Into Darkness

by T. J. Brearton

  It was because they were going to be seniors. The machinery was already starting up – exclusive parties for the seniors at Long Island City High, which were going to be all about bragging rights and looking down on the lower classmen. Parents knew about it, faculty knew about it – everyone thought it was cute. So long as it was inclusive of all seniors. Which it technically was, but practically was not. Not even close. You had to know where the good parties were, that was the thing. And it wasn’t as if they were advertised on Instagram. No, you had to know somebody. Somebody who knew somebody, at least. And then – maybe.

  For Josie, that somebody was Aaliyah. Aaliyah, who thought a good way to coax Josie out of her shell was to ask, What’s the matter with you?

  Real nice, Lee.

  Anyone ever tell you that you catch more flies with honey?

  But niceties didn’t appeal to Aaliyah Joiner. Subtlety wasn’t her style. And why should it be? She only wanted Josie along because she considered Josie less attractive. Josie was a “VA” – a value-adder. Which might or might not have been even true. Josie looked at herself in the mirror, presently, bared her teeth and looked at her curves from the side.

  Or, where her curves would be, if she didn’t have that extra layer. The nice layer she’d been adding over the past two years.

  She let her stomach out, feeling like crap, and flopped onto the bed again.

  She grabbed a pillow and moaned into it.

  When was this going to go away?

  She missed Charlotte like she never would have expected. Charlotte had been a real friend, and Josie had completely ruined it. To put it mildly. She’d ruined it to the point that maybe she ought to see a priest. Not that she believed in confession. But she needed something. Her parents were threatening therapy anyway. Her mother had said something to her father about Effexor. And her parents never talked.

  She knew that Effexor was a drug for depression.

  Because, yeah, she was depressed.

  But she was smart, too, and knew that there were organic degenerative conditions in psychology – biological things you couldn’t help. Chemical imbalances. And then, on the other hand, there were things that could cause a type of depression, a type of anxiety. Things like guilt.

  Things like not dealing with your shit.

  Things like walking around with a tremendous secret in your head. A secret you feel is like a bullet inside you, a poison working its way through your veins and into your organs, killing you.

  Good times.

  What’s the matter with me, Aaliyah? I’m a horrible person, that’s what.

  And you know it – you see it. Or suspect it, anyway. And then you exploit it – you know I’ll do whatever you ask.

  But not tonight.

  No. Not tonight. Maybe not even this weekend. Josie’s mother was going out of town – maybe there was another way to spend her time besides trying to please Aaliyah Joiner.

  Maybe she ought to please Charlotte Beecher. Maybe it was time to right a major wrong, to reset the scales. Time to come clean about everything – whether to a priest or a shrink or the public. Go online. That was how this whole thing started, anyway.

  Josie stared up at the ceiling some more, hands folded across her belly.

  Come clean, yeah.

  Yeah, right.

  The world would eat her alive.

  13

  Friday

  In the morning, Caldoza called.

  “Got two things for you,” he said. “One – Jordan Baldacci was about to launch a sexual misconduct suit.”

  Shannon sat up in the bed, wiping her eyes. “Against whom?”

  “Todd Spencer. He’s another journalist. And it’s not the first time it’s been alleged that Spencer is too busy with his hands, but it’s the first time he was getting taken to court.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. Interesting when you consider that it’s all gone away now, with Baldacci’s death.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “Raymond Tanzer. Former employee, WPXU. The TV station is called Ion and it’s based out of Amityville. Guess where that is?”

  “Long Island,” she answered. “Huntington Township.”

  “Bingo.” Caldoza sounded excited. “And guess what? Three weeks ago, Tanzer gets canned. And he has a fit. He rants and raves on his way out, carrying his box of personal effects. He goes on this diatribe about how TV isn’t what it used to be, he’s going on about the ‘infotainment complex’ and yada yada. This according to everyone we talked to down there.”

  She thought for a second. “How did you find out about it?”

  “Heinz called around to all the area TV stations, big and small, looking for any signs of disgruntled employees.”

  “Smart,” Shannon said, having perhaps misjudged Heinz as a bit of a ditz. Then, “My boss is going to love that one. What did he get fired for?”

  “It’s not crystal clear. Looks like he was just slacking off. But Heinz said there were rumors about drugs.”

  “Where’s Tanzer now? When can we get him in?”

  Caldoza paused. It sounded like he was chewing. “That’s the thing. Tanzer is momentarily MIA.”

  Shannon swung her legs out of bed. “You really know how to get an FBI agent’s day started, Detective Caldoza.”

  “Call me Luis.” He paused, then asked, “What’s your day looking like, Special Agent Ames?”

  “I’m going into the city to talk to a council member,” she said, ignoring his subtle bid to get them on a first-name basis.

  “The story Baldacci was looking into?”

  “Forbes, too.”

  “You want company?”

  “I’m sure you’ve got a million things to do. Are you going to get Todd Spencer to come in and talk about his relationship to Baldacci?”

  “I’m planning on it. I’ll give you a shout.”

  “Thanks,” she said. Then she added – because why not? – “I appreciate it, Luis.”

