Killer Look (23 page)

“Savaged,” Mike said ten minutes later. David Kingsley was gone and Mike was biting into a ham and cheese sandwich. “I'd say the kid was savaged by the old man.”

“He was savaged by Alex, too, from the sour face he dragged out of here,” Mercer said.

“Good catch, babe,” Mike said. “How'd you know that predatory stuff?”

“Precatory, not predatory. Law school—basic trusts and estates. There are no formalities to it. It's just a letter, expressing someone's desires to his or her family,” I said. “A valid will completely overrides something informal like this.”

“Whoa. That could make Kingsley predatory, too,” Mike said. “I wish I could be there when he tells Lily he screwed up.”

“That's probably already happened by now,” Mercer said. “These sands keep shifting under all the Savitsky-Savages, don't they?”

It was three o'clock by the time we finished lunch and rehashed what still needed to be done over the weekend.

I pulled a notebook out of my tote. I still liked paper better than an electronic device for my lists and memos.

“Who's looking for Josie LaPorte?” I asked.

“Lieutenant Peterson has a team dedicated to finding her, if she's still in the country.”

“Hotels in Harlem?”

“That's mine,” Mercer said. “I've got the sketch of Tanya that was done at the morgue. I'll go back over to Hal Savage now to see if security at the office building has a photo of her that's of any value. I'm working tomorrow.”

“Me, too,” Mike said. “But sneaking Sunday off if the lieutenant lets me—if there are no breaking developments. Jimmy North can cover me so I can take my mother to church.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Go back to your ballet class tomorrow morning,” Mike said. “Hang out with one of your pals in the afternoon.”

“It's like I'm missing out on everything. Will you guys rethink Monday night? Can't I please come with you to the Met?”

“We'll be working, Coop. Don't whine about it anymore, okay?”

“But I'm so much more familiar with the museum than you are. I can get you through the Costume Institute and the area behind Dendur where they'll be staging the show,” I said. “You should be grateful that I knew about precatory letters and found Tiziana Bolt to get so much good stuff from her and even tracked down the broken button from the hotel room. You guys owe me something.”

“And you'll get it when my night at the museum is over,” Mike said.

“Don't hold your breath.”

“The lieutenant would not be happy with me. It's a chance to see all the interactions, out in public where they can't too easily
hide from each other. If we don't find George Kwan at his offices this afternoon, I can do a one-on-one right there.”

“Why don't we split up?” Mercer said. “I'll double back and find out whether there's a photo and any record of the various surnames Tanya has used, and you try Kwan Enterprises. There aren't all that many hotels in Harlem, so I can jump on that. Talk to you two later.”

Mike and I walked to his car on one of the side streets. The foot traffic was slowing on Friday afternoon, and some of the shops were being closed early by the Sabbath observers who owned them.

We headed uptown on Tenth Avenue and crossed through Central Park on Sixty-Fifth Street.

For the entire ride, we batted around names and opportunities and, as Mike had wisely pointed out, the wavering alliances of the dysfunctional family members.

“Have we drawn the circle too tightly?” I asked.

“Maybe so. Wolf Savage was a man with a lot of enemies, going back decades.”

“Someone might want us to think it's all about the family, especially if the murder had to do with his business plans.”

“No question Tanya got pulled into it, one way or the other,” Mike said. “She was so vulnerable to anyone who knew of her existence.”

“Could be, then, she didn't come to New York on her own, but was invited here to be part of the problem, or at least a distraction to her father—and even to her siblings.”

“Here's your choice, Coop. I can drop you at home, or you can wait in the car at Kwan Enterprises.”

“But I can go in with—”

“Let me do this one alone.”

“I'll wait in the car.”

Mike stopped half a block away from the imposing double-wide townhouse that headquartered Kwan Enterprises, between Madison and Park Avenues. There were signs of tight security everywhere. Small cameras were mounted on the wall of the building itself and on light posts along the street. A large SUV with tinted windows was parked directly in front of the offices, and the driver standing at the ready next to it looked like a Bond villain—like Oddjob.

