and something like a fog had settled over my brain since we left the precinct house on Pitt Street. I rubbed my face with both hands but it did no good.
“We’re exactly where I didn’t want to be,” Mike said. “Off balance, surprised, and playing catch-up.” He sighed heavily, loosened his tie, and pushed his shirtsleeves to his elbows. “And catching up to Flores won’t be easy.”
“What was she doing there, anyway?” I asked. “It’s early for an ADA to show up.”
“She was there to protect her interests,” Mike said. “An ugly killing, a wealthy, high-profile suspect, and plenty of sex, all in a bigtime media market like New York: if this gets to a trial, she knows it’s six months of cable TV frenzy, minimum, and afterward a book deal and God knows what else. But she knows it could just as easily turn into a career-killer, and she can’t afford any fuckups. So she was there to be careful, and to send a message.”
“That being?”
“That she’s serious, but that she might be willing to deal; that otherwise this could get seriously ugly for your brother; and- most of all- that she has all the cards.”
“That video…”
“Fuck that video,” he said vehemently. “I don’t want a jury ever seeing that thing.”
McCue and Vines had only played a snippet for us, but it was enough. Holly was doing some version of her interrogation act, and Stephanie was white, and shaking with anger.
I took a deep breath. “Surely we’re a ways from that.”
“Not as far as I’d like,” he said.
Mike turned and paced the length of the room. It was a long walk, across an expanse of bleached hardwood floor and white carpet, and past low, sleek furniture in glass, polished stone, and white leather. Mike’s face was pale and full of concentration.
“The particulars of Holly’s life took them by surprise,” I said. “That had to buy us something.”
“It complicates things for them, so it buys time, though probably not a lot. They’ll run down the stuff we gave them- they have to- but unless something jumps out at them, it’ll be perfunctory. Make no mistake- it’s David they like for this, or Stephanie, or both.”
“I got that.”
Mike’s brows came together. “They’re not so sure about you, either.”
“I got that too. What do you want to do with this time we bought?”
“The first thing I want you to do is find Jamie Coyle.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Coyle’s going to be at the top of McCue’s list of people to talk to.”
“Exactly,” Mike said, “and I don’t want any more surprises. I want to know what he’s got to say, and I don’t want to hear it secondhand from Rita Flores.”
“The cops won’t be happy to see me around.”
“Not in the slightest,” Mike said, “but I don’t think it can be helped.”
“Easy for you to say- it’s not your license they’ll yank.”
Mike squinted at me some more. “Your brother’s skating on some very thin ice right now- it’s not the time to get-”
I cut him off. “I know, I know,” I said. “What if Coyle’s in the wind?”
Mike looked out the window some more. “The best thing for your brother is a Coyle who confesses. Next best is a Coyle who cuts and runs.”
“What about a Coyle who had nothing to do with Holly’s death?”
He shook his head. “Bad news. Without a viable alternative, Flores will keep looking where she’s looking now.”
I stared up Fifth Avenue, and watched a bus slide past the Engineers’ Gate at Ninetieth Street. I wasn’t sure yet what case there was to make against Coyle, or if there was any at all, but I kept that to myself. Mike seemed to read my mind.
“If you’ve got someone else in mind, don’t keep it secret,” he said. “Because Flores is eager, and time is not on our side.”
I shook my head. “You think she’s going to make things more formal soon?”
“Probably. And after that, it won’t keep quiet long. It may not keep quiet as it is. The longer David stays on Flores’s radar, the more likely it is the press will get hold of it, one way or another.”
“Are the cops releasing the identification?”
“Flores said they’ve notified the sister, but they’re not making an announcement just yet.”
We heard the clatter of silverware on tile, and another curse from David. I crossed the room to the hall and looked through the dining room into the kitchen. I saw a shadow move across the floor, but nothing else. I turned to Mike.
“So I look for Coyle; what about you?”
Mike ran a hand through his hair. “The first thing is to sit down with Stephanie, and figure out just what the fuck is going on.” I nodded.
David had been very little help on that front. In the cab uptown he’d been blank-faced and silent. Back at his apartment, he’d sent the maid home and stood in the entrance foyer in a freefall of confusion. I’d guided him to the living room and sat him on a sofa. Mike had asked questions and David had groped for answers.
“What did Stephanie know about your affairs?”
“She knew there were other women, I don’t know how. We didn’t talk about it, not directly. Maybe once…I don’t know. I didn’t think she knew about Wren- she never said anything. I was wrong, I guess.”
“Were you together all night that Tuesday?”
“She was here when I got home, but she left a little while later. She said she was going around the corner, to Eighty-sixth Street, to meet…I don’t remember who, some friend of hers, to see a movie. I’m not sure when she got back- I’d had a couple of drinks, I guess, and I fell asleep. She was here around eleven-thirty, when I woke up, and she seemed fine to me.”
“How would she have met Holly?”
“I don’t know how they met- maybe Holly called her. I have no fucking idea.”
“Do you think Stephanie could have-”
“No, absolutely not. Steph had nothing to do with this. Nothing.”
His voice was a monotone, and he’d stared at the carpet the whole time, as if there was something hidden in the weave that only he could see. It was only when Mike asked about Holly being pregnant that David had looked up. His face was flushed, and for an instant there was a tiny, bitter smile.
“It’s not me,” he’d said.
Mike’s voice was gentle. “Condoms fail.”
“It’s not me.”
“And Holly never-”
“She never said a word about it.”
“Could she have said something to Stephanie?” Mike had asked.
“I don’t know what she said or didn’t say, but Steph…she wouldn’t believe it.”
He’d gone to the kitchen after that, to make coffee.
Mike put his hands in his pockets and paced some more. “It didn’t help that he lied to McCue,” he said.
“About being here with Stephanie all evening? He was confused- he made a mistake.”
Mike pursed his lips. “Call it what you want; the cops will see it as an alibi that doesn’t stick.”
“Whose alibi?”
He shook his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Mike and I turned as David reappeared. There was an empty creamer in his hand and a confounded look on his face.
“The coffee machine…” he said. His voice was vague and very tired.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
In the cavern of David’s stone and steel kitchen, the remains of a skirmish: coffee beans scattered on the countertop, the coffee grinder empty, unplugged, tipped on its side, a box of filter papers on the floor, with a