  She opted for the subway instead of driving into the city. The city hall area was so tight, the streets so narrow, it worried her to drive. But the subway turned out to be a nightmare – much of the red line was closed for repairs, and she ended up walking for several blocks.

  It was another banner day, though: bright, unbroken blue sky. And the heat was holding off for the moment. She glanced up past the people walking and vehicles buzzing and beyond the buildings into that perfect azure.

  Back home, the corn would be knee-high. Past it, by now. Her father would be out, side-dressing the crops – the corn, the soybeans, the popcorn crops – and managing weeds on the field borders. He’d have set up his fence row spraying rig and be driving along the outside rows of each field, applying herbicide. She could picture him bumping along as he rode the big rig.

  And her brothers were likely hauling grain. You normally hauled the previous crop up until a couple of weeks before the next fall’s harvest. Toward the end, when gravity wasn’t pushing it out, you’d be in the silo, shoveling it out. You’d be checking for hot grain – meaning spoiled by moisture and mold – or bugs. It had been three years, yet she could picture her father and brothers working like she’d been home yesterday.

  She could smell the dry, sweet grain, could hear the dogs barking and see their white shapes cutting through the high grass.

  You never knew how good you had it. And wasn’t that the damn truth.

  New York City Hall was located in City Hall Park at the end of the Brooklyn Bridge. She could’ve just walked across the bridge and gotten here as fast. She went in from Chambers Street, up the wide steps toward the impressive four columns and three arched doorways of the entrance.

  Paul Torres was one of the fifty-one council members who primarily served as a check against the mayor. At the local level, the city council was to the city mayor what Congress was to the president. Council members approved the city budget, proposed and revised bills, monitored the performance of city agencies, an
d made land-use decisions.

  Shannon put her gun and federal ID into a bin that was placed on a conveyor belt by a security guard. She stepped through the checkpoint, and another guard feathered a wand over her body, then waved her on. She collected her things.

  Torres chaired the Zoning and Franchises Land Use Committee. In his late fifties, his public photo showed a man with thinning hair and a wide face, skin pockmarked from adolescent acne. His secretary had told Shannon he would be at city hall for most of the day, gone from his Bronx office. Shannon had obtained his cell phone number and called him, left a message. It was 9 a.m. – her proposed meeting time. Hopefully, the councilman had received the call and wouldn’t stand up an FBI agent.

  Then she saw him coming down the flowing stairs of the rotunda. She gazed up at the impressive dome ceiling, golden light pouring down, then smiled as Torres reached her and extended his hand. “Special Agent Ames?”

  She shook hands with him – his palm was clammy – and said, “So nice to meet you, Councilman Torres. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I only just got your message.” His eyebrows twitched with concern. He was breathing heavy, wheezing a little with the extra weight he carried. “I tried you back but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “I was probably under the river, on my way here.”

  His eyes probed her. “Well, we have a few minutes before I have to get ready for session. Would you like to talk in the Chamber?”

  “That would be great.”

  He smiled, though his eyes stayed serious, and headed back up the stairs. There were two stairways cascading down the round room to meet in the middle at the bottom. Like two waterfalls, she thought. “I’ve been here before,” she said to the councilman’s back as they climbed. “But I’m always impressed.”

  “It’s such a beautiful building. Historic. Have you ever been down to see the original city hall subway stop? This is the birthplace of the New York City subway, you know. It’s such a shame what we’ve been going through. Ever since Hurricane Sandy. Such a shame. Everyone is ready for this subway mess down here to get sorted out.”

  They reached the landing and she looked down into the circular room; Torres smiled politely at her and resumed walking. They passed more tourists taking images with their cell phones. Paintings adorned the walls – Revolutionaries in their white and blue uniforms, holding swords, straddling horses. Alexander Macomb. Oliver Hazard Perry.

  “What are you meeting on today, Councilman Torres?”

  He kept a pace ahead of her, his dark suit rustling as he walked. He smelled vaguely of mothballs. “Today is the Committee on Hospitals. We’re meeting jointly with the Committee on Health.”

  “How many committees do you sit on?”

  “Seven.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And I chair two.”

  They entered the Chamber. Red carpet with white pointillism. Tall mahogany windows, blinds drawn. Gilded crown molding framing a white plaster ceiling; plaster carved into stars, eagles, scenes of civic virtue. The big painting was George Washington himself.

  The balcony featured theater-style seats, most likely restored, but the main floor was populated by cheap-looking plastic folding chairs. They were alone except for two other people standing near the dais at the front. She checked her watch – it was now ten minutes past nine, and the meeting, according to the schedule she’d seen online, started at ten. Plenty of time. She looked at Torres. “Shall we sit?”

  He cleared his throat and offered another smile – they seemed increasingly humorless. “Of course. Let’s sit for a minute.”

  From the last row, she pulled a chair back and so did he, in order that they weren’t side by side, bumping knees. She crossed her legs and got comfortable. Torres was looking everywhere but at her, as if seeing the place for the first time. Sometimes that happened, she thought, when you showed off otherwise familiar surroundings to an outsider – you found your appreciation renewed.

