He thought for a minute or two, then buzzed Daisy, the receptionist. "Hey. Could you get me the Millennium Club on the phone?"
"Of course," Daisy said. "Give me a moment." She got back to him just a few minutes later. "It's ringing now for you."
"Thank you," Flannery said.
"Hello," someone at the Millennium picked up the call.
"Yes, this is Lt. Flannery from the NYPD, about a very small matter, so don't be concerned."
"How can I help you, Lieutenant?"
"First, may I ask to whom I am speaking?" Flannery asked.
"Mr. Bertram."
Flannery thought for a quick second. He had met Bertram one or two times at the Millennium Club. Bertram had greeted him at the door, but they hadn't really conversed. The safest thing would be to hang up the phone and try again later, in the hope of getting someone else. But he had told Bertram his name, and the butler or whatever he was might seek to call Flannery back, if the connection were just cut off in mid-stream. "Thank you," Flannery decided to continue. "Do you have a Cyril Charles working at the Millennium?"
A pause, then, "yes, is he all right?" Bertram asked.
"Absolutely," Flannery reassured Bertram. "As I said, it's a minor matter – about an inheritance, actually – and sometimes they ask the police to come in and dot all the i's." This was also not quite true – the probate court had its own people to do that – but with any luck Bertram was no expert on estate law.
"He's not here today," Bertram said.
"Ok," Flannery responded. "Do you know the next time he'll be expected at the club? Or, can you give me his home phone-number?"
"We don't keep those kinds of schedules," Bertram said, apologetically, "so I can't be sure of the next time he'll be here."
"How about the phone number, then," Flannery pressed.
Bertram hesitated. "I'm sorry – I really can't give out that information to just a disembodied voice on the telephone. I'm sure as a member of law enforcement, you understand."
"Yes, I do, and you're right to safeguard your co-worker's privacy," Flannery said. "I'll see if I can swing by later today or tomorrow."
But he couldn't very well do that – not as a police lieutenant, and risk blowing his crucial cover at the Millennium as a writer. He thanked Bertram, hung up the phone, and frowned. Strike one. He'd have to come up with another way of getting to Cyril Charles.
***
He put Plan B into motion a few hours later. He assigned two young, gung-ho detectives, Allison Barnes and Dennis Molloy, to the case. He gave them pictures of Cyril Charles, which he had one of the lab guys reproduce in normal 1990s format, and instructed the two to surveil the Millennium from a suitable distance for any sign of Charles. Flannery estimated he could do this for at least a day or two without attracting any undue interest from the brass.
He got some action the next day. He got a call from Barnes, who was standing about a block to the west of the Millennium, in a different place from her partner, who was stationed about a block to the east of the club. "I'm sure it's him," Barnes told Flannery.
"Excellent," Flannery said. "Call Molloy and let him know. See if you can quietly take Charles into custody before he reaches the Millennium – in fact, as far away as possible. If you can't – or if there are too many nosy civilians around – then follow Charles to the club, and do what I told you to do with those papers." He had given both Barnes and Molloy some police paperwork indicating there was some concern about the structural integrity of the upper library floor of the Millennium. He needed Barnes or Molloy posted there, in case Bertram alerted Charles about the police interest in him, and Charles tried to high-tail it out of this century with a Chair.
Barnes let Flannery know she understood, quickly briefed Molloy, and followed Cyril Charles at the fastest pace she could without attracting attention. She and Molloy were in plain clothes, as most NYPD detectives usually were, so that helped. Cyril Charles wasn't walking very fast, and that helped even more. She was getting close to him when she heard a shriek—
A car had apparently backed into a hotdog stand, which had fallen over on its side and hit a woman passerby who had cried out. Barnes made a quick decision. She couldn't leave this scene, without making sure the woman was ok. The water that boiled the hotdogs could easily have scalded the woman. Barnes helped the woman to her feet, and quickly looked her over. She seemed all right – no burns or any other damage.
"Are you ok, Ma'am?" Barnes asked the woman, who she guessed was in her 40s.
The woman exhaled. "Yes, I believe I am – I was just startled. Thank you."
"Good," Barnes said and looked down the street. Charles was entering the Millennium Club. It was obviously far too late for her to stop him.
Molloy was at the front of the club a moment later. It was too late for him to stop Charles, too.
She called him on his cell phone as she quickly walked to the club. "Get in there, show them the papers, and do your thing in front of the spiral stairs – under no circumstances can you let Cyril Charles get up there."
