fur. Think France." I told her the name of the maker.
"You're
out of luck to get a bargain, if that's what you're in the market for,"
she said. "Gregoire Matignon closed his doors in the 1960s."
"Was
he a big deal?"
"Just
the biggest, Alex. One of those old families that started out in Russia,
dressing the czars and czarinas. Then moved to Paris to service the royal
families of Europe. The Duchess of Windsor, Grace Kelly-you know that classic
photo of her when she started dating Rainier, wearing a golden sable, stepping
out of an old Bentley in front of the Grimaldi Palace? That kind of clientele.
As the monarchies became threatened with extinction, the minks thrived and
Matignon went out of business."
I ran my
fingers over the faded red stitching on the old label. "That's a help.
I'll call you later."
"What'd
she say?"
"That
it sure wasn't made for Tiffany Gatts. You find a monogram?"
"Where?"
Mike asked.
I folded
back the lapels of the broad collar and scanned the lining. "It's pretty
traditional to sew the client's initials into the lining."
"Jeez.
And to think my mother used to mark my labels with a felt-tip pen, so the other
kids at school didn't make off with my leather jackets. This winter I'll get
her to try embroidery."
"See?"
Near the bottom of the left front of the coat, in a deep chocolate shade of
thick silk thread, was an elegant script monogram. I read the letters aloud. "R du R."
"That
should narrow my search."
"I'd
say you concentrate on the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Precincts," Mercer
said, smiling. "High-rent districts on the Upper East Side. Lots of
European diplomats. Some Eurotrash with delusions of nobility. Maybe
Westchester. Maybe Great Neck."
Mike
grabbed the telephone directory off my bookshelf. "These guys listed under
the D 's or the R 's? We haven't got a lot of them in
Ireland."
"Start
with D. "
"DuBock.
DuBose." He ran his forefinger down a long list of names. "DuQuade.
Now we're getting close. DuRaine, DuReese, DuRoque…"
"I
don't want to put a damper on your enthusiasm, but something as old as
this," I said, fingering the worn cuff of the once-glamorous coat,
"you've got to figure that since the furrier closed so long ago, and with
all the PC attitudes towards animal skins lately, this may have been through
thrift shops or secondhand-clothing places."
"You
need a more positive attitude, Coop. Some folks have still got the first fancy
outfit they ever wore to church or work or a funeral parlor. Maybe it's the
difference between your relatives and mine."
"Suit
yourself. Then don't forget that most women store their furs for the summer.
Better check and make sure there wasn't a heist on Seventh Avenue," I
suggested, directing Mike to the fur district between Twenty-fifth and
Thirty-fourth Streets.
Laura was
out on her lunch break, so when my phone rang I answered it myself. It was the
security officer in the lobby of the building. "Thanks for letting me
know. It's okay, I realize it's not your fault."
I looked
up at Mike. "Maybe you could shut my door. There's a screamer on her way
upstairs. Tiffany's mother just blasted past the guard's desk when they tried
to stop her at the metal detector."
"I
had a pet water buffalo once had a better disposition than Mrs. Gatts. He was
smaller than she is, too." Mike walked toward the door but he was a few
seconds too late.
All 280
pounds of Etta Gatts blocked the doorway of my office.
"Where
do I find Alexander Cooper? Where is he?"
The three
of us spoke at once. As I identified myself to her and corrected my name, Mike
was saying that he wasn't here just now, and Mercer was doing his best to step
between the woman and me to diffuse the situation, telling her to calm down and
back off.
"Where
you got my baby at?" She was breathing fire.
I hadn't
even asked Mike that question. I assumed they had the sixteen-year-old in
custody, but I didn't know for what.
"Take
it easy, Mrs. Gatts," Mercer said, towering over the large woman.
"You're
out of luck to get a bargain, if that's what you're in the market for,"
she said. "Gregoire Matignon closed his doors in the 1960s."
"Was
he a big deal?"
"Just
the biggest, Alex. One of those old families that started out in Russia,
dressing the czars and czarinas. Then moved to Paris to service the royal
families of Europe. The Duchess of Windsor, Grace Kelly-you know that classic
photo of her when she started dating Rainier, wearing a golden sable, stepping
out of an old Bentley in front of the Grimaldi Palace? That kind of clientele.
As the monarchies became threatened with extinction, the minks thrived and
Matignon went out of business."
I ran my
fingers over the faded red stitching on the old label. "That's a help.
I'll call you later."
"What'd
she say?"
"That
it sure wasn't made for Tiffany Gatts. You find a monogram?"
"Where?"
Mike asked.
I folded
back the lapels of the broad collar and scanned the lining. "It's pretty
traditional to sew the client's initials into the lining."
"Jeez.
And to think my mother used to mark my labels with a felt-tip pen, so the other
kids at school didn't make off with my leather jackets. This winter I'll get
her to try embroidery."
"See?"
Near the bottom of the left front of the coat, in a deep chocolate shade of
thick silk thread, was an elegant script monogram. I read the letters aloud. "R du R."
"That
should narrow my search."
"I'd
say you concentrate on the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Precincts," Mercer
said, smiling. "High-rent districts on the Upper East Side. Lots of
European diplomats. Some Eurotrash with delusions of nobility. Maybe
Westchester. Maybe Great Neck."
Mike
grabbed the telephone directory off my bookshelf. "These guys listed under
the D 's or the R 's? We haven't got a lot of them in
Ireland."
"Start
with D. "
"DuBock.
DuBose." He ran his forefinger down a long list of names. "DuQuade.
Now we're getting close. DuRaine, DuReese, DuRoque…"
"I
don't want to put a damper on your enthusiasm, but something as old as
this," I said, fingering the worn cuff of the once-glamorous coat,
"you've got to figure that since the furrier closed so long ago, and with
all the PC attitudes towards animal skins lately, this may have been through
thrift shops or secondhand-clothing places."
"You
need a more positive attitude, Coop. Some folks have still got the first fancy
outfit they ever wore to church or work or a funeral parlor. Maybe it's the
difference between your relatives and mine."
"Suit
yourself. Then don't forget that most women store their furs for the summer.
Better check and make sure there wasn't a heist on Seventh Avenue," I
suggested, directing Mike to the fur district between Twenty-fifth and
Thirty-fourth Streets.
Laura was
out on her lunch break, so when my phone rang I answered it myself. It was the
security officer in the lobby of the building. "Thanks for letting me
know. It's okay, I realize it's not your fault."
I looked
up at Mike. "Maybe you could shut my door. There's a screamer on her way
upstairs. Tiffany's mother just blasted past the guard's desk when they tried
to stop her at the metal detector."
"I
had a pet water buffalo once had a better disposition than Mrs. Gatts. He was
smaller than she is, too." Mike walked toward the door but he was a few
seconds too late.
All 280
pounds of Etta Gatts blocked the doorway of my office.
"Where
do I find Alexander Cooper? Where is he?"
The three
of us spoke at once. As I identified myself to her and corrected my name, Mike
was saying that he wasn't here just now, and Mercer was doing his best to step
between the woman and me to diffuse the situation, telling her to calm down and
back off.
"Where
you got my baby at?" She was breathing fire.
I hadn't
even asked Mike that question. I assumed they had the sixteen-year-old in
custody, but I didn't know for what.
"Take
it easy, Mrs. Gatts," Mercer said, towering over the large woman.
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