Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“This was on Jane’s upper body, more or less,” Pomeroy said, pointing at a black fleece jacket with a zippered front and a hood. “Those tears in it may well have been caused by the ocean floor. They’re too ragged, too uneven, to have been cut.”

Mike pulled a pair of latex gloves from his rear pants pocket and lifted the jacket to examine it. “Still damp. Looks pretty chewed up.”

“That hole in the chest area is a spot we cut out for the lab. I assume it’s blood, but it’s a pretty discreet little stain. Easy to miss in light of all the action.”

“Any labels?” I asked. I wanted to know where the clothing had been manufactured and, if very lucky, where in the Ukraine it had been sold.

“Nada,” Mike said. “Your generic sweat jacket.”

“And the pants?”

“Kinda look like pajama bottoms, don’t they?” he said, holding up a pair of thin cotton pants with a drawstring waist. They had also been shredded, presumably, while being tossed around in the sea. “Brrrrrrrrrr. Guess she didn’t mind the cold very much.”

Mike looked in the waistband and along the interior seam of each leg but shook his head to indicate he had found no markings.

“Underwear?” I asked.

“It’s a sports bra, right?” Mike said. He hoisted it up with his fingertip. It appeared to be some sort of Lycra stretch material, again with no label.

“No panties,” Pomeroy said. “Probably set to bunk down for the night.”

“That’s odd. I’d have thought they’d all be warmly dressed and ready to be unloaded for their arrival in America,” I said.

“Maybe she was offed while she was suiting up,” Mike said. “It doesn’t take every broad in the world as long to get herself presentable as it does you.”

Pomeroy looked at me for a response or change of expression. People who had worked with Mike and me for years tried to guess at whether his personal jabs reflected an intimacy that meant we had crossed professional lines. I sometimes wondered the same, but had put up with them for so long that now they rarely distracted me.

“How about the two drowning victims?” I asked.

“The young man was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Very American style,” Pomeroy said. “I think my assistant said they were made in China.”

“And Jane Doe Number Two?”

“Her things are spread out across the hall, if you’d like to see them. A coarse sweater that looks homemade.”

“Intact?” I asked.

“Practically unraveled,” Pomeroy said, screwing up his face as he searched for words to describe the items. “Her underwear was in tatters. Sort of dingy-looking stuff. And both girls had tattoos.”

“Did you know that?” Mike asked me.

“No. Are they the same?”

Pomeroy covered the victim’s head-as though he didn’t want her watching while he exposed her lower torso to us-and folded back the sheet from her feet up to her waist. “The other girl has a small flag.”

“Blue on top, yellow below?”

“Yes, Mike.”

“The Ukrainian flag-they were all over the ship too.”

“Where? I mean, on what part of her body?”

“On her shoulder blade, Alex. The right one.”

“But this girl-Jane Doe Number One-where is hers?”

Pomeroy moved his gloved hand along Jane Doe #1’s thigh. “It’s a flower of some sort. Looks to me like a-I don’t know. I’m not into gardening.”

The small tattoo-bloodred ink within a black outline-sat almost at the crease in the skin where her inner thigh joined her body.

I bent over to study the image.

“Do you recognize the design?” Pomeroy asked.

“No, Doctor. It’s the placement of the tattoo that’s significant to me.”

Mike cocked his head and stepped in closer. “Talk, Coop.”

“When victims are trafficked into this country, they’re often tattooed by someone who works for the snakehead. Stakes her out as his property. The girls being sold for prostitution-the better ones, the younger ones-are often marked right here, close to the opening of the vaginal vault. It’s a symbol of their pimp’s control.”

“So we know what kind of work she was destined for,” Mike said. “Now we’ve just got to identify the bastard who set her up.”

“Jane Doe Number One,” I said. “Personal property of… the rose.”

It was almost nine P.M. when Mercer walked into Dr. Pomeroy’s office, where Mike and I were waiting for two of the shipmates who’d been treated and released from the hospital to be brought into the viewing room to try to identify the deceased.

“Got anything for a headache, Alex?” he asked.

“My tote’s on the floor in the corner. Open the cosmetics bag.”

“Don’t take the ones that make Coop hallucinate that she’s going to solve this mother anytime soon,” Mike said. “You know any bad guys use the nickname ‘The Rose’?”

I handed Mercer my bottle of water and he downed the tablets, shaking his head.

“I hate to ask what took you so long,” Mike said, “but what took you so long? I thought you were coming through the tunnel when you called.”

“Detour to East End Avenue,” Mercer said, turning to me. “Salma’s goin’ all crazy on us. Or on Leighton.”

“What now?” I asked.

“Another nine-one-one call. Screaming for help.”

I leaned back in Pomeroy’s desk chair and rested my head. “About what? That Leighton was threatening her, while he was sitting in the courthouse with Lem?”

“Worse than that. She said that the congressman was actually in the apartment, trying to take the baby away from her.”

“You’re sure that’s what she said? There goes her credibility.”

“Wait a minute. Exactly what time?” Mike asked. “Tell Mercer about tonight.”

“I’m too embarrassed. You tell him.”

Mike and Mercer tried to construct a time line, based on my estimate of when I left the office. “Entirely possible,” Mike said.

“The nine-one-one operator who got the call speaks Spanish. That’s what Salma said.”

“They responded, right?”

“And so did I.”

“Well?”

“No sign of Leighton. The doorman said nobody except Salma’s sister showed up for her today. Left with the baby around six o’clock.”

“You talk to her yourself?”

“Salma wouldn’t let the uniformed guys in at first. She thought they were just harassing her again. “

“How’s her English?” Mike asked.

“Good. Perfectly good. The doorman confirmed that when she gets excited or upset, she’s pretty shrill in both languages, but Spanish first.”

“So she understood why you were there?”

“You bet she did. Denies making the calls, denies having heard anything from Leighton since he left the apartment early this morning. Says one of his aides called her several times to tell her what happened to him and that she should avoid the reporters. Lem phoned too.”

I grimaced. “Thank goodness he hasn’t had time to meet with her yet.”

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Mercer said. “I’ll tell you, Salma makes no effort to keep her temper in check. She started chewing out the cops for disturbing her. Told them they better not come back ’cause she’d been up all night and wanted to get some sleep. She doesn’t care how many nine-one-one calls they claim to get, she’s not the one making them.”

“You checked to see if there’s anyone else in the apartment? A nanny, another relative with a screw loose who could be calling nine-one-one while Salma doesn’t even know?”

“All clear, Mike.”

“And the basement? No one tinkering with the phone lines there?”

“I went down myself to double-check the techs who came over. Nothing touched.”