."

"That
should narrow my search."

"I'd
say you concentrate on the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Precincts," Mercer
said, smiling. "High-rent districts on the Upper East Side. Lots of
European diplomats. Some Eurotrash with delusions of nobility. Maybe
Westchester. Maybe Great Neck."

Mike
grabbed the telephone directory off my bookshelf. "These guys listed under
the
D
's or the
R
's? We haven't got a lot of them in
Ireland."

"Start
with
D.
"

"DuBock.
DuBose." He ran his forefinger down a long list of names. "DuQuade.
Now we're getting close. DuRaine, DuReese, DuRoque…"

"I
don't want to put a damper on your enthusiasm, but something as old as
this," I said, fingering the worn cuff of the once-glamorous coat,
"you've got to figure that since the furrier closed so long ago, and with
all the PC attitudes towards animal skins lately, this may have been through
thrift shops or secondhand-clothing places."

"You
need a more positive attitude, Coop. Some folks have still got the first fancy
outfit they ever wore to church or work or a funeral parlor. Maybe it's the
difference between your relatives and mine."

"Suit
yourself. Then don't forget that most women store their furs for the summer.
Better check and make sure there wasn't a heist on Seventh Avenue," I
suggested, directing Mike to the fur district between Twenty-fifth and
Thirty-fourth Streets.

Laura was
out on her lunch break, so when my phone rang I answered it myself. It was the
security officer in the lobby of the building. "Thanks for letting me
know. It's okay, I realize it's not your fault."