13

Six o'clock on Friday afternoon, I was sitting in Battaglia's office with Mike Chapman, Mercer Wallace, and Brenda Whitney, who was in charge of the district attorney's press relations.

"You think kidnap or you think runaway?" the DA asked. The smoke from his cigar mingled with the smoke of the cheaper brands he had given to Mike and Mercer.

Brenda coughed as I answered. "The foster mother thinks the kid just bolted from her car and took off, while she went into the high school to pick up her older child. But I've never laid eyes on her before," I said of Cicely Wykoff, "so it's impossible for me to gauge her credibility."

"What's the department doing to find him?" Battaglia asked of the cops.

"I called headquarters from the courtroom. Chief of D's put a couple of guys from Major Case on it. We're dumping phones, doing a background on the foster mother and everybody in her orbit, and checking with the crossing guards near the school to see if they can ID the kid," Mike answered.

"Where's Mrs. Wykoff now?"

"Pat McKinney assigned the investigation to the Child Abuse Unit. I'm not sure who's interviewing her. He figures they'll get a lot more information if she isn't worried about me using it in the case. The child welfare agency had drilled that into her."

"He's right, you know," Battaglia said, chewing on the cigar end as he talked. "Besides, you're in the middle of a trial. You can't possibly handle this."

"I know it," I said. "But the kid's life is a hell of a lot more important than the Vallis rape. I hate to say that, but the reason she was attacked was because she wanted to make the boy safe. I'm ready to walk away from this case if it's freaked out the child so much."

"And let him go back to that lunatic father?" Mercer asked. "No way."

"Boss, I know I won't be able to concentrate on the testimony if we haven't found the boy by Monday."

"Don't jump the gun, Alex. Do what you've got to do and trust the PD to do their bit. Can't you buy a little time from Moffett?"

"He looks ready to tank the whole thing. We'll finish the Vallis cross on Monday. Then I've got a waitress from the coffee shop, the cops, and the nurse. Without the boy, the judge is likely to dismiss for failure to make out a prima facie case if Robelon is persuasive when he makes his motion."

"Brenda, how do we handle this? I'm sure DCPI gave it to the press," Battaglia said. He knew how to spin the media better than most people knew how to spell their names.

The NYPD's deputy commissioner for public information would have already released a photograph of Dulles Tripping, asking for help in locating him.

"They're faxing over a copy of their press release. They don't want to connect it to the trial at all. They're just sticking with the missing child approach. The chief was hoping to make it in time for coverage on the six o'clock news. It'll probably be the lead story by eleven."

Mercer had dropped off Paige Vallis at her apartment in TriBeCa and returned to my office before Battaglia had called me in. "You'd better get back on the phone with Paige and explain it to her before she hears it on television," I told him.

"This is going to hit her hard. She'll blame herself for his disappearance," he said.

"There goes my jury," I said, practically groaning. So wrapped up in worry about the boy, I hadn't thought about the need for press announcements to mobilize the public to help find Dulles. My jurors would see the weekend news on television and in print. There had been so much testimony about Dulles, through Paige, that they would certainly connect the fact that he had vanished to our trial.

"Didn't the judge instruct them not to listen to media accounts involving your case?" Battaglia asked.

Chapman blew a smoke ring and stood up, helping himself to another cigar from the DA's humidor. "Yeah. The jurors won't dare read the page-one headlines about the case, just like I'm about to slither into a hot tub tonight for a ménage with Sharon Stone and blondie, here, and like you won't be sitting behind that desk when you're eighty-five years old. Get a grip, Mr. B-they'll devour the story."

"I'll keep you both posted over the weekend," I said to Battaglia and Whitney.

We walked back to my office. Mercer said good night to us, heading over to the sixth floor across the street, which housed the Child Abuse Unit. He was going to bring the detectives up to speed on everything he knew about Dulles Tripping. Nancy Taggart was probably already there, being debriefed.

"So much for bonding with my witness," I said, taking the paper bag from Mike and locking the Yankees jacket in a filing cabinet. "You got anything else for me?"

"Well, before your weekend was ruined, I was going to ask you to come with me for a couple of hours tomorrow morning. Just wanted an extra pair of eyes going over Queenie's apartment one more time."

"What about Sarah?" I asked.

"Somehow, I don't feature going over a crime scene with Sarah's toddler and infant in tow behind her. Too much drool minimizes the potential to pick up DNA."

"Why is it that everybody is so sympathetic to motherhood?" I asked, smiling. "I haven't got any excuses that stack up against breast-feeding, Saturday-morning soccer games, runny noses, or a trip to Costco to stockpile Pampers."

"Hey, if the choice is encouraging you to stay in bed or come with me to Harlem, it's not even a close call. Pick you up after your ballet class?"

Mike knew the drill. I had studied dance since childhood, and used my weekly lesson now not only as a form of exercise, but as a way to relieve some of the tension of this all-consuming job.

"Ten o'clock, in front of William's studio."

"And do me a favor this time. Shower before you get dressed. Last time I met you after class, you smelled like a goat."

"Last time," I reminded him, "you appeared in the middle of class to drag me out because you found a dead rapist Mercer and I'd been after for two years. Trust me, I'll even put perfume on."

"I'll up the ante for you. Remember I told you the kids claimed that Queenie danced for them?"

"Yeah."

"Well, apparently before she had the stroke, she could really shake it up." Mike removed some photographs from the Redweld he carried as his case folder. "You'd have gotten along well with Queenie. She was a dancer, too."

I reached for the faded black-and-white pictures that Mike handed to me.

"See what I mean?" he asked. "Just a bit more exotic than you. Think of the money she saved on costumes."

In most of the images, there was nothing between the body of McQueen Ransome and the lens of the camera. A rhinestone tiara on her head, long black satin gloves up over her elbows, and some high-heeled strappy sandals-her exquisite figure was displayed with great confidence and pride. She appeared to be onstage, dancing for an audience. No wonder great photographers like Van Derzee had worked with her.

I turned over a few of the photos looking for anything that identified the time or place. On the back of several was a handwritten notation of the year, 1942.

"Where did you find these?" I asked.

"In one of the piles of stuff that had been dumped out of the drawers."

"Any more up there?"

"There are lots of photos. I just grabbed a couple of these to lure you in. I'm wondering if someone found all this old kinky stuff and it turned him on."

"Let's hope not. Queenie could hardly be confused with the nineteen-or twenty-year-old in these pictures. But you're right, I'm in for your morning trip," I said, gathering up my files to head for home.

"Aren't you going to stay for Jeopardy!?" Mike asked.

"Jake's back in town. Dinner at home. Why don't you scoot and take Val out someplace for a change?"