I nodded. “And that was only because I was a friend of Skeeter’s then wife. There’s really no other personal connection between us.”
I didn’t want him to recuse himself from the case. He had a reputation for being fair, which was better than I might end up with if I made a stink about our relationship, which was nonexistent since he’d been dumped by my classmate for a hedge fund guy she represented.
“In fact, it’s been so long that Alexandra knows me by my nickname,” he said, laughing as he did, then addressing me again. “It’s James now. James Prescott. No more Skeeter.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Old habits die hard, James.” And if he screwed with me like the cops had done, he’d be Skeeter every time I opened my mouth.
There was a junior assistant US attorney from Prescott’s criminal division, two paralegals, and two FBI agents—both men—whose names were Bart Fisher and Tom Frist.
“How are you feeling today?” Prescott asked.
“I’m feeling about the same as I did when Paul Battaglia collapsed in my arms.”
The onlookers were the most earnest group of investigators I’d ever seen—except for Stern. He was slouching in his chair and appeared to be doodling on a pad, while the others were leaning in, staring at me, as though I were an extraterrestrial just set down in their midst.
“And how was that, exactly?” Prescott said.
I spoke slowly, pausing for seconds between each word. “Despondent. Terrified. Confused. Frightened. Heartbroken—”
“Heartbroken? Really? Because you and Battaglia were so close?”
“Because we had once been so close, James. Because this was a man I’d revered when I started practicing law. Because he had treated me like his daughter. Because he—”
“I understand, Alexandra,” Prescott said, holding up his hand to stop me. “We can come back to that. Did you get any sleep after you left the morgue?”
“Yes, thank you. Three or four hours.”
“And something to eat?”
“I had a muffin on my way down in the car,” I said. “Am I being recorded, James?”
I didn’t care what name he wanted me to use in addressing him. It was better than the detective’s insistence that we stay at a formal arm’s length when we talked at the ME’s office.
“No. No, you’re not.”
“Not yet anyway,” I said.
“I’d like to explain our process to you, before I ask you any more questions,” Prescott said.
“That’s fine. I have some questions for you, also.”
“All right. Why don’t you go first?”
“Are you going to be in charge, James?” I asked. “Is it your investigation?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Because of the perceived conflict of interest with our own office—and with the NYPD?”
“That’s part of it, Alexandra.”
“There’s more?”
“We had several matters that we were working in tandem with your office. We usually do, as you know,” Prescott said.
“May I ask the nature of those cases?”
Prescott hesitated for a moment, before he figured he could give me the information in a generic way. “You probably know some of your colleagues were cross-designated to work with my staff.”
“I do.” I had been cross-designated, too, from time to time, to allow me to practice in federal court, when sex-trafficking cases had required the efforts of local prosecutors.
“Then you know the kind of matters I mean,” Prescott said. “The breakup of international drug cartels, the occasional money laundering by foreign banks, seizures of illegal ivory sold by antique dealers in the city, the importation of contraband weapons. Those sorts of things.”
“Specifics, James,” I said. “Can you give me more specifics?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.”
“You’re working on this yourself?” I asked. “At least, with me?”
“For the time being,” Prescott said. “For now.”
“What does that mean?” Until I was cleared, or until I was up to my eyeballs in mud?
“Next question.”
“What do you know about the shooting so far?” I asked. “What kind of gun? How many guys in the car? Did you get any images of the car from surveillance cameras?”
My eyes darted from Prescott to the agents to the AUSAs, but no one even blinked.
“We haven’t made any of that information public yet,” Prescott said.
“I’m not the damn public,” I said, trying to rein in my temper. “I was one of Battaglia’s most loyal soldiers. I was his confidante.”
“More important to us, Alexandra, is that you were an eyewitness to this,” Prescott said. “All the rest will fall into place. May we get started, or do you have any other questions?”
“What’s the point? You’re not giving me an inch.”
“Shall we, then?” Prescott said, leaning over the table and picking up his pen.
“This is the way you do your investigations?” I asked, making a sweeping motion around the room. “A gaggle of your buddies?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll talk to you and one of your deputies, James, but I’m not singing for all the boys.”
I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers.
“Look, Alexandra,” Prescott said, “we’ve got a long road ahead of us. I have no idea where this shooting is going to take us. The more hands, the better. The more agents I bring in—”
“The more agents you bring in, the more leaks I can expect, James. Is that what you were going to tell me?” I said. “Because I learned that a long time ago. Your people leak like they’re on their way to the ocean floor on the Titanic.”
Prescott exuded cool. If he was bothered by my attitude, he didn’t show it.
“Bart,” he said to the younger of the two FBI agents, “you stay with me. The rest of you all have business to get on with.”
There was a low rumble as chairs were pushed back and the crew picked up briefcases and muttered comments as they readied themselves to leave the room.
“One more thing, Chief,” Jaxon Stern said to Prescott.
“What is it?” Prescott asked.
“I want Ms. Cooper’s cell phone,” the detective said. “We’ve got the tech unit waiting to download all the emails and texts, check the outgoing and incoming calls.”
None of the men on the team moved.
Of course they would interrogate my phone. I should have thought to look at it on my way downtown, but I was too out of sorts to think of random communications of the past week.
As I leaned over to dig around in my tote to find it, I tried to remember the office drivel I had gossiped about recently with my buddies in the unit. For once I was grateful that Mike didn’t commit personal intimacies to digital forms.
The men and Tinsley—all standing around me with Prescott sitting directly across—watched while I unpacked my wallet and sunglasses, my credit card holder and my assortment of pens and small change.
“I don’t have my phone,” I said, sinking back into my seat. “I just realized that I don’t have it here.”