“There was a gentleman who left the church about five minutes ago,” I said.
“I just asked about him, Coop. They don’t know Gaskin.”
“Possibly a priest,” I said. “Tall, thin with very long hair and—”
“I believe we’re the only two in the church this afternoon,” the bishop’s secretary said. “The police officers took the names of people who were here when the young lady’s—uh—when her head was found. Then they asked everyone to leave. Perhaps it was a tourist. They’re in and out all the time.”
Mike pulled his phone from his pocket and answered the call. “Hold on, Mercer. Let me get out of church and back on the street.”
He turned and thanked the two men and we were on the broad cathedral steps, walking down to Amsterdam Avenue.
“It’s Mercer, for you. Wants some legal advice.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wallace,” I said as I took the phone. “It’s been a long day. What have you got?”
“Cops at Port Authority are holding Daniel Gersh. He was about to board a bus to Chicago.”
“Holding him? What’s the charge?” Giving me the slip earlier in the day wasn’t exactly a criminal offense.
“That’s what they want to know.”
“Where’s his stepfather?”
“All signs are that he hasn’t left home—you know, the house and his office—in more than a week. He bought Daniel the ticket and made all the arrangements.”
“Mike can whip me down to the terminal. There’s no way to keep him with what we’ve got now. But I have so many more questions to ask him.”
“Too late for that, Alex. His old man has him lawyered up. He’s tighter than a tomb.”
SEVENTEEN
“OF course she’s drinking, Adolfo,” Mike said to the maitre d’ at Primola, an Upper East Side Italian restaurant that was my hangout several times a week. “I told you she’s tired, but I didn’t say she’d lost her mind. Dewar’s on the rocks. Tell Fenton not to be stingy with the scotch.”
“And for you, Detectivo?” Adolfo smiled at me as I held up my thumb and forefinger to show him I wanted only a short cocktail while he took Mike’s order.
“A vodka martini with the works. Olives, onions, capers. Back it up when you see me running low.”
Mercer arrived ahead of us and was already sipping a glass of red wine. I excused myself to go downstairs to the restroom. When I emerged five minutes later, refreshed after scrubbing my face and reapplying some makeup, Mike was waiting for me with my drink in hand.
“Giuliano said we could use the television in his office. It’s all tuned up.”
For more than a decade, Mike had engaged us in his habit of betting on the Final Jeopardy! question every weeknight. He did it at the morgue and in station houses, at crime scenes in mansions and tenements, in front of startled witnesses and crusty old NYPD bosses. He had no time or use for the entire show, but was fascinated with the trivia of the last brain teaser often worth many thousands to the contestants, and happy to wager twenty dollars of his own.
“So much for my privacy.” I took the glass and clinked it against Mike’s.
The owner of Primola—Giuliano—had been charmed by Mike’s humor and intelligence for years and was always pleased to let us into his tiny business office for the three minutes that closed the evening game show.
“You look a hell of a lot better than you did an hour ago. D’you put that blush on for us? I thought you said you wanted an early night, but here you go trying to be your most fetching for Mercer and me. Wish you could do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I’ve seen raccoons more attractive than you.”
Mercer was sitting on the edge of the desk. “If we’re talking attractive through your eyes, Detective Chapman, then we’ve got to build in a whole new set of standards. Rumor has it you were spotted at closing time at Elaine’s last week with a real—”
“Don’t go telling secrets on me. It was the forty-eight-hour rule.”
“What rule?” I asked.
“Still within forty-eight hours after the St. Patty’s Day parade—like a temporary blindness sometimes sets in, on account of the green beer. Errors in judgment don’t count.” Mike passed behind me, giving a quick squeeze to the back of my neck, and took the cushy leather chair, resting his feet on the desktop. I plopped down on the small stool in the corner of the room, barely able to