Kali must have been in the first-class section of my flight and one of the passengers to reach the checkpoint earliest. But she had chosen the wrong line and was meeting resistance from the agent.
I was summoned to the booth next to her and extended my passport.
The agent stood up to look at my two bags and then the dates stamped on my arrival in France. “Not much time for shopping, was there?”
“Not a minute.”
“I take it you’ve got nothing to declare?”
I laughed. “This is a first, but I don’t.” It was also the first time I hadn’t stopped to buy Battaglia the Cuban cigars-Cohibas, still contraband-that he loved so much and counted on whenever I traveled.
He waved me on, and as I closed my tote, I could see that Kali was agitated. She was arguing for an exception despite her foreign passport, in order to move through more rapidly. The louder she got and the more the two private eyes tried to lean on the customs agent, the firmer he stood, pointing to the back of the line.
The automatic doors swung open, and against the waist-high metal fencing were relatives and friends waiting for passengers from around the world. Behind them were dozens of black-suited limo drivers, holding up placards with names of clients they’d been hired to meet. I stood on tiptoes to look for one of the men from the DA’s Squad-an NYPD unit assigned to our offices who had the detail to guard Battaglia.
Instead, I spotted a large cardboard placard on a wooden handle, raised above the heads of the greeters.
Below the logo of the New York Post was the mug shot of Gil-Darsin and the bold headline: MOMO’S MOJO: DNA ENTANGLES WEB HEAD.
I walked through the groups of drivers directly to Mike Chapman, who was holding the jerry-rigged sign. “Welcome home, kid. The DA’s all puffed up like a peacock ’cause he got you here when the rest of us couldn’t make you budge.”
“He’s got a special way with words, Mike. Just charmed me right back to the office.” I reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Never learned to travel light, did you?” he said, taking my oversize duffel and large wheeling bag from me.
“You might want to dump the sign. Madame Gil-Darsin will be coming through right behind us. She’s having her ‘Do you know who I am?’ moment with customs.”
“Sweet. She might do better if they don’t know.”
“I take it the DNA match is today’s update?” I said as we headed for the exit.
“Confirmed by the lab this morning. The Post hasn’t tweaked yet to half how good the guy’s mojo is, Coop.”
“What do you mean?”
“We just picked up the surveillance tapes from the hotel. He had another woman with him for a nooner that same day. The card swipe clocks her arrival, and she left-hair all tousled and clothes messed up a bit-just after two P.M., a few hours before he jumped the bones of our vic.”
“You know who she is?”
“They’re working on it. We should have her ID’d by morning. Meanwhile I’m fielding all the calls from the senior set. Everybody wants to know Mo’s secret.”
“Secret what?”
“The man is fifty-eight years old. He had a tryst at noon and was loaded for bear again at five. Don’t you listen to those ads, Coop? If it lasts more than four hours, give your doctor a call.”
“Beside the Viagra jokes, is any serious work getting done on this case?”
“Wait till you see the war room McKinney’s set up,” Mike said, grabbing my arm as we reached the curb, then letting go to point out Kali, being rushed to a waiting limo by the pair of bodyguards who’d met her inside.
“Any real progress?”
“Hey, Sunday’s take from the media and the defense sympathizers was that a sexual assault could never have happened. MGD was rushing to meet his daughter and catch a flight. The accuser must have made the whole thing up. The old ‘he said, she said’ crap. Today’s DNA results level the playing field, don’t they? Now he can’t claim nothing happened or that he wasn’t there with her, can he? The perp’s legal eagles have to shift their argument to consent.”
“Here’s where it really gets ugly, Mike. Now the defense will want us to believe that she asked for it.”
TWELVE
“You must have come lights and sirens all the way from Paris,” Pat McKinney said when I entered the conference room with Mike shortly before seven o’clock Monday evening. He was standing at the head of the long table, flanked by the team of prosecutors and investigators he had patched together to work on the case. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to take over the hot seat? I’ll step aside.”
“You’re in charge, Pat.”
The lawyers and cops seated between us were studying the interplay. McKinney ruled by fear, often mocking the young assistants who reported to him. I never understood why Battaglia tolerated that kind of leadership, so I worked hard to keep our personal animosity from spilling into public view.
“I guess that’s it, Mr. Chapman,” McKinney said. “You wanted to play taxi driver and bring Alex to us, but now I think we don’t need your services any longer.”
Mike didn’t have a real role in this investigation or any reason to argue with McKinney. “I got places to go, people to see,” he said, with his hand on the doorknob.
“Sit yourself down over there,” Mercer said to Mike. He pointed to an open chair next to June Simpson, one of the best senior prosecutors in the Trial Division. Someone had convinced McKinney that neither he nor his girlfriend Gunsher could handle a trial that was difficult to any degree, and although June didn’t have a sex crimes background, she was a great choice for the team.
“Getting crowded in here, don’t you think?” McKinney said.
“I want Mike in this,” Mercer said, his deep voice underscoring the sense of control he exercised when he was in charge of matters on the police side. “I want his ideas, his experience-”
“Of course,” McKinney said, “a team misogynist to give us some balance on the victim’s story. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
Ellen Gunsher laughed, June Simpson and the two paralegals cringed, the Sex Crimes assistant-Ryan Blackmer-just looked wide-eyed at McKinney, and Mercer smacked his palm on the table, causing everyone to jump.
“Catch you later, Detective Wallace,” Mike said, waving to Mercer as he backed out the door. “And, Pat, if you think leaving your wife for some stolen moments with the yellow rose of Texas here is a gift to the women’s movement, you’re not firing on all cylinders.”
“Okay, children,” I said. “Let’s all get in the sandbox and hunker down together. Looks like we have a long haul ahead. Mike, why don’t you stay and-?”
“I’m on again at midnight. Mercer can pick my brain whenever he chooses. I’m outta here.”
Mercer didn’t need to speak his contempt for Pat McKinney. His expression said it all.
“June, would you ask my secretary to call the DA?” Pat said. “He wants to be in on today’s briefing.”
As June Simpson stepped out, I walked to one of the open spots at the table, sat down, and introduced myself to the paralegals I hadn’t met. Mercer passed me the case folder he had prepared for me with copies of all the police reports, medical records, employment history, and media clips.
“Was the victim in today?”
“Yeah,” Mercer said. “We had her all day yesterday, what with the first report to uniform, then interviews with the outcry witnesses at the hotel.”
“Treated?”
“Sexual assault forensic examiner at Bellevue. Plus a victim advocate who explained everything to her. That’s when I got called in.”