“Ethan’s a good guy. You know we were classmates at Columbia Law,” said Donny Baynes. “His dad’s always had big plans for him, he’s under a lot of pressure.”
“Yeah, well, either way, this time he’s on the other side of the complaint,” Mercer said. “Leighton’s the perp.”
Donovan Baynes seemed blindsided. I knew he and Ethan had even worked together after law school in the Southern District. “What are you talking about?”
“Ethan Leighton flipped his car on the FDR Drive at three thirty this morning. Hit a van before he plowed into the railing. The two guys in the van broke some bones, but they’ll make it. The congressman was intoxed. Maybe tanked’s a better word,” Mercer said. “Where do you want me to start? DWI? Reckless assault? Leaving the scene?”
“Is Ethan hurt too?” I asked. He was a rising congressional star who hoped to be New York’s next governor. In all likelihood Donovan Baynes was one of his closest advisors.
“A few bruises. Dead drunk, and somehow he fled the scene-or staggered away from it-before the cops got there. Tried to have one of his former aides take the weight.”
“I don’t believe it,” Baynes said, squaring off against Mercer. “Ethan’s such a straight shooter.”
“I guess he had a rough night with his girlfriend,” Mercer said. “The baby was sick, spiking a really high fever, and they fought about whether to rush her to the emergency room.”
“That’s nonsense,” Baynes said. I’d never seen him so agitated. “Where did you hear that crap? It can’t be true. There’s no sick baby. Ethan doesn’t have a girlfriend. Just because the mayor’s got a grudge against his old man-or, or he’s looking for some bait to get the paparazzi off the scene of this shipwreck-you’re buying into that? Who’s peddling these lies?”
“There’s apparently more than enough fodder to go around,” Mercer said, breaking away from Baynes as he headed in the direction of the morgue. “Ethan’s got a girlfriend, all right, and what the tabloids will undoubtedly call a love child.”
“Who fed you this story?” Baynes said, charging after Mercer, challenging him to answer. “I want to know where you picked that up.”
Mercer turned and put his arm out to bring Donovan to a stop. “You got a sea of misery right here, Donny. Let’s deal with that. Don’t be getting in high dudgeon over Leighton.”
“He’s my closest friend, Mercer. I need to know where this is coming from.”
“It’s Ethan’s wife who told me, okay? I heard every sorry detail from Ethan Leighton’s wife.”
TWO
Shouts went up from the beach as a small speedboat nosed into the sand, the driver lifting and tilting the engine as he came to a stop. Five guys stepped out of it into the shallow surf to the roaring cheers of their friends, and one of the rescuers hoisted a young woman over his shoulder and carried her in. When he reached a dry spot at the foot of a low dune, he lowered her onto her feet, steadying her while she caught her breath.
A man broke loose from the group and ran to embrace her. Before any cops could reach them, both dropped to their knees and began praying together, the girl’s body wracked by sobs.
“Cooper! Give me a hand,” one of the homicide detectives yelled to me as he tried to break them up.
I took off running and Mike jogged beside me until we reached the terrified pair. The girl picked up her head and noted the dozens of people staring at her. She dissolved in tears again as I knelt beside her.
I stroked her back and tried to calm her. “The interpreters, Mike, get me one stat.”
“Is okay, lady,” the male said to me. “I speak little English.”
The girl looked back and forth between our faces, fearing that I was the enemy.
“My name is Alexandra. I’m a lawyer for the government,” I said, “and I’m going to help you.”
He repeated my words to her, but the idea of government and help in the same sentence didn’t seem encouraging to either of them.
“Are you related to her?”
“Is girlfriend. Is my girlfriend.”
This was not the time to break investigative rules. One victim, one friend or relative, should not be translating for another. There was nothing I could ask her about her ordeal in his presence that she wouldn’t try to filter as she answered questions through him.
“What are your names?”
“Cyril,” he said. “Am Cyril. Her is Emilia.”
I looked back over the beach to see whether any other shelter had been put up, but the only covered area was the morgue.
“Let’s get Emilia warm first. Let’s make her more comfortable,” I said. Then I whispered to Mike. “Find a place where I can talk to her without the boyfriend.”
“We’re waiting on buses to take all of them to the hospital to be examined.”
“Good. I’ll ride with her. Get her alone. See what she knows, where she thought she was going.”
“I don’t mean ambulances.” They were known in police parlance as buses. “I mean big yellow school buses that can take groups of them at a time.”
“What’s that building behind the cabanas?” I asked, pointing past the morgue. “What does that sign say, Sun and Surf?”
“Yeah, it’s a private beach club, all closed up for the winter. They’ll be calling it Surf and Turf if any more dead meat washes up in front,” Mike said. “Wait till she’s been examined and treated. Then you’ll have her by herself with all the support you need.”
Cyril had wrapped his own blanket around Emilia’s shoulders. A strong gust of wind blew the woolen cover off and revealed a large, raw patch of skin on her forearm.
“What happened to her, Cyril?” I shouldn’t have asked him the question but I worried about particles of sand becoming embedded in the open wound.
“Was so crowded below docks-decks? What you call it in the boat? Decks. She was burned against one of the engines in boiler room.” He raised Emilia’s arm so that I could see the injury.
“Please tell her she’ll be examined by a doctor in a few hours.” I could only imagine the inhumane conditions during the ocean passage.
I wanted the travelers to be made safe and I wanted the criminals behind this operation to be identified as quickly as possible.
Plainclothes officers were setting up folding tables at the foot of the dunes as a food station. Others were carting coffee urns and passing snacks out to the bewildered victims.
“Yo, Chapman,” one of the new arrivals called out, his gold shield case hanging out of his jacket pocket. “You want a shot of vodka with your coffee? A little hair of the dog?”
“The dog didn’t bite last night, Rowdy. Didn’t even lick me. Why, I look hung over to you?”
“Nah. I thought maybe you stopped for a few pops with the congressman.”