Killer Heat

'Mercer, why don't you explain to Kerry that there may be some ringers in the courtroom this morning and that it has nothing at all to do with her case?'

'Fine. And I'm calling Lamont's clerk. I want to make sure they'll have your back covered.' Because Mercer was a witness in this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the other witnesses testified.

The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge criminal court building housed the executive wing, public relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure of the district attorney.

I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.

'I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?' he said. 'I'm Herb Ackerman.'

'Good to meet you.'

He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in months.

'Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here.'

'Didn't Paul explain?' he asked, preferring to stand and pace.

'He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol.'

'No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to meet with him,' Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.

The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice for yet another hot, humid day.

'Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office,' I said, rising from my chair.

'No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well, it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young lady.'

I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing things. 'This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it is you're going to talk about stays between us.'

His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room, ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since the unit was created. 'You're not taping me, are you?'

'No, sir. I'm not.'

'I suppose you know who I am?' His nose wrinkled and he pushed his glasses back in place.

'I do.'

'I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been very good to him over the years,' Ackerman said, hiking his pants up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. 'I hope that counts for something.'

'Mr. Battaglia told me that you knew Amber Bristol. Why don't we focus on that?'

He paced again, away from me, and lowered his head. 'I'm not a crime reporter, Ms. Cooper. I've written about significant cases when they've had an impact on social issues. My experience is more, shall we say, global than street-smart.'

'How did you meet Ms. Bristol?'

'At a cocktail reception. Yes, about a year ago. A cocktail party.'

'Where was the event, Mr. Ackerman?' There was no need to scare him off yet by taking notes. 'I need to know exactly how you became acquainted.'

'Um. Let me think. Must we be that specific?'

'We certainly must.'

'No, I guess it was online. I must have met her online. I'm mistaken about the party.'

It was going to be a contest with Herb Ackerman. He was going to test me to figure how much he could fudge without giving me the facts I needed.

'Do you remember the site?'

'Probably she just began a correspondence because she admired something I'd written. One of my columns,' he said. 'People write to me every day, Ms. Cooper. I couldn't possibly keep track.'

This interview was clearly not going to finish before I had to go to court with Kerry Hastings. I needed to take better control of the witness and let him know that the tabloids would like nothing more than to make this arrogant intellectual fodder for their gossip columns, if not their crime headlines.

'That's not a problem for us. Our forensic computer cops can retrieve documents-even things you've deleted- once we get hold of your hard drive.' I smiled at Ackerman as he squirmed and turned to face me. 'The technology is amazing. Your people probably do it at the magazine all the time, just to find drafts of old copy.'

'You'll-uh, you'll actually look for, um, proof of what I'm telling you?'

'So far, sir, you haven't told me anything. I just thought that if you were having difficulty remembering how you and Ms. Bristol got to know each other, we could try to support your memory with paperwork. From the little I know about her, I suspect she wasn't a regular correspondent with your editorial board. I just assumed you might have met in a chat room or something of that nature.'

He exhaled and his chin settled down into his collar while he thought about what he wanted to tell me.

'You could be right, Ms. Cooper. I spend such a lot of time on my computer. Perhaps I'm confusing her with someone else. Yes, yes-I might have come across her while I was surfing the Web.'

The Middle East peace process, car bombings in Iraq, UN peacekeeping in Africa, poverty in urban America- and an escort service in New York, with a possible emphasis on sadomasochism. A natural progression in an Ackerman online search.

'Here's what we'll do, Mr. Ackerman. I'll go up to court and try my case, because that's extremely important to me right now. I've got a woman who actually wants me to help her. You think about this again and when you're ready to have a candid conversation, just give me a call.'

'Please don't go,' he said, reaching his hand out to grab mine. 'Do you understand how difficult this is for me?'

'Amber Bristol is dead, Mr. Ackerman. How tough was that for her?'

'I called Paul Battaglia because somehow-somehow I became involved in a relationship with Amber,' he said.

I tried to look him in the eye as the words spilled out more quickly, but the thick line of his bifocals distorted my view.

'I was in my office last evening when the story about her murder came over the wire. I was mortified, naturally, and thought that if I reached out for the authorities instead of waiting for them to find a reference to me in her Palm Pilot, there might be a way for me to keep my name out of this.' He met my stare. 'Do you think there is?'

'I obviously don't know enough to give you an answer to that. I'll start with you now, but you'll have to talk with the homicide detective, too. He's got the lead on the case until we get to the arrest phase.'

'You're close to an arrest?' Ackerman was breathing deeply. 'What can you tell me about that?'

'You've got this backwards, sir. There's nothing I can tell you.'

'My name? Do the police have my name?'

'Assume that they do, Mr. Ackerman. When's the last time you saw Ms. Bristol?'

'It was a Friday night, the week before last. It was always a Friday. Her Palm Pilot has everything in it. It's where she kept all her information.'

Two nights before her birthday, before she was supposed to meet her sister, Janet, at the bar.

'Where was that, Mr. Ackerman?'

'In my office. We met in my office.'

I would need Battaglia to sign off on a forensic psychiatrist to work with me. I'd need to understand the risks Amber Bristol had been willing to take with her life. Now the case would be confused with psychobabble about why one of the most distinguished journalists in the city would meet with a hooker at the Tribune's power offices.

'Always at work?'