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Chapter One
It was hard not to smile as I watched Lola Dakota die.
I clicked the remote control button and listened to the commentary again on another
network.
"New Jersey police officers have released a portion of these dramatic videotapes to
the media this evening. We're going to play for you the actual recordings the three hit
men hired by her husband to kill Ms. Dakota made to prove to him that they had
accomplished their mission."
The local reporter was posed in front of a large mansion in the town of Summit, less than
an hour's drive from where I was sitting, in the video technicians' office of the New York
County District Attorney. Snowflakes drifted and swirled around her head as she pointed a
gloved hand at the darkened facade of a house ringed with strands of tiny white Christmas
lights that outlined the roof, the windows, and the enormous wreath on the front door.
"Earlier this afternoon, before the sun went down, Hugh," the woman addressed
the news channel's anchorman, "those of us who gathered here for word of Ms. Dakota's
condition could see pools of blood, left in the snow during the early morning shooting. It
will be a grim holiday season for this forty-two-year-old university professor's family.
Let's take you back over the story that led to this morning's tragic events."
Mike Chapman grabbed the clicker from my hand and pressed the mute button, then jabbed at
my back with it. "How come the Jersey prosecutors got to do this caper? Too big for
you to handle, blondie?"
As the bureau chief in charge of sex crimes for the New York County District Attorney's
Office for more than a decade, sexual assault cases -- as well as domestic violence and
stalking crimes -- fell under my jurisdiction. The district attorney, Paul Battaglia, ran
an office with a legal staff of more than six hundred lawyers, but he had taken a
particular interest in the investigation of the professor's perilous marital entanglement.
"Battaglia didn't like the whole idea -- the risk, the melodrama, and...well, the
emotional instability of Lola Dakota. He probably didn't know the story would look this
good on the late news broadcast or he might have reconsidered."
Chapman lifted his foot to the edge of my chair and swiveled it around so that I faced
him. "Had you worked with Lola for a long time?"
"I guess it's been almost two years since the first day I met her. Someone called
Battaglia from the president's office at Columbia University. Said there was a matter that
needed to be handled discreetly." I reached for a cup of coffee. "One of their
professors had split from her husband, and he was stalking her. The usual domestic. She
didn't want to have him arrested, didn't want any publicity that would embarrass the
administration -- just wanted him to leave her alone. The DA kicked it over to me to try
to make it happen. That's how I met Lola Dakota. And became aware of her miserable
husband."
"What'd you do for her?"
Chapman worked homicides, most of the time relying on sophisticated forensic technology
and reliable medical evidence to solve his cases. He rarely dealt with breathing
witnesses, and although he was the best detective in the Manhattan North Squad when he
came face-to-face with a corpse, Chapman was always intrigued by how the rest of us in law
enforcement managed to untangle and resolve the delicate problems of the living.
"Met with her several times, trying to convince her that we could make a prosecution
stick and gain her trust to let me bring charges. I explained that filing a criminal
complaint was the only way I could get a judge to put some muscle behind our
actions." Lola was like most of our victims. She wanted the violence to stop, but she
did not want to face her spouse in a court of law.
"It worked?"
"No better than usual. When reasoning with her failed, we relocated her to a
temporary apartment, arranged for counseling, and sent a couple of our detectives to talk
to her husband informally and explain that Lola was giving him a break."
"Happy to see the local constables, was he?"
"Elated. They told him that she didn't want us to lock him up, but if he kept
harassing her, that wasn't a choice I would allow her to make the next time he darkened
her doorway. So he behaved...for a while."
"Until she moved back in with him?"
"Right. Just in time for Valentine's Day."
"Hearts and flowers, happily ever after?"
"Eight months." I turned back to glance at the screen, motioning to Mike to give
us sound again. Flakes were caking up on the reporter's eyelids as she continued to tell
her story, reminding me that undoubtedly snow was piling up on my Jeep as well, which was
parked in front of the building. A picture of Ivan Kralovic, Lola's husband, appeared as
an insert on the bottom right corner of the screen.