I watched as Mike walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell. I saw him speak into the brass intercom that was affixed to the brick wall.

When the door was opened by an employee, I noticed there was a full-length wrought-iron grate that still separated him from the interior of the building.

He was kept waiting at the entrance for three or four minutes, never once looking back in my direction. Finally, the gentleman behind the grating shook his head, and it was clear Mike was being denied admission to the townhouse.

He descended the steps and turned in the opposite direction from his car. I sat straight up and watched as he walked farther east, turning the corner onto Park Avenue. He was out of my sight.

My phone rang. “What's this about?” I asked. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. Just stay where you are, kind of slink down in the seat, and keep your eye on the door of the townhouse.”

“Why?”

“Why does everything have to be ‘why'? Can't it ever just be ‘Yes, Mike'?”

“Yes, Mike,” I said. “I'm all slinked down and my head is covered by the baseball cap that you left on the backseat. Now, tell me what I'm looking for.”

“The security guard who answered the door told me to wait while he checked to see whether George Kwan would see me.”

“I thought the receptionist told us Kwan was out of the country.”

“She did. But I'm not banking on the fact that too many of the people we've talked to lately have told us the truth about anything,” Mike said. “I could hear Kwan's voice—at least, it sounded just like the man who was screaming that first day we went to talk to people at WolfWear. He must have been in the hall, not far from the door. I heard him tell the security guard to get my name and shield number.”

“Friends in high places, no doubt,” I said. “What's he going to do—call in a complaint to the commissioner? I know you didn't give him your name.”

“Right. I also didn't want the guy at the door to see me go back to the car and get a plate number off the cameras, so I walked the other way. Wait a good five minutes, then move over into the driver's seat and come pick me up.”

“Will do,” I said. “Yes, Mike.”

The security guard had watched Mike walk away before closing the front door.

I slid over behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. I played two old Smokey Robinson songs on my iPad to make the minutes pass.

I was about to start the car when the townhouse door opened again. The security guard stepped out and looked up and down the street.

It wasn't George Kwan who emerged from the building. It was District Attorney Paul
Battaglia.

“I'm not only slouched down,” I said to Mike, from my cell. “I'm practically stuffed under the steering wheel.”

“Is he coming your way or mine?”

“His driver picked him up right in front. He pulled up from somewhere behind this car, so unlikely he saw you.”

“Are they gone?”

“Gone. I'll be right there.”

I sat up and turned the key in the ignition, waited for traffic to pass, then drove around the corner to get Mike.

“I'm choosing the drop-me-at-home option,” I said, shimmying back over to the passenger seat to let Mike drive. “I am so screwed. Curious but screwed.”

“I'll let you out at your apartment. I need to go up to the office and fill Lieutenant Peterson in on things. Stay off the telephone, Coop, and don't go near the bar, okay?”

“Who's the Wolf Savage homicide assigned to? Someone from the DA's Office must be on it with you by now,” I said. “I've got to apologize for butting in. Tell them all I know.”

“You're safe,” Mike said. “Trust me. Don't go calling around to all your buddies to find out who's on it.”

“Safe means it's one of my guys on the case.”

“That's why I was so pissed when you showed up this morning. Even with your damn button,” Mike said. “You have a way of complicating things.”

“I meant to help.”

“It's Ryan Blackmer. More than you need to know, Coop, but maybe you can back off now and leave things to us.”

I let out a deep sigh of relief. Ryan and I worked together well and he distrusted Battaglia almost as much as I did.

“Let me brief Peterson and then I'll come home. We can stay in tonight. I'll pick up some pasta and salad from Primola on my way.”

“Why do you think Paul Battaglia was meeting with George Kwan?” I asked.

“Don't go there.”

“I bet they're huge contributors to his reelection campaign,” I said. “I bet Kwan wants a favor from Battaglia—like keeping his name out of the murder investigation. Bad for business and all that crap.”

“Ryan and I will have all the answers for you next week. Give it a rest.”

