Mercer’s wife was also a police officer and the daughter of a well-respected detective. She had a little more tolerance for the terrible hours he kept, even with the addition to the family of their young son, Logan.

I gathered my things, said good-night to Willis Pomeroy, and walked out onto First Avenue with Mercer and Mike, refreshed by the blast of cold air.

Mercer’s cell phone rang and he lifted it to his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. Who is this?”

“Can’t be too important if he doesn’t even know the guy,” Mike said as he kept walking while Mercer stopped to take the call. “You riding with him or me, kid?”

“Whoever is parked closer,” I said, pulling up the collar of my jacket.

“Did you get his name?” I heard Mercer ask.

“Call Fenton,” Mike said, referring to the bartender at Primola. “I want a vodka martini straight up. An olive and three onions. And I want it waiting on the table when we walk in.”

“You did the right thing, Fitz,” Mercer told his caller. “Just call the precinct if he shows up again.”

“I’m thinking maybe that lasagnetta with a veal ragù,” Mike said.

The morgue always depressed my appetite, but never seemed to have an effect on Mike at all. I’d be happy with a shot of Dewar’s and a bowl of soup.

Mercer seemed in no hurry to catch up with us. I turned to wave him on. “Something wrong?”

“That was the doorman at Salma’s apartment. Harry Fitzpatrick. I gave him my card when we left there tonight and told him to call me if anything unusual happened.”

“So what happened? The congressman tried to convene a special session?” Mike asked.

Mercer walked toward us slowly. “A guy just showed up fifteen minutes ago. Not Leighton, Alex. Don’t worry about that. Made Fitz call upstairs to Salma, but she’d already told him not to bother her under any circumstances. And not to let the police in either. Fitz knew she wasn’t going to answer, but he says he rang her anyway.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Says he didn’t want to create another scene in the lobby,” Mercer said. “It might also have something to do with the hundred-dollar bill he says the guy slipped him.”

“Who’s the visitor?”

“Fitz says the guy wouldn’t give a name. He said he was there to pick up his baby.”

“His baby?”

“Yeah, Fitz claims the man said that he was the father of Salma’s child.”

NINE

“Get in the car, Coop.”

“It’s fine for you to disagree with me, Mike. I can just head home.”

“What’s your point?”

“Look, maybe Salma’s unhinged at the moment. How could she not be with what’s going on around her?”

“I’m getting unhinged myself. The combination of cold and hungry kills all my good instincts. It’s twenty-six degrees out here with a wind chill that makes it feel like minus five. It’s right behind that gray SUV. Get in.”

“Since when did you become Doppler Mike, the weather maven? The woman is scared enough to phone the police repeatedly-”

“Salma denied making the calls,” Mike said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“They came from her landline. There’s no question about that,” I said. “The cops respond a few times, and when they get fed up, they tell her they’re not coming back under any circumstances.”

“That’s what she wants. She threatened to make a civilian complaint for harassing her.”

“Well, I’m not comfortable with it, okay? Salma has absolutely no lifeline to the police right now. You two go on to the restaurant. I’d like to go up to her apartment and have a talk with her. I can’t figure what Lem and Ethan were up to, but it stinks.”

“It’s almost ten thirty, Alex. What makes you think she’ll let you in?” Mercer asked.

I stepped off the curb to try to hail a cab.

“That stubborn streak is going to get her hurt someday,” Mike said, reaching for my hand to pull me back. “Coop thinks the sensitive-broad-to-sensitive-broad approach is always going to work for her. Thinks it’s better for crazy people than twenty-four hours in Central Booking. Meanwhile, all she really wants to do is get up close and personal with Salma before Lem Howell shuts her down.”

“You guys go have a drink and start eating. I don’t like the idea that this woman is all alone tonight, her life coming apart on national television, her baby sent off with a relative-”

“Her choice,” Mike said.

“She probably has no idea what she wants right now. Another man shows up at her door staking out rights to the kid, and bottom line? In case anything really does go wrong tonight-like Ethan Leighton deciding to try his hand at calming her down-the police have already told her they’re off-limits to her. Can you imagine? Who’s she going to call if there really is a problem?”

“I’ll take you back there, Alex,” Mercer said, stepping between Mike and me. “Ride up with me.”

“Sweet Jesus. Now you’re walking down Coop’s path? Drinking her Kool-Aid? Tell you what. I got no piece of your action, guys, okay? I’m assigned to the Ukrainian flotilla ’cause I handle real cases like murder. You got a drunken congressman who’s a John Edwards wannabe, go stroke the broad for an hour. Where’s the crime?”

Mike was parked at the corner. He walked over and got in, gunning the gas as he took off up First Avenue before we reached Mercer’s car halfway up the block on Thirtieth Street.

There was no traffic. We cruised up First, catching most of the lights to reach Salma’s building in twelve minutes.

Mercer parked his car across the street, in front of the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded Gracie Mansion. Christmas decorations and lights still covered the outside of the building and the park around it, but the interior of the old house was dark.

The glass tower high-rise sparkled against the sky, a glitzy new addition to the classic prewar apartments that lined this quiet street that bordered the East River. Harry Fitzpatrick recognized Mercer as we approached and opened the door to admit us to the lobby of Salma’s building.

“Evening, sir. I didn’t mean to get you up here again, Mr. Wallace. All’s quiet now. The man hasn’t come back,” Fitz said, swinging his arms across each other like an umpire announcing a player safe on base. “Haven’t heard from Miss Salma. It’s good.”

“I’d like you to ring up to her for me.”

The doorman, built like a linebacker, tried to refuse politely. “Can’t do that, sir. She’s a tough cookie.”

“I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. We need to talk to Salma Zunega. Now.”

“I-uh-I can’t do it, ma’am. It’s after ten thirty. I’m sure she’s resting.”

“Is it the hundred dollars the last guy gave you, Mr. Fitzpatrick? ’Cause you’re not going to get that from me, and I don’t think she’d like to hear you got it from him.”

“I just can’t. I don’t want to lose my job.”

I walked past Fitzpatrick and down the three marble steps that led into the opulent lobby. “Which elevator bank, Mercer?”

“To the right. Ten-A.”

I held open the door for Mercer, then pressed the button. Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to know whether to leave his post and follow us or break his word and call upstairs.

We got out on the tenth floor and I followed Mercer into the corridor. There were only three apartment doors, one on each end of the hallway and one right opposite the elevator. We walked the long hall on thick beige carpeting that muffled the sound of our steps.

There was a brass knocker on the door and a peephole below it, but no name in the small plate that identified most residents.

Mercer struck three times with the knocker.

“You hear anything?” I asked after several seconds.

He shook his head, then knocked again.

“Maybe she can’t hear it if she’s in the bedroom with her door closed.”

“This thing is big enough to make noise in the Bronx,” Mercer said, rapping with the knuckles of his huge hand.