“Have you got any photographs of Luigi in the car? In your case folder?” I asked.
“Everything but his prom picture,” Mike said.
We approached the old Crown Vic from the rear and Mercer popped the trunk. Mike reached in and grabbed his Redweld, stamped with the word
HOMICIDE
across the top.
“You’ve called the airlines and Immigration to see what his passport shows?” I asked. “Checked his travel history?”
“Believe it or not, they got DAs as smart as you in Brooklyn, Coop. You’re not the boss of everyone, you know.”
“I hope they’re smart enough to add Gina Varona and Peter Danton to their travel search list. France, Africa, who knows where else.”
“I’m on Night Watch all week. They’ll get me an update when I start working tonight.”
Mercer was still the peacemaker. “Mike’s working overtime for you, Alex.”
I looked away. “I guess that gives him double the justification to pile in on me. Is it that I haven’t thanked you properly for all you’re doing? You’ve overwhelmed me, Mike, with your kindness to Luc. You actually think I would lie to you guys?”
“’Course not,” Mercer said.
Mike handed me a blowup of the picture he’d shown me from his cell phone Tuesday morning. I held it at every angle. “No go. I don’t know this man.”
“Try the ME’s version of dress for success.”
The wound in Luigi’s neck had been carefully sutured. His hair was combed and his eyes closed, although his expression was not to be confused—as people often said—with that of someone who was sleeping. A clean white sheet was pulled up over his chest.
“This man and I were not at the same party at the same time.”
“Here’s a dozen photos his brother brought to the squad. Luigi Calamari at his nephew’s birthday party, Luigi in a tux for his cousin’s wedding, Luigi in sunglasses and a shirt opened down to his navel—looks like it was taken at the beach.”
“No, no, and again no. Good night, Detective. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me—for us—today.”
“Sounds anything but sincere, kid.”
“Must be the company I’m keeping.” I turned to walk twenty feet back to the revolving door of my building.
That’s when I heard the shouts and saw two men running from the entrance of the drive coming directly toward me out of the darkness, one of them screaming my name.
“That’s her!” the voice called out. “Ms. Cooper!”
“Get her,” the second guy yelled.
I froze in place as Mercer caught up with me.
A bright light went off—flashing twice, maybe three times—as Mercer pulled me against his chest and Mike took after the two men, who turned and ran.
“So they got you,” Paul Battaglia said, shaking his head. “Right at your own front door.” He had been waiting for me when I walked into his office at 8
A.M.
on Thursday.
The district attorney didn’t like it—with good reason—when his lawyers became the headline rather than the backstory.
The
New York Post
stringer and the photographer who snapped the photos last night had convinced the editor to find room for the dreadful picture of me, cowering beside Mercer with my eyes covered against the blinding flashbulbs, on the front page. Baby Mo still owned the top-of-the-fold space, but there I was with an equally cheap caption just below:
MURDER SUSPECT ‘COOP’ED UP WITH PROSECUTOR?
“I apologize, Paul. There’s not much else for me to say.”
“It really compromises your credibility on MGD,” he said, tossing the newspaper on top of the unanswered correspondence on his desk. “I want you standing next to me when I announce the indictment this afternoon. I need you to field questions, and this outing doesn’t help a whole lot.”
“I can do that with you, if it’s what you need. This has nothing to do with my credibility. Luc’s not staying with me. I’m not harboring a felon.”
“That’s kind of missing the point, isn’t it? They’ve tagged your gentleman friend as a murder suspect.”
“The police haven’t.”
“The tabloids have,” he said, lighting what was probably his second cigar of the morning. “How the hell did they get this?”
“Mike says the Homicide detectives squealed. Thought the Brooklyn DA would like it if you had a little egg on your face, in the form of me as the sacrificial lamb, since you get all the big-time publicity.”
“You’re off your game, Alexandra. You should be more careful.”
“I’m not dating a wiseguy or a thief or a—a crooked politician,” I said, causing Battaglia to scowl at me. “The man’s in the hospitality business.”
“Not so hospitable to have folks dropping dead all around him.”
“He’s aware of that, Paul. We both are.”
“What time will the indictment be filed?”
