by James Tucker
It was then he realized that Ben had put an arm around each of them and was hugging them as hard as he could. Buddy reached down and put the palm of his hand on the boy’s back. The boy felt fragile and small, more vulnerable even than Mei. As Buddy and Mei separated, he looked carefully at Ben. He saw tears running down the boy’s face, perspiration at his temples, his little boy’s chest rising and falling, and his bloody bare feet. Buddy knelt down in order to be at Ben’s height. He just wanted to talk, but Ben opened his arms and wrapped them around Buddy’s neck. Ben pushed his damp hair and tear-stained face against Buddy’s cheek with its day-old stubble. Buddy put his large arms around the boy and pulled him close. Ben started to sob.
“It’s going to get better,” Buddy said. “I’m making that promise to you. All right, Ben?”
Ben said nothing, but after a moment he nodded his head against Buddy’s cheek.
Jesus, Buddy thought. Why did I tell him that? And where can I find a safe place for him?
And then he knew.
Chapter Twenty-Two
One minute later, thirty cops had surrounded the building where the killer was trapped.
Five minutes later, an ambulance had taken Schmidt up to Lenox Hill Hospital.
Ten minutes later, a CSU team had cordoned off the bodies of the two fallen police. The team began photographing the bodies in situ and checking for prints and fabric and other indicators of the killer or killers.
Fifteen minutes later, Ward Mills was standing in the lobby of the Carlyle Residences.
Ward stood just beyond the yellow tape, his appearance markedly different from anyone else’s.
He was dressed in a navy-blue suit with thick chalk pinstripes, a lavender shirt with a purple-and-white-striped tie, and a pocket handkerchief spilling out of its pocket sufficiently to show the image of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus. Some might consider him a superficial dandy. But Mei knew those people were wrong. She’d seen his eyes grow cold, his expression harden, his voice become low. Buddy had implied that Ward fought persistent demons—physical and psychological—without offering details. He’d told her of the viciousness hidden by the Brioni suits.
“Ward,” she said, “thank you for coming.”
She walked over to him, holding Ben’s hand and pulling the boy with her. She leaned over the tape and embraced Ward with one hand, air-kissed both his cheeks, and smiled at him as best she could. She wondered briefly how he’d arrived so quickly, as he’d never divulged to her or to Buddy if he had a place in the city or if he stayed at hotels or with friends.
“I’m glad to help,” he said, his usually jaunty voice subdued. “Buddy called. Asked for me to take you somewhere safe.”
Mei nodded.
Ben looked up at him and said, “Is anywhere safe?”
Mei watched Ward carefully. He didn’t smile or condescend or say something like: Of course, little guy. There are lots of safe places! Instead he maintained a calm but flat expression. He said, “Yes, you’ll be with me. At my country house.”
“Why with you?” Ben asked. “Why your house? My family was killed in the country, at our house up north.”
“The difference,” Ward replied, “is that I’m trained to kill people, and I’d kill them before they kill you.”
Ben seemed incredulous. “Are you a policeman, like Buddy?”
“No.” Ward shook his head. “I’m not a police detective.” He didn’t elaborate about his occupation, for he had none. But he added, “My house is in the country, in Greenwich, but it has a security system. It also has a service with Rottweilers that patrols the grounds. And I have many guns. There’s no way anyone will be getting onto my estate, let alone into my house. Ben, you’ll be safer there than anywhere else on earth. Mei will be coming with you, and you can take the bedroom right next to hers. If you agree, then I think we should go. It’s clear you’re not safe in the city, not even with police guarding this lobby.”
Ben turned his head to glance at the fallen officers, who were being lifted by the CSU team onto the gurneys used to transport them to the Manhattan Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. But when Mei put her hands on the sides of his head and brought his gaze to hers, he searched her face and asked, “Do you think it’s all right to go to Mr. Mills’s house?”
Mei said, “Yes, I’m sure of it. He’s Buddy’s brother, and Buddy will visit us. Maybe not every night but some nights. We’ll be safe while the police catch the person who’s doing these terrible things.”
“But once the person is caught,” Ben said haltingly, “where will I live?”
Mei stopped short. She’d been taught by her parents and by Miss Porter’s School to give, at a moment’s notice, the appropriate response to any question, especially an inappropriate question. But this one stumped her.
Ward knelt down, reached under the yellow police tape, and touched Ben’s shoulder. “A boy as handsome and smart as you?” he said as Ben turned to meet his eyes. “We’ll have no trouble finding a good place for you.”
Ben seemed unconvinced. He said, “Will Mei be there?”
Ward didn’t hesitate. He answered as if Mei weren’t standing there holding Ben’s hand. “We’ll have to see what happens. Remember that Mei just had her apartment broken into, and she can’t make a big decision tonight. But she’s coming with you to my house now—that is, if you’re ready to join us.”
Ben waited a moment. His large brown eyes watched Ward. He tilted his head as he listened. Then he turned to Mei and nodded. “Okay. I want to get away from here. To somewhere safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ben walked out of the lobby of the Carlyle Residences, Mei to his right and Ward to his left. He screamed. His bloody feet had touched the icy concrete sidewalk outside. He tried not to cry, but he couldn’t stop.
