“But in the meantime,” I said, speeding up my gait, “he built a museum full of stuffed heads.”
“That’s what people who couldn’t go on safari with Teddy wanted to see, Coop. Rhinos and elephants and giraffes—on the wall from floor to ceiling.”
“Breaks my heart,” I said. “What’s the reason to shoot a giraffe, just to hang its beautiful long neck on the wall? They’re not predators.”
“Different times,” Mike said. “All the animals in the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History were shot specifically for the purpose of displaying them, to educate people who’d never otherwise see them.”
“Different moral compass.” I loved that museum—I think everyone did. Re-creations of animal life created in the 1940s. Real skin and actual bones underneath, stuffed with papier-maché to make the creatures come to life.
“In the middle of the room here at Heads and Horns was a pair of the largest elephant tusks in the world,” Mike said, “each one more than twelve feet long.”
“Blood ivory,” I said. “Then and now.”
“You don’t have to run, kid. This whole museum was dismantled fifty years ago. That moment of trophy heads and horns has passed. I studied it while I was at Fordham. I’ve only seen pictures,” Mike said. “The old building just holds administrative offices now.”
There were sea lions at play in the large pool beyond the original Primate House. It was so refreshing to see living things in spaces that resembled their native homes, instead of hearing these tales of cement captivity from Mike. Schoolkids surrounded the wrought iron fence, fixated on the barking creatures that climbed up to bask in the October sunlight before diving back into the chilly water.
Almost everything that used to be a brick-and-mortar enclosure seemed to have been repurposed for some other space—a cafeteria that had been the Lion House, once filled with majestic royal palms that fronted the cages that held pacing beasts, and an education facility in the former Antelope House.
Rhinos, horns intact, grazed behind the buildings off to our right, and peacocks seemed to have no confines at all, strutting on the footpaths as though they owned the property.
“We’re still early,” Mike said, pulling out his phone. “I’d better check in with the US attorney before he implodes.”
I sat down on a bench, watching the endless march of visitors, most adults with maps in hand and kids running ahead to find their favorite animals.
“Is this Ella?” he asked. “It’s Mike Chapman for Mr. Prescott.”
I threw back my head to catch some of the rays while Mike waited.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Mike started to listen—and then held the phone away from his ear so that I could hear James shouting at him.
“I’m actually not working this week, sir,” Mike said. “I’m not required to keep my phone on, so you really don’t have to yell at me for not returning your calls.”
Then a pause while Prescott spoke.
“Yes, I had lunch with Alexandra today and, yes, I gave her your message,” he said. “She didn’t much feel like calling you, but I expect she’ll be in your office tomorrow. She intends to give you her complete cooperation.”
I couldn’t make out the words James was speaking, but I could hear the tone of his voice.
“Alexandra was pulling a Garbo, sir,” Mike said. “No? Not a movie guy, are you, then?”
Prescott’s volume increased.
“It means she wanted to be alone,” Mike said. “And frankly, she’s on a leave of absence, so it’s not really any of your business.”
Another question.
“I didn’t say that, sir. I didn’t say I don’t know where she is, because you never asked me that. If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Prescott, Alexandra is visiting relatives in the Bronx.”
A short burst this time.
“You may not have known she had relatives there, but I think we pretty much all do. It’s a generational thing,” Mike said, before shutting off his phone.
I got up to high-five my lover. “Well done,” I said, kissing him on each cheek.
“I couldn’t help myself, Coop. I’m staring at the sign that says Primate House. These creatures are Prescott’s missing links, too, no matter how he wound up in horse country.”
Mercer had backed off in the other direction, probably to check in with Vickee and to call his lieutenant, who was clearly giving him a break for the afternoon.
When he returned, he had a grim expression on his face.
“All quiet on Vickee’s end,” Mercer said. “They can’t confirm the fact that Battaglia was actually in Texas the night Justice Scalia died, so that buys DCPI at least another day with the media.”
Unlike the tabloids, the mainstream media required two sources to go with a story. Thankfully, they were short one on the Saint Hubertus angle.
“And no new clues on the assassins,” Mercer said, “so the Police Foundation has upped the reward money to two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Life is cheap. I’d have thought the Manhattan DA was worth way more than that,” Mike said. “I guess he was past his sell-by date at this point.”
“What’s the bad news?” I asked.
“The lieutenant asked me to tell you that this didn’t come from him,” Mercer said.
“Deal.”
“You’re not wrong about Detective Stern wanting to put the screws to you, Alex,” Mercer said.
“What now?” I asked, tensing up at the mention of his name. “What did I do to ask for that?”
“You just did your job,” he said. “But it turns out that the guy you convicted of drugging and raping that grad student eighteen months ago—you know the case I mean?”
“Yes, he doped her with roofies, then practically drowned her in his bathtub trying to wake her up. Threatened her not to call the police, because he had connections at the precinct.”
“That perp’s connection is none other than Jaxon Stern,” Mercer said. “He’s married to Stern’s sister.”
“So what?” I said. “The guy I convicted is a total asshole.”
“Yeah, but Detective I-Am-Internal-Affairs actually bailed him out when the arrest happened. He almost lost his chance to go from IAB to Homicide. So now Jaxon not only got a serious dressing down, but he’s stuck with supporting his sister and her kids. The man would like nothing better than to see you go down in flames.”
SIXTEEN
“Hello, I’m Deirdre Wright.”
“I’m Alex,” I said, introducing her to Mike and Mercer. “It’s very nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise, although I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“So do we all.”
She ushered us into Room 206 and we each grabbed a seat around the small table in the middle of the room. Over Deirdre’s shoulder, I could see the bright plumage of a variety of birds, flying high in the giant aviary across from the rear of the building.
“Just to be clear,” I said, repeating what I had told her on the phone, “I have nothing to do with the investigation into Paul Battaglia’s death.”