“I think it’s a good time to go ghost busting, Coop.”
Mike had taken the Seventy-First Street exit of the FDR Drive, turning north on First Avenue to wind his way through the East Seventies.
“George Kwan?” I said. “We can’t do that now.”
“Just a drop-in,” Mike said. “You can’t get the man out of your head. If he had something to do with Battaglia’s murder, let’s get on his ass right away.”
“I need to prep for this. For an interview.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He might be a suspect in a homicide. I can’t just shoot from the hip.”
“Just because you don’t have hips?” Mike asked. “Sure you can. Leave your OCD list making behind.”
“Calm down, both of you,” Mercer said. “Let’s all get on the same page. What even makes you think he’s at home?”
“Nothing. I’ve got no reason at all. But what have we got to lose by trying?”
I leaned back against the rear seat to puzzle it out. “We might scare him off by going in too early. Unprepared.”
“You’re the only one who’s unprepared,” Mike said. “You think I get to a crime scene, find a body chopped to bits and some mope holding the machete, and I get to go back to the office and make a neat list of questions to ask him?”
“This is no street mope. He’s a really smart businessman. He’s—”
“You’ve cross-examined monsters, Coop. You’ve stood nose to nose with some of the worst human beings on the planet. Time for you to strap on some balls again, babe.”
Mercer laughed along with Mike—of course—and I just bit my lip.
“What’s the approach?” Mercer asked.
“Coop and I can go to the door,” Mike said. “I’ve got a legit reason to talk to Kwan.”
“Remind me what that would be,” I said.
“The man knew Battaglia, right?”
“Check.”
“The man knew Wolf Savage and was actually a business rival of his.”
“Check.”
“Kwan possibly saw some of our encounter with Savage’s killers at the museum.”
“Okay. Check.”
“We don’t know what time he walked down the steps of the Met to leave,” Mike said, “so what’s to say he doesn’t have information—normal witness information—about either Battaglia’s unfortunate and untimely end or the fugitive in the Savage murder?”
“So this is a routine homicide investigation interview,” I said.
“Sounds right to me,” Mercer chimed in. “Just don’t set off any alarm buttons in case Coop’s sniffer is on the right track.”
“I don’t piss everybody off, pal. I’m very selective in my approach.”
By the time we reached the block on East Seventy-Eighth Street where George Kwan’s town house was located, it was almost six o’clock in the evening.
Mike parked the car and we left Mercer in it to walk up the steps of the building and ring the bell.
When the door was opened, behind the handsome wrought iron gates, I assumed it was one of Kwan’s bodyguards who asked what our business was.
“To see Mr. Kwan,” Mike said.
It wasn’t the bodyguard who answered. It was George Kwan himself.
“About what?” Kwan asked, his bodyguard right behind him, adjusting a camel hair overcoat on the businessman’s shoulders. They seemed to be about to leave the house.
“A few questions,” Mike said, holding up his gold shield. “This is Ms. Cooper, and I’m Detective Chapman. Homicide. We met at the offices of the Savage family early last week.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“May we come in?” Mike said, his hand on the door, ready to push it back.
“I’m on my way out, as you can see,” Kwan said. “A dinner engagement.”
“Surely you can spare us a couple of minutes. You don’t look like the early-bird-special type, Mr. Kwan.”
The bodyguard held the door firmly in place by the large brass handle.
“We can talk on the way to my car,” Kwan said, waving the bodyguard to follow him out.
“It’s murder,” Mike said. “It deserves a sit-down, don’t you think?”
“You’ve wrapped up that mess around Wolf Savage, haven’t you?” Kwan asked.
No one moved—neither in nor out.
“Mr. Kwan,” I said. “If you would just give us fifteen minutes. You were at the gala on Monday night, and we have some questions about what you saw there and what time you left.”
“My condolences, Ms. Cooper. Perhaps this is about the district attorney’s death, and not Wolf Savage after all?”
“We’re still missing one perp in the Savage case,” Mike said. “I was hoping you could help us with that. You knew most of the people in that family business.”
“I’m glad to answer your questions. You have my numbers,” Kwan said. “Just call for an appointment. Your timing tonight is most inconvenient.”
Kwan was taller than Mike, and leaner, too. He had an elegant air about him and was trying to be cooperative even though we had ambushed him.
He angled his body and walked between Mike and me, through the gates and down the steps. When he reached the sidewalk, he stopped and waited for us to descend.
“There’s some urgency to finding the fugitive who was part of Wolf Savage’s murder,” I said. “The sooner you can sit down with us, the faster we can get moving.”
“I understand, Ms. Cooper.”
“And since you mentioned the death of Paul Battaglia, we’d like to ask you some things about that, too.”
“Shocking. Completely shocking, for you, I’m sure—and for this city,” Kwan said. “You know I left the museum only an hour or so before Battaglia was shot.”
I appreciated his candor. Kwan looked me in the eye and didn’t blink when talking about the dead DA.
“Then it must have hit you very hard, too,” I said. “I know you were friends.”
“Friends? Me,” he asked, “and Paul Battaglia?”
“Yes.”
“I’d hardly call it that, Ms. Cooper. We were acquaintances.” Kwan lifted his arm, pulled back the sleeve of his coat, and looked at his watch. “I really have to be going, if you don’t mind.”
The bodyguard opened the rear passenger door of the navy-blue Bentley. Kwan ducked his head and stepped into it.
“That’s so odd,” I said. “Battaglia described your relationship so differently to me.”
Kwan put his window down. “What was that?”
“He was so grateful for your support in the Animals Without Borders fund-raiser that honored him,” I said. “I know, because I worked on the event with him.”
“One of my own causes, Ms. Cooper. The world would be a much sorrier place without all the Asian and African species that are so threatened,” he said, smiling at me. “On the edge of extinction.”
“I must be wrong,” I said, mustering all the false humility that I could. “I just remember that Battaglia spoke about you on much more familiar terms.”
Kwan shook his head as he pressed the button to raise the window.
“Two years ago, at the time of that dinner?” he said, pausing it halfway up. “I hardly knew him.”
“Much more recently than that.”
Kwan seemed interested now. “Really? When was that? I mean, the last time you spoke with him about me?”
“On Monday. On the day he died,” I said. “On the day he was assassinated at the museum.”