  “Hard to believe the big restoration was almost a decade ago,” Torres said.

  “Have you been on the council that long?”

  “I was. I began in 2007. But my time is up next year, I’m afraid.”

  Torres’s gaze continued to wander. Shannon fell silent, thinking it would focus him. It did.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when he finally made eye contact, “this is right in the middle of your work. Last minute. Just a phone call and here I am. I do appreciate you taking the time, Councilman.”

  “Well, government has to work together. Right?”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

  The next smile parted his lips. He was warming up to her. “What can I do for you, Special Agent Ames? You said in your message this relates to what’s going on in Brooklyn?” He lowered his voice a notch. “This … what they’re calling the Media Killer?”

  She was already nodding. “That’s right. I’m wondering about two of the victims in particular. Jordan Baldacci and Monica Forbes – were you familiar with either of them, prior to this?”

  His eyes stayed on her a moment, and then he glanced at the ceiling. “Hmm. Forbes. Okay. She had a show?”

  “That’s right, sir. The Scene.”

  “I’ve seen that. Yes, I was familiar with her.”

  “And Baldacci wrote for Newsday and the Gotham Gazette.”

  Torres did something with his lips, scrunching them up in a moue, which made him look like he was suppressing a fart. “Hmm, yes. I think she’s familiar.”

  “Do you remember why?”

  He grunted, as if clearing his throat. “She was writing a piece, I believe, about a property development in the Bronx. In my district.”

  Shannon nodded some more, feeling pricks of hot and cold breaking out over her skin. “That’s right, that’s what I understand. She was investigating the development of a new apartment building in the Bronx. The developer wanted to change the zoning to increase the number of units, which prompted the public review process. Is that correct?”

  Another grunt. Torres glanced at the two other people in the room. “That’s correct. I’m not sure, though, what the point is?”

  “The public review process – that means hearings at the community board, the borough president, the city planning commission and you,” she held out her hands toward him, “the city council.”

  “You’re correct, yes.” Getting annoyed now.

  “But the council has the final say in whether the zoning is changed.”

  “Yes …”

  “And you’re on the Land Use Committee, which has jurisdiction. So within the council, it’s that committee.”

  “Correct …”

  “And you’re the chair.”

  “Agent Ames? I’m sorry. I really need to prepare for this upcoming session. Is there something I can–?”

  She rushed forward with it: “Baldacci’s article alleges that the proposed apartment building, in Pelham Bay, ran up against some potential environmental concerns, since the park there is the largest park in New York City and is a habitat for a number of birds and animals. And Pelham Bay is, as I understand it, a middle-class residential neighborhood. The community was generally not in favor of this apartment building coming in. Nor did they favor the developer behind it, according to Baldacci’s article, because he has ties to organized crime.”

  Torres had dropped all pretense of cordiality. While she spoke, his face had seemed to melt, his cheeks turning to darkened jowls, his eyes hardening to black points. He sniffed, then grunted, and said nothing for a long two seconds. Then, “Alleged ties to organized crime. In other words, gossip. But you’re the FBI. Maybe you would know more than me.”

  “That’s not my division,” she said adroitly, having expected this. “I work violent crimes. And Jordan Baldacci is the victim of a violent crime, as is Monica Forbes. And according to Monica’s husband, she was looking into this story, too, intending to cover it on The Scene. Only she never got a chance to, because she was murdered.”

/>   Torres stood up so fast the chair fell over. He picked it up and jammed it back into place. It drew the attention of the others in the room. At the same time, three new people, looking like council members, a man and two women, came in from the hall. One of the women made a concerned face. “Paul? Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, Margaret.”

  Shannon stood up. “Hello. I’m Special Agent Ames, with the FBI.” She shook with Margaret, who looked surprised, but then not, relaying looks between Shannon and Paul Torres.

  Torres tried on a smile that didn’t quite convince. “I’ll finish this up and be over in just a minute.”

  Margaret glanced at Shannon again, then drifted deeper into the Chamber, taking the two other newcomers with her.

  Having drawn the attention of the other council members, Shannon decided to ease back for now. She extracted a business card from her inner suit jacket pocket and held it out to him. “Mr. Torres, I thank you for your time. And again, I’m sorry to inconvenience–”

  He cut her off when he stepped close, his whole face seeming to tremble as he spoke. “What about Diaz? Right? Wasn’t there one of these murders two weeks ago? Was she making these allegations? Was she writing a story?”

  “Diaz was a television reporter who covered mostly entertainment …”

  “I made a decision,” Torres said. Little white curds were forming in the corners of his mouth. He was close enough that she could smell his breath – the egg and bacon he’d had for breakfast. “A decision in the interest of my district. We needed the housing. And I’m working with the park people, with the conservancy. We’re going to protect the goddamn bird nests at the same time we’re adding value to the neighborhood by adding that building. Everything was by the book; I didn’t ram anything through. You want to check out the developer? You go ahead and–”

  “I already did,” Shannon said. “Please, Mr. Torres, step back.”

  He did, his lower lip and chin still wobbling, eyes glassy with adrenaline.