For CYRUS R. VANCE, Jr., District Attorney, New York County, whose wisdom, vision, integrity, courage, loyalty, and gift for friendship inspire me

NINE

“WHO’S with him, Rose?” I asked, skipping the niceties.

“Pat came down from court twenty minutes ago, and he called in Brenda Whitney,” she said, referring to the head of Battaglia’s public relations office. “They’re working on a press release for later today.”

“It’s urgent. May I go in? You don’t need to buzz him.”

I had passed her desk and was opening Battaglia’s door, startling the threesome as they huddled over the conference table at the far end of the room.

“You finish with the good bishop?” Battaglia asked, grinning broadly as he sucked on what was likely his third cigar of the day.

“I figured he’d stop by to tell you himself. Maybe take you to lunch.”

My old friend Brenda realized immediately that she was caught in the crossfire. I was trying to keep my tone appropriate but finding it difficult.

“Skipping lunch. Too much to get done.”

“That’s not my point, Paul. Sounds like Deegan was calling the shots.”

“You’re mistaken, Alexandra. Badly mistaken.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog in this fight. Are you on Koslawski’s team?”

Brenda picked up her pad and started away from the table. “I’ll come back later, Boss.”

“Don’t leave, Brenda. I’ve got no secrets from you. We’ll need Alexandra for this, too.”

He usually had secrets from everyone. This time, he didn’t want to be alone in the room with me. He didn’t want to have a private conversation or a chance for me to question him.

“I gather you know Deegan?” I asked.

Pat McKinney walked over to the bookshelf and busied himself in the first volume of the Penal Law. He liked nothing better than an argument that might distance me from the district attorney’s favor.

“We’ve met many times, but fortunately never in the confessional,” he said, laughing at what he must have thought was a joke. “Cool down and sit down, Alexandra. You here about last night?”

“I’m here because a key defense witness just told the court that he’d been talking to you about the case. Judge Keets asked me to get the details on that.”

That comment erased Battaglia’s smile. He removed the cigar from his lips. “You tell the judge to invite me to court if he wants to ask me questions. I don’t need an interpreter, even if it’s you, young lady. I’ve got ten thousand cases pending in the office at any given time. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in town wants a favor. I can’t remember each person I talk to. Goes in one ear and out the other. Where’s Chapman?”

“At the morgue, I expect. I haven’t been back to my office yet. I came straight here from the courtroom.”

McKinney turned on a dime. “You haven’t spoken with Mike?”

“In the middle of my cross, Pat? You saw what I’ve been doing this morning.”

“Then maybe you haven’t heard. The victim on the church steps has been ID’d,” he said.

“They’ve found her head?” I asked, adrenaline kicking in to override annoyance.

“Turns out the fingertips were all they needed.” Battaglia took the reins, glad to be in charge of breaking news. “Naomi Gersh. Thirty-four years old. Have I got that right, Brenda?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“What am I missing?” I asked. “DNA? Something in the databank that identified her?”

“Simpler than that, Alexandra. Seems Ms. Gersh had an arrest record.”

“Here?” I asked, and Brenda nodded. “What for?”

“Two collars,” Pat McKinney said, holding up the first volume of the Penal Law. “Both times for OGA.”

Obstructing governmental administration — usually an action that interfered with a law enforcement function and made the arrestee unpopular with the cops.

“We’re pulling up the court papers for you,” Battaglia said. “Get to work on this, pronto. Leave the Koslawski business to Mr. Donner. You’re off that case.”

“I’m what?”

The district attorney ignored me, and Pat McKinney simply smirked. I bit my lip to stop the venom from spurting out and left the inner sanctum as abruptly as I had entered.

“Mike called,” Laura Wilkie said as I stormed into my office. “I’ll get him on the line while you take some deep breaths. You look wild.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“The other messages can wait,” she said. I heard her talking to someone before she told me to pick up my second line.

“We got a vic,” Mike said.

“I know. Naomi Gersh. Battaglia had a call from the commissioner. I should have all the court papers shortly. Where are you?”

“The autopsy’s over. I’m on my way to notify her younger brother, Daniel. Pick him up at his job — moves scenery at a small theater off-Broadway. He’s next of kin.”

“If you want company, I’m available.”

“I assumed you were a full-time trial dog this week.”

“Battaglia thought I was getting too rowdy in the courtroom. He just booted me off the Koslawski case and told me to work with you on the murder.”

“Let me start with Daniel. If I get lonely by dinnertime, I’ll give you a shout. Battaglia tell you anything about the obstructing arrests?”

“He didn’t know facts. Brenda’s digging up the old files.”

“What’s your bet?” Mike asked. “Antiwar? Pro-choice? Fur coats?”

“Be serious.”

“I’m very serious. For one of those causes, she was willing to go to the mats. Pushing the envelope to get something she believed in.”

Laura stood in my doorway, her arm blocking the eager young woman who wanted to enter. “Emily is from IT — with court papers for you.”

I waved the girl in, took the blue-backed misdemeanor cases from her hand, and cupped the receiver against my neck.

“Here’s your answer,” I said, folding the disposition sheets over so that I could see the date and place of occurrence on each of the complaints. “Both arrests occurred at the same place. Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. One last December and another in January.”

The small, tranquil city park on the entire south side of the block between First and Second Avenues on East Forty-Seventh Street had been named for the Swedish diplomat and Nobel peace prize winner who had been Secretary-General of the United Nations.

“Right opposite the U.N.”

“Exactly. But it’s not about war,” I said. “Naomi was leading a protest, a day of international solidarity for an Israeli feminist group that has been denied the right to pray, like men do, at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.”

“Well, Coop. Maybe we’ve got a holy war on our hands after all.”