called him several times during the last few weeks but he had never returned the messages. He seemed to be interested in one of her roommates, and yes, Beverly admitted that she had a bit of a crush on Steven.
We finally got the events up to last Saturday night, when she ran into Steven at Zoo Bar on the Upper West Side.
“What were you drinking, Beverly?”
“Who, me?”
Three ‘who, me?s’ were my limit.
“We’re sitting in a small room with the door closed. We’re sitting face to face with each other, in two armchairs, barely a foot apart. I’m staring directly at you, and there’s nobody else around. Of course I mean you.” I was beginning to lose patience with Beverly, whose resort to ’who, me?“ was an effort to stall and think of whether or not to give a candid or complete answer to the particular question I was asking.
I got tough with her and she stopped wasting my time. Out poured the rest of the story in a far more direct manner. She told me that Zoo Bar is famous for serving drinks in fishbowls. One fishbowl containing an unidentifiable mixture of alcoholic beverages is served with eight straws, to be shared by a group of drinking friends. Beverly remembered splitting the first one with just her two roommates and ordering a second one, which she consumed most of by herself. She remembered flirting with Steven, while he was unsuccessfully flirting with her roommate. She remembered little else: when she left Zoo Bar, how she traveled to Steven’s apartment, who else was with them, how she wound up in his bed, and how her clothes came to be on the couch in his living room. But she could assure me that she would never have slept with him if indeed she had slept with him had she been sober. Somewhere in that story I was supposed to find the crime.
A buzz on the intercom interrupted the meeting.
“Sorry to break in, Alex, but Chapman’s on the phone.”
“I’m almost done, Laura. See where he is and tell him I’ll call him right back.”
I had been working with Beverly for more than an hour and she seemed ready for a break. Her mouth was drawn taut with anxiety and her fingers tensely folded and unfolded the edges of the newspaper she had held on her lap since she walked into the room.
“This is a good start, Beverly, but it’s only the first step. I’m going to have to interview everyone else who was with you at the bar, anyone who observed what you said and did, when you left, how you left. I’m going to have to talk to your roommates and to Steven’s. I’ll need to speak with the doctor you saw last night. I’m trying to find out why you said you ”think“ you were raped after all, if you’re not even sure, I don’t know how we can be.”
“Well, I didn’t plan to report this to the police, Ms. Cooper. I just went to the doctor at Student Health Services to make sure I didn’t have any risk of infections or pregnancy, in case Steven had penetrated me, and she said maybe I had been raped. She’s the one who called the detectives.“
Maybe? We’re going to start to prosecute people for felonies on the basis of drunken conjecture and the suggestion of roommates and doctors and significant others who weren’t anywhere near the scene of the ‘crime’? Neither Beverly nor her doctor knew whether or not a sexual act had been consummated.
“One step at a time, Beverly. We’ll look into every aspect of this very carefully. In the meantime, just keep in touch with me and if you have any questions, leave a message with Laura and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” And I bit down on my lip to stop myself from giving politically incorrect advice about how foolish I thought she was to drink unknown quantities of unidentified substances in uncontrolled situations the way she did. Save that for another visit.
I ushered her out and picked up the slip of paper with Mike’s home number on it.
“Just thought you’d like to know that Wally Flanders called. He’s coming into town tomorrow ‘cause he wants our help. Nice enough to admit he has no experience with homicide. He’s got Burrell and Garelli agreeing to fly in here to be interviewed so we can do it together. Only downside is that it keeps the FBI in this, so Luther will be here, too we’re letting Wally declare it an interstate investigation, so the feds keep a piece of the pie. Anyway, we’ll do the work up at the squad. Also, LAPD got some shrinks’ names from Isabella’s house, so they’re trying to round them up, too. See if any of them look like whackos.”
“Hey, they’re shrinks, aren’t they? Any of them fit our poetic ”Dr. C.,“ the initial on the manuscript you found?”
“Nah. I asked the same thing. Usual bunch of Schwartzes, Greenbergs, Bernsteins… You know, Cooper, beanies like you.”
Beanies was Mike’s euphemism for yarmulkes, his slang for Jews. He was trying to get a rise out of me but it wouldn’t work today.
“Any chance you can slip me in on any of the interviews?”
“Not a prayer. Battaglia made it clear to the chief, just like he did to you, that you are not to play Dickless Tracy you are not an investigator on this case, you’re just a witness. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Rod was waiting at Laura’s desk when I got off the phone. He had waved Pat McKinney ahead to Battaglia’s office, and waited to escort me there on our way to lunch.
Good friend that he is, he filled me in on the District Attorney’s latest plan to cut down the pre arraignment time of prisoners so that I could perform adequately at the meeting. He explained the setup of the new video systems that had been installed in the precincts so that prosecutors could do the preliminary case interviews with cops by remote, saving the time of the long ride down to the Criminal Courts Building and Central Booking.
The four of us walked out of the office and around the back street to Forlini’s, where we had Battaglia’s regular booth. The place was packed with its regular assortment of assistant D.A.s, defense attorneys, judges, and neighborhood wise guys. If anyone was stupid enough to come in and hold the place up during any weekday lunch hour, we could organize all the personnel for a trial and jury and have a verdict without any of us leaving the dining room.
We completed our conversation about the video link by the time we had finished our meals, then Battaglia engaged me in some chatter about new cases, just checking to see if my head was on straight. We strolled out after drinking our coffee and Paul made a point of lagging behind to walk with me.
“Glad to see you’re okay, Alex. Is it for real?”
“I think I’m fine, Paul. Isabella’s murder doesn’t seem to involve me at all, the police are in charge as you know and I’m back doing what I love to do. Thanks for your help-‘ He cut me off he hated to be brown-nosed and sucked up to and went on with talk about his plan to create a new welfare fraud unit. We took his private elevator back up to the eighth floor where Rod, Pat, and I left Battaglia and returned across the corridor to the Trial Division Executive Offices.
There had been six calls while I was out to lunch. Jed rang twice, to confirm arrangements for the evening; two of my colleagues had asked for time to review new cases;
Joan Stafford had called to make a dinner date for me to meet her new beau; and Friday’s male caller had tried to get through twice. I should have told Chapman about the caller and about my hang-ups at home when I returned his call. Dammit. Oh well, I can tell him tonight. Ellen Goldman presented herself at Laura’s desk at precisely two-fifteen. I stepped out to greet her and we both started the less-than-subtle process of looking each other over to form our first impressions. I would read about hers in a very widely distributed legal journal, so I approached her with caution and some trepidation, knowing that her profile would be based on the interview, some observations in court during the week, and comments from colleagues and adversaries.
She would be hoping for my trust and openness, and perhaps some anecdote or item of personal information to scoop her competition, so I was aware that she would lay n the charm and flattery in our first encounter. I assumed she was salivating to have this chance to talk with me, set up prior to Isabella’s death, in the midst of the turmoil in which I was embroiled.
I guessed that Goldman was roughly my age, perhaps a year or two younger. She was much shorter than I, with dark, curly hair and an athletic build. Her khaki suit was serviceable for a business meeting but completely lacking in style. When she introduced herself there was the vague trace of an accent which I could not place but knew I would learn about in the hours we were to spend together. We shook hands and I brought her into my office, thanking her for the flowers she had left with my doorman the preceding week when I had canceled our first appointment because of the murder.
“Let me start by describing my project, Miss Coop… may I call you Alex?”
“Certainly.”
