She answered without turning her head. “Not a chance. The Reverend Hal is a freeloader. All the time,” she said. “Battaglia specifically requested we put Hal at his table.”
I didn’t remember that, but the dinner was more than a year before the reverend and I had our dustup over his attempt to interfere in a case Mike and I were working on. I thought of him then as a community pariah—morally bankrupt and totally corrupt—but I had never figured his tentacles reached into Paul Battaglia’s pockets.
“We do a lot of outreach in Harlem,” Deirdre said, “with our educational programs for kids and our teach-ins here at the park. So we get great support from most of the Harlem leaders, but nothing at all from Hal Shipley.”
“The rev’s got no redeeming social value,” Mike said.
While Deirdre was pointing out something through the window, I scribbled down some of the names that were less familiar to me. Tonight I could cross-check them against the fashion gala guest list that was published in yesterday’s papers, in case my hunch about George Kwan was incorrect.
“We do,” she was saying in answer to questions Mike and Mercer had asked. “We get more than three million visitors a year. We’ve got four thousand animals who live here with us, representing six hundred fifty different species.”
“That must make you the largest metropolitan zoo in the country,” Mercer said.
“It does.”
“I see that Wolf Savage was one of your big donors,” I said. “Not to the Battaglia evening, but in general, even sending in a check for that event.”
“Yes, we were so saddened by Mr. Savage’s death,” Deirdre said. “He was such a philanthropic man. I hope the family—the corporation—keeps it up.”
“That would be wonderful.” It was premature for me to suggest that I could put in a word with Savage’s daughter. If this turned out to be an avenue of interest, there would be plenty of time for me to do that.
“It was such a perfect fit,” she said. “You know his company was named WolfWear.”
“Yes.”
“Well, of course you know that,” Deirdre said, turning back to me. “So he made it his personal interest to help save the Mongolian gray wolf. He liked the symbolism of it.”
“Tell me about the animal,” I said. I was stretching to make connections now—some of them doubtless inconsequential, but sooner or later we were bound to hit pay dirt.
“The gray wolf?” she asked. “Sure. It’s the largest canid in Asia.”
“Canid?” Mike asked.
“Dogs, wolves, jackals—they’re all in the Canid genus. The gray wolves are slender and long-limbed, but very powerful.”
“And endangered because they’re hunted?” he said.
“That, and because in Asia, where they live, they’re used a lot as an ingredient in traditional medicine,” Deirdre said. “They’re killed for their brains.”
“Brains?” Mike asked.
“Yes, wolves are key figures in Mongolian culture. They’re believed to have been the ancestors of Genghis Khan.”
“Ah,” Mike said. “The Supreme Conqueror.”
“So their brains are said to have great healing powers.”
“So does Preparation H,” Mike said, “but there’s nothing on earth I’d shoot to get my hands on some of it.”
Deirdre chuckled. “Neither would Mr. Savage. He even staged one of his Fashion Week shows in the Central Park Zoo. The models actually walked with the baby goats and the potbellied pigs and the petting zoo animals. It was a huge hit.”
“I’ll bet it was,” Mike said.
Now I was trying to make links between the WCS donors and the Wolf Savage gala on Monday night. The names on Deirdre’s list might be more important than I could factor in at the moment. Surely, some of the wildlife donors would have respected Wolf’s work in this field. And maybe one of them was recognized by Battaglia—at the Met, on the late news, before he headed out to meet me in such a rush.
I flipped over the three pages of personal donors and went on to those tabbed as corporate sponsors. There was a single name that jumped out at me.
KWAN ENTERPRISES was listed in all caps and bold ink as both a Platinum Supporter of Animals Without Borders and the underwriter of the dinner honoring the district attorney.
I played it as casually as I could, hoping Mike wouldn’t pile in when he heard the name.
“Kwan Enterprises,” I said. “That sounds so familiar. What can you tell me about them?”
“All I know is that they’re an international business of some kind. They’ve got big money and they give it freely to good causes, like WCS and AWB.”
“The man in charge of the company,” I said, “is George Kwan, if I have my information right.”
“I think you do. That’s the name I recognize, the signature on the checks.”
“Tell me what you know about him,” I said. “Tell me how he’s involved with your organization.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Deirdre said. “Kwan is kind of a mystery to us.”
“How do you mean?”
“George Kwan doesn’t participate in any of our events,” she said. “I’m not sure he’s in the States very often, because he has businesses all over the world. But if my boss asks him for money, George Kwan sends a check.”
“What does he get in return?” I asked.
Deirdre looked puzzled. “Same as all our other donors, Alex. He gets free admission to the park, tickets to our lectures, newsletters about our research, and all that sort of thing.”
“No special access?”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Then why did you say he’s mysterious?” I asked.
“Because most people who give us gobs of money make demands,” Deirdre said. “They want to give parties here at the park, free admission for all their friends, and behind-the-scenes access to our animal keepers and feeding pens. They want their kids to ride on the Bug Carousel and eat breakfast with the gorillas.”
“But George Kwan wants nothing?”
Deirdre Wright lifted her hands and threw back her head, as if searching in the air for an answer. “Can you believe that perhaps he just has a good heart and believes in our cause?”
“That could be, but—”
“Mr. Kwan is Chinese,” Deirdre said, “and dozens of the animals in that country are facing extinction. Red pandas and white-cheeked gibbons, Siberian tigers and snow leopards. I could give you a list of fifty more.”
“So you don’t think Kwan is taking their brains,” Mike said, “at the same time he’s doling out dollars to you?”
“I seriously doubt that, Mike,” she said.
“Then why do you consider him so mysterious?” I asked.
“We’d like to meet him, is all. We’d like to get to know Mr. Kwan.”
“So you can dig a little deeper in his pockets?” Mercer asked.
“You nailed me,” she said. “I’m really good at that. It’s just that since he came to us several years ago, he’s been more elusive than the yeti.”
“George Kwan,” Mike said. “Man of mystery, Coop.”
Deirdre smiled again. “That’s why we think he might just be an apparition, Mike,” she said. “It’s our nickname for him—we call him the ghost.”
SEVENTEEN
“Why did you get off the drive here?” I asked. “Aren’t we going to midtown for dinner?”