"We've got to take a short break," the reporter said, repeating the euphemistic
phrase that signaled a commercial interruption, "then we'll show you the dramatic
footage that led to Mr. Kralovic's arrest today."
Mike got rid of the noise. "And at the end of those eight months, what happened? Did
you lock him up the second time?"
"No. She wouldn't even give me a clue about what he had done. Called me that October
to ask how to get an order of protection. After I greased the wheels to expedite it for
her in family court, she told me she had rented an apartment on Riverside Drive, moved to
a new office away from the campus, and settled her problems with Ivan the Terrible."
"Don't disappoint me, Coop. Tell me he lived up to his name."
"Predictably. It was in January of this year that he cut her with a corkscrew, while
they were enjoying a quiet dinner for two. Must have mistaken her for a good Burgundy.
Sliced open her forearm. He raced her to St. Luke's and it took twenty-seven stitches to
close her up."
"They were together for just that one evening?"
"No, he had coaxed her back for the holidays a month earlier. A seasonal
reconciliation."
Chapman shook his head. "Yeah, I guess most accidents happen close to home. You nail
his ass for that one?"
"Once again, Lola refused to prosecute. Told the doctors in the ER -- while Ivan was
standing at her bedside -- that she'd done it herself. By the time I heard about it
through the university and got her down to my office, she was completely uncooperative.
Said that if I had Ivan locked up, she would never tell the true story in a courtroom. She
had learned her lesson by trying to reunite with him, she assured me, and wasn't going to
have anything further to do with him."
"Guess he didn't get the picture."
"He stalked Lola on and off. That's what led her to hide out in New Jersey, at her
sister's house, sometime in the spring. She called me every now and then, after Ivan
threatened her or when she thought she was being followed. But her sister got spooked --
worried about her own safety -- and brought Lola to the local prosecutors over
there."
"Let's go to the videotape," Mike said, spinning my chair back to the television
screen and hitting the sound button on the clicker. The film was rolling and the
reporter's voice-over was providing the narrative. The scene appeared to be the same large
suburban house, earlier in the day.
"...and you can see the white delivery van parked at the side of the road. The two
men walked up the steps in front of the home, which is owned by Ms. Dakota's sister,
carrying the cases of wine. When the professor opened the door and came outside to accept
the gift bottles, both men put their packages on the ground. The one on the left presented
a receipt that Dakota leaned over to sign, while the man on the right -- there he goes now
-- pulled a revolver from beneath his jacket and fired five times, at point-blank
range."
I leaned forward and watched again as Lola clutched at her chest, her body pushed backward
by the force of the impact. Her eyes opened wide for an instant, seeming to stare directly
at the lens of the camera, before they closed, as she fell to the ground, blood oozing
from her clothing onto the clean white cover provided by the preceding day's dusting of
snow.
Then, the camera, held by a third accomplice in the van, zoomed in for a close-up, and the
man seemed to lose control of the equipment as it apparently dropped from his fingers.
"When the killers played their tape for Ivan Kralovic in his office at noon today,
after the Summit Police Department released the news of Ms. Dakota's death to the wire
services, they were rewarded with a payment of one hundred thousand dollars in cash."
Back to a live shot of the chilled reporter, wrapping up her story for the night.
"Unfortunately for Kralovic, the gunmen he had hired to kill his estranged wife were
actually undercover detectives from the county sheriff's office here in New Jersey, who
staged the shooting with the enthusiastic participation of the intended victim."
The tape rolled again and showed the supposedly deceased Dakota now sitting upright
against the front door of the house and smiling for the camera as she removed the outer
jacket that had concealed the packets of "blood" that had spurted and flowed so
convincingly moments before.
