Linda Fairstein - The Kills

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Paige Vallis claimed that she gave in to Tripping's sexual demands because he had threatened to harm his son if she didn't. Alexandra Cooper, prosecuting the ex-CIA man, knew she had her work cut out to convince the jury, but before Paige could complete her testimony on the stand she is found dead – strangled in her own apartment building, just hours after she'd confessed to Alex that she had had a relationship with another ex-CIA operative. While the accusation of rape against Tripping is dropped, he has other charges to face, not least abusing his own child. As Tripping's defence team go into overdrive to keep their client out of jail, Alex, Chapman and Mercer set out to discover who so conveniently killed the woman who could have put him behind bars. As they peel back the layers of Paige's life, they discover a decades-old viper's nest of robbery and double-dealing and discover that truth of the adage of money being at the root of all evil – however old and 'respectable' it might be.

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"Yes, but my wife would never go out on the water with me, if that was the inspiration for her name. James Gordon Bennett-the first commodore of the yacht club-that's what his boat was called. She's named in his honor."

The steward came back to whisper to Hoyt that our breakfast was about to be served.

"Is there another phone line? Other than the cell, I mean."

"Certainly. We've got satellite phones on board. Todd, will you show Ms. Cooper to the cockpit?"

I wanted to talk to Mike Chapman. I wanted him to know I was on Hoyt's yacht, and confirm his whereabouts last night. This might be the only working phone I would be near all day.

I reached voice mail at his apartment and on his cell. I dialed Mercer Wallace. The captain was working on his route chart right next to me, so I explained where I was without telling the story of the previous night.

"When are you coming back to the city?" Mercer asked.

"Uh-I'm still not quite sure." I wanted to tell him as soon as the airport was open and I could find some way to get to it, but I couldn't trust the captain not to repeat that to Hoyt.

"You alone there on the Titanic ?"

"No, no, no. Got one of my local friends here with me, and we're getting right off after breakfast. We won't even leave the dock."

"Well, hurry home, Alex. I'm trying to make progress. Seems that it most likely was Mrs. Gatts's brother-in-law who followed you down to the church last week. His supervisor says he signed out of court at fiveP.M, just up the street from you. Left the building in his uniform, without changing, which is not his usual pattern. Chief said he seemed in a hurry to go somewhere." That explained the navy blue pants. "And he called in sick the next day-just didn't come to work."

"Anybody keeping an eye on him?"

"They read him the riot act. If we can prove something, they'll suspend him."

"All circumstantial, but it's a start. Anything else before I lose you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Found out yesterday that Tiffany Gatts has some other family ties that might interest you," Mercer said.

"Like who?"

"Seems her boyfriend Kevin had good reason to know about Queenie Ransome and her collection of coins. Tiffany's cousin is the one who let the cat out of the bag, about valuables being in Queenie's apartment."

"I give up, Mercer. Who's her cousin?"

"Spike Logan. Know who I mean? The Harvard guy who lives up on the Vineyard."

I took another breath and thought about the intruder who had frightened me out of my home, into the wind and rain. Spike Logan lived up here. Where the hell was he during last night's storm?

35

Graham Hoyt went down the ladder to the dock ahead of Cassie and me, helping each of us off as we followed.

"When I stop by here next June, young lady," he said to Cassie, "I expect you to take the afternoon off for some waterskiing with the crew."

She gushed with delight and ran back into the mini-market to buy a disposable camera and snap some shots of the Pirate, while I thanked Hoyt for breakfast.

We shook hands and he held on to my left elbow, hesitating before he spoke. "You know, Jenna and I are spending the weekend with Dulles. Bringing him onto the boat, cruising up the Hudson and around New York Harbor to try to get him comfortable with us. Maybe, if you get back to town in time-I realize it's only a 'maybe'-but I'd like you to think about meeting us for lunch, to get a sense that Dulles is going to be okay with all this behind him."

