Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“I should have learned my lesson Thursday not to trifle with you,” he said, taking us down the stairs and back to the foyer. “Morris, John Jay, Alexander Hamilton. They were all part of Archibald Gracie’s circle of friends.”

I reached the bottom step and could tell from the mayor’s body language-a slight grimace, his feet planted firmly in place, and his arms crossed on his chest-that he was ready for us to be out of his hair.

“So Hamilton Grange,” I said, “was that designed with this mansion in mind?”

“Exactly, Alex. Hamilton was quite close to Archibald Gracie. He admired this house tremendously. He even hired the same architect to design his. You should visit the Grange sometime. There aren’t many of these original Federal masterpieces still standing in Manhattan. How many would you say, Roland?”

Rowdy Kitts shrugged and held up his hands. “Not my thing, sir. I don’t have any idea.”

“Why don’t you and Dan show them out?” Statler said. “We’ve got to be on our way. There’s an event at Madison Square Garden before we get to City Hall.”

“Mind if we leave by the front door?” Mike asked. “I never get tired of looking. It’s got to be one of the most spectacular views in Manhattan.”

“Help yourself,” Statler said, stepping aside so one of his aides could open the door.

“Gracie didn’t have the same political prominence as his friends, did he?” Mike asked, backing away from the mayor.

“He never held office like the others. Gracie was a merchant, first and foremost,” Statler said. “Built up his great shipping enterprise but then everything collapsed-first his businesses, then giving up this home he loved so dearly-as a result of the War of 1812. Many of his fleet were captured or burned or lost at sea.”

“Interesting that he was so involved with all the great political figures of the day,” Mike said, turning to walk with me.

“By virtue of a gentlemen’s social group, Detective, Gracie dined with Hamilton and the others regularly. Turtle soup and oysters and pomegranates, all from his own lush property, right here.”

“What is it you want to know from us, Mr. Mayor?” Mike asked.

“How fast are you moving on this case?”

“Do you mean Salma’s murder, or the Golden Voyage investigation? They’re all part of one big picture, and even as pieces fall into place, none of it will be so quick to resolve,” Mike said. “Why?”

“The rumors flying around are outrageous,” Statler said. It was obvious he was trying to keep his temper from flaring. He was used to being the man in control and seemed helpless without his hand on the helm.

“Which ones are you referring to exactly, sir?”

“If they’ve reached City Hall I’m sure they’ve filtered down to the homicide squad. Scandal smells, Detective. It’s got a disgusting, rancid odor that compromises everything around it.”

“Especially when you’ve got your sniffer aimed on higher office, I guess.”

“It’s not just rumors about me. Those are hogwash.”

“Rumors about you?”

“I understand that Commissioner Scully let it leak that I refused to let your team work up here on Thursday, like he asked me to.”

“Right in the same breath when you assured us that Salma was bound to turn up,” Mike said. “My crystal ball wasn’t so optimistic about that as you were.”

Rowdy Kitts took a step in Mike’s direction. “C’mon, Chapman. Take it outside.”

“What would you like to know, Your Honor?” I asked, as Rowdy guided Mike onto the porch.

“These cases-the shipwreck and the mess with Leighton’s girlfriend-exactly how are they related?”

“I don’t mean to be difficult, Your Honor, but we don’t know the answer to that yet. It’s possible that Salma Zunega was originally trafficked into this country from Mexico, like the women on the boat from the Ukraine.”

Vin Statler lowered his head and paced across the patterned floorboards. “Scully and your boss are both treating me like I’ve got leprosy. I’m the goddamn mayor of this city. The whole place seems to be up for sale and I can’t get the attention of the police commissioner or the district attorney.”

“What is it you want to tell them?”

“Nothing you can help with.” The noise Statler made sounded like a snicker. “I didn’t see you getting too far with them the other day.”

“I can usually tweak Battaglia’s ear.” If case law didn’t open that passageway, dicey gossip from high-placed sources often did.

“It’s the rumors about pay-for-play that are so pernicious,” the mayor said. “Ethan Leighton’s father-Moses-and the lieutenant governor-Rod Ralevic-are determined to have an influence on the congressional candidate who’ll run to replace Ethan.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “But Ethan hasn’t stepped down yet.”

“He may try to ride this one out a few days like Eliot Spitzer did, but it won’t fly. Even that congressman from Staten Island tried to do that a few years back-you know who I mean?”

“Vito Fossella.” Fossella had shattered a promising political career when his late-night drunk-driving arrest led to his admission about a second family he had sired in D.C.

“Yeah. Fossella. Well, Ethan’s affair, the accident, the drinking, maybe his strong streak of ambition has him believing it will blow over in a week. I don’t think he realizes that Moses Leighton himself has somebody lined up to keep the congressional seat warm. A dead girlfriend? Murdered? People won’t let Ethan Leighton get away with that.”

“Get away with it?” I asked. “You have the facts to convince me that it’s Ethan who killed her?”

Vin Statler squared off and faced me. “What I’m suggesting, Alexandra, is that you focus on why somebody is dragging this crap to my doorstep. I don’t know how deep Ethan’s problems run. He set the girl up, he knocked her up-”

The mayor paused for a breath. I didn’t want to tell him yet that Salma, in all likelihood, had not actually given birth to a child. “What else, sir?”

“Moses Leighton was his son’s power broker. He’s been living to see that kid fulfill all his own unrealized dreams. Heaven help the person who threatened to undermine that, and if it was the girlfriend, don’t put anything beyond what Moses would be willing to do to get rid of her.”

“You’re just speculating.”

“You don’t know the man. He’s hired thugs to break voting machines on Election Day, he’s paid off the opposition with millions of dollars when they’ve been hungry enough to take it, and he wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to have one of his goons slit this girl’s throat.”

“So that’s what you’d like me to tell the district attorney?”

“Your boss isn’t known for doing stupid things, Alex,” Statler said. “But Thursday night was an exception. Charged in on me with-what’s that guy’s name?”

“Spindlis. Tim Spindlis.”

“Charged in to tell me they absolutely had to announce the City Council indictments then. That moment, that night. The damn grand jury’s been sitting on the case for four months. Why’d he do that?”

“Again, sir, I don’t know.” This wasn’t the time to reveal my own suspicions about Spindlis.

“I’ll tell you why. Kendall Reid is nose-deep in whatever the Leightons are cooking up. He’s dirty, Alex, and for some reason, Battaglia didn’t want to wait to see where that road led him. If there are more bodies, Kendall Reid knows where they’re buried.”

Statler was flailing about. “Your colleague-Mr. Spindlis. You trust him?”

“I do. Of course I do. I’ve worked with him for years.”

“Tell Battaglia to watch his back,” Statler said, getting to his point. “Rod Ralevic is going down, you know. People won’t stand for that pay-to-play approach. He’s out on a limb and I think it’s about to get cut off by the feds. And the story I hear is that your man Spindlis goes down with him.”