“It’s not just your kidnapping and the fact that you’re on a forced leave of absence now, Alex,” he said. “But Commissioner Scully suggested there’s the potential for scandal in the aftermath of the DA’s murder. That you’re totally tangled up in his death.”
“I understand, Governor,” I said, practically whispering into the phone. “I understand completely.”
“You’re out of the running, Alex. I wanted to be the one to tell you that I had to take your name off the list.”
ELEVEN
I was awake before Mike. I went to the door and picked up the newspapers.
New York Post headline writers are brilliant at what they do, and often made me smile.
But not today.
DEAD MAN STALKING
The lede was plastered above the photograph of my fatal embrace with Paul Battaglia. It went on to entice the reader with a story questioning why the DA set out for a midnight assignation with one of his assistants—a single woman who was in the company of another man.
I was on my third cup of coffee when Mike joined me in the kitchen.
I tossed the paper across the room like it was a Frisbee.
“Do you think it can get any worse?” I asked. “Now they’ve got the idea the DA was stalking me.”
“Hey—the man was only human.”
“Sort of a delicate balance, don’t you think? My friends tell me that going back to work will be good for me, but I know the office will just be a hotbed of petty rumors—personal and political.”
“Give it a week to calm down,” Mike said.
“How about we go up to the Vineyard and hibernate till then?”
I had an old farmhouse in Chilmark, on the quiet end of my favorite island. It was late October—after the season—so we could be there, out of harm’s way and out of the spotlight. It had always been my haven when the pressures of the job or the mayhem I often created in my personal life threatened to overtake me.
“When James Prescott clears you to leave town, I’ll FedEx you up there for an overnight delivery,” Mike said. “Lobster from Larsen’s, fried clams from the Bite, chowder at the Galley.”
“Home,” I said. “It’s not the food. It’s just home.”
“We’ll get there. I promise you that.”
“So what’s the plan?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do today?”
“No instructions from Prescott?”
“Not yet.”
“I took the rest of the week off,” Mike said. “That way we can hang together.”
I walked over and kissed him on the top of his head. “I like that.”
“Let’s get a new routine going. We can go for a run in the park, or work out at the gym,” he said. “Lunch at the Beach Café. Go to the store and get a new phone.”
“I’m sort of liking it without one,” I said. “I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t want to, and the reporters can’t find me.”
I opened my iPad and showed Mike the 237 pieces of new mail in my inbox.
“My friends can find me through you or Catherine. I like it better this way,” I said, scrolling through the latest batch of twelve that had just loaded.
“Remember the task force dudes are reading all your mail, too, from your phone.”
“I’m keenly aware of that, Detective. The less communicating I do for the time being, the safer I feel,” I said. “And the crazier it will make the team that’s monitoring me, waiting for word from Diana.”
I clicked and opened a few more emails. Lifelong friends and former colleagues were checking in, while every reporter who’d ever gotten my email address from the press office was writing to ask for an exclusive.
“Joan Stafford wants to know if she should come up from DC and stay with me,” I said. “That one came in yesterday. This morning she wants to know why I was trysting with Battaglia.”
“That’s what friends are for, Coop. The Post is Joan’s Bible.”
“Remind me to call her from your cell when we get back from the run,” I said. “Whoops. Here’s one from Prescott’s secretary, Ella. ‘Mr. Prescott wants to know your new cell number. He’d like to get in touch with you.’”
“Perfect reason not to invest in a new phone,” Mike said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
I flapped the lid of the case over my iPad screen without answering Ella. Let them figure out how to talk to me.
We dressed for a run and went downstairs to the lobby. Vinny was standing in front of the door when it opened.
“I saw the elevator coming down from twenty and I figured it might be you, Ms. Cooper,” he said. “There’s a pack of photographers at each end of the driveway. You might want to slip out through the basement.”
I gave him a thumbs-up and hit the B button. There was no one waiting for me at the back door, so Mike and I broke into a jog and headed for Central Park.
It felt good to do something that required no thought, no emotion. I wanted to get back in shape. Plus, both running and my Saturday morning ballet class traditionally helped relieve my stress and keep me on an even keel.
We did the mile and a half around the decommissioned reservoir and loped back on the sidewalk.
When we paused for the traffic light at the corner of Park Avenue, Mike checked the messages on his cell phone.
“One from Mercer,” Mike said. “He’ll meet us at your place. And two from Prescott.”
“Only two?”
“Yeah. Both today. First he wants to know whether I’m with you, and the next is asking if you can call him on my phone,” Mike said. “The second one is more of a demand than a question.”
“I don’t usually like playing hard to get,” I said, sprinting across Park when the light changed, “but under the circumstances, it’s a delight.”
We went back into my building the same way we had exited. Mercer was waiting for us in my apartment.
“Did you take the week off, too?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I asked to be put on the task force to work on the murder, but Prescott refuses because he claims I’ll just pass all the info they gather along to you. So I’m making myself useful by picking up cases—and, yes, gathering intel to pass along to you.”
I went to the fridge to get bottles of water, then flopped in an armchair in my living room, in between Mercer and Mike.
“So what have you got?” I asked.
“If you don’t like the twists and turns so far, you really won’t be too pleased with the latest,” Mercer said. “Vickee got called into work early this morning by DCPI.”
The deputy commissioner of public information was one of the most powerful people within the NYPD. He was responsible for every piece of official news that was released concerning the work of the thirty-five thousand police officers in the city, with a department that was sitting on a five-billion-dollar budget. His team had to decide when a pattern of crimes was designated as the work of a serial killer—not too soon so as to falsely alarm the citizenry, but in time to protect them when needed. He had to consider the effect of every statement issued by Commissioner Scully as well as the mayor and the five DAs—one in each borough of the city. It was intensely high-pressure work, and Vickee Eaton had to help make those decisions, those close calls, every day she was on the job.
“But Logan—?” I asked.
“He’s fine,” Mercer said. “Fever’s gone—you know the way kids are—and he’s back in school.”