“Ryan can't go up against the boss.”

“But you think you can?”

“I'm already on his shit list. Why put anyone else's job on the line?”

“You're way ahead of yourself, as always.”

“Do you know how much an individual can contribute to a candidate running for DA in New York?” I asked.

“Nope,” Mike said, turning into the driveway in front of my building.

“You can contribute twenty-seven hundred to someone in a presidential race,” I said. “For Manhattan DA? The limit is forty-four thousand. Can you believe that?”

“That's absurd.”

“I'm sure there's a way—public filings and all that—to find out how much George Kwan has contributed to Battaglia,” I said. “That could be useful to know.”

“You're going off-the-wall on me again, Coop. You mind your own business and I'll tell Ryan to check it out.”

“What other reason would Kwan and Battaglia have to be together, especially with a homicide investigation under way that has Kwan Enterprises smack in the middle of the players?”

Vinny opened the car door and greeted us. “Going upstairs, Ms. Cooper?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Draw yourself a steaming hot bath, Coop,” Mike said. “Gets out all those odd thoughts that bump around in your brain.”

“What is it I'm supposed to say?” I said, walking into the building. “‘Yes, Mike.' Right?”

“See you in a couple of hours.”

I got upstairs, threw off my coat, took out my notepad, and texted Ryan. “Call me. Urgent. Home alone.”

“You're too toxic,” he replied five minutes later. He was smart and skilled, with a great sense of humor. “Need hazmat gear to talk to you.”

“Suit up. Call.”

Ryan Blackmer phoned me ten minutes later. “I forgive you,” he said.

“You don't even know.”

“Chapman and I just talked.”

“I do owe you an apology. I didn't mean to step all over your case, but there actually wasn't a case until we made it one,” I said.
“So I feel like I'm emotionally invested in this investigation, Ryan. And yes, I'm supposed to be staying chill till I'm back on my feet, but that seems impossible for me to do.”

“I ought to get you one of those exercise wheels—human size—like my gerbils have in their little habitat, Alex. They run off a lot of energy that way. Might be good for you,” he said. “Good for Chapman, too.”

“Can I tell you everything I know?”

“Don't make me say what I want to say.”

“About this. About my impressions of the family members and the others—”

“Sure you can,” Ryan said. “Your view is always helpful.”

We talked for about twenty minutes. I went through all the details I had jotted on my notepad.

“Have you seen the boss yet?” I asked.

“Six o'clock tonight. He wants me to come to his office to fill him in.”

“He knows that I was at the morgue with Mike and Mercer,” I said. “He's already confronted me about that. I don't want that to come as a surprise to you.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“What he doesn't know is that I showed up unexpectedly at the Savage offices this morning. I mean that even Mike and Mercer had no idea I was coming. I was trying to catch up with them before they started doing reinterviews, because I thought I'd found an important evidentiary link—”

“The button? Chapman told me about the button.”

“But they had already started, Ryan. So I was there again today, after the boss told me to back off. I saw Lily and then Hal, and was still there when Reed Savage and David Kingsley came back from lunch,” I said. My instincts were to protect the detectives. “I mean, Mike directed me to keep my mouth shut, but there were
some legal issues that popped into the questioning—like offshore trading and precatory letters—so I have to admit I got more involved than I planned.”

“You might need two exercise wheels, kid. That's a pretty busy day,” Ryan said. “And it was all before you saw the boss coming out of Kwan Enterprises.”

“I'm so glad Mike told you that, too. You're one of the guys who had my back when Battaglia and the Reverend Hal situation came to light—right before my—my . . .” I stuck on the word “kidnapping.”

“I know what you're saying. I know when it was.”

“You don't need to fight
my
battles, Ryan. Just keep your eyes open so you don't walk into quicksand,” I said. “And tonight, if Battaglia tells you to back off George Kwan for any reason, just promise you'll call me.”

“No can do, Alexandra Cooper.”

“But you have to.”

“I have strictest orders from Chapman,” Ryan Blackmer said. “No further case communications with
you.”