"Well, before your weekend was ruined, I was going to ask you to come with me for a couple of hours tomorrow morning. Just wanted an extra pair of eyes going over Queenie's apartment one more time."
"What about Sarah?" I asked.
"Somehow, I don't feature going over a crime scene with Sarah's toddler and infant in tow behind her. Too much drool minimizes the potential to pick up DNA."
"Why is it that everybody is so sympathetic to motherhood?" I asked, smiling. "I haven't got any excuses that stack up against breast-feeding, Saturday-morning soccer games, runny noses, or a trip to Costco to stockpile Pampers."
"Hey, if the choice is encouraging you to stay in bed or come with me to Harlem, it's not even a close call. Pick you up after your ballet class?"
Mike knew the drill. I had studied dance since childhood, and used my weekly lesson now not only as a form of exercise, but as a way to relieve some of the tension of this all-consuming job.
"Ten o'clock, in front of William's studio."
"And do me a favor this time. Shower before you get dressed. Last time I met you after class, you smelled like a goat."
"Last time," I reminded him, "you appeared in the middle of class to drag me out because you found a dead rapist Mercer and I'd been after for two years. Trust me, I'll even put perfume on."
"I'll up the ante for you. Remember I told you the kids claimed that Queenie danced for them?"
"Yeah."
"Well, apparently before she had the stroke, she could really shake it up." Mike removed some photographs from the Redweld he carried as his case folder. "You'd have gotten along well with Queenie. She was a dancer, too."
I reached for the faded black-and-white pictures that Mike handed to me.
"See what I mean?" he asked. "Just a bit more exotic than you. Think of the money she saved on costumes."
In most of the images, there was nothing between the body of McQueen Ransome and the lens of the camera. A rhinestone tiara on her head, long black satin gloves up over her elbows, and some high-heeled strappy sandals-her exquisite figure was displayed with great confidence and pride. She appeared to be onstage, dancing for an audience. No wonder great photographers like Van Derzee had worked with her.
I turned over a few of the photos looking for anything that identified the time or place. On the back of several was a handwritten notation of the year, 1942.
"Where did you find these?" I asked.
"In one of the piles of stuff that had been dumped out of the drawers."
"Any more up there?"
"There are lots of photos. I just grabbed a couple of these to lure you in. I'm wondering if someone found all this old kinky stuff and it turned him on."
"Let's hope not. Queenie could hardly be confused with the nineteen-or twenty-year-old in these pictures. But you're right, I'm in for your morning trip," I said, gathering up my files to head for home.
"Aren't you going to stay for Jeopardy!?" Mike asked.
"Jake's back in town. Dinner at home. Why don't you scoot and take Val out someplace for a change?"
"Still here?" Lee Rudden asked, standing in the doorway with a bottle in each hand. He was one of the best young lawyers in the unit. "Want a cold brew, Alex?"
"I'm out of here, thanks." By the end of the business day on Friday, most of the bureau chiefs brought in some six-packs to end the week with a collegial get-together.
"Let me take that off your hands," Mike said, taking the offered beer from Lee.
"Got a minute? Can I run something by you real quick?"
I took the brass hourglass from my desk and turned it over. "I'll give you three, and the meter is running." One of my favorite law school professors had amused us with a similar response. Every time a student asked for a minute, it inevitably had turned into no less than ten, and now it was the same with the members of my unit.
"You know that case you assigned me on Monday?" Lee asked.
I nodded at him, but the beginning of the week seemed like a lifetime ago.
"The girl who came in from Long Island for the Marilyn Manson concert, remember?"
"Yeah. Someone spotted her standing alone on the train platform at Penn Station, crying her eyes out. Called the police."
"Right. Well, I finally got her in for the interview today. Twelve earrings in her left ear, a pierced tongue and a navel to match. Eighteen years old. She came in to Madison Square Garden with her friends, but they all got separated before the concert. The others went to buy some dope."
"And your girl?"
"She just waited for them near the stage door, holding up a poster she made at home to get the attention of the bassist."
"I'll bite. What'd it say?" I asked.
"'Fuck me, Twiggy!'"
Chapman laughed as he swigged his beer. "Don't tell me she's complaining that he actually did?"
"Nope," Lee continued. "Along came an enterprising young man who said he was part of the band's stage crew. He offered to get Alicia front-row tickets in the mosh pit, in exchange for a blowjob. So Twiggy could see the sign real good."
"This guy's taking scalping to a new level," Mike said.
"Alicia didn't mind the price a bit. They went into an alley around the corner, on Thirty-third Street, and she did the deed. The mook didn't come up with the tickets, though. She never reconnected with her buddies, and she ended up using the money for her train ride home to buy a cheap seat in the peanut gallery to hear the band and hold up her sign hoping Twiggy could see it."
"So the tears?"
"Tears for Twiggy and the lost opportunity. Says she lied to the cop and told him she was raped 'cause she once had a friend who was assaulted in the city, and those cops drove her little buddy all the way home to Syosset, free of charge."
I shooed both Mike and Lee out the door. "Doesn't sound like you need me at all."
"Just want to know whether you want me to charge her for filing a false report."
"Who'd the cops lock up? The guy she had oral sex with?"
"Yeah. Originally she claimed he forced her. Now she admits it was consensual. But he's been in jail for five days."
"How much time did the cop put in on this?" Mike asked.
"Spent half the night with the kid at the hospital, then schlepping her home to Mom and Dad and explaining the whole situation. The parents broke his balls, even though he was just the messenger."
"Book 'er," Mike said. "Whaddaya say, Coop?"
"I'm with Mike. Let's go, guys."
We turned the corner into the main hallway, which was dark and quiet. A figure was sitting at the security desk opposite the elevators, talking on a cell phone, his back to us. It was long past the hour the guards remained on duty anyplace in the building except the entrance lobby.
As we passed the desk, the man in the chair spun around and spoke. I recognized Graham Hoyt just as he said my name. "Ms. Cooper? Alex? Could I speak with you?"
I took Mike by the arm, knowing that he would recognize that as a signal to stay with me. I wanted him there as a witness to any conversation I had with Dulles's lawyer. "Sure. How'd you get in here at this hour?"
"Oh, I dropped by to see one of my law school classmates, and had this idea I wanted to talk to you about. I went by your office on my way out, and when I heard voices, I decided to wait for you."
"Who's that?" Mike asked, with an edge in his voice. "Your law school classmate?"
"Jack Kliger, in the Rackets Bureau. Took him a bottle of champagne. He and his wife just had a baby."
Jack was a bit older than I, and had gone to Columbia. It was true that his wife had recently given birth to their third child. I could check Hoyt out with him next week, but it seemed obvious he knew Kliger.
"What did you want to see me about? I've got an appointment I'd like to keep this evening."
He looked at Chapman, and then back to me.
"Mike Chapman," I said to Hoyt. "Homicide. He stays."
"I'm in the middle of a difficult situation," Hoyt said, with some hesitation. "Peter Robelon doesn't know I'm here. I think he-and Andrew Tripping-would take my head off if they thought I was talking to you about Dulles. But I think you and I ought to find a way to agree on some kind of solution that would be in the best interest of the child."