Bulldog Three: “Bulldog Three here. Got it. Fernandez is getting out of Bulldog Two. Tiger One is getting out, crossing to the other side of the street.”
Delaney: “Hold it. Check out Tiger One’s radio.”
Barbara: “Tiger One from Barbara. How do you read?” Tiger One: “T-One here. Lots of interference but I can read.”
Delaney: “Tell him to cover. Understood?”
Barbara: “Tiger One, cover Lieutenant Fernandez on the other side of the street. Coppish?”
Tiger One: “Right on.”
Delaney: “Bring in Bulldog Three.”
Bulldog Three: “They’re both walking toward us, slowly. Fernandez is passing the Castle, turning his head, looking at it. Tiger One is right across the street. No action. They’re coming toward us. Walking slowly. No sweat. Fernandez is crossing the street toward us. He’ll probably want to use our mike. Ladies and gentlemen, the next voice you hear will be that of Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez.”
Delaney (stonily): “Get that man’s name.”
Fernandez: “Fernandez in Bulldog Three. Is the Captain there?”
Delaney bent over the desk mike.
Delaney: “Here. What is it, lieutenant?”
Fernandez: “It smells, Captain. The door to the Castle is half-open. Something’s propping it open. Looks like a man’s leg to me.”
Delaney: “A leg?”
Fernandez: “From the knee down. A leg and a foot propping the door open. How about I take a closer look?”
Delaney: “Where’s Tiger One?”
Fernandez: “Right here with me.”
Delaney: “Both of you go back to Bulldog Two. Tiger One across the street, covering again. You take a closer look. Tell Tiger One to give us a continuous. Got that?”
Fernandez: “Sure.”
Delaney: “Lieutenant…”
Fernandez: “Yeah?”
Delaney: “He’s fast.”
Fernandez (chuckling): “Don’ give it a second thought, Captain.”
Tiger One: “We’re walking south. Slowly. Fernandez is across the street.”
Delaney: “Gun out?”
Barbara: “Is your gun out, Tiger One?”
Tiger One: “Oh Jesus, it’s been out for the last fifteen minutes. He’s coming up to the Castle. He’s slowing, stopping. Now Fernandez is kneeling on one knee. He’s pretending to tie his shoelace. He’s looking toward the Castle door. He’s—Oh my God!”
Daniel Blank awoke in an antic mood, laughing at a joke he had dreamed but could not remember. He looked to the windows; it promised to be a glorious day. He thought he might go over to Celia Montfort’s house and kill her. He might kill Charles Lipsky, Valenter, the bartender at The Parrot. He might kill a lot of people, depending on how he felt. It was that kind of a day.
It took off like a rocket: hesitating, almost motionless, moving, then spurting into the sky. That’s the way the morning went, until he’d be out of the earth’s pull, and free. There was nothing he might not do. He remembered that mood, when he was atop Devil’s Needle, weeks, months, years ago.
Well, he would go back to Devil’s Needle and know that rapture again. The park was closed for the winter, but it was just a chain-link fence, the gate closed with a rusty padlock. He could smash it open easily with his ice ax. He could smash anything with his ice ax.
He bathed and dressed carefully, still in that euphoria he knew would last forever.
So the chime at his outside door didn’t disturb him at all.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Package for you, Mr. Blank.”
He heard retreating footsteps, waited a few moments, then unbolted his door. He brought the long, white florist’s box inside, relocked the door, He took the box to the living room and stared at it, not understanding.
Nor did he comprehend the single red rose inside. Nor the card. Albert Feinberg? Feinberg? Who was Albert Feinberg? Then he remembered that last death with longing; the close embrace, warm breath in his face, their passionate grunts. He wished they could do it again. And Feinberg had sent him another rose! Wasn’t that sweet. He sniffed the fragrance, stroked the velvety petals against his cheek, then suddenly crushed the whole flower in his fist. When he opened his hand, the petals slowly came back to shape, moving as he watched, forming again the whole exquisitely shaped blossom, as lovely as it had been before.
He drifted about the apartment, dreaming, nibbling at the rose. He ate the petals, one by one; they were soft, hard, moist, dry on his tongue, with a tang and flavor all their own. He ate the flower down to the stem, grinning and nodding, swallowing it all.