“My God,” Ward said.
Mei saw him looking down. Her face crumpled, and she said, “Oh, Ben. I’m so sorry. We forgot to wrap your feet.”
And then he felt himself lifted off the ground. Ward picked him up and cradled him with one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees.
“I’ve got you, old man,” Ward said in a reassuring voice. “No more walking for you tonight.”
Now that his feet were no longer touching the cold sidewalk, he could control his crying, and he stopped. He wiped his eyes and saw that they were approaching a silver Range Rover idling at the curb. A driver stood next to the open right rear door, grasping the handle. The driver was of medium height, Caucasian, with a slender build and blond hair. He smiled at Ben, and Ben began to feel more comfortable.
Ward set Ben on the seat, and the driver closed the car door.
The car had thick seats, like the chair in his father’s library. The seats were heated and warm. He relaxed into the black leather and watched the driver open the front passenger door for Mei.
She climbed in, the driver closed the heavy door, and she turned in her seat to look back at him. She said, “We’ll clean and bandage your feet at Mr. Mills’s house.”
Ben nodded. He was resting his feet on the car’s soft floor mats. He knew he was making the mats bloody but didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t hold them above the floor all the way to Connecticut. And his feet no longer burned but throbbed. Even now, when he was warm and at rest, he began to feel his chest tighten with anxiety. He said, “I wish Buddy were here.”
“He’ll visit us.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“But when?”
Before she could answer, the driver opened the car’s left rear door, the dome light came on, and Ward climbed in beside Ben. Ward said, “Brick, let’s head to the country.”
The driver nodded.
Ward turned to look at Ben as the door was closed. “Sorry about your feet. We’ll patch you up good as new. You’ll see.”
Ben didn’t answer. He was staring at the nickel-plated handgun fitted into Ward’s ankle holster.
Chapter Twe
nty-Four
Buddy stood by the bloodied floors of the lobby, considering how to catch the killer.
Who must be within the Carlyle building.
The killer hadn’t left. Nobody had. Not with thirty alert and very pissed-off cops surrounding the property.
“Nobody gets in or out,” Buddy said. He spoke into the police radio that the SWAT team, newly arrived, had given him. The building was on lockdown. The killer of ten people was presumed trapped inside. And Chief Malone had gotten the commissioner to give Buddy tactical command.
Detective Vidas stood next to Buddy. Looking around at the gathering crowd, he said, “What’s the next step?”
Buddy considered the best way to clear the building. “Evacuation,” he said. “It’s much of a city block with hundreds of hotel rooms and residences. Plus storage and laundry rooms, kitchens, maid’s rooms, linen-storage rooms, and countless other places to hide. Even if we search the entire building, the killer could hang out in a ventilation duct and then slip away. He could say he’d been at the Carlyle Restaurant, at the Gallery Restaurant, at the Café Carlyle, or at Bemelmans Bar—and there’s no way to prove him wrong.”
“Unless you find prints in Mei’s place.”
“Yeah,” Buddy agreed. “But that’s unlikely.”
He decided that a partial solution was all he’d get. He held up the police radio. “Evacuate everyone in the building,” he said. “Bring them through the checkpoint on East Seventy-Sixth Street. Take down everyone’s ID if they have it. Run the IDs through NCIC. If the database shows nothing suspicious, allow the person to pass through the checkpoint. Let’s make five lines. One officer sitting with a laptop, taking down the information. One companion officer standing, searching if necessary, keeping an eye on things, making sure nobody gets through without showing ID or giving name, address, and telephone number.” Buddy let go of the talk switch on the radio. He heard a chorus of 10-4s.
So he had the killer surrounded. But that wasn’t as good a position as it sounded. Because the killer was anonymous and might be impossible to detect. But at least he’d get the names of everyone who exited the building over the next few hours. Even if NCIC, the National Crime Information Center database run by the FBI, showed nothing, he didn’t care because he’d have the list.
A key he could use. If not tonight, then soon.
The SWAT team evacuated the Carlyle Hotel and the Carlyle Residences. Every room. The restaurants, kitchens, and those who worked in them: managers, staff, everyone. At Buddy’s direction, Vidas joined the team that cleared Mei’s apartment and studied the elevator cab the killer had ridden up to her foyer. He wanted someone he trusted to confirm that everything was safe.
Buddy observed the crowds. They walked out onto the sidewalks and were waved toward the checkpoint on East Seventy-Sixth. He stood on the curb about twenty yards to the side of the tent and the card tables. He saw hundreds of people.
Some were dressed in long coats over gowns and suits for a night on the town. Others wore mismatched clothes that had been put on after having gone to sleep or at least to bed. Most were sober, although some weren’t. Most were older than fifty, but not all. Some were children, confused or anxious or wild. They milled around in the darkness and then, slowly or immediately, followed the orders of the SWAT and police teams.
A woman on the other side of the police cordon called out to him. “Detective Lock! Detective Lock!”
Turning in the direction of the voice—a voice he recognized—he noticed a stunning blonde waving at him. It was Sophie Bardon, the husky-voiced reporter for the Gazette.
