The Kills

She answered on the first ring.

'You kept me up way too late last night reading the novel, which I adored. Your favorite detectives want to know if you'll help us solve a little caper this afternoon, since I'm so worn-out.'

Joan was living in D.C., engaged to a foreign affairs columnist for a major newspaper. She was one of my closest friends.

'Will Chapman give me his gold shield if I do?'

'At least that. Think fur. Think France.' I told her the name of the maker.

'You're out of luck to get a bargain, if that's what you're in the market for,' she said. 'Gregoire Matignon closed his doors in the 1960s.'

'Was he a big deal?'

'Just the biggest, Alex. One of those old families that started out in Russia, dressing the czars and czarinas. Then moved to Paris to service the royal families of Europe. The Duchess of Windsor, Grace Kelly-you know that classic photo of her when she started dating Rainier, wearing a golden sable, stepping out of an old Bentley in front of the Grimaldi Palace? That kind of clientele. As the monarchies became threatened with extinction, the minks thrived and Matignon went out of business.'

I ran my fingers over the faded red stitching on the old label. 'That's a help. I'll call you later.'

'What'd she say?'

'That it sure wasn't made for Tiffany Gatts. You find a monogram?'

'Where?' Mike asked.

I folded back the lapels of the broad collar and scanned the lining. 'It's pretty traditional to sew the client's initials into the lining.'

'Jeez. And to think my mother used to mark my labels with a felt-tip pen, so the other kids at school didn't make off with my leather jackets. This winter I'll get her to try embroidery.'

'See?' Near the bottom of the left front of the coat, in a deep chocolate shade of thick silk thread, was an elegant script monogram. I read the letters aloud. 'R du R.'

'That should narrow my search.'

'I'd say you concentrate on the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Precincts,' Mercer said, smiling. 'High-rent districts on the Upper East Side. Lots of European diplomats. Some Eurotrash with delusions of nobility. Maybe Westchester. Maybe Great Neck.'

Mike grabbed the telephone directory off my bookshelf. 'These guys listed under the D 's or the R 's? We haven't got a lot of them in Ireland.'

'Start with D. '

'DuBock. DuBose.' He ran his forefinger down a long list of names. 'DuQuade. Now we're getting close. DuRaine, DuReese, DuRoque…'

'I don't want to put a damper on your enthusiasm, but something as old as this,' I said, fingering the worn cuff of the once-glamorous coat, 'you've got to figure that since the furrier closed so long ago, and with all the PC attitudes towards animal skins lately, this may have been through thrift shops or secondhand-clothing places.'

'You need a more positive attitude, Coop. Some folks have still got the first fancy outfit they ever wore to church or work or a funeral parlor. Maybe it's the difference between your relatives and mine.'

'Suit yourself. Then don't forget that most women store their furs for the summer. Better check and make sure there wasn't a heist on Seventh Avenue,' I suggested, directing Mike to the fur district between Twenty-fifth and Thirty-fourth Streets.

Laura was out on her lunch break, so when my phone rang I answered it myself. It was the security officer in the lobby of the building. 'Thanks for letting me know. It's okay, I realize it's not your fault.'

I looked up at Mike. 'Maybe you could shut my door. There's a screamer on her way upstairs. Tiffany's mother just blasted past the guard's desk when they tried to stop her at the metal detector.'

'I had a pet water buffalo once had a better disposition than Mrs. Gatts. He was smaller than she is, too.' Mike walked toward the door but he was a few seconds too late.

All 280 pounds of Etta Gatts blocked the doorway of my office.

'Where do I find Alexander Cooper? Where is he?'

The three of us spoke at once. As I identified myself to her and corrected my name, Mike was saying that he wasn't here just now, and Mercer was doing his best to step between the woman and me to diffuse the situation, telling her to calm down and back off.

'Where you got my baby at?' She was breathing fire.

I hadn't even asked Mike that question. I assumed they had the sixteen-year-old in custody, but I didn't know for what.

'Take it easy, Mrs. Gatts,' Mercer said, towering over the large woman. He explained to her how important it was to stay quiet so she didn't get thrown out of the building.

While he tried to soothe her I talked to Mike. 'I've got a case to try. What the hell is going on here? Where's the girl?'

'Downstairs, in the holding pens.'

'Charged with?'

'Criminal possession of stolen prop-'

I interrupted him before he could finish. 'You can't make out felony value with this old thing,' I said, pointing to the fur coat. 'It's not worth twenty-five hundred dollars at this point.'

'And aiding a fugitive-'

'Better.'

'And felony-weight possession of crack cocaine. A white patent leather bag full of little vials.'

I turned back to Mrs. Gatts. 'I think the best place to wait for your daughter would be downstairs, inside the entrance to One Hundred Centre Street, where the judge will see her later this evening and set some bail.'

'What you mean 'this evening'? It's not even two o'clock yet. What you mean 'bail'? Tiffany's just a baby. You got no right to hold her where I can't see her.'

Mercer reached out his hand to steady Mrs. Gatts's flailing arms. She took a step back and kicked at my door with all her considerable might.

I tried to follow Mercer's lead and be diplomatic. I took a step toward the woman but Mike blocked me with an outstretched arm. 'You could make things much easier for Tiffany, ma'am. We just need her to help us. She's been keeping some dangerous company.'

'Like who?'

'Kevin Bessemer.'

'Bessie? That man in jail. He old enough to be her father. What she doing with him?' Etta Gatts clucked her tongue in disbelief, and I let Mercer try to explain why Tiffany was in trouble.

'Don't mean a damn thing. The lieutenant told me my baby was too young to have sex with a thirty-two-year- old man. That it's rape. Well, in this state she too young to vote and too young to drink. That makes her too young to go to jail.'

'Three out of four ain't bad, Mrs. Gatts. Sixteen years old and she gets treated like an adult in criminal court. You oughta do like Ms. Cooper says and have a serious talk with Tiffany. She's the only one,' Mike said, pointing at me, 'who can give your daughter a break.'

'I don't want no break from you,' the woman said, kicking the metal door again. Mercer reached for her elbow but she raised her voice a few decibels as she twisted loose and kept hollering.

'Take it easy.'

'Don't touch me,' she screamed at Mercer. 'And you, you skinny-ass bitch, you watch yourself. My hand to the heavens, my people ain't through with you yet.'

6

'Look on the bright side, Coop. At least she called your tail part 'skinny,'' Mike said, tossing his napkin across the room into the wastebasket. 'I'm going to take this coat over to the photo unit to get it shot, along with some