“So who found this woman’s body?” Mike asked, clearly fascinated by the homicide in Mougins. “It wasn’t Luc, was it?”
“He didn’t kill her. He didn’t find her. It was a night watchman.”
“Didn’t I tell you? That’s when it all happens.”
“I don’t mean a cop on night watch duty, I just mean an old guy who was hired to check the park outside of town as security.”
“Hey, that’s what night watch is,” Mike said. “When patrols were organized in the first American cities—New York, Boston, Philly, Baltimore—it was a motley crew of constables and marshals who tried to keep people safe from gangs and criminals. Even when the NYPD, the oldest force in the country, was established in 1845, it modeled itself on military organizations. Patrolmen were hired to work all day. And then, one man was hired to keep everyone safe at night—a single night watch—the sleepless sentinel who looked over the city from sunset to dawn.”
“Check your watch, Detective,” Mercer said. “Coming up on your tour of duty.”
Mike called out to the waiter. “Dominick, let me have a double espresso. Make it two. That ought to jolt me into action. You guys want anything?”
I shook my head. “Counting on catching up from my jet lag tonight.”
Most of the detectives in Homicide, Special Victims, Major Case, and other elite squads pulled night watch assignments several times a year. Because manpower in the precincts was low, the day and evening shifts were fully staffed, but often there were not enough officers to cover the midnight tour.
The result was a patchwork quilt of senior detectives and supervisors who responded to every homicide or serious crime that occurred between 12 and 8
A.M.
They worked the case, made the arrest—as Mike had with MGD—and then passed the investigation back to the squad that had the original jurisdiction to complete all the follow-up.
It was just after eleven when Giuliano presented the bill to Mike, who had to be signed in by 11:30
P.M.
I went downstairs to the restroom to freshen up, and by the time I got back to the table, Mike was standing outside the glass-paned front door, talking on his cell phone.
“I’ll drop you at home,” Mercer said. “Mike left your bags with the doorman on his way up from the office.”
“Thanks.”
Mercer pushed the door open as Mike held the phone to his ear and scratched notes on the napkin he had carried out of the restaurant. “See you there,” he said to whomever was on the other end of the line, then shut off his phone.
“What’s the body count?” Mercer asked.
“Just one, so far.”
“I’m taking Alex. Which way are you headed?”
“Over the bridge to Brooklyn.”
“What have you got?” I said, walking toward Mercer’s car.
“Must be your karma, Coop.”
“Why?”
“It’s not exactly a lotus pond, but they just pulled out a floater,” Mike said. “A young guy in a well-tailored sports coat and slacks. Throat slit ear to ear. Facedown in the Gowanus Canal.”
“Byron Peaser with Ms. Robles. We’re here to see Alexandra Cooper.” I overheard the husky voice of the elderly lawyer who was talking to my secretary, Laura Wilkie, and walked to the door to greet him.
“I’m Alex Cooper,” I said, extending my hand.
I’d convinced Pat McKinney that it was necessary to trim the size of the team getting the facts from Blanca. Too many people in the room would make it far more difficult for her to be put at ease, yet working alone with a witness was not smart either, in case the facts were inconsistent in different tellings or she later chose to recant any part of the story.
“Call me Byron,” he said. The limp handshake, thick bifocals, and even thicker Bronx accent made a first impression that must have disarmed jurors who perhaps sympathized with him and therefore with his clients. “This here is Ms. Robles. I spoke with June Simpson last evening and she told me to ask for you. I’m representing Blanca now, so I came along for the interview.”
“Why don’t you both step into my office for a minute? Detective Wallace is here, and Ellen Gunsher is waiting for us in the conference room. I want to settle a few matters first.”
Peaser stepped back so Blanca could follow me in. She smiled when she saw Mercer leaning against a file cabinet, and I liked that about her.
“Good morning, Blanca,” Mercer said.
“Good morning to you, Detective.”
Her English was good, which meant it was unlikely that the event in the hotel room involved a failure to communicate between the London-educated Gil-Darsin and Blanca Robles. There was less Mayan in her speech than there was Bronx in Peaser’s.
