Silent Mercy ac-13 Read online

  “I’m the CEO of a major international telecommunications company, Ms. Cooper. Once I had your phone number, it was easy for me to get the rest of your personal information.”

  “Everybody seems to know how to find me. A house call really wasn’t necessary, Mr. Borracelli. I’ll be at my desk all day tomorrow. Now, press the down button by those two elevators or I’ll scream.”

  “I don’t imagine you as a screamer. Just listen to me. Two minutes.”

  I continued backing up, closer to the service area, and just a few steps away from David Mitchell’s door.

  “Gina is my baby. She’s a very, very sensitive child. I know she has issues.”

  “Issues” was one of those dreadful weasel words that didn’t begin to articulate what Borracelli referred to. Binge drinking, substance abuse, sexual promiscuity, and the ability to look someone in a position of authority straight in the eye while lying. Gina had more issues than her box of bad things could begin to contain.

  “She’s trying to act like one of the big girls. You’d better rethink the whole ‘baby’ idea.” The law still protected Gina, but she had chosen to start playing with fire.

  “There was an urgency to my phone call, Ms. Cooper. Anyone who works for me and didn’t return a call by day’s end wouldn’t have a job.”

  “I apologize.” Days like this, I’d be willing to give up my job too.

  “Gina has been talking to my wife about hurting herself. She’s distraught about having to face this boy at school. She said she has pills. She has razor blades,” he said, his anxiety apparent for the first time in this confrontation. “She says that she’d rather kill herself than face the embarrassment of seeing Javier at school.”

  “That’s quite serious, Mr. Borracelli. I can get her a counseling appointment first thing in the morning.”

  “And until then, Ms. Cooper? If she hurts herself tonight, it will be all your fault.”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. It wasn’t the kid’s doing that her father was a horse’s ass. “What is it you expect of me right now?”

  So far today I was responsible for everything from the next Holy Wars to a teen suicide.

  “I promised my Gina I wouldn’t come home until you telephoned. Until you apologized for your mishandling of the case, to keep her from hurting herself — with pills, or with something sharp. Gina has tried to cut herself before this. My wife is with her now, keeping watch. They’re waiting up for your call.”

  This wasn’t the moment for me to stand on principle and defend my actions if a kid’s life was hanging in the balance.

  “And for your promise that in the morning, you’ll speak with the headmaster and insist that Javier be expelled.”

  Vincenzo Borracelli took a step in my direction and I recoiled.

  “It’s just the phone I’m handing you, since you won’t let me come inside. No need to back away. Just press on it and it will dial Gina’s number.”

  I took the handheld from him and waited while it connected. It went directly to voice mail. “Gina? It’s Alexandra Cooper, from the DA’s Office. I’m here with your father. We’re concerned about you, of course. I’d like to apologize for anything I said or did to make you unhappy. We can put this entire event behind you and get you on a safer path. I’d like you to meet one of the counselors we work with. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  I flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Borracelli.

  “You didn’t say anything about the boy, Ms. Cooper. Something has to be done about the boy.”

  Vincenzo Borracelli took another step forward and I reached for David Mitchell’s doorbell, pushing against it repeatedly. I had awakened a large, sleeping dog that began to bark fiercely and scratch at the door with his front paws.

  “David!” I screamed for my friend and Vincenzo Borracelli turned to the two elevators and pressed the button between them.

  I could hear David shouting the command to his dog to get down, opening up just as the out-of-bounds Borracelli disappeared behind the sliding elevator door.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “ALEX — my God, you look frantic. Come on in. Is everything all right?”

  “I know that ‘I’m sorry’ is woefully inadequate at this hour of the night,” I said, explaining the bizarre situation to my neighbor and good friend, who had a thriving practice as a psychiatrist. “Go back to sleep. I’d just love to borrow Prozac for the night.”

  “You want to talk?” David asked, belting his bathrobe around his waist.

  “Not right now, thanks. I’m fine. It’s been a tough week and I need a good night’s rest,” I said, bending down to stroke the smooth back of the gentle dog for whom I frequently babysat. “A cold nose beside me and the security blanket of her loud bark, just in case that prick tries to come back, will lull me to sleep. I’ll walk her in the morning before I return her.”

  “No need. I’ll pick her up at seven,” David said. He often took the dog with him to his office.

  I was truly ready to crawl into bed and put my head on the pillow. Prozac curled herself into a ball beside me and I was sound asleep before I relived even half of the day’s events.

  I was showered and dressed by six forty-five, and brewed a pot of coffee. David came in and I gave him a summary of what was going on over slightly well-done English muffins and a strong Colombian roast. His insights into the psychopathic personality were often useful to me.

  “I’ll stay in touch. Let me think about the pathology here, Alex. I’m sure I can find you some things to read over the weekend. Take care, will you?”

  I checked myself out in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. I felt better than I had in two days, and dressed for comfort in a navyblue double-breasted jacket and jeans, for dress-down Friday. The cashmere turtleneck I wore beneath, for warmth, matched the pale lavender pinstripes in the dark fabric.

