The Deadhouse (42 page)

"She's an architect. Only woman partner in a pretty sizable firm.
Does design work for large urban projects, everything from creating new
sites adjacent to Battery Park City to planning the Miami Heat sports
complex."

I guess the answer surprised me. I paused long enough between
questions for Mike to sense my reaction.

"You were expecting a barmaid? Or maybe a peanut vendor from Yankee
Stadium?"

I blushed as I protested, "I, uh, I wasn't expecting anything in
particular." I had seen Mike through a number of casual relationships
over the years, usually with women who had a lifestyle as uprooted as
his—journalists, flight attendants, actresses—and rarely grounded at a
serious stage in their professions.

"Thirty-two years old. Went to UCLA, majored in medieval history.
She can sit up all night talking to me about the rule of Saint Benedict
and reciting lines from Havelock the Dane. Don't imagine it would turn
you
on, blondie, but it works like magic on me."

"She sounds—"

"Got so hooked on Gothic architecture—flying buttresses and
Rayonnant design—he went on for her graduate degree at Stanford. Don't
even toy with me on the subject, kid. I'll be murder on those
Jeopardy!
questions now."

"I'd love to—"

"Don't be patronizing with me. She's every bit as intelligent as
your frigging pals."

"What are you getting so damn defensive about? I'm trying to tell
you that I'd like to get to know her, to spend time with her."

"Jacobsen."

I slapped my hand on the dashboard. "That's what you're being so
weird about." I laughed. "She's Jewish, too?"

"Like you're the only one I'm supposed to find interesting?"

"Like I'm delighted that you stepped out of your narrow-minded
little world and—"

"You're only barking at me like this because you
are
jealous.
I was right last night. You can't get beyond having me at your
disposal, twenty-four-seven, then jerking me around when you set off on
a jaunt with one of your fancy beaux."

"I can't believe that's the way you would characterize our
friendship. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you, and I
know you've demonstrated that over and over again for me. Why wouldn't
I want you to be happy?"

There was not a single reason for Mike to be sniping at me. I leaned
back in the seat and pushed myself again to explore my feelings about
our relationship. There was no question that I had never expected him
to be seriously involved with someone who was not Catholic, and I had
often wondered, despite his obvious intelligence, whether he was
threatened by women of substantial professional accomplishment. Maybe
we had both struggled against our mutual attraction from time to time.
I hated the idea that I might be envious of his lover.

I shook off my concern and smiled over at Mike, hoping to soothe him
with an effort at a joke. "What you don't realize is how flattering I
find this whole thing."

"Right."

"Accomplished, interesting, smart, Jewish. Pat McKinney might even
think I'm the one who opened your eyes to a different kind of woman."

Instead of responding with a clever dig, Mike snarled, "Val's
nothing like you."

"Don't be such a Grinch. You know I'm just kidding about—"

"She's not lucky, Coop. You're the luckiest girl I know, and Val is
way overdue for a heavy dose of the good fortune you've been dealt." I
had not seen Mike this intense since Mercer's shooting. There was no
relieving his edge.

I didn't know in which direction to move the conversation. Every
angle I started with met a dead end. I stared out the window as the
wipers swished the soft flakes from side to side and waited for Mike to
take this where he wanted.

We were in the underpass beneath the United Nations Building now,
stuck in the middle lane behind three cars that had piled up in a
fender bender. When Mike spoke, I couldn't see his face because of the
darkness in the short tunnel.

"I guess Sloan-Kettering isn't the best place in the world to pick
up a girl."

The superb cancer facility occupied a city block on York Avenue,
midway between Mike's apartment and my own. Many of my friends had been
treated and saved by the phenomenal medical staff that served its
patient population. I looked at the shadow of Mike's profile while he
talked to me.

"After Mercer was hit, I made it a point to donate blood, to replace
all the pints that had been used in his surgery. All the guys did it. I
decided to go to Sloan-Kettering. Just seemed like the best place to
give. First time I was there, in the blood center, I saw her. She was
resting on one of the recliners, like she was at the beach. Had a
bright blue silk scarf tied around her head, knotted at the nape of her
neck, with a big smile on her face while she chatted with the nurse.
Just the most luminous skin I'd ever seen.

