Rose was my early warning system. Completely loyal to the district attorney, she had a superb ability to read his moods and transmit the data to me just as the most accurate barometer at Cape Canaveral could do for Mission Control.
"Do I get a hint about who ratted me out to the Boss?"
"It's not who you think."
I thought McKinney. The chief of the trial division, Pat McKinney was my direct supervisor. His eagle eye scoured my actions for every misstep and mistake, and he seemed never to weary of reporting them to Battaglia.
"Who then?"
"The commissioner. Don't worry, the Boss isn't angry. He just wants to know some background before he takes the call." She had intercepted the message and was giving me the opportunity to explain the situation to the DA, so he could be in the driver's seat during his conversation with the police commissioner.
The boss wasn't upset yet, because the screw-up was the doing of the NYPD. He just wanted to know the extent of our complicity before he pointed his finger at the cops.
Battaglia exhaled as I entered the room, the smoke from his Cohiba obscuring the expression on his face. "Why don't you sit down and bring me up to speed, Alex?"
Unless I was in his office to deliver good news-a DNA databank cold hit, the sentencing of a serial rapist, a bit of personal gossip he could deposit in his limitless storehouse of information-I preferred to stand and answer the questions he had ready for me, leaving as rapidly as I had arrived.
He glanced at the paper on his desk. "This-this Bessemer character. Why'd you need him brought down here?"
"I'm about to start a trial, Paul. The defendant is a guy-"
"Yeah, Andrew Tripping. That military nut who was disciplining his kid."
There were more than six hundred assistant district attorneys in Battaglia's office, the best training ground for litigators in the entire country. No detail was too small to engage Battaglia's attention, and there was no fact that I had ever briefed him on that he couldn't call up from memory unless it had to do with money I asked for to fund a special sex crimes project.
"It's a tough case, Boss. And last week Mercer Wallace got a call that one of Tripping's cellmates from the time he was in Rikers had some useful admissions to give me. Something that might put my rape victim over the top."
"Like what?"
"That's what I was supposed to find out, right about now."
The left side of Battaglia's mouth pulled back as he talked around the large cigar stub that hung between his lips. "You're losing your charm, Alex. Who thought a prisoner would prefer his freedom to tea and crumpets with you? How unusual was this arrangement?"
"Not very. The routine dance. He refused to tell the cops exactly what he had to offer until he eyeballed me to see what I was willing and able to do for him. I wouldn't talk possibilities till I knew what he was putting on the table."
"Promises?"
"Of course not. I was fairly skeptical." Snitches like Bessemer usually did more harm than good in a case like this. He had waited too long to make his offer seem sincere, and he was just as likely to be jerking me around as to have any tidbits of value. I couldn't refuse to see him without knowing what he might be sitting on, but I wasn't prepared to waste a great deal of time playing with him. CIs were the bottom feeders of the prison population.
"Worth the embarrassment of putting him back on the street while he's on his way to keep a date with you?" Battaglia asked.
"Not for a second. But, Boss, in more than a decade here, I've never heard of anything like this happening. I've had prisoners produced here scores of time-we all have. This was completely unpredictable."
"You had a loser of a case before Bessemer's phone call to the cops. So you still got a loser."
Now both sides of his mouth pulled back around the cigar into a broad smile. He went on to explain how he knew. "I just heard from Judge Moffett. Wants me to lean on you to be more reasonable."
I smiled back. That was one thing Paul Battaglia would never do. If my judgment call was a belief that the defendant was guilty as charged, and I thought I could prove it, then the district attorney's only rule was for me to do the right thing. It was one reason I loved working for the man.
"Is that why he called you?"
"In part. He wants to know what's in this case for Peter Robelon. How can Tripping afford his rates?"
Robelon was a partner in a small firm, a well-regarded boutique that specialized in white-collar litigation. His fees were among the highest in the New York bar-$450 an hour.
"I think there's some family money. Tripping's mother died about a year ago, several months before these events occurred. She had been raising her grandson until that point. She left everything she had to the defendant." I hadn't been able to discover anything unusual from the bank records.
"Interesting, but only if she had enough to cover the retainer and trial costs." Battaglia paused. "Robelon's dirty, Alex. I've got good reason to know. Watch your back."
"You want to tell me what you mean?" I asked. Peter Robelon had often been mentioned as a possible candidate to oppose Battaglia in the next election.
"Not for the time being." Battaglia protected his hoard of information like an eagle on its nest. The fact that I had spent the last year in a serious relationship with a television news reporter made him far less likely to trust me with something sensitive that could play into his political future. "Did Peter know about this Bessemer guy? Is his escape anything Peter could have had a hand in engineering?"
I was caught completely off-guard by his question. "That never crossed my mind."
"Well, keep it open, Alex. And if you're going to go belly-up on this case, do it fast. We've got a busy fall lineup and I'd like your help drafting some of the legislative proposals for the next session."
I returned to my office to find Mercer sitting at my desk, still working the phone. I motioned to him to stay put and sat facing him, waiting for him to finish his conversation. From over my shoulder I heard a knock on my office door, which was ajar. Detective Mike Chapman braced himself against the jamb, smiled at me broadly as he ran the fingers of his right hand through his thick black hair.
"Hey, Coop. What am I bid for one 'Get out of jail free' card? Only slightly used by the very nimble Kevin Bessemer."
I looked at Mercer. "Why do I think I'm about to be told what a sucker I was to fall for Mr. Bessemer's proffer of prosecutorial assistance? Do I owe Mike's appearance to the fact that you've run out of chits to call in?"
Before Mercer Wallace transferred to the Special Victims Unit several years ago, he and Mike had worked together at the elite Manhattan North Detective Squad. Like me, Mercer thrived on making the system work better for women who were victims of violence. Like the jurors of whom Moffett spoke, Mike preferred murder. There was none of the emotional baggage of traumatized rape victims to deal with, nor any hand-holding, dissembling, or cross-examination of living, breathing witnesses.
"He's my go-to man, you know that, Alex."
"And if I've got what you need, you buying dinner?" Mike asked.
"What I need is for Kevin Bessemer to walk up to a beat cop and ask for directions to my office."
"So where'd the guys from Brooklyn tell you this went down, Mercer?"
"Came off the ramp from the Triborough Bridge, heading here. Four-car pileup right in front of them-"
"And while they're watching some poor slob from Highway One clear up the mess, Kevin gives new meaning to E-ZPass, hops out of the unmarked narc-mobile, starts singing 'Feet don't fail me now,' and hightails it off into the sunset right in his own 'hood? That's what you hear?"
"Look, Mike, if you know something different, tell me," I said. "Let me score a few points with Battaglia, so he can tell the PC."
"The real deal? These morons from Narcotics tried to sweeten the pot for Kevin. Gave him a slight detour on his way downtown."