Dewar’s had failed to calm me.
After I had driven through Central Park, I headed directly across Sixty-fifth Street to my second home, the Italian restaurant where I frequently entertained my companions for dinner. I knew that even at eleven o’clock, Primola would be full of people, so I parked at a fire hydrant in front and ran inside to find Giuliano, the owner. He was my friend, and just as important, he was a soccer player who had competed on a World Cup team several years earlier. If he was between me and the door, I’d be perfectly safe until reinforcements arrived.
I told him that someone crazy was following me, so he sat down at my table, asked Adolfo to get me a drink and Peter to bring over the phone. I dialed Mercer’s beeper number and inhaled the scotch as I waited for a callback. He and Mike had just left Varelli’s studio and were sitting in a bar in SoHo, eating dinner and enjoying their first cocktail. It took them half an hour to get uptown to meet me. Once they arrived, Giuliano left us alone to talk, and Fenton, the bartender, kept sending rounds over to the table.
“Obviously, I didn’t want to go home alone. That’s why I called to tell you what happened. But if you two deposit me there and lock me inside, I’ll be fine.” I live on the twentieth floor of a high-rise building with two doormen, and pay dearly for a great sense of security once inside.
“Why didn’t you just go right to the station house, instead of coming here?”
“Because then there’d be a police report, and then somebody would call the tabloids, and then Battaglia would have me under lock and key for the next month.”
“You don’t even know who you’re looking for, blondie. I’ve had blind victims who’ve given me a better scrip than you have.”
“It’s awfully hard to give you a description when the guy’s wearing a mask and gloves.”
“I think it’s time for a slumber party. One of us is gonna hang with you overnight.”
Mercer took it a step further. “And besides that, you are on the very first plane to the Vineyard in the morning. That is, if you’re not going to be by yourself up there this weekend.”
“Clark Kent’s booked in for a visit, Mercer. Ace reporter for the
Either the liquor or the scare I had just experienced made the idea of a weekend in the country even more attractive than it had seemed earlier in the day. I had completely neglected matters like the sleep clinic investigation for the more pressing problems of the Caxton murder, but I’d push that one back another week as well. “There’s an eight a.m. out of LaGuardia. Probably overbooked this time of year. I’m not sure I’ll get on.”
“Know how much pleasure it would give me to officially bump some investment banker off that flight?” Mike asked. “I’ll take you out there myself.”
I looked at my watch. “Make you a deal. Let me call David Mitchell. If he and Renee are home,” I said, referring to my next-door neighbors, “I can sleep on their sofa, and they can drop me at the airport on their way to the Hamptons in the morning. You two have better things to do, okay? Try solving this mess before anyone else is killed.”
My call awakened David, as we knew it would, but he was more than gracious. Renee made up the sofa bed while Mike parked my Jeep in my garage and Mercer escorted me up to my own apartment so I could grab my robe as well as a shirt and pair of leggings to wear in the morning.
“Want me to wait while you pack things to take with you to the country?”
“I’ve got everything I need up there,” I said, as I gave him a hug and opened the door to David’s apartment with his spare key, which I kept in my dresser drawer. “Thanks. Call me if anything happens before I see you on Monday.”
I undressed, took a steaming hot shower, and wrapped the terry robe around me. I was too jumpy to sleep, but I turned out the light and rested, with their dog, Prozac, curled up by my side.
We left the apartment at seven, and David walked me in to the gate to make sure I got on the flight. There were the usual number of no-shows, and ten minutes before takeoff I boarded the thirty-seat Dash 8 and fell asleep for the short flight to the Vineyard.
I had a monthly parking spot at the airport. It was a brilliantly clear day and a good ten degrees cooler than it had been in the city all week. I put the top down on my little red Miata and drove up-island to Chilmark, to the house.
Once I passed the crest of the drive, where my friend Isabella Lascar had been killed, the gray-shingled farmhouse came into sight and, beyond it, the stunning view of Vineyard Sound, which never failed to take my breath away. This is the one place on earth where every tension I have dissolves, and where I have spent the happiest hours of my life.
My caretaker had unlocked and prepared the house for me, and I went inside to open the windows, settle in, and see what messages were on the answering machine.
The first was from Nina Baum, calling late last night from California. Chapman had phoned to tell her about the incident in the garage, and she was checking on me as well as urging me to get on a plane and come out to Malibu until the investigation was over. Nina, by luck of the draw, had been my college roommate freshman year at Wellesley. She remained my closest friend, and she and her husband were often my refuge when I wanted to hang out away from the problems that my job presented.
The message I’d been waiting for was next, the voice of Jacob Tyler calling from an airport phone booth. “It’s Jake here. Can’t find you anywhere-all I get are machines. It’s Friday morning and I’m on my way to the Vineyard, if that’s still the plan. I’ve gone from China to California, then an overnight in Chicago. I’m due into Boston before noon. And if there’s no fog, should be on a Cape Air hop that gets me there at one thirty. I’ll try your office in a bit. If you’re not at the airport, I’ll just take a cab up to the house. Miss you.”
I took the portable out onto the deck and dialed Laura’s number.
“Alex? Are you okay? Mercer left a message on my voice mail telling me not to expect you today. Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. I’m just whipped. We worked late last night, so I’m taking a long weekend. If people are looking for me, you can reach me on the Vineyard. Anything interesting yet?”
“Jacob Tyler called first thing. He didn’t leave a message, ’cause I couldn’t tell him what your plans were. And Robert Scott, from University of Virginia Law School. Wants to know if you can do a lecture about public service this fall.”
“I’ll take care of Tyler. Would you call Bob Scott back and tell him I’d be glad to, if he can suggest some dates?” Maybe I would tell the students about last night’s encounter. What the D.A.’s Office lacks in financial rewards, it makes up for in drama and intrigue.
I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, set the dining room table for two, went out to the barn to get birdseed to fill the feeders, and sat back down on the deck to read the
This was the place that I considered my home. Professionally, I thrived and flourished in the fast-paced life I led in New York City. Most of my friends were there, and I had been born and raised in a suburban village in nearby Westchester County, so my parents and brothers were frequently in and out of town. But this island, especially the quiet rural end on which my house was sited, was where I came to relax and to restore the tranquillity that eluded me in the midst of an intense investigation.
Most of my life had been a charmed one. I was one of three children-the only daughter-of loving parents whose marriage was still not only a sound one, but a great romance as well. The trust fund endowed by my father’s invention, the Cooper-Hoffman valve, had been used to give me a first-class education, first at Wellesley and then at the University of Virginia School of Law. It permitted me to indulge my dream of working in the public sector without the enormous burden of student loans that forced so many of my colleagues to leave the prosecutor’s office for more lucrative careers. And for frivolous interests like travel and my collections of first- edition books and antique jewelry, it was a route to some indulgences that I would never otherwise have been able to afford at this stage in life.
While the Vineyard had offered me some of the most spectacular days of my life, it also held for me my most difficult memories. Adam Nyman, the physician I had fallen madly in love with while I was at law school, had summered here all of his life. When we became engaged the year that I graduated, we bought this house
