"What's that?" There were bottles of sparkling water on the desk in the living room. I opened one and curled up in an armchair.
"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich," he said, kissing the crown of my head as he walked to the phone to dial room service. "I can't get peanut butter in Mougins. I usually come to the States with an empty suitcase and take home jars of it. That and Oreos and English muffins."
"Hold the caviar. I'd much rather have a sandwich." Luc's sophistication was irresistible, but so was his lack of pretension.
In the morning, the previous night's driver was standing beside his car at the curb in front of the hotel. "We'll drop you on our way to La Guardia," Luc said.
"I feel like I'm walking on air. I'll just stroll up Park Avenue and be home in no time. Just kiss me once more and tell me when you're returning."
The driver was discreet enough to turn around while we said our good-byes, and Luc rode off with a wave, promising to call when he reached home the next afternoon.
It was another sultry day, but I cheerfully greeted dog walkers and people out to get their newspaper and coffee. I said hello to all the white-gloved doormen I passed and stopped for the men unloading furniture for the ongoing renovation at the massive brick structure of the Seventh Regiment Armory.
This would be the second week in a row that I missed my Saturday morning ballet class, but I was too tired and had no desire to concentrate on the drill of barre and floor exercises.
I was digging for my key chain in my small jeweled handbag as I heard a wolf whistle from behind me.
"You're either way too early for streetwalking or you're late for Cinderella's pumpkin." A car door slammed and Mike Chapman's voice turned the heads of two of my elderly neighbors, gossiping on the sidewalk.
"I-uh-I'm just getting-I didn't-obviously, I've been out all night," I stammered, suddenly embarrassed, with no idea how long Mike had been waiting for me.
"Sequins and sandals. I didn't know breakfast was going to be formal or I would have put on socks. What happened, the guy didn't think you were worth the cab fare home?"
"Look, I'm sorry I wasn't here if you needed me. Is something wrong?"
"There's another girl dead," Mike said, running his fingers through his hair. "You've got to help me, Coop. We've got a maniac on the loose.
EIGHTEEN
Forty-two minutes later, having traded in my evening clothes for sneakers, jeans, and a cotton sweater, I was waiting with Mike for Mercer at the Thirty-fourth Street heliport.
There were clouds moving in over the East River, and Mike kept glancing up at them. He was a nervous flier, especially in small planes and choppers
Fifty-five miles north of here," Mike said to Joe Galiano, one of the Aviation Unit's crack pilots. "How long is that going to take, Sarge? "I should have you down in twenty minutes. The craft was a brand-new Bell 412-one of seven for which the NYPD paid ten million dollars each. In the aftermath of 9/11, the faster, more powerful equipment had been purchased to enable hightech surveillance and serve as effective counterterrorism tools.
Today, it would be the fastest way to get up the Hudson to the place where the twenty-year-old victim's body had been discovered the previous afternoon
It's an island, Sarge. It's a piece of rock in the middle of the river.
How the hell are you going to land?"
"I got six acres to work with, Chapman. And the local cops are try ing to clear the weeds to give me a pad right now," Galiano said, patting the side of his blue and white flying machine. "I've put cops on project rooftops with this baby. Worse that happens is that I hover low and drop you three out."
Mike was biting his lip. "The weather going to hold?" Aviation was an elite unit founded in 1929 as the world's first airborne division in law enforcement. Its officers, with good reason, had more than the usual cop swagger.
"I'd expect a little chop. But these things are more stable than fixed wing, so don't let your knuckles get too white," Galiano said. "Here's Wallace. Let's get her up."
"What's the name of this place?" I asked.
"Pollepel Island."
"I've never heard of it."
"You've seen it."
"What do you know that I don't?"
"When's the last time you took the train to Albany?" Mike asked, as Mercer shook hands with Galiano.
"In May." There were frequent legislative meetings in the state capital, and Battaglia had appointed me to serve in his place on the review committee for sex crimes and domestic violence.
"Just beyond Cold Spring, there's a castle that sits out in the river.
The Breakneck Ridge station stop on Metro North is right above it."
"I know exactly where you mean. I've seen it dozens of times. It looks like an enormous old fortress. Who's the girl? What was she doing there?" I asked. "And what does this have to do with us?" Mike looked at his notepad. "Connie Wade. Twenty years old, like I told you. African-American. She was about to start her third year at West Point."
"She must have been a very talented kid. It's fiercely competitive to get in there." I knew that candidates were evaluated not only on academic ability but on leadership potential and physical attributes.
They needed a nomination from a member of Congress or the Department of the Army. I could only imagine the qualities and strengths that had commended Connie Wade for such an honor.
"Yeah. Another heartbreaker. Smart girl and a great athlete. Originally from Indiana. Had ten days' leave to go home for her sister's wedding last weekend. Disappeared on Wednesday, on her way back through the city. Never got to the Point."
I settled into the backseat of the chopper, next to Mike. Mercer was in front with Sergeant Galiano. While Galiano checked the controls, Mike gave us the rest of the facts explaining why he was called. "The island's deserted. Has been for thirty years. The castle's decayed and the whole place is supposed to look like an overgrown jungle. The state owns it now."
"How would anybody get there?" Mercer asked.
"Boat's the only way. Kayaks, speedboats, canoes. Cops tell me tree huggers and paddle-pulling exercise nuts like to poke around out there, even though it's off-limits till the building can be restored. It's a thousand feet offshore."
"It's not far from West Point either, then."
"Spitting distance, upriver," Mike said, putting his pad away as he fastened his seat belt. "During the Revolution, soldiers used Pollepel as a base to try to stop the British from getting any farther north. They sunk a few hundred logs with iron spikes in their tips underwater to sabotage enemy ships. It was an old medieval defense. How's my French, Coop? Chevaux-de-frise."
I did a double take, wondering if he had any way to know about Luc.
"So you've been there," Mercer said.
"Nope. But the island's history is right up my alley. This is not quite the way I wanted to see it."
"You're going to have to put your headsets on," Galiano said.
"They're miked up, so you'll be able to hear and talk to each other." The rotors started to spin and the big bird vibrated as we prepared to take off.
"Two nature lovers were hiking around late in the day. They were looking for frigging snakes, if you can believe that. Found Wade's body, just outside the entrance to the main building, 'cause they saw one slithering over what turned out to be her foot. That's the only part of her skin that was visible."
Mercer leaned forward. "What makes them think-?"
"Blunt force trauma to the face and head. Start there. She was naked. Left at the scene at least twenty-four hours earlier. Wrapped in an old olive green blanket, just like Elise Huff," Mike said. "And there were handcuffs still on her wrists. They had to move her right out 'cause there's a lot of wildlife on the island."