The Hoyts were obviously intent on adopting the boy, and I was beginning to think it was hopeless for me to try to guess what would serve the child best in the long run.

"Help him understand that all this-this bad stuff-lawyers, courts, cops-that it's all behind him, Alex. Give him some closure. Give him back his childhood, his life. You represent the bridge between what's past and what kind of future he can have."

"It's a nice idea, but I'm not too optimistic we can end the emotional damage so quickly." I looked away from Hoyt, knowing that the judge wouldn't condone any further delays to dispose of the misdemeanor charges involving Tripping's son, now that the rape case had been tossed. "I may not be able to 'give' him those things any more readily than you can," I said, smiling at Hoyt, "but maybe I can return his baseball jacket. He's entitled to that."

"Yankees, I hope? They're the only thing in his life that provides pure joy. My wife already got some play-off tickets."

"Well, yes, he left his jacket at the hospital the night his father was arrested. We thought it might be his security blanket. Maybe that can be my peace offering, when I do see him."

Hoyt clasped his left hand on top of mine, shook again, and boarded the yacht. "Bet we beat you back to the city, Alex. Sure you don't want to try the high seas?"

"No thanks. Speak to you soon."

I trudged back to police headquarters through the mounds of damp sand. It was several hours until the island came to life again, as power was restored and the pavement cleared. When Chip Streeter got word that the Menemsha Crossroads had opened up, he offered to drive me home so that I could assess the damage and change my clothes.

The sunny fall day had everyone out picking up the debris around their houses. Several utility poles were still down and there were branches scattered everywhere. We pulled off State Road into my driveway, and as we came over the rise, things didn't look as bad as I had feared.

I got out of the car and kneeled to examine the tread marks that the intruder had left in the mud. An expert could easily match the marks to a shoe brand, which was likely to be all too common to be significant.

"Yup," Streeter said, "the state troopers took photos and measurements, and some kind of cast of the prints. Dusted around inside, too."

This wasn't the first time my home had been a crime scene. I knew that it wasn't going to be pretty. We went in and looked over the mess that had been tracked through. Once again, I felt shocked and unsettled at the sight of my belongings in such disarray. There was still no electricity or water, so the cleanup would be a job for my caretaker, when he returned to the island.

"Wanna see if anything's missing?"

"Sure," I said, walking from room to room, checking the obvious places and opening drawers and closets. Nothing seemed out of place. In the bedroom, I looked into my sail bag and purse. "Missing some cash. About a hundred and fifty dollars."

"See? Probably just an ordinary break-in, somebody looking for a quick score."

There was no point telling him about Spike Logan. I'd let Mike and Mercer work that angle, and allow Streeter to keep thinking this was just a petty theft. The island was so small, such an insular community, that there was no way of knowing who was connected to whom. In my book, taking the money was just a convenient way for my visitor to show me that he had been there, that he might come again.

"I figured I'd wait for you to change and drop you at the airport."

"That's too much trouble. I can get myself-"

"I got to go down-island to Shirley's Hardware to pick up some tools for repairs at the station. I'd rather not leave you here alone."

I was glad about that. "It will just take me a minute." I closed the bedroom door, pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater from my closet, and folded the borrowed chinos and shirt for Streeter to return.

We drove to the airport, twisting our way around the assortment of storm-tossed things in the roadway. I thanked him when I got out of the car and joined the short line of impatient city folk waiting at the counter for word about air service to New York.

It looked like a special direct flight would leave for La Guardia at 6P.M.

The day was a wash. My cell phone, uncharged for more than twenty-four hours, was dead. The telephone kiosks, which afforded no privacy, were in steady use by anxious travelers trying to find alternate ways to get to Providence, Boston, Hartford, and points west. I spun the paperback rack in the gift shop and found only the good books I had read in hardcover months earlier. There was a British thriller by a writer I'd never tried before, so I settled in a corner window seat and killed the time with crime fiction.

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