"We only talked for about fifteen minutes that day. She had to give
some of her own blood to be tested for a kind of experimental
treatment. She was finishing her juice, getting ready to leave, and
they were prepping me to start. Long enough for me to find out what her
name was and where she worked."

Mike maneuvered out from behind the stuck cars and into the
right-hand lane, crawling back out onto the wet highway. "She wouldn't
see me for more than a month. I hadn't realized that there was no hair
under her scarf, and she was afraid to tell me. Afraid I wouldn't want
to take the next step."

I thought back to my glimpse of the woman in Mike's bed. I had only
seen the slender outline of her body beneath the sheet, and the
short-cropped brunette hair against the pillow. "What kind of cancer
does she have?"

"I'm using the past tense. Had. Val
had
breast cancer. A
very aggressive kind, no family history. They did a mastectomy last
year and some radical chemotherapy. She's healthy now."

He paused and looked away from me, out toward the river. "I'm
betting on her, Coop."

"Of course you should be. You've got a whole built-in cheering
section, for chrissakes. Why wouldn't you think Mercer and Vickee and
Jake and I can't be part of this?"

He didn't answer me aloud but nodded his head in assent. Perhaps it
had more to do with Mike exposing his own vulnerability to us than
keeping Val away from his friends.

"How about next weekend, Jake and I can do a dinner party?"

Mike took his eyes off the road, looked over at me, and chuckled.

"See, I knew I could make you smile. Jake can cook, I'll do the
dishes."

"You'll like her. You two can go on and on about Chaucer and Malory
and the
Cursor Mundi
—all that Middle English literature you
guys thrive on." The familiar grin was gone now. "She just gets tired
easily. We'll make the first one an early night, if you don't mind."

I cursed myself for my glibness about Mike's mysterious woman. I
knew and appreciated the blessings of good health and good genes. Last
night, while Val was cradled safely in the arms of the man who adored
her, I was tramping around the darkened streets of Manhattan in a
petulant tantrum, thinking I could enlist Mike's aid like Guinevere
summoning her knights. Why wasn't I content to stay at home and talk
things through with Jake?

Mike let me out in front of the courthouse and I stopped to b
_u
y
coffee for both of us before going upstairs to my office. There
_w
as
a voice mail from Laura telling me that she wouldn't be in today from
Staten Island because of the bad weather, and two messages from Jake,
asking me to call. The earlier one was solicitous in tone, the second
was stern and somber. I ignored both.

This would be a quiet week, with many assistants taking vacation
leave during the court hiatus between Christmas and New Year's.

Sylvia Foote was the first to call, confirming the meeting she had
set for one o'clock and asking whether I had heard about last night's
burglary. Police were once again working their way through the King's
College building, even as Foote's animosity toward me once again
increased.

Mike walked in as I hung up the phone. He picked up the receiver and
dialed Information, asking for Michael's restaurant. The automated
voice connected him directly, at the additional cost of thirty cents to
the district attorney.

"Good morning. This is Jake Tyler, NBC News. I called last night to
book a table for lunch."

"He wanted that private table in the alcove, under the window," I
reminded Mike in a whisper.

"That's right, that nice one up front. I won't be needing it after
all. I'd appreciate it if you cancel my reservation." He hung up, then
took off his trench coat and threw it on a chair. "Make you feel
better? At least when he shows up with his secret source, they won't be
holding a special place for him."

Mike picked up the phone when it rang again. "Hey, Jake." He looked
at me for guidance.

I mouthed the word "no" as clearly as I could.

"Nope. Haven't seen her yet. Think she spent the night with David
and Renee. You really put her in some kind of snit, man. Nothing that
about three dozen yellow roses and the sight of you on your knees in
the slush can't correct. Oh, and the whereabouts of that broad who got
whacked this weekend. Call back when you got that, Jake. I'll tell her
to give you a buzz when she gets down here."