***
Barnes arrived at the Millennium Club less than a minute later. With Molloy upstairs, her job was to take Charles into custody either inside the club, or, if he tried to leave, right outside.
Flannery had shown her and Molloy blueprints of the club, but he was not sure they were accurate or complete, in particular regarding whether there was a back exit which was not shown in the architect's drawings. These old 19th-century buildings were honeycombed with secret passages and exits.
She called Molloy. "Any sign of him up there?"
"Negative," he answered.
She walked into the club and encountered a doorman, well dressed and who looked to be in his 20s – the same age as she and Molloy. She produced her papers and her best smile. "I need to speak with Mr. Cyril Charles – just a small matter, nothing serious," she said.
"I don't believe he is in the club today," the doorman answered in the kind of British accent she just loved, but didn't have time for today.
"Please don't lie to me, sir," she said and withdrew her smile completely. "I saw Mr. Charles walk into this establishment not three minutes ago."
The doorman flushed. "I assure you I'm not lying. I honestly haven't seen Mr. Charles today."
She knew he was lying, and felt like arresting him right here, British accent and all, for obstructing an investigation. But she had a feeling that's not what the Lieutenant would want. In fact, he had not told them anything about what this urgent need to detain Mr. Charles was about.
"Who's in charge here?" she limited herself to saying, then lied herself. "I believe you," she said, by way of apology, and she gave him another smile.
"Mr. Bertram," he said.
***
Mr. Bertram and Mr. Charles were on the second floor. They knew that Molloy was standing guard by the spiral stairs, and they assumed that other police were either already in the club or would soon be entering.
"What do you suggest?" Charles asked Bertram, calm as can be.
"Let's turn their very deceit about the structural integrity of the club against them," Bertram replied, with equal equanimity. He quickly and quietly assembled several of the staff, and gave them instructions.
***
The doorman was taking Barnes up the stairs to the second floor, walking very slowly. "Can we do any better than this snail's pace?" she asked him.
"I'm sorry, but the club's rules prohibit rushing about," was his reply.
Barnes cursed under her breath—
"What's going on?" she suddenly demanded. At least 15 or 20 people, mostly older, heavy-set men, appeared at the top of the stairs and began running down. So much for the club rules.
Another who looked like a butler approached and spoke quickly to her doorman, who turned to Barnes. "The building may be in danger of collapsing," he said, face red again. "We're evacuating."
"No," Barnes started to say, "that's all—"
But the fleeing club members nearly knocked Barnes and the doorman down, and were now pouring out the door.
Barnes tried frantically to see if Cyril Charles was among the people leaving. She was sure he had to be, but she didn't see him, and then another group of elderly men were running down the stairs, one nearly tripped and she caught him, and she thought she caught sight of Charles exiting with this wave of club members.
Molloy came down from the upper floor and joined her. The two looked on helplessly as the last of some 30 odd men between them and the front door slowly pushed their way outside.
***
Barnes conveyed the bad news to Flannery, who wasn't happy at all with it, but mostly contained himself. "We'll get him another day," he told Barnes. "You and Molloy did the best you could. These butlers or doormen or whatever the hell they are apparently are a lot smarter than I thought."
He knew, of course, that they were far more than butlers or doormen, if they were that at all. They were the guardians and ushers of the Chairs. But given that job, one thing didn't make sense to him. If Heron was the inventor of the Chairs, why were Charles and his buddies not loyal to Heron but to his enemies? They presumably were loyal to this Sierra Waters woman. What hold did she have on them?
He put out a BOLO – Be On the Look Out – for Cyril Charles. The same thing applied as with his attempt to have him taken into custody by Barnes and Molloy. The brass would barely notice if he apprehended him later today or tomorrow. And if they wondered what was going on, there were enough drug and gang crackdowns and roundups underway that he could connect Charles to that. Those crackdowns were one of the highlights of the Giuliani administration – everyone was proud of them.
So what had just happened at the Millennium was strike two. Now it was time to try Plan C. Hey, it wasn't against the law to mix numbers and letters and metaphors.
***
Flannery got lucky again, this time less than an hour later. A beat cop spotted someone who fitted Cyril Charles' description in a coffee shop on Waverly Street, near New York University. Flannery immediately called Barnes, and ordered her and her partner to get down there. Then he grabbed his coat and left the office. "I'm going up to the Village to supervise a little operation," he told Daisy.