“We’re meeting now to proofread and edit it. We’ll have it in front of the foreman as soon as they convene at two
P.M.
and get it right up to the clerk’s office. The arraignment has been scheduled for three in front of Judge Donnelly.”
“Four o’clock for my press conference. And I’ll tell Brenda to instruct the reporters that we’re not taking questions about anything else except MGD. No sideshow about the Gowanus Canal case.”
“Understood.”
“When I look your way, you talk. Other than that, you’re silent as the grave.”
Those were the usual rules. Battaglia had always been squeamish about details of sexual assaults. He left it for me to fill in factual blanks that supported the criminal charges.
“Yes, Boss. I’ll see you later.”
The whole team was arriving in the conference room, as planned, each carrying morning coffee and pastries from the cart in front of the courthouse. Mercer pulled his chair up next to mine,
potential armor against the slings Pat McKinney was likely to throw.
“You’ve been in with Battaglia?” McKinney asked. “Boy was smoke coming out of his ears when I got here today. You know how to bring out the best in a guy.”
“Still smoking, Pat,” I said.
“I was thinking of going to Umberto’s for lunch today,” he chuckled, “but not if your pal, Luc, has taken over the lease.”
Just a few steps from the rear of the courthouse, Umberto’s Clam House was put on the map years ago when Colombo family kingpin Joey Gallo was shot to death in the middle of his lunch, his face slamming straight down into a plateful of spaghetti alle vongole.
“Suit yourself, Pat. I prefer Midtown myself. Mercer and Ryan were planning on lunch at Sparks Steak House,” I said. I knew he’d catch the reference to Big Paulie Castellano, who took six bullets to the head on his way in to a holiday dinner on East 46th one snowy night. “Fine dining and murder often go hand in hand. Ellen, do you have the indictment ready?”
Restaurants and mob murders. Maybe that’s what Gina Varona had been so defensive about last night.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “I’ve got a copy for each of you.”
Four pairs of legal eyes in the room should guarantee that there were no errors. Date and time of occurrence in the county of New York, victim and perp named, and the precise tracking of the penal code definitions that would stand up to a defense motion to inspect and dismiss. We spent the better part of the next hour scouring the document to catch every possible typo and correct two minor substantive errors.
“Will you take Ellen with you to the grand jury for the foreman’s signature?” Pat asked me.
“Sure. Then we’ll file it in the kitchen,” as the busy court clerk’s office was known, “and be ready for the arraignment at three. I assume you want Ellen to stand up for the bail application in front of Donnelly?”
Ellen grimaced. “Ugh, she’s so tough.”
“But she’s smart and she’s fair. We couldn’t ask for a better judge.”
Once the indictment was filed and Mohammed Gil-Darsin was formally charged as a felon, the case would be moved to a higher court—New York State Supreme—and his lawyer would be able to renew his bail application in front of this judge.
Mercer’s cell rang and he walked to the window to answer it. We all paused and looked over at him. “What news from France?”
He listened again while Ryan Blackmer raised his eyebrows. Then Mercer pointed at the TV screen mounted on the wall.
I got up and flipped the dial to CNN.
“Breaking news,” Mercer said. “About Gil-Darsin.”
We were between cycles, and the reporter on-screen was covering an earthquake in Indonesia that locals feared might trigger a tsunami. The lead story would come up again on the half hour, and we were all riveted to the screen.
Six minutes later, a young American journalist stood in front of the gates of the American Embassy in Paris, adjusting her earphones.
“It’s late afternoon here, Anderson, and we’re just getting word that the furor about Mohammed Gil-Darsin, the head of the World Economic Bureau, is about as fierce as the storm that’s brewing in the Pacific Ocean.
“Executives of two business firms are under investigation for their alleged role in a prostitution ring that officials believe has been linked to the brilliant but controversial WEB leader known to the world as Baby Mo. The Ivorian-born French resident is now incarcerated in the United States on charges of sexual assault unrelated to today’s stunning news.”
“What else do you know at this time?” Cooper asked.
“There goes my last chance of slowing this case down,” Ryan said. “You guys win. I guess bail’s a no-brainer at this point.”
