Linda Fairstein - The Kills

Moffett excused the jurors for the weekend, told the court officers to escort Paige Vallis to the witness room until I made arrangements for her to leave, and asked his clerk to call Ms. Taggart's office to see why she and Dulles were delayed.

Mercer Wallace had come up at three-thirty, as we had arranged earlier, so that he could wait for Paige and drive her home. He was sitting with her when I went to the witness room.

"Alex," she said, getting to her feet as I walked in, "I want to apologize again for what happened this morning. For-for leaving out that stuff about Harry Strait. I'd like to explain-"

"I'd like it, too, Paige. But it's got to wait until next week. Months ago you told me straightaway you had killed a man during a struggle for your life, but you couldn't even own up about a former lover who's somehow entangled in this mess?"

Mercer shook his head from side to side, wanting me to back off, cut Paige some slack.

"I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. I had no idea it would be relevant."

"Okay, okay. Look, I can only talk to you about administrative things while you're Robelon's witness," I said, squaring away when Mercer would deliver her back here on Monday.

Maxine had followed me in and handed back Paige's pocketbook. Mercer picked up her briefcase, which she had left in my office.

"I don't know what to do with this, Alex, other than give it to you," Paige said, opening the clasp and removing a brown paper bag. "The hospital mailed this to me because they didn't have a home address for Dulles, once he was put in foster care."

I reached in and pulled out a blue baseball jacket. The wordYANKEES was written across the back of the windbreaker in white lettering, and the team logo was on the front breast. I smiled. At least the boy and I had one thing in common.

"I thought I'd see him here today, and be able to give it to him myself," she went on. "That's why I hung on to it. I'd like to talk to him, to see how-"

"Forget that one, Paige," I said. "Maybe when this is all over. I couldn't let you do that now, even if I wanted to. But this is going to be very useful to me, when I actually get to meet Dulles. It'll be a great icebreaker. Maybe I'll get him a cap to go with it."

"You'll give it to him then, for me?"

"You bet."

"We've got tickets for the play-off games at the end of the month," Mercer told her. "Maybe I'll just leave Alex home and take the kid."

"I think it was like a security blanket for that child. The one constant in his young life. His grandmother gave it to him before she died, and he wouldn't leave the house without it, the morning I took him," she said, shaking her head.

I folded it over and replaced it in the bag, glad to have some connection to happier days with which to begin my eventual conversation with Dulles.

"Anything else you need before you go home?" I asked. "You'll call or beep Mercer if Harry Strait shows up on your doorstep this weekend? Or if you get any other calls connected to the case, right?"

"Of course."

I thanked her for her fortitude and patience with the process, and sent her off with Mercer, walking down the corridor to the main hallway so that Maxine and I could reenter the courtroom through the front door.

Mike Chapman was leaning against a column close to the entrance to the trial part. He was holding a red-and-white Marlboro box-odd, since he never smoked cigarettes-and it looked like it had a thin metal strip extended for an inch above its edge. He was speaking into the piece of wire as I approached, and Andrew Tripping was pacing frenetically just three feet away from Mike.

"What's going on?" I asked, as he waved at Mercer over my head.

"Agent four-two to command central," Mike said, doing an obvious stage whisper into the wire. "Subject is agitated. Blonde persecutor is approaching and subject is twitching and tweaking-"

"Would you please cut it out before I get called on the carpet for this?"

"Works like a charm on a paranoid schizophrenic. Another few minutes of my talking into this paper clip and your man Tripping will flip out big-time. I've been telling command central that I thought the perp was ready for a secret assignment inside Attica, like going undercover as the girlfriend of the biggest, baddest inmate in the joint."

"Put your toy away," I said, pushing in the double doors.

"Mercer said you might need help carrying your files downstairs after he left."

I handed him the paper bag with the Yankees jacket. "Hold on to this for me. I don't have enough evidence in this case to overburden myself."

"I'm also here to tell you that we might get lucky. Those lifts we got from Queenie's apartment?"

"Yeah?"

Mike was referring to the latent fingerprints for which the Crime Scene Unit had dusted.

"Well, they got prints of value."

"Fresh? I mean, it sounds like there were kids in and out all the time, doing errands for her."

"These should be good. You know those raised seats, the plastic ones, that have to be on top of the toilet if you've got injuries or health problems and you can't lower yourself down all the way?"

"Sure." Queenie Ransome had suffered a stroke, and I thought again of how every aspect of her privacy, every shred of dignity left to her, had been invaded and abused by this investigation.

"The killer must have stopped to relieve himself, and picked up the seat to place it on the floor. Lifted some good prints right off the sides. Both hands, four fingers each. Clean and clear."

"Have you run them through NCIC?"

"Jeez, Ms. Cooper, how did I make it this far without you?"

"So there's no match?"

"Nope, not yet. But it gives us something to work with."

"See you downstairs. I've got to finish up here," I said, letting the doors swing shut behind me.

Within minutes, Nancy Taggart and Dulles's lawyer, Graham Hoyt, pushed through the same doorway, and marched together, grim-faced, down the aisle toward us.

"I don't like to be kept waiting, Ms. Taggart. You're holding up the works here. And that's the second time today for you, Mr. Hoyt," Moffett said, stepping down from the bench, unhooking the clasps of his black robe and heading for his chambers. "You, Robelon. You and your client are excused until Monday. We'll start up at nine-thirty sharp."

Hoyt shook hands with both Andrew Tripping and Peter Robelon as they passed him, with Emily Frith trailing behind them. He spoke quietly into Robelon's ear.

"Follow me," the judge said, when the others had left the room. "You wanna get the kid? And the foster mother?"

"We've come to tell you we can't do that, Your Honor. There's a problem," Taggart said, unable even to look in my direction.

"Now what?"

Nancy Taggart began to explain to the judge. I rose to my feet, tapping the cap of my pen against my file, anxious to tell Moffett that this was predictable from the mother's phone call to me last evening. Now we had lost a whole day because Taggart had demanded that I leave this in her capable hands.

"Judge, Ms. Taggart isn't being entirely candid with you. Let me tell you what happened yesterday afternoon, and about my conversation with Ms. Taggart thereafter. I offered to provide all the help she needed to find this foster mother, whoever she is-"

Taggart pointed to the hallway behind her. "I've got Mrs. Wykoff here-the foster mother. She's not the problem. It's Dulles who's gone missing, sir. He's run away."

Six o'clock on Friday afternoon, I was sitting in Battaglia's office with Mike Chapman, Mercer Wallace, and Brenda Whitney, who was in charge of the district attorney's press relations.

"You think kidnap or you think runaway?" the DA asked. The smoke from his cigar mingled with the smoke of the cheaper brands he had given to Mike and Mercer.