Linda Fairstein - Bad blood

“I wonder how religious the family was. What if Mrs. Hassett knew her daughter was pregnant and threw her out of the house?” I asked. “Parents have done that with girls who embarrassed them-more often than you think.”

“You’re a bit tardy with that thought, Coop. About six months too late to ask Mama, according to the headstone on her grave.”

“Maybe Bobby knew. Maybe the brothers had some idea. What if that’s why he didn’t want the exhumation done?”

Mike’s eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. “Guess I’ll have to talk to him again. Put him back on the list, after I’m done with Trish Quillian.”

“You think it throws Reuben DeSoto-the original suspect-back in the mix? What if she’d been sleeping with him and told him he was the father of the baby? He’d have no reason to rape her then-but they might have argued about it. Maybe he did kill her.”

“That whole gang she was running with in the park? I guess we’ll have to see if we can scare up any of those guys.”

Jerry Genco was ready to get us out of his hair. “Odds are this had nothing to do with the girl’s death. You know the numbers on teen pregnancy in this country? It’s a staggering figure. She had a high-risk lifestyle, this Hassett kid. We see it all too frequently here. Quite sad, really.”

The arguments I had made to Judge Gertz about my motion to use an expert on interpersonal violence in Brendan Quillian’s trial were triggered now by Genco’s dismissal of the relevance of this murder victim’s pregnancy.

“The leading cause of death for pregnant women in America is homicide,” I said.

Genco was labeling his specimens for storage. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“Pregnancy-like separation-is one of the two most dangerous times for women in a bad relationship,” I went on. “Most of them are killed by the men they’d been intimate with-I hesitate to use the word lover. You know that, too.”

“And one of the most common causes of death in those circumstances is strangulation,” Mike said, looking at me a bit less skeptically.

“So if somebody knew Rebecca Hassett was pregnant, and that somebody wasn’t happy about it, maybe it gives us a new suspect.”

“Well, I’ll be the first to tell you if I was wrong about the insignificance of this-this pregnancy. I’ll call you tomorrow to see if I can give you two any direction,” Jerry Genco said. “Maybe we can help figure the paternity. We’ll have a preliminary on the DNA of the fetal tissue in twenty-four hours.”

Ignacia Bliss took over the task of guarding me for the twelve-hour shift starting at 8 p.m. She met me inside the funeral home in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn, where Elsie Evers’s grieving relatives and an honor guard of court officers surrounded the closed coffin. The most skilled technicians in the funeral business couldn’t have reconstructed her face well enough to allow anyone to view the slain woman.

My closest friends from the office-Nan, Catherine, and Marisa-had come to the wake as well, arranging with Ignacia to follow us to my apartment. They were determined to distract me and get a read on my emotional well-being. Fortunately for me, Paul Battaglia had become mired in another matter that required his attention in Manhattan, where the people who vote for him live.

“We’re in charge of dinner,” Catherine said. “Go get into your robe.”

While I changed and Ignacia went into the guest room to make some calls, the three of them poured drinks and opened a bottle of wine.

Marisa called into the bedroom, “Does Swifty’s deliver? Delicious thought, isn’t it?”

“When they get a break in the action, ask them to send a waiter in a cab with the order. Get something for the two cops in the lobby, too.”

I padded out in a short silk robe and my ballet slippers. They were listening to television news in the den, and Nan muted it when she saw me.

“I need to hear it. It’s fine.”

“Mike and Mercer said we shouldn’t let you-”

I rolled my eyes. “I need my pals around me, just like this. I don’t need a censor.”

A seasoned crime reporter was leading off the nine o’clock hour. The chiron below him was running a strip that said BREAKING NEWS across the bottom of the screen.

“We begin with a story about the many possible sightings of the armed fugitive Brendan Quillian, who broke out of a Manhattan courtroom yesterday in a deadly blaze of gunfire.”

In the top right corner, over his head, the news producer had gathered an array of photographs of Quillian that were displayed for several seconds each. Most had been cropped from the social columns, although it was unlikely that the tuxedo-and-bow-tie outfit he was often seen in would translate to someone readily recognizable in casual street clothes.

“The damn eye,” I said, sinking into my most comfortable wing chair. “Why don’t they use that in their description?”

“Frankly, it never seemed as obvious to me,” Marisa said, “the times I’ve seen him in court.”

“He hasn’t glared at you the way he fixes on Alex,” Nan said.

“…and tips have continued to come in to police, as well as to our newsroom, from all over the Northeast. Earlier today, Brendan Quillian was reportedly sighted on an Amtrak train to Washington, as well as in a diner in Poughkeepsie, New York,” the reporter said. “So as you can imagine, it’s quite a task for the NYPD to follow up on all these calls to determine which ones have any credibility.”

“Stay with it,” the anchor said. “We understand there are Keating Properties offices worldwide, owned by the family of Mr. Quillian’s late wife. Is that true?”

“Zap him, will you?” I asked Nan as I sipped my Scotch. “I don’t think the Keatings are likely to shelter the bum, here or abroad. Any word on Lawrence Pritchard?”

“He’s dug his heels in. He’ll be served with a grand jury subpoena, but my guess is we won’t get anything from him. He’s clammed up as long as Quillian is on the loose.”

“Did you get any information on how Artie’s doing? And Oscar?”

“Artie’s coming along fine. Can’t wait to get back to work so he can tell and retell his version of the events. Oscar?” Marisa said. “I think retirement’s the next step.”

“C’mon, tell us about the wedding,” Catherine said. “Everything.”

I went through all the details of the weekend, including my meeting with Luc, while we waited for dinner to arrive.

“Why isn’t the Frenchman here tonight?” Marisa asked.

“Ignacia’ll be out any minute,” I said, holding my finger to my lips. “You think it’s possible for me to have a romance-even for a couple of weeks-without the homicide squad running a rap sheet on the guy or doing surveillance? Just a head start with a bit of privacy when this madness ends-that’s all I’m asking for.”

“A Frenchman,” Nan said, mocking a sigh. “The three of us married-with-children soccer moms will be living vicariously from the moment you get into bed with him.”

“Forget the sex,” Catherine said. “Imagine the meals. You may have to take us to France with you to chaperone this deal. Nothing less or I squeal.”

Ignacia had taken off her jacket and rejoined us. “A little wine?” Marisa asked.

Ignacia shook her head. “I’ll take a rain check, once we find this bastard.”

“Anything new from the lieutenant?” I asked. “What are the guys up to?”

“Mike and some of the others are going underground with the sandhogs.”

“What do you mean?”

“The squad-everyone’s been mobilized. There was a sit-down with the union bosses this afternoon, charting every tunnel and dig and sandhog project in the city. If Quillian leaned on any of Duke’s friends to hide him away, our guys will be looking for him down in the holes.”