'Has the rain let up?' he said, opening the door to look outside. 'Where's your car?'
Mercer pointed up the street to where we had parked. Mike's was closer by, so we crossed Fifty-seventh Street in the light drizzle and squared the block on Fifth Avenue to get to West Fifty-fifth Street.
We had almost made it through dinner when Mercer's beeper went off. He left the table to return the call.
'You still going to the country tomorrow?' Mike asked.
'Absolutely. Any chance you and Val can join me? I'd love the company.'
He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, which he'd almost emptied of his first vodka. 'Val's having a bad time of it, Alex.'
Mike had met Valerie Jacobsen after she had undergone a mastectomy. She had completed an intensive course of chemotherapy, but the doctors warned her that it was such a virulent strain of cancer that she had to be watched for every minor health change.
'Want to tell me?'
'Maybe it's nothing. I just know how it frightens her, even when she doesn't want to worry me about it. Mostly she's run-down, exhausted, listless. They're working up a whole slew of tests this week. Maybe you could give her a call, cheer her up.'
'I'm mortified that you have to ask me to do it. I haven't spoken to her in a couple of weeks, between my vacation and the trial. Of course I'll call her. Don't you think a few days on the Vineyard would-'
'She can't do it right now, Alex.'
'Look at me, Mike,' I said, lifting his chin to make his eyes meet mine. 'Trust me, will you? You've got to talk to me about these things. I can't read your mind.'
Mercer stood behind me, resting his hand on my sore shoulder. 'Finish your cocktails, folks. Have to make a stop at the ER.'
I assumed that meant a sexual assault victim had been admitted and Mercer was tagged for the interview. 'A rape?'
'Nope. Our friend Andrew Tripping is being treated for multiple stab wounds.'
'Is he-?'
'He's going to live. Out of danger, just a few holes in his back.'
'Bellevue?'
'Nope. New York Hospital.'
York Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. My neighborhood, not Tripping's.
We each threw some bills on the table to cover the drinks and dinner. The rain had stopped but the wet pavement still glistened against the headlights of the oncoming traffic as we weaved our way north and east to the hospital entrance.
The triage nurse was surprised to see us, particularly once we displayed our identification shields to her. She tipped her head in the direction of a small cubicle that was separated from her station by a green curtain. 'He's been sedated. Let me check. I'm not sure it's a good idea to try to talk to him now.'
She walked away and I whispered to Mercer, 'I'm not sure it's a good idea for us to talk to him at all. He's represented by counsel and he's supposed to show up in Moffett's part tomorrow morning to take a plea.'
'I can ask him about the stabbing, can't I? This time, he's in as a victim.'
'Check with the nurse. Wouldn't you think he's already been interviewed? I assume he came in here by ambulance after a 911 call.'
I walked out to the waiting area while Mike and Mercer entered the cubicle. They were with the patient almost fifteen minutes before they came back to me.
Mike was shaking his head. 'I don't know what to make of him. He's a nutcase to begin with, isn't he?'
'Diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic.'
'So people are always after him, right?'
'Most of the time.'
'In case you didn't have enough to worry about, Mr. Tripping was on his way to try to find where you live, Coop.'
'But, why?'
'Guess he just couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. I didn't throw him any questions about your case, I just asked what happened this evening.'
'What'd he say?'
'He's a little incoherent. I don't know if that's him or the drugs. Mumbling all kinds of conspiracy theories. The lawyers are out to get him, there are terrorists after him, the CIA wants him dead, and he's never gonna see his kid again. Now which of those make sense?' Mike asked.
'Don't I wish I knew. Why me?' I said. 'That's the only thing I'm concentrating on at the moment.'
'He's telling us he wants you to put him in jail. That's why he's looking for you.'
'Happy to help,' I said. 'But all he needs to do is show up in court to get that done. I don't like this one bit. And who's following him while he's looking for me? Who does he say attacked him?'
Mercer waved his hand in a circle. 'Wasn't sure, couldn't see, can't describe-'
'Well, that's ridiculous. He claims he used to be a CIA agent, for chrissakes.'
'You didn't do any better last night with your attacker,' Mike said.
I flapped around for an answer but had none. 'What does the doctor say? How serious is it?'
'Not very,' said Mercer. 'In fact, the resident's got the chart all marked up for psych observation. He won't rule out that the stab wounds may be self-inflicted.'
'Why?'
'There are a lot of small jabs in the upper back. Nothing life-threatening, nothing terribly lethal, and all are high enough that you could reach them yourself with a knife.'
'Great. This is a surefire way for him to buy a little more time before he bites the bullet and takes the guilty plea. There must be a reason he wants to stay out of jail.'
'That's not what he's saying tonight, Alex. He's telling us that jail is the only place he thinks his life is safe.'
29
'How did it get to be ten-thirty?' I asked Mike and Mercer, as they followed me into my apartment after we left the hospital. 'Somebody fix me a drink while I check my messages.'
They went to the kitchen while I went to the bedroom to put on jeans and check the answering machine. There were a few personal calls, Jake among them, and a rather cool voice mail from Peter Robelon.
'It's Peter, Alex. Just had a call from the emergency department at New York Hospital. Andrew Tripping was assaulted tonight. They're going to treat and release him, but I don't think he's going to be in any shape for court tomorrow. I'm going to ask for an adjournment,' he said, explaining the reasons why. 'And Alex, keep your cops away from Andrew. This has nothing to do with your case, okay?'
By the time I got to the den, the guys had poured the drinks, made themselves comfortable, and turned on the Yankees game-which was only in the fifth inning because of an initial rain delay. I had lost my partners to the pennant race, so I stretched out on the sofa and enjoyed my scotch.
When I put the two of them out the door at midnight, Mercer arranged to pick me up and take me to the office, and to be there for the plea proceedings.
We walked into Judge Moffett's courtroom together at nine-thirty sharp. The lawyers for the child welfare agency and the foundling hospital had beaten us to the part, but everyone else was late. I didn't appreciate all my adversary's conversations with Moffett that had been conducted out of my presence, so I decided not to tell the judge about the stabbing incident ex parte.
Fifteen minutes later, the court officer held open the door and Peter Robelon walked in, pushing Andrew Tripping in a wheelchair. Graham Hoyt was a step or two behind, carrying Robelon's trial folders.
I rolled my eyes at Mercer and waited for the clerk to call the case into the calendar.