He got a uniformed cop to drive him and told her to put on the speed. He had told the beat cop not to arrest Charles – he doubted the beat cop would be up for what Charles might have up his sleeve, after the fiasco at the Millennium – but he told the cop to stand outside the restaurant and not let Charles leave.
Traffic was heavy – of course it was, it was always choked in this part of the city, any time of day. He called Barnes. "Are you there yet?"
"Five minutes ETA," she replied.
"Take him into custody if you get there before me."
"Understood," she said.
She called Flannery about five minutes later. He was less than ten minutes away now, himself.
"Lieutenant?" she asked.
"Yes – you there?"
"Not quite," she said. "And there's some sort of police action going on in Washington Square Park, right off Waverly, between us and Charles."
"What do you mean?" Flannery demanded.
"It looks like we're rounding up people in the park," Barnes replied. "Did you know about that? Wait – I heard some gun shots."
"Our side?"
"Not clear," Barnes said. "I think Molloy and I should get out of the car now and approach the coffee shop on foot."
"Do it," Flannery said. "And be careful."
***
Flannery called into headquarters and discovered there was indeed some sort of big drug bust underway in Washington Square Park. Dammit, if he had known about this, it had slipped his mind, with all the pressure and exhaustion he was feeling from the time travel.
He got out of the car about two blocks from the coffee shop, and approached quickly on foot. He tried to call Barnes but couldn't get through. One thing Giuliani had yet to do was upgrade this antiquated telecom!
He could hear gunfire now, too. He walked around a corner, and saw at least four men running quickly towards him, turning rapidly and firing at whatever was behind them, likely cops in pursuit. For crissakes, they had semi-automatics.
Flannery pulled out his revolver. They saw him before he could say anything and they started firing. He ducked, fired back, and realized he was hit in the shoulder. It hurt. He hadn't planned on doing this, and hadn't put on a bullet-proof vest.
The shooters passed right by him. One or two looked wounded.
Strike three. He had come back to 1999 to take Cyril Charles out of action, but the only person who would be out of action for a while now was Flannery himself.
Chapter 13
[New York City, April, 1899 AD]
Heron was beginning to feel stymied. He had drugged Mary Anderson yesterday, in the expectation of questioning her under the influence in her hotel, and finding out what she knew about Appleton and the Chronica, but something had gone wrong. Maybe she had consumed more alcohol than usual before lunchtime – he had no way of knowing what was already in her system when he slipped the colorless, odorless drug from the future into her beverage as he distracted her waiter at the bar with an urgent request that sent the waiter back to the kitchen for the necessary few minutes.
But the result was that instead of becoming loquacious, she fell into a deep sleep in her hotel room, and all hell had broken loose. When Heron approached her hotel, looking like J. P. Morgan as he always did now, he saw a gaggle of police and medical helpers and decided the better part of valor was staying away.
He learned this morning from Flannery what had happened. He knew that Flannery was somewhat smitten by the actress and was suspicious that Heron had something to do with her drugging. But Heron did not admit it, indeed acted surprised about it, and whatever Flannery may have thought, he didn't dare confront Heron about it. Meanwhile, Flannery hadn't accomplished much or anything regarding the Cyril Charles problem – Heron had seen Cyril Charles again at the Millennium, after he had requested that Flannery do something in 1999 to keep Charles out of the club. Possibly the Cyril Charles that Heron had seen again in the club was a younger version, or a version of Charles that existed before Flannery collared him, as these New York police liked to say, in the next century. But Heron could just feel in his marrow that Flannery had not succeeded, and Heron had learned to trust those feelings over the years.
He might have to get another face in the future. But even though he of course knew that he could come right back here and not lose more than a minute, he hated to take any break in his lifetime from what he was doing here – even a day away from 1899 in his day-to-day time could be disruptive.
Heron increasingly wondered how those renegade functionaries at the clubs around the world – in New York, London, and Athens – had emerged. He would need to address that after he retrieved the Chronica. In a sense it was part of the larger problem of unreliable assistants he was dealing with right now. It stemmed from the fundamental unpredictability of human beings.
Thomas Edison was a prime example. He had become even less responsive and more monosyllabic. His hardness of hearing seemed to worsen whenever Heron asked him a question. Heron suspected the uncouth inventor was hiding something. Flannery the police lieutenant was inefficient, but Edison the great inventor could well be a traitor.
Edwin Porter, Heron realized, was his most reliable worker now. He was the easiest to dominate at this juncture. He arranged a meeting with him at their favorite seafood restaurant.
Chronica (Sierra Waters Book 3) Page 18
