Linda Fairstein - The DeadHouse

"Sorry, I didn't have instructions down here today. I honestly didn't know the case was on the calendar."

"It's not. Check this one out. You know what your victim looks like?"

"Yes. I've met her a couple of times." I had spent the better part of an afternoon with her at the beginning of the month, trying to convince her to prosecute. Together with my young colleague who was assigned to the matter, I had reminded her that Modesto's assaults were occurring with greater frequency and causing more serious injury.

"Why don't you take a slow walk back down the aisle. Second row, end seat on your left. Tell me who you think is hiding beneath the wig, sunglasses, and lady's overcoat?"

I made a cautious circle around the busy room, pretending to be in search of a witness, before returning to the clerk's desk. "It's not my victim, if that's what you mean."

"The judge just wanted to be sure. He thinks it's Juan Modesto himself. Marched right up to me, told me she was Lavinia Cabrinas, and that she wanted to ask Judge Fink to drop all the charges against Modesto and vacate the order of protection. We thought the five o'clock shadow and the falsetto voice were a little off for Ms. Cabrinas, so I told 'her' to have a seat. The judge just wants you to confirm it before we call the case."

I turned to check the audience again. "Not even close. I've seen lots of guys beat the rap, but never this way."

"Why don't you wait over here, behind me."

When the plea on the drug possession case was completed, the clerk nodded to the judge, who directed a recall on the Modesto matter, adding it to the day's calendar. The defendant moved to the railing behind the well and repeated his request, in his prissiest imitation of a soft-spoken Latina.

Four court officers surrounded him as Neal Fink, a no-nonsense jurist, ordered him to take off his glasses, which he did without hesitation. The next request was to remove his wig. Modesto froze, and again the judge told him to take off his hairpiece. When he refused to acknowledge the direction a fourth time, the judge told the officers to lift the jumble of black acrylic from the petitioner's head. Two held his arms while the others tugged at the phony curls, pulling them free from the bobby pins that had secured the wig to Modesto's own greasy pompadour.

"Your bail is revoked, Mr. Modesto. Put him in, gentlemen. You are remanded without bail, sir. Miss Cooper, I expect you'll be ready to advance this matter and move to the grand jury most expeditiously. And that you'll be adding the charges of hindering prosecuting and obstructing governmental administration. Can you get this done by the end of the week?"

"We'll do our best, Your Honor."

The last thing I needed now was any diversion from the Dakota investigation. Especially another domestic violence victim willing to give her man a break, ignoring the acute danger of her situation and the lengths to which he would go to escape prosecution.

Mike was playing solitaire at Laura's desk when I came back upstairs. "Battaglia's looking for you. He sounds completely pissed off. Sinnelesi called to complain about the stuff you had taken out of Bart Frankel's office. Battaglia wants a complete accounting of it. Says he's shocked you did that search warrant without running it past the front office first. Bad position to put him in with another elected official. You know the drill. You oughtta go on over and cool him down. I suggested maybe he should put you over his knee."

"Bet he passed on that one."

"Told me I could take the first shot, actually."

"This is one time he'll have to wait for me. No politics slowing down this train."

I opened the Dakota file folder to the sheet of information with all the case names and telephone numbers and dialed the Lockhart home in White Plains. Skip's mother passed me on to the grandfather, who was no doubt in his favorite chair in the solarium.

"Mr. Lockhart? It's Alexandra Cooper."

"He just left, Miss Cooper."

"Who just left?"

"Skip. That's who you're looking for, isn't it?"

"No, sir. I had a few more questions for you."

"What did you do to rile up the boy, Miss Cooper?"

"I haven't seen Skip today, or talked with him. I'm calling because when we met with you I hadn't read your diaries. I didn't know anything about Freeland Jennings's secret garden. But I was looking through your books last evening, and I'm interested in learning what became of Jennings's model of Blackwells. Do you still have it, Mr. Lockhart?"

"Don't be telling me you had nothing to do with firing up my grandson. He practically tore through the whole place today looking for that damn thing."

I took a breath. "Did Skip find it? Did he take it with him?"

"You know where it is?"

"I believed that you had it, sir."

"Skip's mad as a hornet with me. I told him to talk to Lola about it. Can't recall exactly the last time I saw it, but Lola knows. She's got it, maybe. Skip's coming back later to look through the garage. I'll tell him you were asking about it."

Back to square one. "Thanks, Mr. Lockhart. Sorry to trouble you."

I dialed Sylvia Foote's number again. "Check with your professors. Any of them have cars?" I thought for a moment about the weather. "Four-wheel drive? I think we should take a quick trip to White Plains this afternoon. Perhaps if all of us are together with the Lockharts, senior and junior, we can make some headway. I'd like to start the meeting in your office and make a run up to see if the old man is hiding more than he's telling any of us."

"But-"

"I'll explain when we get there. I think a field trip might help, Sylvia."

Maybe my phone message to Sylvia last evening, when I was reading the Lockhart diaries, had been a mistake. I thought it might alert the small group of faculty members that we were onto something that one of them might have concealed from us, but I had only meant to rattle the cages in preparation for our meeting today. I didn't want anyone making an end run around us.

Mike's feet were propped on Laura's desk when I hung up the phone and came out to intercept the kid from the mailroom who was distributing the Monday delivery.

"What have you got for me, Gilbert?"

"Just the usual, Miss C."

I sorted through the envelopes to see whether any subpoenaed information had been returned in the late-morning mail. The thicker-than-usual batch, rubber-banded together, consisted mainly of printed greeting cards from sleazy law firms and private investigators, complete with the tacky little calendars and wallet-size laminated business cards that served as clear reminders of whom not to call in case of emergency.

Halfway through the pack, I pulled out a legal-size envelope with a return address scrawled in sloppy handwriting that was practically illegible. I squinted and looked again, then read the name to Mike. "Bart Frankel. Postmarked Saturday morning."

"Where from, blondie? Heaven or hell?"

"What a weird feeling, to get this today. He's not even buried yet."

"Think Shirley MacLaine. Think Dionne Warwick. Open the frigging thing, will you?"

I held the envelope in my fingertips by one corner, and used the letter opener on Laura's desk to slit a hole along the top. I withdrew the small slip of paper from inside and read the yellow Post-it that Bart had attached to the longer white page

Alex-Everything in my life is out of control. I never meant to lie about any of it to you. I'll try and make it right next week, when we sit down at your office. Had a scare tonight. Thought I was followed to my home. I'm putting this in the mail when I walk the dog later. It's the paper I took from Lola's desk the day she was killed. I swear to you I had nothing to do with her murder. B. Frankel.

I lifted the note and looked at the enclosure. It was a hand-drawn map of Blackwells Island-circa 1925-meticulously crafted and perfectly scaled to dimension. Every building, every tree, every bench, and every boulder was assigned a number. On the bottom of the page was the signature of Freeland Jennings.