Deadfall

“Organized crime,” Mercer said as he sat down and shrugged his shoulders. “Heroin and wild animals. I’d never have linked them together.”

“Surely the district attorney knew of syndicates linked to Asia,” Liebman said.

“We’ll look into it,” I said. “We’ll tell the feds what you’ve told us, of course.”

“Keep your eye on this James Prescott fellow,” Liebman said, going back to his desk, picking up his stone penguin, and starting to stroke its back again. “I doubt I’ve told you anything he doesn’t already know. I suspect he’s way out ahead of you on this.”





TWENTY-EIGHT


“I have no idea what Liebman meant by that statement about Prescott,” I said to Mike.

The three of us were sitting in the basement office of Giuliano, the owner of my favorite Italian restaurant, Primola. He always let us go downstairs to watch the Final Jeopardy! question before we sat at our table for dinner.

“How did it make you feel, Coop?”

“Queasy.”

“Enough to spoil your appetite?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Of course the feds have their fingers in every kind of trafficking operation worldwide. And they all network with each other through the Department of Justice, so whether Prescott himself is ahead of us on any of this, he’ll certainly know which other US attorneys—San Fran, Los Angeles, Miami—whether any of them were going down this path. But Prescott isn’t about to tell us anything, including what he and Battaglia crossed swords about.”

“Liebman also said the name Diana meant nothing to him,” Mercer said. “No help there.”

“He didn’t react at all when I asked him about that,” I said. “There wasn’t a glimmer of recognition.”

“What do you tell Prescott tomorrow?” Mercer asked.

“Everything we just heard. I have no choice in this.”

The category was revealed on the big board. “MONUMENT MEN,” Trebek said, reading the words aloud. “How do you feel about MONUMENT MEN tonight?”

The three contestants smiled at Trebek. One nodded as they all began to write their wagers on their electronic tablets.

“I’m feeling good about it,” Mike said.

“That’s just because so many monuments are dedicated to war heroes,” I said, reluctantly slapping my twenty-dollar bill on Giuliano’s desk. “Twenty-two historical statues in Central Park and not one is a woman.”

“You don’t count Alice in Wonderland?” Mike said.

“I rest my case,” I said. “What if James Prescott is messed up in some kind of corrupt trafficking scandal? What if he shouldn’t be handling this investigation?”

“None of that old paranoia, Coop. I’m going to let you have some tiger tonic tonight just to shore up your strength.”

Trebek stood back and the Final Jeopardy! answer was displayed: “STONE CARVER LUIGI DEL BIANCO SCULPTED A PRESIDENTIAL EYE WITH WEDGE-SHAPED GRANITE STONES TO REFLECT THE LIGHT ON THIS FAMED MONUMENT, SO THAT IT CAN BE SEEN FROM MILES AWAY.”

“Give me a break,” Mike said. “Trick question, actually. I got it.”

“You go,” Mercer said.

“What is the Washington Monument?”

“I was short on laughs today,” I said. “But you just saved me. That’s an obelisk, as you well know, and there’s no carving of the president’s face on it.”

“Yeah, but it’s got those holes on top with blinking lights,” he said. “Like devil’s eyes. Eyes you can see for miles.”

“I’m going with Lincoln,” Mercer said. “What’s the Lincoln Memorial?”

“Right president,” I said, sweeping up the money with my right hand. “Right president but wrong location. What is Mount Rushmore?”

“Stop, thief!” Mike said. “You’re just going by Hitchcock. North by Northwest.”

“That Rushmore was made on a movie set,” I said. “The real one has Del Bianco’s great touch. I’ve been there, babe. He highlighted Lincoln’s pupils and he fixed the huge crack in Jefferson’s lip by patching it. Now, feed me.”

Trebek had confirmed the same answer, without my longer explanation.

We went upstairs and Dominick led us to our usual table in the front corner, between the window and the door.

“Your usual, signorina?” Dominick asked.

“No, thanks. Just a glass of Pinot Grigio,” I said.

Mike and Mercer ordered their drinks and we nibbled on lightly fried zucchini strips while we waited for our main courses.

“I want to try to diagram this tomorrow,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“Like we did in middle school, Mike. Mercer can lay out maps and draw lines between places abroad and Manhattan and the Texas hunting preserves,” I said. “You and I can make a list of the characters and see who cross-connects with whom. Then I’d really like to meet with a couple of the guys who worked on Operation Crash for Battaglia. See what they know about smuggling and the angle of it that involves animal parts imported in the same shipments as drugs. They’re both in private practice now.”

Dominick came back with our dinners. Mike changed the subject to football, to get our heads out of the case while we ate.

“Are you able to sleep okay?” Mercer asked, watching me yawn at him across the table.

“Not yet.”

“You look worn-out, Alex,” he said. “Sleep will come in time.”

“Let’s get going,” Mike said, pulling out my chair. He signaled to Dominick to put the dinner bill on my tab.

Mercer hugged me and walked up Second Avenue toward his car. Mike and I turned the corner onto Sixty-Fourth Street, headed east, to get to his.

He opened the door to the passenger side and waited until I belted myself in.

Then he crossed in front of the car, stopped at the curb to kick his tire. He knelt down and I lost sight of him. He stood up and kicked the tire again.

I opened my door and got out. “What’s up?”

“A flat,” he said, planting his hands on his hips and staring at the wheel. “I’ve got a fucking flat tire.”

“What’s the problem? Let’s change it.”

“It’s a department car, Coop, from the Homicide Squad. There’s no spare in it.”

He turned away from me and took out his phone.

“You calling Mercer?” I asked. “He can’t be too far.”

Mike nodded.

“I’ll go back to Primola and wait.”

“No, you won’t,” Mike said, holding out his arm to tell me to stop.

“I won’t drink,” I said, walking to his side to reach up and kiss him on the tip of his nose. “I promise you.”

“Get back in the car, Coop. You’ll stay with me.”

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” I said.

I knew he was thinking of my abduction. I knew he was thinking that I had mistakenly gotten into a black car that I thought was my Uber after walking out of Primola—just like we did minutes earlier.

“Listen to me, kid,” Mike said. “Get back in the car.”

I let him lead me into the street as he reached Mercer. “Yo, pal. You got a spare? My tire’s flat out of air.”

A kid on a bike with a food delivery bag hanging from his handlebars whizzed past me, so close that he practically ran over my toes. He had no headlight and I hadn’t seen him in the dark.

“Careful,” I said to Mike. “There’s another kid coming. Don’t open the door.”

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