Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“Will do.” He tossed his head in my direction, expecting I wouldn’t catch the body language-his request that Mike do some hand-holding for a while.

“What’d we miss, blondie?” Mike hovered over me while he talked. “This Eugenia was also from Ukraine?”

“Yes, but more than six months ago. She was living with Rowdy, but threatening to blow the whistle.”

“So I should have noticed nails bitten to the quick? Half the girls on the boat were like that, their nerves shot to hell. The jogging bra? Is that so very American?”

“The rose tattoo. I should have figured that wouldn’t have happened to the girl until she was firmly the property of her trafficker.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. Could just have easily have been done before she set sail. Did he admit to tagging your car with the GPS?”

The flashes of light had stopped, but now from below I could hear voices. Someone was talking about a body bag. Another guy warned his companions not to step in the blood.

“I’m talking to you, Coop. Did Rowdy say he tagged you? Don’t listen to what’s going on.”

“He talked about guys who did the dirty work for him and for Reid. Guys he’d locked up, street thugs.”

“Who better to have access to a GPS than Rowdy? Probably walked into headquarters and told them the mayor’s detail needed a few. Queered the numbers off them so they’d be impossible to trace.”

“This what you think Rowdy was after?” Mercer said.

At the point where the crown molding touched the edge of the ceiling, almost seven feet above the landing, Mercer had dislodged and removed a loose brick. He reached in, retrieving a small plastic folder, not much bigger than a wallet, with a zippered top.

“What have you got?” Mike asked, walking away from me.

“Your idea, Detective. Take a gander.” Mercer stepped around him and reached out for me. “On the count of three, you’re on your feet. There’s still some life in those eyes of yours, isn’t there? You’ve got to be a little bit curious.”

I clutched the stair rail with one hand and grabbed on to Mercer with the other.

Mike had unzipped the pouch and was scanning the documents inside. “This is why Rowdy was risking so much to climb up here, and why Anita was willing to come with him.”

“What are they?” I was standing, surprising even myself, sandwiched between my two friends.

“These two are American passports. One for Salma Zunega and one for Anita Paz. The letter enclosed with them says they were obtained from the office of Congressman Ethan Leighton.”

“That means they might even be legit. Passports and potholes-that’s what most congressmen do half the day. No wonder there were no papers kept in Salma’s apartment. That’s one of the holds, one of the controls, Rowdy kept on his girls. He hung on to the only proof they had that made them legal,” Mercer said. “What’s that other one?”

Mike unfolded the cream-colored paper. I could see that it was headed in fancy calligraphy, bore a seal of some kind, and had the print of a tiny foot inked on it.

“It’s the birth certificate for Ana.”

“Oh God. What will become of the child?”

“Don’t buckle now, Alex,” Mercer said, resting his hands on my shoulders.

“Says she was born to Anita Paz in Brownsville, Texas. Gives the name of the hospital and date of birth.”

“Paternity?” I asked. “Did she-?”

“Yeah. According to this, Ana’s father is Kendall Reid.”

Mercer’s low whistle blew into my ear. “No wonder Rowdy was so bound and determined to get up here. Fine piece of blackmail that is. Any question between them of who gets whatever cash is still hidden away, Rowdy Kitts would have been holding the golden key to unlock the moneybags.”

“Reid’s baby. Ethan Leighton’s beloved protégé duped him into thinking the kid was his own.”

“You’re assuming Reid knows the truth,” I said.

“There’s a gift to put right in the lap of Tim Spindlis. That’ll let him tighten the screws on Reid.”

“So now this baby has no mother, and her real father’s about to be a convicted felon, once my office finishes with him.”

“You can’t do all the world’s worrying, Coop. Maybe Anita’s aunt really is a decent, hardworking woman. ACS will look into that. I’ll make you a promise here and now. We’ll sit on that one, with you, to be certain Ana’s taken in-eventually adopted-by the kind of family she deserves. Hell, anything’s better than the way she’s been treated till now.”

I looked at Mike quizzically. He didn’t make pledges lightly.

“You have my word.”

“Chapman?” a deep voice called from below.

“Yeah?”

“All clear here. You can start on down.”

“Thanks. We’re on the way.”

“Where’s my Bloody Mary? I think I need it.”

“I’ll spring for a six-pack when we get you home.”

“How am I going to do this?”

“You’re going to trust us, Alex, like you always do,” Mercer said. “I’ll go first, just one step ahead of you. Mike will be right behind. You need to hold on to me? You do that.”

“But if I trip, you’re the one who’ll get hurt. What if I knock you over?”

“You’re more surefooted than that. I’m not the least bit worried.”

Mercer put his foot down one step and I forced myself to the edge of the landing. I picked my chin up and looked out the window for the first time from the top of the stately tower.

The sky was a crisp, clear blue. The clouds that shrouded the skyline in a wintry mist the last few days had passed through the city. I thought of all the victims of the shipwreck, and how the turn of events of the last few hours could speed their clearance through the system and let them get on with their lives.

My gaze caught on the promontory where the mayor’s elegant mansion jutted out into the East River. I had met the deadly fury that is Hell Gate head-on.

Mike put his hand on my shoulder gently, to reassure me that he was right there with me. “Enough with your sightseeing, Ms. Cooper. It’s not every day I offer to buy the first round of cocktails.”

“Good morning, Alex. I’m Elizabeth Arrington. How do you feel?”

Two days had passed since my terrifying confrontation with Rowdy Kitts. Mike, Mercer, and I were in a conference room at the federal courthouse on Pearl Street where Arrington, an assistant United States attorney, was about to appear before a magistrate judge for the arraignment of Kendall Reid on trafficking charges.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Don’t worry, Liz,” Mike said. “She cleans up a hell of a lot better than this. Give her a month or two.”

I was sitting at the end of a long wooden table. Mercer had planted himself as close to me as physically possible, his chair catty-corner to mine, staring like a family member watching a critically ill patient in an intensive care unit. Mike was leaning against the windowsill, impatiently waiting for the magistrate.

“You understand that I’ll be handling Reid’s case?” Arrington asked. “I’m sure you know that Donny Baynes has recused himself.”

The feds had taken jurisdiction of the trafficking investigation that stretched halfway around the world at this point, and it would doubtless grow as more victims were uncovered by cooperating witnesses. For once, Battaglia didn’t battle to keep the case, in large measure because my involvement would have made his efforts futile.

“I’m very glad it’s in your hands,” I said, hoping my smile looked as sincere as it was meant to be. Liz Arrington, a short feisty brunette, had done a brilliant job as second seat to the lead prosecutor in the trial of one of the most notorious terrorists-a blind sheikh who had masterminded the planning of bombings at several land-marked buildings but was caught before the acts were completed. “You’ve got a great reputation.”