“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Mike asked.
“You can certainly find out,” I said, standing at home at my bar, pouring Scotch over a glass full of ice cubes. “You can make some calls now.”
“It’s eleven thirty at night. You think I’m calling the commissioner at this hour when we don’t even know what we’re looking at?”
“Francie was spirited out of one of the best hospitals in the city, in extremely dire physical condition, in broad daylight, at the direction of your boss. The least you can do is see what Vickee knows about this.”
Mercer’s wife, Vickee Eaton, was also a detective, assigned to the office of the deputy commissioner of public information. There was little that went on in the inner sanctum at headquarters that she wasn’t aware of.
“Why don’t you do that yourself?” Mike asked. “Let go of the Dewar’s bottle before you shatter the glass with your grip, and pick up your phone.”
“I tried Vickee from the cab but she’s not answering,” I said. “Probably because she sees that it’s me calling.”
Mike took out his phone and dialed Vickee’s cell. “Going straight to voice mail.”
“I’m reading this right, aren’t I?” I asked. “Francie didn’t have a seizure. She’s the victim of some kind of crime, which is why Scully signed the release order.”
“Apparently so,” Mike said. “But the one thing I’m sure of is that she wasn’t raped, which takes you out of the equation, professionally. So can you power down a bit? The commissioner doesn’t leak. And he’s got no reason to talk to you.”
“She’s still my friend,” I said.
“Francie was on her feet, walking to Forlini’s one minute, and on the ground with—what?—some kind of severe head injury the next. Clothing intact, except for her shoes.”
“You were with her in the ambulance,” I said. “You must have seen something that suggested a beating or strike to the head?”
“What I saw doesn’t mean a damn,” Mike said. “The EMTs didn’t notice any signs of external injury. What’s the name of that Legal Aid supervisor? He may have a clue.”
“He doesn’t,” I said, sitting down on the floor of the den, wearing an old denim shirt of Mike’s, taking another long sip before stretching my legs out to try to relieve the tension in my back. “I called him, too. Quint didn’t get stuff done fast enough to be named her proxy and pick the two others to sign off with him on medical care, before the commissioner got whatever dramatic news it is and kidnapped Francie.”
“Keith Scully doesn’t kidnap people,” Mike said, resting his bare foot on my stomach. “You should be the last person to use that term loosely.”
“Well, Francie’s gone and no one knows where,” I said. “It’s terrifying, actually.”
“Pod people,” Mike said, sliding off the sofa and onto the floor, running his hand the length of my leg.
“What?”
“Maybe the pod people took her,” Mike said, trying to lighten the mood. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers, kid. Your inventory of horror film trivia is pathetic.”
“I’ve never been into horror,” I said. “Well, maybe Frankenstein and Dracula, but not sci-fi.”
“And I’ve never been into Francie,” Mike said, rolling over to put his mouth against mine, before speaking again. “Something about women who like to rip me apart in a courtroom, try to make me look like an idiot in front of the jury, and then apologize and say they were just doing their job.”
“When I’m a defense attorney, I won’t do that to you,” I said, kissing him again. “I promise.”
“You’re not serious,” he said. “You’ve gotta stay on the side of the angels, Coop. I expect you to die with your prosecutorial boots on.”
I turned on my side and rested my elbow on the carpet so I could pick up my glass and drink a bit more. “I’ll be hanging out a shingle if Zach Palmer turns out to be the next district attorney. As much as I want to keep doing violence-against-women work, I won’t stay if he’s elected.”
“Don’t you think his chances rest on you building a case with Lucy? That could decide his fate—as well as yours,” Mike said. “Did you open a grand jury investigation today?”
“No. No, I didn’t do that,” I said. “If he suspected I was onto him at dinner tonight and asked if anyone was ‘investigating’ him, I wanted to be able to say no with a clear conscience.”
“Half-clear, anyway.”
“I’m going to start the investigation tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll go into the grand jury first thing so I can begin to subpoena documents for the relevant dates. Help nail down a time and place. I haven’t even gotten to ask Lucy the details of what happened.”
“Did Zach say anything interesting?”
“He’s a pig,” I said. “And he doesn’t even try to hide it. His language, his attitude about women, his hunger for the job—at the expense of dragging out the dirty laundry of anyone who plans to oppose him.”
“Did Lucy’s name come up in the conversation?” Mike asked. He leaned over to pull up my shirt and kiss my abdomen.
“No way was I going there,” I said. “But I skirted around it, talking about the agent who sort of babysat Lucy, and pretending I’d met her at a conference. The woman named Kathy Crain.”
“Why?”
“I just want to get him thinking about what he’s done,” I said. “Guilt is a powerful motivator. I’d love it if he fell on his sword and backed out of the race.”
“Wishful thinking,” Mike said. “He’s already dreaming of his name chiseled in stone over the entrance to the building. What else?”
“Well, Jake. I talked about Jake when Zach gave me his business card,” I said. “I pretended to be surprised that his middle name was Jacob.”
“Sounds like you didn’t hold your hand as close to your chest as you might have,” Mike said. “You weren’t there to tip him off, you know.”
“I think it was fine,” I said. “You can listen to the tape if you come to the office tomorrow.”
“Tape? I ripped that recorder right off your blouse, kid—for your own good—or don’t you remember?”
I sipped my Scotch and then smiled. “You’re always telling me not to be so impulsive,” I said. “But this time you were way off the mark.”
“How so?” Mike said, sitting up straight.
“The tech guys were concerned that when I chewed on my food it might interfere with reception on the recorder if they placed it too close to my mouth,” I said. “So they concealed the mini device in the third button down, not in the top one,” I said. “Not in the one you snagged.”
“You actually recorded your conversation with Zach Palmer, despite what I told you?” Mike asked.
I pointed at the spot on my chest where my cleavage started to show—the point where the recorder had been.
“Why not?” I said. “You think only detectives earn the right to go rogue?”