weekends in Connecticut, and the only serious backstabbing he does is with a very sharp tongue.”
We exchanged phone numbers and e-mails so that we could stay in communication. “You’ll call us if anything happens?” I asked. “No matter how insignificant it seems to you.”
“Of course I will. I’ll have Chat here with me too. That’s why I told them I needed a suite. As soon as she comes back today, I’ll have her join me. Might be a bit more church than she’s used to on an average weekend, but she’s fiercely loyal to me.”
“That’s excellent. We’ll talk later.”
We let ourselves out and walked across Broadway toward Mike’s car. “Wasn’t that woman pastor in Kentucky murdered in a Pentecostal church?”
“Yeah, but can you imagine how many of them there are all over the country?” I said. “I wouldn’t go leaping to any conclusions from that. Are you still going to JTS to canvass?”
He checked his text messages. “Peterson’s got two guys on site now. Why don’t we work out of your office, with Mercer and Nan.”
“I won’t tell Scully if you don’t,” I said, getting into the passenger seat. I held my forefinger against my mouth to ask Mike to be quiet. “I’ve got a call to make.”
I dialed Information to get a listing for New Amsterdam Prep. “Connect me,” I said to the operator, then asked to be passed along to the headmaster. “Good morning. My name is Alexandra Cooper. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. I’m calling about two—”
“I was expecting your call, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Borracelli said you’d be phoning.”
If Paul Battaglia and Keith Scully were cutting back my duties, it looked like Borracelli had my day’s work lined up for me.
“Is Gina at school today?”
“Yes, she’s in class now.”
“And Javier Valdiz?”
“No. No, we suspended him when he showed up this morning. He’ll be expelled once you confirm that he violated the school’s honor code.”
“Violated what?” I asked.
“The New Amsterdam Prep code.”
“Mr. Borracelli is gravely mistaken, sir. My jurisdiction is strictly the penal code. I’m not calling on behalf of Gina’s father. I’m calling because I conducted a criminal investigation which involved two of your students and several others as witnesses.
“I want you to know that Mr. Valdiz, in fact, didn’t commit any crime. He’s not going to be prosecuted, and I would suggest — before I advise his lawyer to take legal action — that you reinstate him as quickly as possible.”
The man on the other end of the phone sucked in air. “May I have your callback number, Ms. Cooper?”
“Because you want to talk to Mr. Borracelli before you hear me out? He’ll be happy to give it to you.” And my home address, too, no doubt.
“He told me that Gina wanted to withdraw charges. That she’s too fragile, emotionally, to go through with a prosecution.”
“I’ll say it again. Javier Valdiz did not commit a crime. There was no rape. Gina admitted that to me, after all the evidence was evaluated.”
“But… but surely statutory rape? She’s underage, Ms. Cooper.”
“So is he. A man has to be over twenty-one to be prosecuted for having sex with a minor.”
“Tell him it’s called Hooking Up in the First Degree when two consenting teens hit the mattresses,” Mike said. “I’ll have his whole upper school in lockdown by the end of the day.”
The headmaster was mulling over what I told him, clearly surprised by the news. When he spoke, it was about the school honor code. “It’s still a violation for Javier to be drinking alcoholic beverages.”
“Even though it was Gina who served them to him, and had a lot more than he did? I think my count was seven intoxicated New Amsterdam students at the party. You’ll toss them all? Or does the code only apply to the scholarship students who don’t have a pitbull parent fighting for them?”
“I’ll have to discuss this with my staff. And with Mr. Borracelli, of course. We’re not about to expel seven students, Ms. Cooper.”
Not at thirty thousand a year, I wouldn’t think. “My more important immediate concern is Gina’s mental health. She has threatened to hurt herself if Javier isn’t thrown out. I’d suggest you have her parents and maybe a counselor present when you complete your findings and inform her of them.”
“Aren’t you going to do that?”
“I’ve done my job, sir. I have no role in the rest of your internal decisions. I’m just making sure you’re aware that Gina has expressed suicidal thoughts to her family, whether true or not, and I think you need to pay attention to that as you go forward.”
“Take a line out of Borracelli’s book,” Mike said, poking me in the ribs with one hand as he guided the steering wheel with the other. “Doesn’t this joker know who you are? Tell him who you are and be done with it.”
I covered the phone. “Who am I, Detective? This guy knows exactly who I am in Borracelli-speak. Nobody. I’m absolutely nobody and now I’m dropping a monster headache in his lap to boot.”
“Were you talking to me? It was muffled,” the headmaster said. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“No, sir. I’m driving into a dead cell zone. I think we’re done.”
“You may be finished with me, Ms. Cooper. But I don’t think you’ve heard the last from Vincenzo Borracelli.”
THIRTY-THREE
NAN Toth had set up our team in a conference room in her building, which was directly across the street from the main office on Hogan Place. At one point, the courthouse held the entire district attorney’s staff, but thirty years ago we’d annexed an adjacent government building as we more than doubled in size to close to six hundred lawyers.
I was on the phone with my secretary while Mike searched for a parking space. “Laura doesn’t even want me to show my face on the eighth-floor corridor. She’s given Pat McKinney the impression that I’ve taken the day off, like I’m taking the commissioner’s advice seriously. She’s sending Maxine over with all my papers on the case.”
“Excellent.” He backed into a no-parking zone and tossed his laminated police plate in the windshield. “So Nan’s your shill today.”
“She’s the ideal cover to take the lead. Battaglia thinks she walks on water.”
“Perfect talent for this case.”
We made our way into the 8 °Centre Street offices, which were so antiquated that the elevators still required operators to ferry the hundreds of lawyers and support staff up and down all day.
The tired machine groaned its way to the fourth floor, and I led Mike through the maze of security checkpoints and cubicles the size of rabbit warrens — homes to the rookie prosecutors — to the small conference room that serviced the Cold Case Unit and the Child Abuse team.
Nan and Mercer had established themselves at corners of the long table. My supersmart and good-natured paralegal, Max, was just unloading stacks of my Redwelds, already overstuffed with police reports and paperwork related to the two murders.
“Anything else you need?” she asked.
Mike and I staked out territory opposite each other. “Don’t you dare leave,” I said to Max. “We’re going to suck that powerful brain of yours dry today. Grab a seat.”
She was obviously pleased to be part of the team, and I valued the fresh pair of non-law enforcement eyes to