  My BlackBerry was beginning to load up with the usual morning spam. I refilled my mug and answered the handful of personal messages.

  I was almost ready to leave for the office when my landline rang at exactly eight a.m.

  “Alex? It’s Justin Feldman.”

  “Do I have you to blame for last night?” The prominent litigator was one of the most distinguished lawyers and political advisers in the city. He headed a successful white-collar defense team in a large corporate firm, so rarely crossed professional paths with my sordid category of crimes. “I should have figured Borracelli to be in your client bank.”

  “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Justin asked, making light of the situation with his throaty laugh. “What’s a Borracelli?”

  I took my tone down a notch. “Vincenzo Borracelli. He’s not yours?”

  “Should he be? What am I missing?”

  “Never mind, Justin. A family member of a witness got out of line last night. I’m not sure how he got the information to find me at home.”

  “Not my usual approach Alex. I’m trying to give you a hand, actually. Don’t bite it.”

  “A hand with what?” Feldman had advised presidents, senators, and high-profile clients of every variety. He was well respected for his wisdom and legal acumen, and there were often cadres of young lawyers in the federal courthouse studying his storied cross-examinations when he was on trial with a high-stakes case.

  “The late Ursula Hewitt.”

  My loud sigh must have been audible.

  “I thought as much. I took the liberty of calling because I wanted to get you before you were on your way downtown.”

  “Are you in this, Justin?”

  “No. But I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you about her, Alex. Someone in a bit of a delicate situation.”

  “Delicate situation” was often a euphemism for guilty. “I’m not making any deals.”

  “I wish I could walk your perp in the door, but that’s not what I mean.”

  “Who is it?”

  “She’s a minister. An ordained minister.”

 
; Another country heard from, as my grandmother loved to say. We had Baptists, Jews, Catholics. Now a Protestant in the mix.

  “I thought most Protestants were good with that,” I said. My mother had been raised as an Episcopalian until her conversion to Judaism when she married my father.

  “I think many of them are. Do you have time to meet with her today? I’m sure it will be worth your while.”

  “If she can afford your fees, I guess I’ll have to meet with her.”

  “Glad you still have your sense of humor. We’ve taken her on pro bono. I think you’ll really like each other. She’s one of the smartest people I know.”

  I grabbed a pad to take down the information. “Who is this woman?”

  “Her name is Faith Grant.”

  “You’re kidding me. Faith?”

  “Her father was a minister too. She came by it naturally.”

  “Can she meet me at the office?”

  “Would you mind very much going to see her?”

  “Where?”

  “The seminary. Union Theological Seminary.”

  I didn’t want to tell Feldman we had just been to its Jewish counterpart as part of this investigation. “I don’t know it.”

  “Uptown on Broadway. The entrance is at 121st Street.”

  Harlem again. Just north of the Columbia campus, and one block away from JTS, where Mike would be arriving just about now. I could ask him to meet me for this conversation.

  “Mind telling me what’s so delicate about Faith’s situation?”

  “She’s a graduate of Yale Divinity School and taught there for fifteen years. Now she’s in contention to be president of Union — you know it’s more than 175 years old — which is an enormously prestigious post.”

  “And probably never held by a woman,” I said.

  “Exactly. I’d just like to shelter her a bit from the controversy of the two homicides, so we don’t spoil her chance of an appointment. She may have something to offer you in terms of a lead — she apparently knew this new victim — or she may just want to do what she thinks is the right thing. May I tell her to expect your call?”

  “I’ll grab a cab and be to her in half an hour, Justin. Will that do?” This way we could see what Faith had and I’d still be at my desk by midmorning.

  “I’m forever in your debt, Alex. And still holding a partnership for you when you’re ready.”

  “To come over to the dark side with you? Do I at least get a corner office?”

  “I’ll think on that. I should have known you’d want prime real estate. Thanks very much for doing this.”

  My files were neatly ordered in a large tote bag. I threw on an all-weather jacket and waited until I was out on the sidewalk, hailing a taxi, to call Mike.

  “Good morning. How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Pretty well. And you?”

  “Loaded for bear.”

  “Where are you?”

  “About two blocks south of the seminary.”

  “I’m taking you on a slight detour,” I said, explaining Feldman’s call.

  I caught up with Mike in front of Union twenty minutes later. The entrance was in the middle of the block, a stone’s throw from the Jewish seminary.

  We entered and were met by security. We had already decided to show our driver’s licenses instead of our law enforcement IDs in case Faith Grant hadn’t told anyone in administration we were coming.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Chapman,” Mike announced to the sleepy-eyed guard. “She’s expecting us.”

  “My maiden name is Cooper,” I said. I didn’t mind Mike’s humor, but the minister was expecting me, not the Chapmans. “Alexandra Cooper.”

  As I announced myself, a petite young woman, a bit younger than me, walked briskly through the lobby. She was a striking strawberry blonde, with shoulder-length hair and a dazzling smile.

  “Ms. Cooper?” she said, stopping next to me at the security desk when she heard me say my name.

