she said. I heard her talking to someone before she told me to pick up my second line.
“We got a vic,” Mike said.
“I know. Naomi Gersh. Battaglia had a call from the commissioner. I should have all the court papers shortly. Where are you?”
“The autopsy’s over. I’m on my way to notify her younger brother, Daniel. Pick him up at his job—moves scenery at a small theater off-Broadway. He’s next of kin.”
“If you want company, I’m available.”
“I assumed you were a full-time trial dog this week.”
“Battaglia thought I was getting too rowdy in the courtroom. He just booted me off the Koslawski case and told me to work with you on the murder.”
“Let me start with Daniel. If I get lonely by dinnertime, I’ll give you a shout. Battaglia tell you anything about the obstructing arrests?”
“He didn’t know facts. Brenda’s digging up the old files.”
“What’s your bet?” Mike asked. “Antiwar? Pro-choice? Fur coats?”
“Be serious.”
“I’m very serious. For one of those causes, she was willing to go to the mats. Pushing the envelope to get something she believed in.”
Laura stood in my doorway, her arm blocking the eager young woman who wanted to enter. “Emily is from IT—with court papers for you.”
I waved the girl in, took the blue-backed misdemeanor cases from her hand, and cupped the receiver against my neck.
“Here’s your answer,” I said, folding the disposition sheets over so that I could see the date and place of occurrence on each of the complaints. “Both arrests occurred at the same place. Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. One last December and another in January.”
The small, tranquil city park on the entire south side of the block between First and Second Avenues on East Forty-Seventh Street had been named for the Swedish diplomat and Nobel peace prize winner who had been Secretary-General of the United Nations.
“Right opposite the U.N.”
“Exactly. But it’s not about war,” I said. “Naomi was leading a protest, a day of international solidarity for an Israeli feminist group that has been denied the right to pray, like men do, at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.”
“Well, Coop. Maybe we’ve got a holy war on our hands after all.”
TEN
MIKE extended a hand to help me out of the yellow cab in front of a recently renovated tenement building on Avenue B at four the same afternoon.
“What happened to Daniel?” I asked.
“Strike one. Manhattan South sent a team to his old job, ’cause the commish was afraid he’d hear about Naomi on the news. But he hasn’t worked there lately.”
“Someone told him?”
“Yeah. Yeah. One of the guys he used to hang with told him. Good way to piss me off.”
“So he’s crushed. Give him a break. And let’s get out of the drizzle,” I said, pushing open the vestibule door.
“Not so broken up as you’d think. He hasn’t seen much of Naomi in almost six years. His buddies at the theater didn’t even know he had a sister.”
“But this is her apartment.” I knew the address from the court papers. “How did Daniel get in? If he didn’t have much of a relationship, you wouldn’t think he’d have a key.”
“Nope. The super opened up for him. Now he’s stonewalling me.”
Mike pressed the buzzer with the paper marker labeled Gersh next to the mailbox for 2D. It took almost three minutes for a voice to respond through the intercom.
“Yes?”
“I’m still here, Daniel. I’d like to talk to you.”
“What about that warrant, Detective?”
“I got one right here. A living, breathing warrant. Meet Assistant DA Alex Cooper. Open up, Daniel. This is a condolence call, not a strip search.”
There was another short hesitation before the buzzer sounded. Mike entered, climbing the steps in front of me. When we reached 2D, the door was ajar and the chain was bolted across the opening.
“Let me see your papers.”
“I realize this is a difficult day,” I said, “but we don’t need a warrant. You have no legal standing to keep us out of your sister’s apartment. We’re simply here to talk to you.”
“Me, I’m the battering-ram type, Daniel. Works every time and it gets the neighbors’ attention. Coop here favors the more polite approach.” Mike pressed his arm against the door to test its give.
Daniel pushed it closed and removed the chain.
“May we come in?” I asked.
He shrugged and stepped back to let us enter.
Mike scoped the room—a large studio apartment lined with brick and board bookshelves, with little more in it than a double bed against the wall, a pair of beanbag chairs, a couple of crates that