In Death 29 - Kindred in Death

it very well. I hadn’t been a PD long, and I was still idealistic. Green. I felt, since she didn’t have any priors, she had a young child, I could make a good deal for her. I figured I’d get them to kick the illegals charge, the solicitation, maybe plead it down to a year, and mandatory rehab. Maybe get part of the year in a halfway. Then even before I talked to her, I got the whiff that they wanted her husband, and maybe I could get her straight into halfway and rehab with no cage time if she flipped on him.”
    “But she didn’t.”
    “Wouldn’t. She insisted, even to me, he had no part in what she’d done, no knowledge of it. I explained, tried to nudge her some, but she wouldn’t budge. I tried the mom card. I really wanted to help her. She wouldn’t be able to take care of her little boy if she was in prison. But, she stuck. Worse, when the APA came in the next morning to deal, she insisted on taking the first round. I could’ve dealt it down to a year, but she wouldn’t let me. I felt like a failure.”
    “Did you speak with the husband?”
    “Yeah. He was angry. Outraged when I told him she’d taken the eighteen. He said she shouldn’t do more than a year inside. I agreed with him, but he blamed me. When I told him she wouldn’t let me try to deal, he calmed down some, even apologized. When we went into court, he brought the baby. A really beautiful baby.”
    Her gaze went back to the wall screen. “God. I held him. I held that baby while Irene and her husband had a minute. I actually held him. I felt sick when he cried for his mother. Sick that I hadn’t been able to do more. You get over that after a while, after being buried under the work, the system. That’s when you have to get out, when you get over being sick you couldn’t do more.”
    When Eve felt she’d gotten everything she could, she brought in Elysse Wagman, keeping Drobski in place as both of them requested.
    The woman absorbed the information Eve gave her, took it all in without a flinch. “I’m going to send my daughter to Colorado, to my mother. Tonight.”
    “Lissy, you should go, too. You should—”
    “Ms. Wagman.” Eve interrupted Drobski’s worry. “I understand your concern for your daughter’s safety. The officers will assist you in any way they can with the arrangements for her transportation to your mother. I can’t order you to stay, but I will ask you. If you have been targeted, any change in routine may tip him off. We can and will protect you.”
    “For how long?”
    “As long as necessary. Would you please take another look at the image on screen? A closer look.”
    “I’m just not sure, either way.”
    “He may have longer hair, or shorter. He could look just a little older.”
    “Longer hair,” she murmured. “It could be . . . Jesus, it could be. Longer hair and a beard. Dom Patrelli.”
    Bingo, Eve thought. Even as she turned to order Peabody to run it, her partner was working her PPC. “How do you know him?”
    “I do pro bono work out of a legal-aid clinic, Lower East Side. About three weeks ago, when I was leaving this—he—came running up. Out of breath. Asked if I was Elysse Wagman. He said he was a journalist, and doing a spec piece on women in law with an emphasis on domestic cases. It’s my specialty. He said he’d run behind, had tried to get there before the clinic closed, asked if he could just walk with me, ask me some questions. I didn’t see the harm. He was charming and earnest, and so interested in the work we’re doing.”
    “He gave you his name, his credentials.”
    “Yes. I guess it was kind of quick, he was a bit fumbly. But we were right on the street. He just walked with me for a few blocks, asked the right sort of questions. He’d done some good background on the clinic. I was impressed, and pleased. We can use some positive exposure. He bought me a cup of coffee from a glide-cart, and asked if he could contact me if he had any follow-ups.”
    “And did he?”
    “The next week, he was waiting outside the clinic when I closed up, with coffee. I had some time, so we walked over to the park, sat on a bench, drank coffee while we did his follow-up. He was . . . he was a little flirty, nothing over the top or offensive. I was flattered. He’s twenty years younger, easily, and I . . . I’m an idiot.”
    “No. He’s very good at what he does.”
    “We talked, that’s all, and it came out he’s a fan of Zapoto’s films.”
    “Jesus,” Drobski