This was many things, a sort of political smorgasbord with something for everyone. Even with all the elected officials in the room, there was enough free press and publicity to go around. Mostly, however, this was about Steven Brightman, and everyone understood as much. About five minutes after the jewelry was confirmed as having belonged to Moira, word began leaking out about Steven Brightman’s innocence. This so-called press conference was to be a coming-out party, a resurrection of sorts, the kickoff of his campaign for higher office, whatever office that might be. Maybe it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t blame Brightman.
There weren’t quite as many people onstage as in the audience. Fishbein stood at the podium, nearly buried behind a sea of microphones. Directly behind him were the mayor, the police commissioner, and Brightman and his wife. I stood in the next row between Larry McDonald, Robert Gloria, both resplendent in full-dress blues, Wit, Pete Parson, and a sad-faced Joe Spivack. Geary, as you might expect, stood in the wings. Also in the wings were John Heaton, forehead stitched and bandaged, his estranged wife, and his son. The wife and son had been flown up overnight on Geary’s private jet. Domino was nowhere in sight.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DA said, tapping the mikes, “good morning. I’m going to make a brief statement to be followed by a few words from some of the people who share the platform with me today. Then we’ll take your questions.
“This is a day of mixed feelings. On a personal level, it is a profoundly sad day, while professionally, it is a uniquely satisfying one,” Fishbein continued. “As many of your organizations have today reported, this office, in league with the NYPD, the Department of Corrections, and a team of private investigators, has finally determined the whereabouts of Moira Heaton, the young woman who, at the time of her disappearance nineteen months ago, was working as an intern for State Senator Brightman.
“Unfortunately, it is my somber duty to inform you that Miss Heaton is deceased. Our hearts and deepest sympathies go out to her family and friends. And to spare her family any further grief, I shall, at this time, refrain from discussing the details surrounding her untimely death. A written statement will be released later today. What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that State Senator Steven Brightman has been completely and utterly exonerated in this matter. I can state this with such confidence because the man who abducted and subsequently murdered Miss Heaton, Ivan Alfonseca, popularly known as Ivan the Terrible, is in our custody and has signed a full confession which he himself dictated to his lawyer.”
The mayor and police commissioner followed the DA. They said much the same thing as Fishbein, blowing their own horns in the process. It was just amazing. As I recall, neither man was at that meeting in Joe Spivack’s office. I guess I must’ve missed something. But now it was time for the main event as Steven Brightman, his wife standing just over his shoulder, stepped to the podium. First a buzz rippled through the press corps, and then an expectant silence. He was not smiling, nor was he morose, again displaying his talent for understanding the moment.
“There is nothing for me to rejoice in today,” he began. “As is often the case in life, when one dark cloud moves on, it is replaced by another, more sinister cloud. I would gladly take back the whispers and suspicions, the backbiting and silent accusations, which have plagued me over the last nineteen months in exchange for better news for the Heaton family. Alas, no such deal can be struck, and the Heaton family is left only to grieve.
“The rest of us, however, can take this opportunity, should, must take this opportunity not to grieve Moira Heaton, but to celebrate her and the thousands of selfless, dedicated young men and women like her across this great country. Moira could have gone to any number of fine law schools or to graduate school. She could have followed in her father’s footsteps and become a member of the NYPD. But Moira took the road less traveled. She chose to commit herself to the democratic process and public service. And so, as her family grieves, let us applaud her. Let us not dwell on how her life came to an end, but rather on how she lived it. Let her life stand as an example to the rest of us.” He bowed his head and took a long pause. There were dry eyes in the place, but not many.
“I have one brief thing to say in conclusion,” Brightman continued. “Many people have already taken credit for getting to the bottom of this matter. Some rightly so.” He smiled, turning and nodding at the mayor, the police commissioner, and the DA. That got a laugh from the press. “But there is one man sharing this platform with the rest of us who truly deserves the credit. He is the man who assembled the team, the man who put together the facts that led ultimately to Mr. Alfonseca’s admission of guilt. He is a former member of the NYPD and a licensed private investigator.” He turned fully around. “Moe, will you come up here please? Moses Prager, ladies and gentlemen.”
I could not move. How, I wondered, could he do this to me? Why? Pete nudged me forward so that I was going to either walk or fall. Brightman shook my hand and shoved me onto a very isolated little island.
“This was a case to me, a case I was not anxious to accept,” I said. “I am pleased to have successfully fulfilled my professional obligations, but the results are not the results I would have hoped for. I have two-no, three things to say. First, I could not have done this without the help of Y. W. Fenn, Captain Lawrence McDonald of the NYPD, Detective Robert Gloria of the NYPD, Peter Parson, NYPD retired, and Joe Spivack of Spivack and Associates. Second, on behalf of these men and myself, I wish to extend our condolences to the Heaton family. Finally, I would ask that any reward monies due me go to establishing a scholarship fund in Moira Heaton’s name at her alma mater, Fordham University. Thank you.”
The press started firing questions before I was six inches away from the podium. Thankfully, none of them were for me. A hand reached out of the crush of bodies on the platform and grabbed my forearm. It was Brightman’s. Now he was shaking my hand.
“I think maybe I was wrong about you and politics, Mr. Prager,” he said, beaming at me. “That scholarship thing was brilliant, just brilliant.” That struck me as an odd thing to say. Once a politician, always a politician, I suppose. “Well,” he went on, “I just wanted to thank you again. We’ll be seeing you and your friends this evening, correct?”
“Tonight, yes,” I said.
“Senator Brightman! Senator Brightman!” someone from the press corps called out, and he was gone.
10-9-8, located in an old meatpacking warehouse on the Lower West Side, was the most chic, coolest restaurant in town, which, in Manhattan, meant hardly anyone knew the place existed. Once its name appeared in the papers or in New York magazine, it would sizzle, making money hand over fist, but it would fall precipitately from grace. Popularity is a kind of a curse in the city, the great New York paradox.
Geary had sent a limo to pick us all up. Unlike this morning’s press conference, there would be no somber pretense this evening. Tonight was about celebration, about showing gratitude for a job well done. I wasn’t going to argue the point. In spite of my past successes, circumstance had conspired to prevent me from sharing them. At last, I had completed a case with no dark secrets to keep, no personal price to pay. The tragedies were someone else’s.
We were shown into a private dining room inside what had once been a meat locker, the main design feature being stainless steel. Given Moira’s fate, it seemed an odd choice, but even that wasn’t going to upset me, not tonight. It was the usual cast of characters: Wit, Pete, Larry, Gloria, Spivack, Geary, Brightman, and me. Geary had promised a dinner at some later date, when things had settled down, that would include our families and friends.