Linda Fairstein - The Kills

"How about saving the court some time. You know what the kid's gonna tell her?"

"The truth, Your Honor. Dulles Tripping will simply tell Ms. Cooper the truth. He's going to say he was playing lacrosse the afternoon before he met Ms. Vallis and got hit in the face by a stick. Happens on playgrounds across America every single day."

"Be careful what you wish for," I said to Mercer as I dropped an armload of case files onto my desk.

"What now?" He vacated my chair and opened a paper bag with our sandwiches and two bottles of water.

"I pushed and pushed to get the kid. Looks like it's going to happen now, but he's clearly been sanitized. You think I'm better off without trying to use him at trial?"

Mercer's judgment and insights were sound. "What's to lose talking to him? Keep fighting for the interview. We always knew this case was a crapshoot. You're good with kids. Maybe he'll surprise you and respond to some warmth in his life."

"The judge wants us to go on with jury selection this afternoon and do our opening statements tomorrow. How the hell do I open when I'm not sure what my witness list looks like?"

He bit into the baguette full of roast beef and all the trimmings. "Nothing you haven't done before, Ms. Cooper. Understate what you're gonna give 'em the first time you talk to them. Robelon gets up next and reinforces that you got zilch. Then out of the bag, you pull a surprise witness. He's smart, sympathetic, sincere-puts you over the top. Bingo. Tripping's dead meat."

"And best of all is that we can try to get Dulles into a better situation as soon as it's over. Place him in a stable, loving foster home and keep him out of reach of his crazy father until he's college age. That would be the real blessing of a conviction in this case."

"Slow down and eat something."

I sat at my desk and picked at the wilted greens from the deli on Broadway. "You should see the courtroom. Five lawyers in the mix, not counting me. Everybody's got a piece of the pie and I'm sure we haven't seen the end of it. Then there's these two suits-came in and sat in the back today. Never saw them before and can't quite figure out why they're here, but they sure look like stereotypes of government agents."

"You want me to-?"

"No, no. You can't be the one to talk to them. You're going to testify next week. I'll get someone from the DA's squad to sniff them out if they show up again."

"You think the CIA still has an interest in him?" Mercer asked.

I had subpoenaed Tripping's records from the Agency, but as I expected, those had been purged. It was clear he had worked there for several years, and had some Middle Eastern assignment that followed the 1993 car bombing of the World Trade Center. Then came the allegation that he had participated in conversations about some harebrained plot to kill the president that was exposed before any overt steps were taken, and the CIA seemed to have misplaced their files on the entire matter.

"I suppose it's possible. They didn't let on that they were the least bit interested in the evidence you found in his apartment after he was in custody, did they?"

"That's so typical. We put it under their nose, and they act nonchalant so they don't have to give you anything in return."

The day Tripping was arrested, and based on the information Paige Vallis had given me when I interviewed her at the hospital with Mercer, I had drafted a search warrant.

Mercer had executed it that evening.

Tripping's apartment was more like a military outpost than a family home. His bedroom had only a mattress on the floor, while Dulles slept on a cot in an alcove off the kitchen. The walls were hung with a variety of scimitars and scythes, primitive weapons that looked capable of beheading an enemy with a single swipe. There was a bayonet and casing on the floor beside the mattress, and several bowie knives on tables throughout the warren of small rooms.

Vallis claimed Tripping had threatened her by holding a cold metallic object against her head, telling her it was a gun. She never saw it. Dulles led Mercer to a closet in the bedroom, from which he recovered an air pistol, with its pellets and case. None of these things was illegal to own, and only chargeable if the defendant had actually used them against another person.

There had been books and papers everywhere. Beside a lamp in the living room, under a black-sheathed stiletto, was a leather-bound copy of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, the private edition published in 1926 and signed by T. E. Lawrence. Mercer had vouchered all the scraps, receipts, and correspondence, and we had spent days trying to find anything of significance among the writings that were in our safekeeping.

"A guy just can't get any luckier than this," Mike Chapman said, walking into my office. "Here we are, less than one hundred shopping days until Christmas, and Ms. Cooper's gift just falls into my lap. Now, Mercer, I suspect you want to give a tired guy like me who's been up all night keeping the city safe half of that fat sandwich you're filling up on."

He laid out a full-length fur coat across my papers and files.

"Not that Tiffany Gatts has agreed I can have this yet, but it would look mighty snappy on you, come the first frost."

"What'd she say?" I asked.

"Her exact words were a bit too crude to use in this refined company, but it was something like, 'I don't have to be talking to you, do I? Get me a lawyer.'"

"You mean you didn't get a thing out of her? Nothing about Kevin Bessemer? Nothing about where the coat came from?"

"All she kept saying about the fur was, 'It's mines. ' Over and over. I asked where she got it, whether she had a sales slip for it, whether Kevin gave it to her. No use. Then when I started asking her about Kevin, she clammed up completely."

"The coat's stolen, right?"

"Trying to find that out. Lieutenant Peterson's got guys working the phones, checking to see if anything like this has been reported missing lately. Precincts around the city, Major Case Squad, Robbery Squad. Brought it for you to look at. See what you think. I only know about one kind of fur and it isn't this."

"Keep that thought to yourself," I said, picking up the heavy garment and examining the pelts.

The deep mahogany skins had rich color and fine long hair. They seemed dry to the touch, but they were clearly of good quality and fine styling. I spread the coat out on my desktop to look inside at the lining and label.

"Ever hear of that furrier?"

I shook my head from side to side. "Matignon et Fils. Rue Faubourg, Paris. That's a pretty pricey neighborhood."

I picked up my phone and dialed a number in Washington.

"You calling Interpol?"

I laughed. "No. Joan Stafford." My girlfriend knew more about shopping on the Faubourg-St. Honoré than all the flics in France.

She answered on the first ring.

"You kept me up way too late last night reading the novel, which I adored. Your favorite detectives want to know if you'll help us solve a little caper this afternoon, since I'm so worn-out."

Joan was living in D.C., engaged to a foreign affairs columnist for a major newspaper. She was one of my closest friends.

"Will Chapman give me his gold shield if I do?"

"At least that. Think fur. Think France." I told her the name of the maker.

"You're out of luck to get a bargain, if that's what you're in the market for," she said. "Gregoire Matignon closed his doors in the 1960s."

"Was he a big deal?"

"Just the biggest, Alex. One of those old families that started out in Russia, dressing the czars and czarinas. Then moved to Paris to service the royal families of Europe. The Duchess of Windsor, Grace Kelly-you know that classic photo of her when she started dating Rainier, wearing a golden sable, stepping out of an old Bentley in front of the Grimaldi Palace? That kind of clientele. As the monarchies became threatened with extinction, the minks thrived and Matignon went out of business."