“You’re never been a conspiracy theory kind of guy,” I said.
“I’m not. But Lindbergh’s case just screams out for a mastermind behind Hauptmann.”
“I guess there’s always someone coming along to take a second look. Might as well be you.”
Mike pulled out his phone to call Mercer. “Coop and me, we’re ready to bag it. Everything in place?”
I wondered what Mike meant by that as he waited for an answer.
“Okay, that’ll work. See you in fifteen minutes.”
“What was that about? What did he put in place?”
“Mercer’s the man. Scored us a table at Rao’s.”
“No wonder the secrecy,” I said, high-fiving Mike for the good news. “How’d he do it?”
“The big man has his ways.”
We got in the car and headed east. There was no place in New York like the fabled eatery in East Harlem, a tiny building on the corner of Pleasant Avenue and 114th Street that was run more like a private club than a restaurant. Reservations were harder to come by than tickets to an inaugural ball. The owners, Frankie and Ron, didn’t even list the phone number, and if you were lucky enough to get in their good graces, they would tell you when to show up-it was impossible to pick a date and reserve it.
Mercer was waiting for us in the first booth-there were only twelve tables-opposite the bar where Nicky Vest, whose nickname came from the 136 colorful jackets he owned, mixed the meanest drinks in town. Some regular had turned in his table for the night, and Mercer’s persistence had paid off.
We were greeted by the waiters like long-lost friends-since we managed to slip in a couple of times a year-and were about to sit down beneath the wall-to-wall display of autographed photos of A-list celebrities, athletes, politicians, and authors when Mike reminded us that if we went into the back office right now we could catch the Final Jeopardy question.
As we waited for the category to be revealed, we caught Mercer up on our short visit to the old stable. He told us he had nothing to report either.
“Tonight’s category,” Trebek said, “is WEATHER.”
He repeated the word three times as the contestants logged in their bets.
“I’m an automatic loser,” Mike said. “Doppler Alex here is always on patrol for hurricanes and blizzards. Worst-case-scenario kind of broad.”
“I am not.”
“You’ll get this one, girl. And the winner buys.”
“I’m in,” Mercer said.
Trebek stood beside the blue board as the final answer was displayed: “Intense dust storm carried on an atmospheric gravity current.”
“What’s a sirocco?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “A sirocco.”
Two of the three contestants made the same guess, and Trebek told all of us we were wrong. “No, gentlemen, it’s not that Mediterranean wind that blows off the Sahara.”
“What’s a haboob?” Mercer said.
“The correct question is ‘What is a haboob?’ A haboob, folks. They’re commonly found in arid regions around the world.”
Mercer smiled and patted Mike on the back. His knowledge of geography was unparalleled. He had grown up studying all the airline maps that his father had accumulated in his job at Delta, and knew as much about foreign cultures and customs as Mike knew about the military.
“They were first described in the Sudan,” Mercer said as we walked back to our table, “and they often happen when a thunderstorm collapses. The winds reverse and become a downdraft, creating a wall of dust that can move at sixty miles an hour.”
“A dust storm,” Mike said.
“Same thing. That’s what it’s called out west.”
“Then I would have gotten it right. Like Coop says when she trips over her tongue, it’s just semantics.”
Nicky brought our cocktails, and we clinked glasses. I was still thinking of the Arsenal rooftop when I looked across at Mike and said, “Cheers.”
There was no menu at Rao’s, and all the food was served family-style. We started with baked clams, roasted peppers-maybe the best anywhere-and a seafood salad.
“So what’s the word?” Mike asked Mercer.
“Scully’s got four teams from SVU out looking for Raymond Tanner. He’s public enemy number one.”
“In Central Park?” I asked.
“And all his old haunts. But the Park is still saturated. They’ve moved some anticrime guys to the North Woods, so he figures they have that covered.”
“But a lot of those men will come out this weekend,” Mike said.
“No question. The body in the Lake gets back-burnered.”
I shook my head and counted on the Scotch to calm me down.
“What’s tomorrow like for you?” Mike asked Mercer.
“I’ll be at Verge’s sister’s house early. No call, just a knock on the door. Then they’re probably throwing me onto the Tanner task force. You?”
“I feel kind of stalled,” Mike said. “Did you get a chance to talk to Chirico?”
“I went to see him after you left for the garage. He was over by the boathouse.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Did you forget about Jessica Pell?” Mike said, holding up his glass and shouting out to the bartender, “Nicky, how about a refill?”
“No, but-”
“Her deadline to tell Scully to bounce me if Chirico doesn’t discipline me is tomorrow. I’m nervous about what she’s got up her sleeve.”
“She’s not going forward with this, Mike,” I said, stirring the ice cubes with my finger.
“Pell’s a wild card, Coop. You don’t know what she’s up to.”
“No, but-” I didn’t want to tell him about my intervention in her robing room earlier today, but I was surprised that she hadn’t yet walked back her complaint.
“But nothing. Did you tell Mercer she was staking out your driveway last night?”
I blushed. “No. No, I didn’t say anything about it.”
“What’d you do?” Mercer asked.
“Just rode around for a while,” I said. “Why’d you go to Chirico?”
“To look him in the eye, so Mike didn’t have to do it himself. Push the sergeant to do the right thing.”
“What would that be?”
“Call Pell before she calls Scully tomorrow,” Mercer said. “I want Manny Chirico to knock her on her ass, is what I really want.”
“What does he say to that?”
“He needs ammunition to do it.”
Now I had a way to start my day if I could figure out how to get involved without leaving my DNA all over Mike’s problem.
“It’s off the table for the moment,” Mike said. “Enjoy the feast.”
The guys ordered rigatoni Bolognese with a side order of the largest, most delicious meatballs in town; Rao’s signature lemon chicken dish; a veal chop with hot peppers; and shrimp parmigiana. I didn’t have room for the homemade ice cream, but it was impossible to refuse a spoonful as I washed it down with my second glass of barolo.
Mercer paid the bill, and we said our good nights to the kitchen crew as we went out the door. “I’ll take you home, Alex.”
I spun around and looked at Mike, puzzled by that decision. “But Mike’s got to pass by my place to get home.”
“It’s all right. She can ride with me, Mercer.”
The Triborough Bridge was spitting distance from the restaurant. Why wasn’t Mercer just going on home to Queens, and why-after last night-wasn’t Mike coming to my place?
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’ve got some papers-some stuff-that Mercer’s stopping by to pick up,” Mike said as I got in his car.
We cruised down Second Avenue, and I could see Mercer’s SUV in the rearview mirror. Mike still wasn’t talking-nothing personal at least-and I attributed it to the distraction of Jessica Pell’s threats.
By the time we reached the driveway in front of my apartment, Mercer had overtaken us and nosed into a parking place ahead of us.