He pressed the plastic button to end the call and stood with the
receiver in his hand as the phone immediately rang again. "Ms. Cooper's
office and she
really
doesn't want to talk to an asshole
like you." Mike paused. "Whoops, sorry, Your Honor. I'm new here.
Thought you were just another crank caller for the lovely prosecutor."

Mike passed the call to me. "Yes, sir, I do recognize the name. No,
I think she's away for the week but I'll be right down. Yes, I'll
handle it myself." I gave the phone back to Mike. "Make yourself
useful. I've got to go down to AP3. There's a bit of a crisis on one of
our old cases and the assistant has the week off."

I slipped the chain with my identification badge around my neck and
went to the staircase to wind my way over to the elevator bank that
descended to the misdemeanor courtrooms on the fourth floor of the
building. My deputy, Sarah Brenner, had been on maternity leave since
her baby was born in the middle of the summer, and it wouldn't be soon
enough until she returned to the unit. It was impossible to stem the
daily flow of incoming mayhem, even in the midst of an ongoing murder
investigation.

I entered the rear of All-Purpose Part 3 through the double-swinging
doors, and scanned the rows of benches for Juan Modesto. I couldn't
spot him anywhere. Judge Fink had asked me to speak with the clerk, and
the court officer guarding the entrance to the well of the courtroom
unhooked the metal chain and let me through.

When I approached the clerk's desk, she motioned me to lean in so
that she could speak to me without disturbing the judge during his plea
negotiations with a defendant on a buy-and-bust case.

"Are you familiar with this one?"

"Pretty well," I said, trying to pull up the facts from my memory.
"Modesto beat and raped his girlfriend. He's out on bail, pending the
indictment. She's been uncooperative, claims he's been threatening her
to drop charges or he'll kidnap the baby and take him back to the
Dominican Republic. The judge issued an order of protection last time
the case was on. I think we asked for an adjournment to late in
January, figuring we might be able to change her mind after the
holidays.

"Sorry, I didn't have instructions down here today. I honestly
didn't know the case was on the calendar."

"It's not. Check this one out. You know what your victim looks like?"

"Yes. I've met her a couple of times." I had spent the better part
of an afternoon with her at the beginning of the month, trying to
convince her to prosecute. Together with my young colleague who was
assigned to the matter, I had reminded her that Modesto's assaults were
occurring with greater frequency and causing more serious injury.

"Why don't you take a slow walk back down the aisle. Second row, end
seat on your left. Tell me who you think is hiding beneath the wig,
sunglasses, and lady's overcoat?"

I made a cautious circle around the busy room, pretending to be in
search of a witness, before returning to the clerk's desk. "It's not my
victim, if that's what you mean."

"The judge just wanted to be sure. He thinks it's Juan Modesto
himself. Marched right up to me, told me she was Lavinia Cabrinas, and
that she wanted to ask Judge Fink to drop all the charges against
Modesto and vacate the order of protection. We thought the five o'clock
shadow and the falsetto voice were a little off for Ms. Cabrinas, so I
told 'her' to have a seat. The judge just wants you to confirm it
before we call the case."

I turned to check the audience again. "Not even close. I've seen
lots of guys beat the rap, but never this way."

"Why don't you wait over here, behind me."

When the plea on the drug possession case was completed, the clerk
nodded to the judge, who directed a recall on the Modesto matter,
adding it to the day's calendar. The defendant moved to the railing
behind the well and repeated his request, in his prissiest imitation of
a soft-spoken Latina.

Four court officers surrounded him as Neal Fink, a no-nonsense
jurist, ordered him to take off his glasses, which he did without
hesitation. The next request was to remove his wig. Modesto froze, and
again the judge told him to take off his hairpiece. When he refused to
acknowledge the direction a fourth time, the judge told the officers to
lift the jumble of black acrylic from the petitioner's head. Two held
his arms while the others tugged at the phony curls, pulling them free
from the bobby pins that had secured the wig to Modesto's own greasy
pompadour.