“I understand from my colleagues that you speak English very well, Blanca. I just want to make sure that you’re comfortable going forward without an interpreter. We’d be happy to provide one for you.”
“She’s got no problem with the language,” Peaser said. “I can assure you.”
“Here’s the first thing that’s going to happen, Mr. Peaser—”
“It’s Byron, please. Mr. Peaser was my father.” His shtick was going to be hard to take. And he wanted to establish the “first name basis” bit with me to show his client how close we were. I wanted to address Blanca by her given name and get her in the habit of doing that with me and the team, but the lawyer was another matter altogether.
“I prefer to wait till we’ve gotten to know each other, Mr. Peaser. The first thing you both need to understand is that when I ask Blanca a question, I need the answer to come from her. Can we agree on that?”
“Go ahead, dear. Did you understand what Alex asked you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been in the States for lots of years now. I don’t speak everything perfectly, but I understand what you’re asking me and I don’t need anyone to translate for me.”
“Did you have any trouble getting in the building this morning, now that you’ve been moved out of police protection by Mr. Peaser?”
“I’ve got a security team, Alex. Ex-cops, you know. We’ve got Blanca and her daughter in a safe place, and we made arrangements
to bring her through the rear entrance of the courthouse. I’ve been doing this for more years than you’ve been alive.”
Peaser had obviously greased someone’s hands to get that backdoor access, but I was glad they had avoided the unruly gaggle of reporters and photographers waiting outside the Hogan Place building entrance for a glimpse of the victim and a photo op.
I explained my role in the office and my experience working on sexual assault cases. It took me ten or fifteen minutes to go over what we expected of Blanca this week, repeating some of the things she had heard from McKinney and the group yesterday.
While she listened to me, I jotted down my observations about her. I had been told she was not well educated, but she was smart enough to be paying careful attention to what I was saying. Every time Peaser interrupted me, I shut him down with an admonition.
I would need to ask her height and weight. Somehow, the initial news reports conveyed the impression that Blanca was slight and petite, but she was much larger than I’d imagined. I reached for the arrest report in my folder. Gil-Darsin was only five feet, six inches tall and a bit chubby. I looked up at Blanca again. She was easily two inches taller than the perp, with a sturdy build. The defense would certainly make an issue of what she had done to resist the smaller man’s advances.
“At some point, Blanca, you’re going to need to tell me exactly where you’re living now.”
“I can do that—”
“Best if we keep it under my hat for the time being,” Peaser said. “I’ll be in charge of her whereabouts.”
“That’s not going to work, sir. For the purpose of the criminal case, Blanca is the state’s witness. We don’t plan to go to you every time we need something from her. Talk it over with her, Mr. Peaser, but before she leaves this building today, I want the address at which she’s staying.”
Blanca looked at her lawyer, who put his forefinger to his lips as though to silence her.
“In a few minutes,” I said talking directly to the victim, “you and I are going to go to the conference room with Mercer and with Ellen Gunsher. I know you talked to both of them yesterday, and I’m sorry I missed that meeting. We’re going to go over everything again in more detail, because we expect that you’ll testify before the grand jury in a day or two. Is that all right?”
Again she looked over at Peaser before she nodded.
“Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”
Blanca Robles slowly shook her head.
“I do, actually,” Byron Peaser said.
“Yes?”
“How many hours do you expect to keep us here today?” he asked. “You see, as soon as we’re done, I’d like Blanca to come back to my office.”
“To sign papers for the civil suit?”
“We took care of that last night.”
Shit. “Did you give any thought, Mr. Peaser, to holding off on that for a while?”
“She’s entitled to sue the bastard, you know.”
“I’m aware of that.” I couldn’t wait to separate them so we could explain to Blanca what she might risk by making her civil claim this very week. I stood up and gathered all my case papers. “And I expect she’ll be with us most of the day, Mr. Peaser. You, of course, are free to leave now. We’ll take very good care of her.”
“No, no. I’m here to sit in on the interviews.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Peaser asked, replacing the goofy smile with a sneer. “I’m going to be with my client all the way through this. That’s what she wants—isn’t it, Blanca?”
