“I can’t think of any reason he would have done so,” Kwan said.
The tinted window closed and the dark car drove off down the street.
EIGHTEEN
“The usual for Mercer and me,” Mike said, “and a Shirley Temple for the broad.”
We were in the cozy bar at Aretsky’s Patroon, the upscale restaurant on East Forty-Sixth Street, catching the Final Jeopardy! question on the small TV mounted on a corner wall, before going to our table to wait for Vickee.
“Tonight’s category is AVIAN FEATS,” Trebek said. “All about our winged friends.”
One contestant smiled and two others looked puzzled as they decided how much of their winnings they’d bet on the birds.
“Stake me to the twenty, will you, Coop?” Mike said.
“When’s payday?” I asked, nipping an olive from his vodka martini.
“Friday,” he said. “I’m good for it.”
Mercer and I put our money on the bar. We made small talk with the bartender, whom I hadn’t seen in weeks, waiting for the answer to be posted.
“SATELLITES CAPTURED IMAGES OF THIS BIRD STAYING ALOFT—WITHOUT TOUCHING DOWN—FOR TWO MONTHS.”
As the lilting theme song played in the background and the on-air contestants wrote out their questions, Mike pointed at me.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I pass.”
“Take a guess.”
“I don’t know. What is the bald eagle?”
“Bad guess, Coop, really bad. But a raptor kind of suits you, kid,” Mike said. “How about you, m’ man?”
“I’m going with vulture,” Mercer said. “What’s a turkey vulture?”
“Getting warmer, Mercer. Also a raptor, but rides thermals, huge wingspan.”
“No bird can go without touching down for two months,” I said.
“Once again, you would be wrong, Ms. Cooper,” Mike said, taking Mercer’s money and mine off the bar. “The video is streaming live on the Discovery site. You gotta see it.”
“What is—?” I asked.
“The frigate bird,” Mike said, just before Trebek confirmed his question was correct. “Rides the wind like a roller coaster. Glides forty miles without flapping its wings.”
I got off the barstool and walked toward the dining room. “Why in the world would you know that?”
“Because they were named for fast warships, Coop,” Mike said. “Frigates were built for speed and maneuverability.”
“Warships. Of course you’d know.”
Mike and Mercer followed me to our regular booth in the front corner at Aretsky’s Patroon, our destination whenever they wanted the best New York strip steak and I had a craving for Dover sole.
“Are you sure, Alexandra? C’est vrai?” Stephane asked, looking incredulous as he seated us and heard Mike order me a Diet Coke. “Pas de Dewar’s?”
I adored the ma?tre d’ and his divine accent. I could almost forget there was any violent crime in the city when I was nestled into the padded leather banquette and coddled by Stephane, even though it was a bad sign when the waitstaff could anticipate my every cocktail.
“I feel like nursing a glass of a full-bodied red wine,” I said. “Would you pick one for me?”
“Bien s?r,” Stephane said.
Mike, Mercer, and I were joined ten minutes later by Vickee, who squeezed my hand across the table when she sat down.
“The commissioner sends regards,” she said to me.
“You told him we’d be having dinner together?”
“I think Scully knows our friendship is—well, thicker than blood, to be blunt about it,” Vickee said. “He actually wants me to hang out with you. He thinks you’ll be candid with me—that I have a lighter touch than the US attorney. Maybe something we all talk about will get you thinking.”
“I’m not holding anything back, Vickee,” I said. “I want this thing solved.”
“Scully knows that. Everyone does.”
“What’s come in?” I asked. “What does he expect us to talk about?”
“Back down, Coop,” Mike said.
“You know how it goes,” Vickee said. “Once we offer money to the public, the TIPS hotline lights up like a Christmas tree. We’ve got three officers screening the calls.”
“Anything real?”
“Two residents of Fifth Avenue co-ops who were stargazing on Monday night saw the whole thing,” she said, sipping from a glass of sparkling water.
“What’s the whole thing?” I asked, practically hoisting myself on the table.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I’m joking, of course. One of the callers can describe Mike to a tee—she must have had binoculars trained on him,” Vickee said. “She’s not sure what he did, but she thinks he’s guilty.”
“I’m always guilty of something,” Mike said.
“The other?” I asked.
“The second tipster is sure it was one of the fashionistas, waiting till after the gala. Mike’s accuser was anonymous, but this one gave her name and everything. She’s convinced there’s so much jealousy in that industry that it had to be another designer, who mistook Battaglia for a rival.”
“And me?” I asked. “It could have been me who was killed.”
“That lady looking out her window probably pegged you for Anna Wintour, Coop,” Mike said. “The devil wore my blazer over her shoulders.”
“No doubt,” I said, relaxing against the cushioned seat. “Wintour was there too. Let’s ask Stephane to find us a newspaper so I can go over the names when I get home.”
“Has Scully told James Prescott that Paul Battaglia may have been at the Texas shooting preserve the night Justice Scalia died?” Mike asked.
“This morning,” Vickee said. “Prescott and the commissioner are going to meet for an hour every day. Prescott promised to put all his cards on the table, and to keep all the info he gets from us as need-to-know.”
The tension between the NYPD and the feds was real. There was no way Scully could withhold critical information—verified or not—from the US attorney. But once it went from top dog to top dog, there would be hell to pay if anyone on Prescott’s end leaked it.
“Did Prescott have any reaction?” I asked. “Was he as surprised as we were?”
“Kept his poker face on for the commissioner. It didn’t seem to set off any fresh leads,” Vickee said. Then she opened her tote. “Here’s the official list, from Citadel Security, of the gala attendees. Scully wants you to study it and make any connections you can.”
Stephane returned with our drinks and took our orders. Two black-and-blue strip steaks, two grilled soles for Vickee and me, along with sides of onion rings and crispy Brussels sprouts. I was beginning to feel hungry for the first time in days. I wanted to regain some of my strength.
Vickee waited till we four were alone. “I’ve got nothing for you on the perp front. TARU has blown up stills of the shooter and the driver. Every identification expert we have, every facial recognition tool, is being used.”
“But—?” Mike said.
“Nothing of value. Hoods and masks. They both had sunglasses on and the shooter only took them off in front of the museum, to aim his gun and fire. Brown eyes, that’s all we know. Nothing else distinctive about their eyes or lips.”