  “Yes. Are you Faith?”

  “No, no. I’m her sister. I’m Chat. But I just left Faith’s office and I know she’s expecting you. She’s on her way down.”

  Chat beamed one of her smiles at Mike and held out her hand. “Chat Grant. And you are?…”

  “Mike Chapman. Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” Then, speaking to the security guard, she said, “I’ll take them through, Henry. Faith’s just a minute or two behind me.”

  Mike wouldn’t say “homicide” to a pretty blonde if he didn’t have to. He was ready to go wherever Chat Grant led him.

  “This place is like a medieval labyrinth,” she said. “Chapels and libraries and cubbyholes of all kinds. You can really get lost without a guide.”

  “I’m all for guides,” Mike said. “You a minister too?”

  Chat’s head tipped back as she laughed. “Faith and I look an awful lot alike, but that’s where the resemblance ends.”

  She led us through the double-glass doors into the middle of a quad. If JTS most resembled a European’s idea of a New England college, then Union Theological Seminary looked like a prototypical cloistered campus lifted out of Oxford or Cambridge and deposited across the ocean on Broadway.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m looking for work.”

  “Well, what line?” Mike asked.

  It was another gray March morning, but the one or two streaks of sun that broke through the dense clouds found their way to Chat Grant and highlighted her hair like a Botticelli Venus.

  “Are you just nosy, or do you run a search firm?” Chat said, good-naturedly. “Where I come from, folks don’t ask all these questions to people they don’t know. It’s not polite.”

  “Don’t mind him, Chat. He’s just nosy. It’s meant to be a compliment that he’s interested in what you do.”

  Students were already crisscrossing the walkways, probably on their way to their first classes.

  She looked at Mike again. “Well, I certainly don’t mind compliments. They’re hard to come by on this island.”

  One of the quad doors opened and there was no doubt the woman walking through it was Faith Grant. She was older than Chat and a few inches taller, with the same features and coloring. The hair was a dead giveaway, too, though the minister kept hers shorter and held back, today, by wire-rimmed reading glasses.

  “This is my sister,” Chat said as Faith approached and extended her hand.

  “Hello. I’m Alex Cooper. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought along a detective.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’m Faith Grant.”

  “Mike Chapman.”

  “So you’re professionally nosy,” Chat said. “You’re a cop?”

  “Yeah. But I’m still interested in what you do.”

  “Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to talk?” Faith asked. “You’re welcome to stay, Chat.”

  “You know I don’t want to,” Chat said. The smile disappeared, replaced by an intense expression, as if some unpleasant thought had reappeared to trouble her. “You know I’ve got things to do.”

  “Ms. Cooper’s a good friend of that lawyer who’s been so helpful to us here at Union. You might want to talk to her someday.”

  Now Chat fixed her attention on me. If I wasn’t part of a career search, that comment probably meant the younger sister had a problem in her past that had not been resolved. That was a typical introduction to so many of the women I met.

  I tried to restore her more cheerful aspect. “Happy to talk to you anytime.”

  Chat smiled and thanked me. “I’ve really got to go. Nice to meet you both. See you later, Faith.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes. I’ll be home for dinner.”

  Faith blew her a kiss and Chat laughed at her sister as they waved good-bye. The sun caught her again as she moved in the opposite direction, luminous and delicate, like a free spirit without any of the responsibility of the scholars who scurried to class around her.

 
“Sorry to delay you.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Do you have an office here?”

  “Yes, but there are too many eyes and ears around it, not all of them well-wishers. Then I’d have to explain to everyone who you are.”

  “Where to?”

  “This is a good hour of the day to find a quiet spot. Come with me, please.”

  Faith walked several paces ahead of us, and when she reached the far side of the quad, she asked us to give her a few minutes to poke around. “There’s a small prayer chapel off that entryway.” She pointed as she spoke. “If it’s empty, we might talk in there.”

  She went inside and I took myself around the quad — another of the city’s hidden sanctuaries — admiring the gardens that were, like the rest of us, waiting for spring, and the benches placed throughout the maze of pathways so perfect for contemplative reveries.

  Faith emerged from the building and descended the steps, closer to Mike. “Why don’t you come with me? This will work fine.”

  As Mike walked toward her, there was a sharp noise like a crack of thunder directly overhead. The three of us looked skyward as a large carved figure broke loose from its base on the chapel tower and toppled over, hurtling toward Faith Grant.

  Mike yelled her name and tackled her by the knees, taking her down on a muddy patch of lawn.

  The statue crashed against the concrete sidewalk next to the spot where Faith had been standing, its saintly head split from its long, thin body.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “MATTHEW, no doubt,” Faith said as Mike pulled her to her feet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “See those spires on top of the tower? Each represents the writers of one of the Gospels. Mark, John, Luke. This one must be Matthew,” she said, nervously trying to defuse the tension of the frightening near miss. “He’d be the first to tumble at the idea of a woman running this place.”

  I’m sure Mike made that connection to the stained-glass window of Matthew and the winged figure in the old Fordham church even faster than I did. “Good to know.”