Silent Mercy

SEVENTEEN

“OF course she’s drinking, Adolfo,” Mike said to the maitre d’ at Primola, an Upper East Side Italian restaurant that was my hangout several times a week. “I told you she’s tired, but I didn’t say she’d lost her mind. Dewar’s on the rocks. Tell Fenton not to be stingy with the scotch.”

“And for you, Detectivo?” Adolfo smiled at me as I held up my thumb and forefinger to show him I wanted only a short cocktail while he took Mike’s order.

“A vodka martini with the works. Olives, onions, capers. Back it up when you see me running low.”

Mercer arrived ahead of us and was already sipping a glass of red wine. I excused myself to go downstairs to the restroom. When I emerged five minutes later, refreshed after scrubbing my face and reapplying some makeup, Mike was waiting for me with my drink in hand.

“Giuliano said we could use the television in his office. It’s all tuned up.”

For more than a decade, Mike had engaged us in his habit of betting on the Final Jeopardy! question every weeknight. He did it at the morgue and in station houses, at crime scenes in mansions and tenements, in front of startled witnesses and crusty old NYPD bosses. He had no time or use for the entire show, but was fascinated with the trivia of the last brain teaser often worth many thousands to the contestants, and happy to wager twenty dollars of his own.

“So much for my privacy.” I took the glass and clinked it against Mike’s.

The owner of Primola — Giuliano — had been charmed by Mike’s humor and intelligence for years and was always pleased to let us into his tiny business office for the three minutes that closed the evening game show.

“You look a hell of a lot better than you did an hour ago. D’you put that blush on for us? I thought you said you wanted an early night, but here you go trying to be your most fetching for Mercer and me. Wish you could do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I’ve seen raccoons more attractive than you.”

Mercer was sitting on the edge of the desk. “If we’re talking attractive through your eyes, Detective Chapman, then we’ve got to build in a whole new set of standards. Rumor has it you were spotted at closing time at Elaine’s last week with a real—”

“Don’t go telling secrets on me. It was the forty-eight-hour rule.”

“What rule?” I asked.

“Still within forty-eight hours after the St. Patty’s Day parade — like a temporary blindness sometimes sets in, on account of the green beer. Errors in judgment don’t count.” Mike passed behind me, giving a quick squeeze to the back of my neck, and took the cushy leather chair, resting his feet on the desktop. I plopped down on the small stool in the corner of the room, barely able to see the wall-mounted television.

“Who was she, Mercer?” I said, smiling for what seemed like the first time in hours. “What did you hear? Spare nothing.”

“Code of silence, m’man,” Mike said, pointing his finger at Mercer.

“Can’t go there, Alex. Sorry.”

“So back to business, then,” I said, drumming my fingers on Mike’s knee. “What happened with Daniel Gersh?”

“Port Authority police managed to delay the departure for about fifteen minutes, to give us a shot at the kid. But he wasn’t the least bit cooperative. I think his old man really put the fear of God in him.”

“With good reason. I’d like to talk to the stepfather as badly as to Daniel,” Mike said. “Shh. Here’s the category — it’s ASTRONOMY. Let’s see your money.”

“I’m good for it. I left my bag upstairs.” It was safer there than just about anyplace in the city.

“Ready to double down?”

“Not a chance. Unless you tell me more about the girl you were ogling at Elaine’s.” The famous watering hole was a last-call stop for many reporters and detectives on their way off duty in the early morning hours.

“She reminds me of you.” Mike was inhaling his drink and already seemed more playful.

“Brace yourself, Alex. This won’t be pretty.” Mercer laughed.

“Too skinny for my taste, for starters. Actually, that’s where the resemblance ends.”

“See, Mercer? Painless for me.”

“Almost forgot. Good-natured. Quick to laugh.”

“Who’s faster than I am when it’s not over a dead body?”

“Very solicitous of my needs. Patient with me and all that.”

“She’s got me there. Not happening. Ever.”

“And instead of the ice water that courses through your veins, she’s all heart. Somehow, I have the feeling that girl gets under the sheets and gives in to it, you know? Isn’t all Miranda warnings and Fifth Amendment, reciting sections of the Penal Law and worrying if what you’re doing is okay with Paul Battaglia.”

“That’s your idea of me in bed, Mikey? Love-locked because of the law and too much Battaglia on the brain? Sweet.”

Alex Trebek read the Final Jeopardy! answer aloud: “‘Friday the thirteenth, April 2029, this object will come uncomfortably close to Earth.’ Too close to Earth, folks. That’s your final answer.”

The three contestants earnestly peered at the game board before starting to write.

“You good for forty, Mercer?” Mike asked.

Each one of us had our favorite subjects. For me, with a heavy concentration of literature studies at college, I usually cleaned up on book and author questions. Mike knew more about military history than most scholars I’d ever encountered, and his knowledge of war and warriors took him deep into myths of ancient cultures. Mercer’s lifelong fascination with geography made him a whiz in that category, and most of the time we hedged our bets on the strength of our friends’ wisdom.

The Jeopardy! time clock ticked on as Mercer nodded to Mike.

“Don’t be a bad sport, Coop. Give me your best guess.”

“What’s an asteroid? It’s got to be an asteroid. You really think I’ve got ice water?”

“Of course it’s an asteroid. Any fool could answer that. What’s its name? You got tons of compassion for every victim or fool who sits in front of your desk. But your love life? Totally lacking in substance.”

“I have no idea of the asteroid’s name. Mercer, you got this?” I said. “What about Luc? Doesn’t he count for anything?”

“Case in point. The guy lives for foie gras. How do they make it? Tap-tap-tap — first you nail the damn goose in place, then you force-feed it to fatten it up. After that you kill it, just to make a little pate for some rich customer and his babe. You and Luc are a perfect match in that department. Cool as ice. He’s got his head back on the pillow, fantasizing about his next meal, and you’re dreaming about how many convictions you can get in this quarter.”

“She’s all heart, Mike. Ask my kid,” Mercer said. “What is Apophis?”

Trebek was consoling the two contestants who gave wrong answers.

“Looks like we split the pot, pal. What is Apophis?” Mike asked. “That’s the stuff. The damn thing might get close enough to dip beneath our communications satellite. Set off a tsunami that would clean up Venice Beach and all the whackjobs on it. Named for the Egyptian god of death.”

Mike knew everything there was to know about death. He clicked off the TV with the remote. “Let’s feed her and send her home.”

None of us needed a menu. We could probably recite the choices from memory as well as the waiters. Adolfo told us the specials and we ordered. A veal chop with three hearty side dishes for Mike, grilled Dover sole and a salad for Mercer, and a linguine con vongole for me.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” I asked.

Mercer opened his notepad. “The squad had a few calls in after Naomi’s name was released this afternoon. She’d been taking a course at the Jewish Theological Seminary. I thought I’d take a run up and do some interviews.”

“I’d like to be with you.”

“You want to go to your office first?”