“Why so?”

“Can’t you see for yourself?” Mike said, pulling back the curtain. “Think like a general once in a while, not like a lit major.”

“I’ll try,” I said, shrugging while Mercer tugged at a strand of my hair.

“First you’ve got this high promontory of land, looking out on the turbulent body of water. From the roof of this building, you can actually see all the other boroughs in the city. It was rich soil for farming and there were oysters and fish of all kinds teeming right down on the shore. Sort of like your place on the Vineyard, kid.”

“I get that.”

“The family that owned the land was named Walton, and they picked the wrong side during the Revolution.”

“Loyalists?” Mercer asked.

“Exactly. When Washington sent his men to New York in 1776 to prepare the defense against the British, American troops seized this home and built two forts-one here at Horn’s Hook and one across the way at Hallett’s Point in Queens-to block the passage by boat through Hell Gate.”

“So the front lawn right out here was a major battleground in the Revolutionary War?” Mercer asked.

“Yeah. The king’s army attacked from Long Island, and from all these little islands in the river, bombing the life out of our rebels. The Walton house, tucked inside the fort right here, was set on fire by a shell and burned to the ground. Cannonballs just like this one brought the place down. This point remained occupied by the British until 1783.”

I never tired of learning of the city’s past through Mike’s boundless enthusiasm for history.

“Gracie didn’t come along until later?” I said.

“Archibald Gracie. Born in Scotland, but sailed to New York right after the British evacuated to start a commercial enterprise. He recognized the importance of the tobacco industry, so he moved to Virginia for a few years to make contacts there, until he married and returned here. Took a big house in the heart of the city-lower Broadway-where he both lived and conducted all his business.”

“What was the business?” Mercer asked.

“Importing European goods in exchange for tobacco. The man got rich, Mercer. Very, very rich. Began buying his own ships. Came time for him to own a country house. Just like Coop.”

Mike and I had come to our strong friendship from such different backgrounds that he was always poking fun at my privileged roots. My father, Benjamin Cooper, was a cardiologist whose invention of a half-inch piece of plastic tubing when I was twelve years old had changed the way heart surgery was performed all over the world. The Cooper-Hoffman valve had afforded me a great education and a financial cushion-even in the difficult days of our recent recession-that made public service a far easier lifestyle for me than for most of my colleagues.

“I thought you’d forgotten about the Vineyard. You haven’t been there in way too long.”

“My French isn’t good enough, I guess.”

“We still speak English in Chilmark,” I said, pinching his cheek. “Bring a date. You weren’t alone on New Year’s Eve, were you?”

“Seems so far back I can hardly remember,” Mike said. “Now, in 1799, at the same time City Hall was going up-right where Manhattan ended-Archibald Gracie started to build his country estate.”

“Man, it’s hard to imagine East Eighty-eighth Street as the country,” Mercer said.

“But it was. In fact, there was so much cholera in the city that wealthy New Yorkers built this colony of summer places up along the river, trying to escape to clean fresh air. It’s more than five miles north of the original city walls, and the easiest way to get here at that time was by boat. It was a world apart from Manhattan.”

“So throughout the last three centuries,” I said, thinking of all the modern construction that recycled precious space on an island that had experienced such radical development since it was colonized, “there have only been two houses built on this site. That’s really remarkable for New York.”

“C’mon, let me show you the second floor. It’s like a museum.”

“Statler will be here any minute,” I said.

“Suit yourself. You must have been the kind of kid who never got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Take a chance every now and then, why don’t you?” Mike started out of the library across the reception area to the staircase. He moved the stanchion holding the velvet rope and headed up the steps with Mercer.

I could hear a commotion coming from the hallway that led to the rear of the house, and then Vin Statler’s voice. “Where are they? In the library or out by the well?”

He charged toward me from the dining room at the head of a group of three men. One was Rowdy Kitts and the other was a second detective I recognized who was also assigned to bodyguard him. “Never mind. Here they-”

Statler raised an arm and shouted when he saw Mike and Mercer on their way upstairs to the private quarters. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“It’s okay, Mr. Mayor, they’re the good guys, remember?” Rowdy said, shaking Mike’s hand as he came back down the steps and replacing the stanchion.

Statler charged past me into the library and introduced me to his other bodyguard.

“Sit down, Alex. Gentlemen? Have a seat in here. What is it you’re trying to make of these events exactly?”

Mercer joined me on the burgundy velvet sofa but Mike wouldn’t sit. He knew the mayor was trying to stake out a superior position and refused to let him have it. It was imposing enough that he was flanked by two NYPD detectives.

“I’d like to figure out why somebody thought your house was the appropriate dumping place for the congressman’s dead girlfriend.”

“The poor young woman lived across the street, Chapman. I certainly didn’t know that until yesterday’s briefing.”

“See, sir, I just don’t believe in coincidence.”

“You don’t have to. This mansion happens to be in the middle of a beautiful park. It’s an attractive nuisance. There are teenagers and hooligans running around the park late at night all year. The house sits dark and empty most evenings anyway.”

“Not always empty, sir. Tea and crumpets, I understand.”

The mayor was fuming. “There are tourists several days a week. There are occasional dinners and celebrations. In the summer there’s always a tent out on the lawn so we can entertain. But the grounds, including the park, cover a great deal of acreage.”

“And there’s a police guard at the gatehouse twenty-four/seven,” Mike said.

“Well, I guess he was working twenty-three/seven last night, wouldn’t you say? We’ve had muggings in the park before. We’ve had women assaulted there over the years. Wouldn’t be the first cop to fall asleep on the job, would he?”

“Afraid not, Your Honor. So you’re thinking this just happened to be the closest well in town?”

Statler took a step toward Mike. “Or perhaps, Chapman, someone decided to try to embarrass me. Has that thought occurred to you?”

“It had, actually. Maybe you’d like to sit down with us and talk about it. Give us some ideas about who you think would have a reason to do that.”

“It’s your job to come up with ideas, Detective. And with suspects. It’s my job to run this city.”

“I’m just wondering why you put up such a stink this morning when the commissioner asked if we could use the mansion here to stage his operation. Of course, that’s when those of us looking for Salma Zunega had no idea where she’d been dumped.”

“One had nothing to do with the other, Chapman. Are you suggesting I intended to keep you away from here because I knew where this-this whore-was disposed of? That’s a shocking suggestion.”

I was pained at his choice of words for the dead woman.

“Maybe you ought to rethink your language, Mr. Mayor,” I said.

Statler put his hands in his pockets and looked at me. “Do you really think that Paul Battaglia wants you to ambush me? I’ve got nothing to say about this matter. I came up here to get answers from you.”