Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“I’m fine.”

“You want to go to the ER? Be checked out?” Tarranta asked.

“No. Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“You got to sign this for me, then,” he said.

If I told him I knew it was an RMA form-that I had refused medical attention-he might have figured I had something to do with law enforcement. “Sure. What is it?”

He explained the procedure and then told me to get in the car to stay warm. I watched as he walked down the street, in the direction from which I’d come.

When he got back to me, he was shaking his head. “I don’t understand it, ma’am. This roadway is clean as a whistle. Nothing to skid on, unless you were wide to the side of the main lane.”

“Maybe I was.” I smiled lamely at him.

“I put a call out for a speeding silver SUV. See if anything comes from that. You think it was intentional? Some guy follow you from the party?”

“No, Officer. It wasn’t a party. It was just four of us at the house, and no one followed me when I left the street,” I said. One of the city’s best detectives had packed me into my car and waited as I drove away.

“Did you see him in the rearview mirror?” Tarranta asked. His partner approached and gave a thumbs-up, confirming that I had no record.

“I saw the car about a block after I pulled out from my friend’s house. I think I was just going too slow for the guy.”

I could tell Mercer about it tomorrow, but no need making a big deal out of it with these officers.

“Anything come back on the radio about the silver SUV?” Tarranta asked his partner.

“Nothing yet.”

“I’ll give you this number, Miss Cooper. You can call in for the police report tomorrow, for your insurance company.”

“But it’s okay for me to drive it, don’t you think?”

The two cops looked at each other. Tarranta got down on his knees and tugged on the fender, then stuck his head beneath the rear of the SUV, probably to see how firmly it was still attached.

He stood up and talked to the younger, thinner cop. “Give it a feel, will you? I don’t want to send this lady out on the highway and have the damn thing dragging behind her.”

Officer Richards didn’t seem too happy to have to get down on the pavement to examine the underside of my car. He knelt and then flattened out on his back. His head disappeared from sight as he tried to jam the loose fender back up in place.

“I’m so sorry to have caused all this trouble. Please get up. I’ll be fine.”

“Hey, Anthony,” Richards called up to his partner. “It’s not the bent metal that I’m worried about.”

He was sliding out and sitting up, holding a black object in his hand. “The problem is, she’s been tagged.”

I didn’t have to rely on television cop shows to learn the latest lingo. I knew exactly what that little object was. The young cop was telling Officer Tarranta that a Global Positioning System monitor had been concealed in the undercarriage of my SUV.

“I know what that means too,” I said to the startled cops. “This wasn’t an accident, guys. Someone’s been using a GPS to chase me around all day and night.”

“Why didn’t you just tell us you were a district attorney when we got to the scene?” Tarranta said, as we pulled into the garage at my apartment.

His boss had given the pair permission to drive me home, and Richards had followed in the RMP.

“It seemed easier not to make the connection at the time,” I said, as Tarranta trailed me through the locked door that led up the back stairwell into the lobby. “I had no reason to think anyone was targeting me for trouble.”

“You gonna talk to Mr. Battaglia in the morning?” he asked, as Vinny-one of my favorite doormen-greeted us and handed me a bundle of the day’s mail.

“Yes, Anthony. I’ll do that first thing.”

“’Cause, you know, my CO has to fill out an ‘unusual’ on this.”

We were standing near the elevators as Tarranta reminded me that the commanding officer of his precinct would indeed have to file a formal department report about something as potentially threatening as the stalking of a prosecutor.

“I understand, of course.”

Tarranta lowered his voice. “I mean, if this is a domestic or anything-if this is a boyfriend out of control-Richards and I will help you out on it.”

“You’re really kind, Anthony. I promise you it’s not that.”

“You want us to sit on your place?”

“No, thanks. You’ve done enough already. Vinny’s got my back tonight,” I said, winking at the doorman who had seen me through several worse situations. “Then Oscar comes on at eight. I just need some rest. I’m working on a tough case and I’ll be talking with the detectives in the morning.”

“Okay, then. Stay safe,” Tarranta said, as the elevator opened. We shook hands before the doors closed to take me up to the twentieth floor.

I came inside and double-locked myself in, putting the chain across too. I turned on lights-more than I needed at this late hour-and went to the bar to pour myself a Dewar’s to carry into the bedroom.

I played back my messages as I undressed to go to sleep.

The first one was from Nina, who was at home in Los Angeles. “Gabe’s going to New York in two weeks for business. I’ll come along if you can solve that horrible case and clear your calendar. Call me.”

She and I had been roommates at Wellesley and best friends ever since. Nina knew as much about me as any human being could know about another. She and Joan Stanton had been through every romance, celebration, and crisis of my adult life, and I communicated with both of them almost every day.

“Darling, it’s almost midnight in New York.” It was Luc’s voice, strong yet sexy-and comforting at a bleak three o’clock in the morning. “Thank goodness I don’t have a jealous streak. I would be sad if it’s business you’re doing still at this hour, and hope you’re out with friends. I’ll call tomorrow. Bonne nuit, mon amour.”

I stripped off my clothes and slipped on a cashmere nightshirt.

The third recording started to play. It had come in only half an hour ago, at two thirty.

There was no spoken message. It was the noise of a car crashing against something-maybe a recording of my own incident-and then the sound of tires screeching as a vehicle sped away.

I took a deep hit of scotch and checked the caller ID on the last message, but the number was blocked.

I relied on the fact that I lived in a very secure building with two doormen on duty for every shift-24/7-and after I washed up and got into bed, I kept my cell in my hand as I settled in to try to sleep. I turned out the light but sat upright for almost an hour, using the alcohol like medicine to steady my nerves and allow me a few hours’ sleep.

I remember looking at the clock every fifteen minutes until five A.M. I must have drifted off around then, and slept fairly well.

The phone rang and awakened me at nine thirty on Saturday morning.

“I’m at your door again.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you’ve got the dead bolt turned and eight chairs stacked against it, but I’m right outside your apartment door,” Mike said. “I thought it would be more polite if I called first this time instead of just banging.”

The doormen liked Mike and Mercer. It would never have occurred to them to stop him from coming up to see me.

“I’m not in the mood this morning. I’m barely awake.”

“You were in the mood last night, blondie. I can bet you that.”

“Look, why don’t you give me a break and call me this afternoon?”

“ ’ Cause you’re late.”

“Late? For what?” I knew we hadn’t made any appointments for interviews today.