Linda Fairstein - The Kills

"You, blondie. Backseat. Buckle up and keep your yap shut. Maybe Kevin'll tell you who the real moneybags is behind the whole operation. Find who paid to hire Helena Lisi for Tiffany."

Mike reached under his seat and lifted the red bubble dome to the dashboard. He tested the whelper to make sure it was working and wheeled out of his parking space, headed back to the northbound FDR Drive.

Mercer was on the phone, calling the precinct to talk to the squad lieutenant. "Get your men over to Limpy's place. Kevin Bessemer, the snitch who-"

The lieutenant didn't need a scorecard. He knew the players. Especially the one who'd taken himself out of the lineup.

"Don't you want to grab him yourselves?" I asked.

"And take the chance we knew where he was and let him get away again?" Mike said. "They'll hold him there for us and then we'll get to eyeball him."

Mercer dialed again. "Limpy? Wallace here. That scumbag you got hanging out? Yeah, that's the one. The cavalry's coming. No, no, not to worry. They're not there to break your balls-they just want Bessemer. Don't let him outta your sight, okay?"

"Why'd you give him a heads-up?"

"Good guy, Alex. He's worked with us for a long time. Runs a pretty clean operation. Does numbers on the side. Just didn't want him to panic when the men in blue burst in. Limpy's bigger than I am, so Bessemer won't be going anywhere."

"How's he going to hold down an out-of-control junkie, high on crack? He limps, no?" I asked.

"Not his leg," Mike said. "Limp dick. That's how he got his name. Ex-wife gave it to him and it stuck."

We were almost there when Mercer's cell rang.

"Be there in two minutes," Mercer said. He repeated the rest of the conversation to us. "Bessemer's acting like a wild man. Limpy has him pinned in a chair in the basement with the cops at the top of the stairs."

We pulled up to the building that housed the newsstand that was the front for the illegal numbers business. Mike and Mercer got out and went inside. I stepped onto the curb and explained to the two uniformed cops posted beside the open door that I was just waiting for the detectives to bring the prisoner out.

I could hear Kevin Bessemer screaming at the top of his lungs. There was a sound like furniture crashing around the room, and Wallace's deep voice telling him, "Stop kicking, man. Stop breaking up the place. Calm down."

They were on the staircase now and the scuffling noises continued, getting closer. Bessemer was kicking the walls and cursing.

One of the cops felt it necessary to apologize to me for the perp's foul language. "That's the crack talking, ma'am. Sorry you have to hear it."

Mike backed out of the store before the two detectives holding the cuffed prisoner. "You're the Kentucky Fried Chicken man, no? Two breasts and some wings-to go. Right out the fire escape with Tiffany. You ought to watch the Food Network more often, Kev," Mike said, faking a punch in his direction. " Bam! Take it down a notch, Kev."

Mercer came out behind the prisoner. "Let's get him over to Met to sleep off his high. Psycho him before we think about going to court."

Metropolitan Hospital was only a five-minute drive. The psych ward there had seen far worse than Kevin Bessemer.

"So, Kev, tell the nice lady who your lawyer is. Your real lawyer."

"I got the best money can buy," Bessemer screamed, twisting against his captors and kicking at the car tires on the RMP. "I got Clarence Friggin' Darrow. I got Johnnie Friggin' Cochran. I got Clarence Friggin' Thomas working for me. They gonna 'peal my case up to the Supreme Court."

One of the cops grabbed the crown of his head and pushed it down, trying to get Bessemer off the street and into the patrol car as a small crowd began to gather.

"What about Tiffany?" Mike asked. "Tell me who to talk to so Tiffany isn't left out there to swing in the breeze."

"Fuck Tiffany," Bessemer shouted, lying back on the rear seat of the car and hurling his feet against the door as the cop tried to close it. "Tell that Spike Logan I'm coming back for a piece of what he got."

"I'll catch up with you two later in the day. Let me go on down to the hospital and sit by his bedside. Maybe when Bessemer sobers up, he'll be willing to talk to me," Mercer said.

I got into the passenger seat and while Mike drove downtown toward my office, I tried to page the child welfare lawyers-Irizzary and Taggart-to learn what had happened at the meeting with Andrew and Dulles Tripping.

The phone was ringing as I walked in. It was Peter Robelon. "You've got news?" I asked him.

He was still angry about this morning. "Can we strike a deal? I act like a gent and you keep your goons away from me when you want to talk."

"Depends on whatever deals you've worked out with Jack Kliger."

Robelon was silent. It was obvious he had thought I didn't know that he was the target of an investigation in our office. "That's below the belt."

"So is everything that's happened to this poor kid for his entire life. Don't use Dulles as a pawn, Peter. Why are you fighting to keep Andrew Tripping out of jail?"

Why hadn't I played hardball earlier in the day? He seemed to be loosening up.

"Look, Alex, the boy's meeting with Andrew didn't go as well as expected. Mr. Irizzary told me Dulles was-well-was kind of freaked out by his father."

"And that surprises you? Your client's a very weird guy. So what's next?"

Robelon was squirming. "The lawyers are considering another possibility."

"Giving the Hoyts temporary custody?"

"Yeah. They're taking him over to the Chelsea Piers where Hoyt's docked. Play some ball, shoot some hoops, let him go out on the river for the weekend."

"Don't you think that's good for Dulles?"

He was silent again.

"Put aside your personal feelings for Graham Hoyt," I said. "Do you think he and his wife are sincere about wanting to adopt the boy?"

"Actually, I do. Hoyt's a pretentious bastard, but he adores Jenna, and she's devastated about being childless. She'd be a great mother, and they both have a lot to give to Dulles-between Jenna's warmth and Graham's, well, material blessings."

"Look, Andrew's your client, so I'm not asking you to say anything about him. But he's the last guy I'd want to see playing Mr. Mom."

"Doesn't mean he killed anyone, Alex. Doesn't even mean he raped anyone."

"We're just going around in circles. Thanks for letting me know the conversation is over," I said, ready to end it.

"That's only part of the reason I called."

"What's the rest?"

"Any chance I could meet with you alone, just to talk over some ideas I had about Paige Vallis's murder? Just the two of us-no cops?"

Not a prayer. "We're alone right now, Peter. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

"I'd prefer not to do it on the phone."

"That's all I have time for at the moment."

He didn't pause for very long. "Andrew has a theory."

"I was almost ready to go along with you," I said. "His theories don't really interest me all that much, Peter."

"Hear me out, Alex. The reason Paige Vallis left her apartment and went downstairs the night she was killed? It's about you."

I sat up and started writing notes as he spoke. "That's ridiculous, Peter. If you're trying to make me feel worse about her death than I already do, then just keep on talking full-speed ahead."

"It's true. We're sure of it."

"'We' being you and that terribly unhinged psycho you represent?"

"Listen for a minute. Andrew thinks he can prove that the reason Paige went downstairs from her apartment last Friday night was to mail a letter to you, to send something she needed you to know, to have."

I was sweeping aside documents and law journals and case reports that had stacked up on my desk while I was out of town. Laura had sorted the mail from the past two days but I had buried it under the papers I had carried in this morning, so I looked for return addresses or unmarked envelopes that might possibly be from Paige Vallis.