“To be clear, Anderson, the early reports carry no suggestion
that Gil-Darsin was an organizer or key figure in the criminal enterprise of this prostitution ring, or controlling it in any way. However, the government is looking into rumors that Baby Mo hired some of the women employed by the network, as escorts—or for sexual encounters.”
“In France? Are you saying this happened in France?”
“In this country, actually, it’s not illegal to trade sex for money. Soliciting or trafficking in prostitutes, however, is against the law here. This matter was uncovered in a luxury hotel in the city of Lille, where a business firm is alleged to have provided women to the prominent men under investigation, some of whom have been named today. These women were imported, if you will, from Belgium and Germany and the Netherlands.”
“Hence the trafficking charge. And what’s the connection to the United States?”
“The answers aren’t all in yet, Anderson, but it’s apparent that in some instances, corporate funds of some of the businesses engaging in this enterprise are involved. One of the first arrests today was of a high-ranking local police official in Lille, who literally flew to Washington, DC, with one of the women, when engaged by another World Economic Bureau bigwig, to have her take part in what are being called ‘sex parties.’”
“Mohammed Gil-Darsin is expected to appear before one of New York’s toughest judges later today. How does his name figure in this newest scandal?”
“Too early to know for sure, but it’s believed that texts from Baby Mo were intercepted by investigators, in which the disgraced leader tried to hire women in the past—mostly Belgian—to be flown to meet him in New York, in Washington, and at a recent WEB conference in San Francisco, for the purpose of sexual activities.”
“Thanks for bringing us—”
Mercer grabbed the clicker from me and turned off the television.
“Well, I’ll bet Byron Peaser is doing a happy dance right now. This will put new steam under Blanca’s sails.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in Lem Howell’s shoes, going in front of Judge Donnelly with this just off the wires,” Ryan said. “And on the outside, poor Lem’s probably got to deal with Mrs. Baby Mo, too. That must be one unhappy broad.”
“You know the French,” Pat McKinney said. “Anything goes. She’s probably copacetic with the whole thing.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. As an American involved with a Frenchman, the mores and attitudes of his countrymen had always remained foreign to me. The first news image of Kali’s screams piercing the air like a wounded animal had become embedded in my mind. “Madame Gil-Darsin is African. She only lives in Paris.”
“Well, if I were Baby Mo,” Ryan said, “I’d be thrilled to bunk down at Rikers Island for a couple of weeks, rather than face the wrath of the missus. Order in some takeout, get a delivery of a stack of classic DVDs, do a bit of jailhouse lawyering to stay safe when he’s on his cot. I’m just sayin’…”
“I think, Alex, that we’d better tell Battaglia about this,” Pat said. Then to the rest of the team, “Give us fifteen minutes with the Boss.”
Rose was surprised to see McKinney and me arrive together. “Go right in.”
The district attorney was on the phone with his stockbroker when we entered. He ended the call abruptly and asked what had brought us back.
Pat McKinney outlined the story about the possible involvement of MGD in an international ring of businessmen and call girls.
“Looks like I made the right call about indicting him this week, don’t you think?” Battaglia said, jamming another cigar between his front teeth while he reached for his lighter. “How’s this going to play with Judge Donnelly?”
“She’s not likely to be budged by uncorroborated rumors,” I said.
“So gather some facts before three o’clock. Give her something to work with. Get your whole team on this, Pat, do you understand? And, Alex, I want you to write an op-ed piece for me to submit for tomorrow’s
Times.”
“On a pending case?” I had written for Battaglia before. There were days I thought I could nail his voice with more accuracy than my own, but I’d never considered doing it when a charge was active before the court.
“Pending my ass. Steer clear of the instant mess. Make it a grand riff about power and dignity, race and class, about giving women access to the system, no matter who the offender is—one of those speeches you do all the time for the ladies who lunch and their charities. What did Leona Helmsley call folks like Blanca? The little people. Make it about the little people—I mean, say it more tactfully than that—having a day in court against the rich and famous, against men in high places.”
“For tomorrow, Paul? We’re overloaded with work on this case all afternoon.”
“Think of the trouble it’ll keep you out of while you polish it up tonight. Have a draft ready before I leave here at six.”