The young woman didn’t speak.
“The grand jury is deemed a secret proceeding, by law, as I’m sure you know. You can’t accompany Blanca into that forum, and these meetings are preparation for her testimony there. So either my secretary will make you comfortable at an empty desk so you
can make calls or do work, or you can go back to your office and Detective Wallace will bring Blanca to you at the end of the day. You are not driving this train, Mr. Peaser, so take your hands off the controls. Which will it be?”
“Neither option is acceptable to me, Ms. Cooper.”
I walked around my desk so that my back was to Peaser but I was directly in front of Blanca Robles. “Yesterday you told Mercer and the lawyers that your first interest was seeking justice against the man who assaulted you. Is that still the case?”
She hesitated and unenthusiastically said, “Yes.”
“If we’re successful in proving Mr. Gil-Darsin’s guilt—and the only person who can do that is you, Blanca—then not only does he face a serious prison sentence but we’ve also done all of Mr. Peaser’s work for him.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I thought I talked you through all this, Blanca,” Peaser said, but the puzzled look on the woman’s face belied his lame effort.
“Basically, the civil jury would learn that the man was convicted of terrible crimes at our trial, and they would just have to set a dollar number on the award to you,” I said. “They would learn that he’d been found guilty in this court, and they would have to decide only how much money to give you, and that settles how much money Mr. Peaser puts in his pocket at the end of the day. Has he explained that to you?”
Blanca tilted her head to try to look around me at him, but she couldn’t see him.
“Not exactly. Not yet anyway.”
“Yes, I did, Blanca. I started to tell you that last night. We’ll get to it,” Peaser said, sounding arch and angry. He looked as though snake oil would begin to ooze from his every pore.
“So here’s the choice you have to make today. You can go off with Mr. Peaser to his office and do whatever he has planned. In that case, I can’t promise you when we’ll be ready to take you into the grand jury. We’ll need all of today to prep you, at the very least.
And if we haven’t obtained an indictment before Friday, Mr. Gil-Darsin will be released from jail and probably be on his way home to France.”
Blanca gasped. “But that’s not possible.”
“If you stay and work with us all day, then I don’t expect it will be a problem,” I said. “But Mr. Peaser is not part of our case. He has no role, no participation in what we’re doing here. Mr. McKinney—I think you met him yesterday—and Detective Wallace are in charge of the criminal matter.
“I’m not your lawyer, Blanca. I’m the state’s lawyer. I can’t make you millions of dollars, like Mr. Peaser thinks he can. But the district attorney has put together the best possible team to see that justice is done in your case. And if you meet us halfway, if you simply tell us the truth about everything we ask you, we’ll be the most spectacular advocates you could ever have at your side. Do you get what I’m telling you?”
Her dark brown eyes were tearing up. “Yes, Miss Alex. Yes, I do. But I don’t know who to trust in this. I’m very frightened.”
“Of course you are. Everyone who walks into our offices has good reason to be scared and nervous. We’re all here to help you get through this, I promise.”
An unexpected knock on the door startled me. Laura opened it and poked her head in. “Excuse me, Alex, but can you step out here for a minute?”
I gave her a look that rudely must have conveyed my wonder at what could possibly have caused an intrusion at exactly this moment. “What—?”
“It’s Mike. He says he’s got to see you immediately.”
“You want to deal with him, Mercer? I’m not in the mood for some slimy souvenir from the Gowanus Canal.”
“Let me talk to Blanca while you go about your business. Mike asked for you, not me.”
It was a smart idea for Mercer to work his magic on the victim. I could tell from her smile when she entered the room that she liked
or respected him, and he would probably be more off-putting to Byron Peaser than I had tried to be.
I walked out, and Laura told me Mike was waiting in the empty office vacated by my former deputy. Ellen Gunsher was at the far end of the hallway. She held up her arm and tapped on her wristwatch. I spread my fingers to tell her we’d be with her in five minutes.
“Good morning, Detective Chapman,” I said as I pushed open the door.
“Hey, kid. I’m sorry to break up your meeting. I know you’ve got to get your indictment. I just wanted you to see this before I take it over to One PP.”