Linda Fairstein - Entombed

I had grown up in a loving family, too, but came to public service from a completely different direction. My two older brothers and I were young kids when my father, Benjamin Cooper, revolutionized the field of cardiology with an invention that he and his partner created for use in surgical procedures. The small piece of plastic tubing known as the Cooper-Hoffman valve remained an essential component in every operation done in this country for the fifteen years thereafter.

The trust fund that my father established for each of us was a cushion while he encouraged us to find ways to give back to society by working in the public sector. My schooling in Westchester was followed by a degree from Wellesley College, and then law school at the University of Virginia. It was in Charlottesville that I fell in love with Adam Nyman, the young physician who was killed in an automobile accident as he drove to the Vineyard to be married at the beautiful old farmhouse we had bought together.

"It's odd sometimes. So many of my pals saw that it wasn't going to work with Jake before I did."

Nina Baum, my college roommate and closest friend, had been the first to tell me to step back. There had been a point early on when I was certain enough of my love for Jake that I had moved into his apartment so we could try living together.

"Hard to miss the clues, kid. He just wasn't there when you needed him."

"Or when you thought I needed him."

Mike was devouring the chop while I pushed the risotto around my plate. "Eat up before I start on your meal," he said, pointing his fork at my food. "Mercer and I have it all figured out. What you need is a nice brainiac kind of guy who has a solid nine-to-five job, with no emergencies, no summit meetings in Asia to cover."

Jake had been a reporter for network news. He spent more time on airplanes than I did at crime scenes. "It's not just the travel-"

"Whoa, I'm not done. He's got to have a lot of self-confidence and-"

"I can wait till you stop eating."

"See what I mean? What you really wanted to say right now was to tell me not to talk until I'm finished chewing, right? You just can't help yourself, can you? Most important, this guy should be mute."

"'Cause you think I don't let him get to say what he wants?"

"No, 'cause I think the urge to tell you to shut up would be powerful."

"What to know something interesting?" I asked.

"Don't change the subject. You don't think that's going to stop me from starting a search committee to find a mate for you? Otherwise you'll take out all your frustration on Mercer and me."

"I'm not the least bit frustrated at the moment. I've just been thinking about this. Tonight was the second time I've actually been in a room that Edgar Allan Poe lived in."

"Body or no body?"

"Guess we have to go back and check under the floorboards. He spent a year at the University of Virginia, 1826. I think it was only the second year Jefferson's school had been open. Poe lived on the west range of the Lawn. The room's been restored to look like it did when he was there: fireplace, small bed, chair, and desk. Number thirteen."

"Superstitious? Wouldn't have worked for me to live there."

Giuliano came over to the table and pulled out a chair to sit with us. "I was just in my office, watching the late news. So this guy, this Silk Stocking guy. This is your case, Alexandra?"

"Yes, he is. Again."

"I know you're going to think this is crazy, but I swear to you: that sketch they just showed on television? That man was in here a couple nights ago. He was right over there at the bar, drinking with a group of guys for an hour or two. I swear it was your rapist."

"That's just a sketch they showed on the news, Giuliano. It's not a photograph."

"I know that. But he's got an unusual face, no?"

The Silk Stocking Rapist was distinctive-looking to me, if in fact he closely resembled the inked rendering. Most often the portraits created by police artists looked like a generic composite that would not enable anyone to pick the assailant out of a crowd.

This perp had features that each of his victims had described to the man who worked, four years ago, on the drawing they all agreed resembled their attacker. He had almost a cherubic affect, with soft, puffy cheeks that rounded the shape of his face and seemed to push his eyes into a permanent squint. His dark black skin made it hard to notice the fine mustache that traced the outline of his upper lip, but several women described the way it felt when it brushed against their skin.

"What night was he in here?" Mike asked.

Giuliano had a great mind for his business. Customers came in once and it was rare that he would forget them when they reappeared weeks later. A nod of his head and Adolfo would know whether to seat the arrivals in the front, with his most prominent clientele, or bury them in Siberia, near the kitchen, or by the steps to the rest rooms.

"A couple, maybe three nights ago. Late, like close to midnight."

"Was it two nights or three?" I pushed him, knowing that two nights would place him here drinking just hours before Annika Jelt was accosted.

"Fenton," he said, stepping away from the table and whispering to the bartender, who thought for a few seconds and shrugged before responding to his boss.

"He's pretty sure it was the night before last. He remembers the guy, too," Giuliano said, "and Fenton was off three nights ago."

"You know the people he was here with?"

"Three guys. Investment bankers, maybe. You know the type. Two of them on their cell phones the whole time, talking about the market and deals. Money, money, money. No talk about broads even-nothing but money. And flashing lots of cash," Giuliano said, describing their manners and clothing, down to the brand of gold watch each was wearing. "Not regulars. Maybe Fenton knows them."

He waved to the bartender, who came over to the table. Fenton, too, agreed that no one in the group was familiar to him.

"None of them? No one you ever saw before? Nobody paid by credit card?"

"Two of them put hundred-dollar bills on the bar. I checked them myself."

"This isn't exactly a halfway house, Giuliano," Mike said. Local politicians, celebrities, sports stars, and well-to-do New Yorkers sat elbow to elbow at the tables that were turned over three times a night. "The cheapest scotch you serve is eight bucks a pop, so who were these guys? You hear their conversation, Fenton?"

"Some of it. The guy who put the first bill down, I think he was French. He did most of the talking. Sounded like they had all come from a party together and just dropped in here before they split."

"Was there only one black guy in the group?"

"Yup."

"He talk a lot?"

"Drank mostly. Don't remember him saying much."

Mike looked at me. "You and Mercer got room for me on the task force? If you can arrange for me to have this post-just park me here at Primola's bar-I can help keep the city safe."

"That's a deal. This one's a real long shot, Giuliano. Just promise me you'll call nine-one-one if you think you see this guy again."

"You're not convinced?" Mike asked. "You're the one who spent the better part of a year going to every community meeting and school association, if I recall correctly, telling people in this very neighborhood that the Silk Stocking Rapist lived or worked right among them."

What a thankless assignment that had been for Mercer and me. Some rapists were opportunists who attacked whenever the moment presented itself, whether the prey was fifteen or seventy-five years old. If she was in the wrong place at the right time for the perp, and she was vulnerable, he struck. This one was different. He targeted a physical type-most were tall, slim young women, in their twenties-and so far he had never deviated from his profile. Week after week we'd respond to requests to talk to citizens groups about the Silk Stocking Rapist's pattern and the risks posed in his targeted residential community. Rarely did any women under the age of sixty show up to listen to us, and the seniors who came could have passed our suspect on the street without his thinking twice about committing a crime.