Linda Fairstein - The Kills

I was waiting inside the lobby of my apartment building when Mike's car drove up in front. "Yo, blondie," Mike shouted. "Let's hit the road."

Mercer had called to tell him about my Vineyard experience, and he was furious with me. "You lied to me, Coop. You let me think Jake was going to be there with you."

"It was true when I first told you that."

"He wimped out? Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"No, he didn't. The flights weren't going and I didn't want him to drive up. Adam," I said quietly. "You know."

"So you and Bigfoot played hide-and-seek instead, huh?"

"And now the police just called because they think my visitor might have been Spike Logan." I told Mike what Streeter had said about the washed-out car and the boots that were in it.

"Or his passenger. Coulda had somebody with him. Sounds too obvious to me to leave his car right where it was bound to be found. Maybe it's a setup," Mike said. He looked over at me as we headed uptown. "That won't stop you from scanning the horizon for the Spikester, right?"

I was staring off at the boats churning up water in the East River. "Tell me something good, then. Take my mind off mindless things. How's Val?"

He drew in breath before he answered. "That's a heartbreaker. She doesn't want me to tell anyone, but you gotta know. The docs found some more nodes. More-what do they call it?-involvement."

I looked over at him but he kept his focus straight ahead. "They doing chemo?"

"First surgery and then chemo. She's the toughest fighter I've ever met."

I reached over and put my hand on Mike's wrist, but when he made a left turn onto the Drive, his arm moved and I wasn't holding anything.

He continued to ask questions about the storm most of the way, and to cross-examine me about what had happened at the house. We parked around the corner and met Mercer in the lobby of the large commercial complex that housed Robelon's office.

Robelon was expecting us. "What's the posse here for?" he said, looking at me but pointing to the men on either side of me.

"This time I'm just the witness, not the prosecutor. They've got some questions for you."

"Like what?"

"Like who's your buddy?" Mike asked. "The guy who enjoys pretending he's the late great Strait."

"What?"

"The dude who sat in the back of the courtroom when Paige Vallis testified?"

"How would I know who was sitting behind me? I was looking at the witness."

"Let me-what do you say, Coop?-let me refresh your recollection, Counselor. The uptight guy who looks like he had his hair cut by Sergeant Bilko. The one whose rental car you were tooling around town in last week," Mike said.

Robelon pushed back from his desk and played with a pencil, tapping it against his left thumb. "I've got no idea what you mean. I thought you had something urgent to discuss, Mr. Wallace? Try not to act like you've picked up all your techniques on television, Detective." He raised his right leg and rested it on a desk drawer. His disdain for Chapman was palpable.

"Shit, you're probably right. I woulda been a bartender if it wasn't for Law and Order. Wouldn't have to put up with empty suits like you. There's the lovely Miss Cooper, running down the street last week in those ridiculous high heels she favors, trying to hail a cab, and you didn't even stop for her. Downright rude."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Alex? Cab?"

"Thomas Street," I said, "you were-"

"Keep a lid on it, Coop. Think back to Wednesday, Counselor. A black sedan with rental plates. Parked on Thomas Street. Maybe it was a stranger who screamed at you to open the door and jumped inside holding a gun, is that it?"

Robelon kicked the desk drawer shut and crossed his legs. He yelled to his secretary, "Mrs. Kaye, you want to show these people the way out?"

She hadn't heard him clearly and came to the door of his office to look inside and ask him to repeat what he said.

"Lionel Webster, also known as Harry Strait. You got a second job as his limo driver?" Mike asked.

Mrs. Kaye looked confused. "Did you want me to get Mr. Webster on the phone?"

Robelon was fuming. He held up his hand and spun it around, motioning the secretary to back out of the room. Sorry, no doubt, he had made her come in for the impromptu weekend meeting.

Mike was on his feet, lifting the lid on the humidor and helping himself to a cigar.

"I'm so glad you weren't about to give me that 'I don't know any Lionel what-did-you-say-his-name-is?' Give that broad a raise. She saved your ass just now."

"Yeah, and I'd like to tell you what to stick up yours if there wasn't a lady present."

"Who, her?" Mike said, pointing the cigar at me. "That's no lady. Help yourself. She's just a louche broad masquerading behind a Wellesley degree and a fine pair of pins. Nothing you can say to me she hasn't said herself. So about Lionel Webster, what can you tell us?"

"Haven't seen him in a dog's age."

"Why don't you just talk to me about him? Everything you know."

"Whatever happened to attorney-client privilege, or don't you believe in that either?"

"Oh, so now he's your client, not your employee? Wasn't he working for you, trying to spook Paige Vallis?"

"This interview is over," Robelon said. "And Alex, don't ever try to sandbag me again, okay? You want me to answer questions, there's a proper way to do that. I didn't see Webster on Wednesday and if he had anything to do with you and some kind of chase, I can promise you I don't have the first clue about it."

Mercer's pager went off and he reached into his pocket to shut it down. The loud beeps seemed to signal the meeting's end.

Peter Robelon was holding the door open for us. It was probably the wrong time to ask another question but I gave it a shot.

"Do you know where Andrew Tripping is?"

He looked down at his right foot as he pawed at the carpeting. "You guys don't get it, do you? I represent him, Alex, remember?"

"No, no, no. I'm not going to do an end run. I mean, can we get to the courtroom in a couple of weeks and put this whole thing to bed?" I asked.

Peter seemed surprised by my offer, debating whether to talk with me. "There's a-there's a meeting this morning. Andrew and the child welfare agency lawyers-they're getting him together with his son. It's all supervised. Planned for today so he wouldn't miss another school day. Don't worry, Dulles won't be alone with him. Give me a call later on."

The elevator doors opened and the three of us got on.

"What do you think?" Mike asked. He lighted the cigar as we hit the sidewalk.

Mercer retrieved the number on his pager as I answered. "That we can't trust him. He's the target in an investigation pending with my office, remember that? I just don't think you can believe what he says. Who's the beep from?"

"Unfamiliar number. I'll call it now," Mercer said.

"You sure that was Robelon behind the wheel on Wednesday?"

I rolled my eyes at Mike. "Please don't start second-guessing me. If you two don't believe in me, who will? I had a pretty good look at the guy and yes, it was Peter Robelon."

"This is Mercer Wallace. Did you call me?" He was leaning against Mike's car and talking into his cell phone. He stood straight and gave us a thumbs-up. "Sure, I've got time to help you, Mrs. Gatts. No, no, I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to that homicide detective. Yeah, I can. Sure."

"What kind of stroke job is he getting now from that tub of lard?" Mike asked.

"The numbers joint on One Hundred and Eighteenth and Pleasant? You stay put in your house. I'm on it."

"What's she got?"

"Bessemer's back," Wallace said, pounding his fist on the hood of the car. "C'mon, unlock your batmobile and run me over to One Hundred and Eighteenth. Kevin Bessemer just showed up, high as a kite and looking to score. Drugs and the daily number. Sooner or later they all come back round."