“That’s the spirit, Coop. You do the thinking, Mercer and I will take it from there. Dig out those lists of names from your files.”
Mike followed us into the den, took off his blazer, and rolled up his sleeves. “Gimme some Trebek, Mercer. Grey Goose and trivia, and I’ll be happy.”
Mercer poured drinks for each of them while Mike set the table. I stretched out on the sofa with a glass of seltzer.
“Can’t we watch some news until the final question?” I asked.
“You know what the news is, Alex. Don’t beat yourself up any more.”
I closed my eyes and rested-the volume muted-until the last segment of the show, when Mercer clicked on the sound.
“Tonight’s category is Royal Blood. Royal Blood,” Trebek said. “We’ll be back in a minute to see what each of you has wagered. Stay with us.”
“Double or nothing,” Mike called from the dining room.
“Either way, I’m the loser,” Mercer said. “Warriors or princesses, you two have a lock on this one.”
“Blood,” I said, for no reason at all. It was the only word I heard.
“Paper napkins?”
“No. The linen ones are in the armoire. Second shelf, on the right.”
Trebek stepped aside and the final answer was revealed as he read it aloud for the viewers. “‘First British king who required his subjects to call him Majesty.’”
Two contestants put on their best puzzled game-faces while the third one began to scribble an answer.
“You know it, Coop?”
“Why, Mike? You got anything in your wallet? Take a stab at it.”
“See, Mercer? That means she knows something,” Mike said, coming into the room and perching on the arm of the sofa, behind my head. “Must be a cultured king, not a soldier statesman.”
“Same guy who invented the handkerchief and insisted spoons be used at all court events.”
“What a wuss.”
“‘Who was Richard the Second?’” I asked.
I held up my hand for Mike’s forty dollars. He grabbed my fingers and squeezed hard before letting them drop-empty.
“Now that’s a ridiculous clue,” Mike said. “I mean, I could have been a contender if they’d asked it the right way. Like, ‘Son of the Black Prince.’ No offense, Mercer. Not a homey, bro-just the guy who wore a black cuirass at the Battle of Crécy. Or they could have said, ‘British king who lacked the hereditary thirst for battle. First casualty of the Wars of the Roses.’ Then she’d have been stumped. Coop doesn’t know from history-she just relies on Willy Shakespeare.”
“‘The worst is death, and death will have his day.’”
“Yeah, well, he’s had his day many times over,” Mike said. “And usually when I’m catching cases.”
The intercom buzzed and he got up to answer it. “The only thing more miserable than Coop being in a dark mood like this is Coop being in a dark mood like this when she’s not drinking.”
He came back and smiled at Mercer. “Dinner is served. Vickee’s here with the vittles.”
I got up and went to the door with Mercer to greet her. She handed the packages to him and put her arms around me.
“Don’t get her started again, Vickee,” Mike said. “We’ve barely got the tear ducts and tissues under control. None of this estrogen emo-show, okay?”
“Just help Mercer heat up the meal, Mike. Can you handle that?” Vickee said, turning to him and running her hands up and down his sides. “You better go double on my potatoes, Mr. Chapman. You’ve dropped too much weight.”
“What can I get you?” I asked.
“I’d love some white wine. And your doormen asked me to thank you for their dinner. They said it was delicious-some kind of veal? Now where did that come from, girl?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mike was holding one of Vickee’s shopping bags. “Yeah, I meant to tell you. They wanted me to bring the food up on my way in. The cops said that some guy from a restaurant came by-one of your snooty French bistros, no doubt. Must have been a waiter who was sent to surprise you with food. A care package. Mercer had already told me we were getting a special delivery from Vickee, so I just told the guys to split it up. No note or anything. Your bloody puss was all over the news. Everyone in town knows you had a rough day.”
I bit my lip. It was almost worth laughing at the notion of Luc being taken for a waiter. He had probably tried to get through to me with a four-star meal. “Guess so.”
“When do we eat?” Mike asked Vickee.
“Half an hour.”
“You mind if I call Teddy O’Malley?” he said to me, after depositing the food in the kitchen. “See if he’s got any ideas about who might hide Brendan Quillian.”
“Go right ahead. I think it would be harder to go undercover with sandhogs than to infiltrate the Mob.”
Mercer busied himself in the kitchen with the food and Mike took out his notepad to make a series of calls from the den, where he was watching the local news. Vickee and I curled up on the living room sofa while she listened to me vent about the day while Dr. John sang background about his gris-gris.
At eight thirty, Mercer called us to the table and served the meal.
The breakout of Brendan Quillian seemed as if it had happened in a bad dream. Here, safe in my own home with my loyal friends, it was almost easy to think of murder for hire, domestic abuse, and dynamite blasts as other people’s problems. But then I would have a flashback to the face of Elsie Evers on the courtroom floor, and I knew we’d all be back to business as usual by daybreak.
“Take some more, Alex,” Vickee said, passing the platter of chicken. “Alex likes the breast. Give her that piece of white meat, Mike, will you? It’s her favorite.”
“Speaking of that, Coop. You ever do Lem Howell back in your rookie days?”
I laughed and shook my head.
“They were just replaying that shot of him walking you out of the courtroom today, you wrapped in his jacket and him looking at you like he wanted the rest of your dress to just slice off in two.”
I pushed my plate away. “I’m full. And if I wasn’t, you once again have the flawless ability to take my appetite away.”
Mike reached for a third helping of potatoes and tore off a fistful of bread. “You were good buddies, right? Don’t you credit him for half of your courtroom success?”
“I had a lot of help from a lot of guys. And from the handful of women who broke me in. And I didn’t do them all, thanks.”
I stood up to clear my place, but Vickee pointed at me and told me to sit.
She came out of the kitchen with a pecan pie and a carton of vanilla ice cream. “Nobody says no to this dish. My mama’s recipe and it’s the very best.”
“Your money on Lem Howell and Coop, Detective Wallace?”
“I spent a lot of time in Ms. Cooper’s office in those early years,” Mercer said, gnawing on a chicken wing. “I may have to go to the grave with some of the messages that steamed off that telephone when I sat out those long days at her desk while she was upstairs on trial, but Mr. Howell was not among those in hot pursuit.”
I wagged a finger at him. “Don’t give me up, Mercer. We’ll see how good Mike’s detecting skills are. I don’t have a lot of secrets from you guys, but the ones I do, I’m keeping close to the vest for the time being.”
The phone rang and I walked to the den to answer it.
“Alexandra? It’s Paul Battaglia. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”
“What were your plans for tomorrow?”
“Well, Judge Gertz wanted to give the jury a couple of days away from the courthouse. He’ll probably bring them back on Friday to declare a mistrial. I’d like to go to Elsie’s wake, certainly.”