"We've been waiting here, Hugh, hoping this brave woman would tell us how she feels
now that she has taken such dramatic steps to end years of spousal abuse and bring to
justice the man who wanted to kill her. But sources tell us that she left the house here
this afternoon, after Kralovic's arrest, and has not yet returned." The reporter
glanced down at her notes to read a comment from the local prosecutor. "The district
attorney, however, wants us to express his gratitude to the county sheriff for this
'innovative plan that put an end to Ivan's reign of terror, something that prosecutors
from Paul Battaglia's office and the New York Police Department across the Hudson River
have been unable to do for two years.' Back to the studio -- "
I pulled the remote away from Chapman and slammed it onto the desktop after shutting off
the set. "Let's go back to my office and close up for the night."
"Temper, temper, Ms. Cooper. Dakota's not likely to win the Oscar for her
performance. You peeved 'cause you didn't get a chance to do the film direction?"
I turned off the light and closed the door behind us. "I don't begrudge her anything.
But why did the Jersey DA have to take a shot at us? He knows it hasn't been our choice to
let this thing drag on as long as it did." There wasn't a seasoned prosecutor
anywhere who didn't know that the most frustrating dynamic in an abusive marriage was the
love-hate relationship that persisted between victim and offender, even after the violence
escalated.
My heels clicked on the tiles of the quiet corridor as we snaked our way down the long,
dark hallway from Video to my eighth-floor office. It was almost eleven-thirty at night,
and the tapping of an occasional computer keyboard was the only noise I heard to suggest
that any of my colleagues were still at their desks.
Only a handful of cases went to trial this time of year, in the middle of December, with
lawyers, judges, and jurors all anticipating the two-week court hiatus for the holiday
season. I had been working late -- reviewing indictments for the end-of-the-term filing
deadline, and preparing to conduct a sex offender registration hearing after the weekend
-- when Detective Michael Chapman came over to tell me the eleven o'clock news was leading
with the Dakota story. He had been down the street at headquarters to drop off some
evidence at the Property Clerk's Office and called to see if I wanted a drink before
knocking off for the night.
"C'mon, I'll buy you dinner," he now said. "Can't expect me to last the
midnight shift on an empty stomach. Not with all the dead bodies I'm likely to
encounter."
"It's too late to eat."
"That means you got a better offer. Jake must be home, cooking up some exotic --
"
"Wrong. He's in Washington. Got the assignment on that story of the ambassador who
was assassinated in Uganda, at the economic conference." I'd been dating an NBC News
correspondent since early summer, and the rare nights he was free in time for dinner took
me away from my usual haunts and habits.
"How come they keep giving him all that Third World stuff to cover when he seems like
such a First World guy?"
The phone was ringing as I opened the door to my office.
"Alex?" Jake's voice sounded brusque and businesslike. "I'm at the NBC
studio in D.C."
"How's your story coming?"
"Lola Dakota is dead."
"I know," I said, sitting down in my chair and turning away from Chapman for
some privacy. "Mike and I just watched the whole bit on the local news. I think she's
got a real future on the stage. Hard to believe she went for all that phony ketchup and --
"
"Listen to me, Alex. She was killed tonight."
I turned back to look at Mike, rolling my eyes to suggest that Jake clearly had not seen
the entire story yet and didn't understand that the shooting was a setup. "We know
all that, and we also know that Paul Battaglia is not going to be thrilled when the
tabloids point the finger at me for not putting this mess to bed a couple of -- "
"This isn't about you, Alex. I've heard the whole story with the Jersey prosecutors
and their sting operation. But there's a later headline that just came over the newsroom
wires a few minutes ago, probably while you and Mike were watching the story run on the
air. Some kids found Lola Dakota's body tonight -- her dead body -- in the basement of an
apartment building in Manhattan, crushed to death at the bottom of an elevator
shaft."
My eyes shut tight and I rested my head on the back of my chair as Jake lowered his voice
to make his point. "Trust me, darling. Lola Dakota is dead."
Excerpted from THE DEADHOUSE © Copyright 2001 by Linda Fairstein. Reprinted with permission by Pocket, an imprint of Simon and Schuster. All rights reserved.
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