“I—uh—I was at a party at the museum. At least it started as a party,” I said. “I might have had a glass of champagne before all the trouble broke out.”
I knew my own rules for witnesses who’d been partying or barhopping. For each drink they admitted to me, I usually multiplied the number by three. Most people tried to make themselves look better in the eyes of the person who was judging the factual recall, and one way to do that was to minimize the amount of liquor consumed.
“Oh,” I said, “I just remembered that at the very end of the night, the three of us were in the Temple of Dendur and—”
“Don’t speak for these guys,” Stern said. “Just tell me about your own actions.”
“Well, Mercer brought me a glass of Scotch, but I wanted to get out of there and go home. I really didn’t drink much.” No more than half the large glass, anyway, and a homicide at point-blank range has a sobering effect.
“How about here, at the morgue?” Stern asked.
“Here?” I said. I was stalling for time, as witnesses always did when they repeated a simple question before answering it. “You mean tonight?”
I was doing a double stall, breaking it down into two questions, two repeats.
“Jeremy Mayers’s private stock. You have any of that?”
Great. Even Jeremy was a snitch.
“She wasn’t drinking, Stern,” Mike said. “She was sniffing. I’m the one who told her to sniff a glassful to keep that wretched odor of death out of her nose. The glass is still in the room with the dead body. If Coop was into drinking, it would have been an empty vessel.”
“You’re out of here, Chapman,” Stern said. “Stick around down the hall, ’cause you’ll be next.”
“Mike,” I said, reaching out to him, “Can I just—?”
“You’ll be fine, Coop. Answer the man’s questions,” Mike said. “Don’t waste any time trying to charm him. He clearly got his merit badge in policing from the Gestapo.”
“Hey, Mike,” a woman said, turning the corner and entering the room just as Mike was backing out. “Bad night in Black Rock. Back off my partner, okay? We’ve got work to do.”
“Kate. Go on in,” Mike said, patting her on the shoulder. “Meet Detective Stern.”
Kate Tinsley stepped in the doorway and raised her hand to greet all of us. “Kate Tinsley, Major Case.”
I nodded in her direction.
“Sorry to be running late, Stern,” she said. It was obvious that she already knew him or had met him once she’d arrived here at Palmer’s office. Whether they had just been teamed up or had worked cases earlier on, she was smart to present a united front with him to the three of us.
“You must be Alexandra Cooper.”
“I am,” I said, pushing against the arms of the chair to stand up.
“No need,” Tinsley said. “Just be as comfortable as you can. What a rough night you’ve had.”
I nodded again, taking in the woman I guessed to be five or six years older than me, heavyset, with a round face ringed with curly black hair.
“I’m Mercer Wallace,” Mercer said, reaching out his hand.
“I figured that,” she said, smiling at him before looking down at me. “How are you feeling, Ms. Cooper? Ready to get this done?”
I was in no mood to be played against the good cop/bad cop bullshit setup. I had a very short story to tell and I was anxious to put it in their hands.
“Sure.”
“Are you and Mike going to wait for us to finish with Ms. Cooper?” Tinsley asked Mercer. Mike was already out of sight.
“Yes. We’ll be down the hall,” Mercer said.
“I’ve got separate rooms set up for you, Detective,” Stern said. “We’d appreciate it if you each keep to yourself.”
“Understood.”
“And best to stay off the phone with your wife,” Stern said to Mercer, “if you don’t mind.”
“Actually, that’s one thing I do mind,” Mercer said. “I owe her a call, Stern. My kid has a fever and I’m checking in regularly. I won’t dish about your case.”
Mercer’s wife, Vickee Eaton, was also a first-grade detective, with a senior post reporting to the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information. She virtually ran the department’s press office. Their four-year old son, Logan, had spiked a fever a few hours ago, and Vickee had raced home from headquarters to take charge from the babysitter while the three of us were still unraveling facts on the fashion runway at Dendur.
“You waiting for the feds?” Mercer asked, on his way out the door.
“Not for this,” Stern said. “Cooper and you guys are our piece of the case. They’ve got Battaglia’s other jurisdictional assets.”
“Stay chill, Alex. They’re just doing what you do every day.” Mercer pressed two fingers to his lips, then held them up and closed the door behind him.
I wriggled in my chair opposite Detective Stern as he opened his memo pad and got ready to write. I couldn’t settle into a comfortable position, so I kept shifting my weight from side to side.
Kate Tinsley positioned her chair at an angle, next to mine, so that she could see both of our faces.
Jaxon Stern looked me directly in the eye and began to speak to me, slowly and purposefully. “First, Ms. Cooper, I need to tell you that you have the right to remain silent.”
THREE
“I have what?” I yelled back at him, grasping the arms of the old wooden chair.
Stern rested both arms on the desk in front of him. “The commissioner thinks it best to proceed with every caution in this case, treat you like any other ordinary witness who had a very conflicted relationship with the deceased—till we know where we’re going, that is.”
I was on my feet. There was nothing that would wake the dead in this place, but I was pretty sure my voice could shatter glass.
“I didn’t shoot Paul Battaglia, Detective. For all you know, the killer could have been taking aim at me when he nailed the district attorney.”
Kate Tinsley was leaning forward, trying to calm me down, urging me to sit and to lower my voice.
“You got a bad temper, Ms. Cooper?” Stern asked. “See, that’s part of what makes this investigation so complicated. I come into this without a clue whose side you’re on.”
“Let me talk to Mike Chapman,” I said, feeling like a caged animal, pressed against the wall of Palmer’s office.
“Not an option, Ms. Cooper,” Stern said, standing up, his hands on his hips. “Are you telling me you want to stop and bring in a lawyer, just because I give you the courtesy of informing you of your rights?”
“Of course I don’t want a lawyer,” I said, just like every other arrogant witness who should have seized the opportunity as soon as the moment presented itself. “I’m not in custody, am I?”
“No,” Stern said. “I’m just reading your rights as a precaution. It’s not just what the commissioner asked for. I do it every time I question—”
“I want Chapman and Wallace in here. I want to see Commissioner Scully. What you do ‘every time,’ Detective Stern,” I said, making exaggerated air quotes around his words, “is of no more interest to me—no more an indication of your professional bona fides—than watching Charlie Chan solve murder cases.”