His rapport with her was cordial, though he had any cop’s innate distrust of the press. At the same time he knew she might be useful to him in the future. He walked toward her. She held up a digital audio recorder. He shook his head. Reluctantly she put it in the side pocket of her parka.
“Detective, can you give me some background here?”
“What kind of background?”
She arched an eyebrow and said, “For example, why are you evacuating an entire building late at night? Why were bodies loaded into ambulances, three by my count?”
He said, “You should talk with the press room.”
She laughed. “That’s bullshit, Detective. Give me background. I won’t quote you. I know you trust me.”
He stared at her and said, “I don’t trust you. But I’ll give you background.” He stepped closer to her, until he could smell her minty breath. He said, “Multiple homicide.”
She nodded. “Identity of the victims?”
Buddy said, “Two cops.”
“Names?”
Buddy shook his head.
She asked, “Were they shot?”
“No.”
“Detective, how did they die?”
Buddy said, “No comment,” and turned away.
She called after him, but he kept going.
SWAT directed people from the sidewalks toward a white tent that had been set up in the northern lane of Seventy-Sixth Street. The street had been blocked to all traffic. The tent had gas heaters and bright lights. Five lines of people led to five police, who stood and checked photo IDs. Those without photo IDs gave their names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Each cop was paired with a second cop who sat at a small card table and first typed names into a spreadsheet on a laptop computer, then ran those names through NCIC. When the databases showed no match to any criminal or suspect in any kind of crime, the cops at the laptops waved the person through.
Each standing cop had a metal detector wand of the type used by TSA screening agents at airports, and used the device to scan everyone between the ages of fourteen and seventy. Once through the checkpoints, people waited on the sidewalk on the south side of Seventy-Sixth Street. Or disappeared into the city. Many waited to get back into the Carlyle, wishing to return to their dinners now gone cold, to their warm rooms upstairs. But the killer would escape if the police didn’t finger him now.
Buddy stepped into the tent’s interior. At six feet three inches, he stood above most of the crowd. He looked for anything suspicious.
For a few minutes everyone seemed innocent.
Then everyone seemed guilty.
Then he realized he’d lost this battle.
The SWAT and police teams would find nothing. Possibly a name he could cross-reference in the future, when he knew more. But that was all.
He wore his badge on a lanyard around his neck, outside his overcoat. But without looking at it, his fellow officers knew who he was. The chief had sent all of them a text, and his name would already be familiar. He’d achieved fame as the lead detective who’d stopped the Death Clock Killer the year before. His face had been on the national news and every newspaper in New York.
But there was a problem with being in the spotlight. Any additional murders would be blamed on him.
He could sense failure. It was close. Very close.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At 1:10 a.m., Buddy watched the process wind down. They’d found no murder weapon and no killer. After he’d returned his police radio to the SWAT commander, he stood unmoving on the sidewalk. He was tired, wired, relieved Mei and Ben had survived, but afraid their lives were still in danger. He thought maybe if he’d done things differently, the result of his search might have been different, but he didn’t know a better way. He had to trust the data they’d gathered would help his case.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned and saw Vidas.
“We’ll get him, boss,” Vidas said, “just not tonight.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Buy you a drink?”
Buddy thought maybe a drink would help. “Last call at Bemelmans.”
This was the famous bar in the Carlyle. It was hardly a police hangout, but he’d been standing in the cold for too long to go anywhere else.
Minutes later they were sitting in a booth at the back of the bar. He’d been here before and seen, on the cream-colored walls, th
e murals of scenes from Ludwig Bemelmans’s Madeline children’s books. Early in their relationship Mei had explained to him the character in the story. She’d described a scene in which Madeline and her school friends, dressed in royal blue, walked two by two along a path through Central Park, with their teacher, a nun, behind them. There was much Mei had told him about her childhood. There was more he didn’t tell her about the life he witnessed at work. Only in the past few days was she getting the picture, and he was angry she’d become involved in what he thought of as “real life.” He wanted her to live in Madeline’s world, not his.
He’d told her there was no Madeline in his childhood, only a piano. And his father sternly watching over his playing. He’d always sensed that his father was comparing his playing with that of another, imaginary boy who was just a little more talented. His father’s behavior made sense once he learned of Ward.
When the waiter approached, Buddy ordered a Michelob and Vidas the same.
Buddy looked across the table at his partner, and saw that Vidas had the benefit of youth. The late hour hadn’t made him look old. His eyes were clear. His angular face had only the hint of stubble. Buddy knew Vidas lived for cases that moved fast and kept him up late. Buddy did, too, when the cases didn’t involve Mei.
Vidas said, “It’s only a matter of time.”
Buddy nodded. “I know.”
The waiter brought their beers. They clinked their bottles together and drank.
Vidas put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Buddy. He said, “You can’t let it get to you.”
Buddy gripped the glass more tightly. He took a moment. Looked away from his partner, then right at him. “What do you mean?”
Vidas shook his head. “Buddy, come on. That girl wasn’t your fault.”
Buddy wasn’t confused. He knew his partner was referring to Lauren, the girl who’d died while they were investigating the Death Clock Murders last year.