He took his gear from the hallway closet; ice ax, rucksack, nylon line, boots, crampons, jacket, knitted watch cap. He wondered about sandwiches and a thermos—but what did he need with food and drink? He was beyond all that, outside the world’s pull and the hunger to exist.
It was remarkable, he thought happily, how efficiently he was operating; the call to the garage to bring his car around, the call to a doorman—who turned out to be Charles Lipsky—to help him down with his gear. He moved through it all smiling. The day was sharp, clear, brisk, open, and so was he. He was in the lemon sun, in the thin blue sac filled with amniotic fluid. He was one with it all. He hummed a merry tune.
When Valenter opened the door and said, “I’m thorry, thir, but Mith Montfort ith not—” he smashed his fist into Valenter’s face, feeling the nose crunch under his blow, seeing the blood, feeling the blood slippery between his knuckles. Then, stepping farther inside, he hit the shocked Valenter again, his fist going into the man’s throat, crushing that jutting Adam’s apple. Valenter’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he went down.
So Daniel Blank walked easily across the entrance hall, still humming his merry tune. What was it? Some early American folksong; he couldn’t remember the title. He climbed the stairs steadily, the ice ax out now, transferred to his right hand. He remembered the first time he had followed her up these stairs to the room on the fifth floor. She had paused, turned, and he had kissed her, between navel and groin, somewhere on the yielding softness, somewhere…Why had she betrayed him?
But even before he came to that splintered door, a naked Anthony Montfort darted out, gave Daniel one mad, frantic glance over his shoulder, then dashed down the hall, arms flinging. Watching that young, bare, unformed body run, all Blank could think of was the naked Vietnamese girl, burned by napalm, running, running, caught in pain and terror.
Celia was standing. She, too, was bare.
“Well,” she said, her face a curious mixture of fear and triumph. “Well…”
He struck her again and again. But after the first blow, the fear faded from her face; only the triumph was left. The certitude. Was this what she wanted? He wondered, hacking away. Was this her reason? Why she had manipulated him. Why she had betrayed him. He would have to think about it. He hit her long after she was dead, and the sound of the ice ax ceased to be crisp and became sodden.
Then, hearing screams from somewhere, he transferred the ice ax to his left hand, under the coat, hidden again, and rushed out. Down the stairs. Over the fallen Valenter. Out into the bright, sharp, clear day. The screams pursued him: screams, screams, screams.
They were all on their feet in the radio room, listening white-faced to Tiger One’s furious shouts, a scream from somewhere, “Fernandez is—”, shots, roar of a car engine, squeal of tires, metallic clatter. Tiger One’s radio went dead.
Captain Delaney stood stock-still for almost 30 seconds, hands on hips, head lowered, blinking slowly, licking his lips. The men in the room looked to him, waiting.
He was not hesitating as much as deliberating. He had been through situations as fucked-up as this in the past. Instinct and experience might see him through, but he knew a few seconds of consideration would help establish the proper sequence of orders. First things first.
He raised his head, caught MacDonald’s eye.
“Sergeant,” he said tonele
ssly, raised a hand, jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “on your way. Take both cars. Sirens. I’ll stay here. Report as soon as possible.”
MacDonald started out. Delaney caught up with him before he reached the hallway door, took his arm.
“In the outside toilet,” he whispered, “in the cabinet under the sink. A pile of clean white towels. Take a handful with you.”
The sergeant nodded, and was gone.
The Captain came back into the middle of the room. He began to dictate orders to the two radiomen and the two telephone men.
“To Bulldog Two, remain on station and assist.”
“To Bulldog Three, take Danny Boy. Extreme caution.” Both cars cut in to answer; the waiting men heard more shots, curses, shouts.
“To downtown Communications. Operation Lombard top priority. Four cars New York entrance to George Washington Bridge. Detain black Chevy Corvette. Give them license number, description of Danny Boy. Extreme caution. Armed and dangerous.”
“You and you. Take a squad. Up to George Washington Bridge. Siren and flasher. Grab a handful of those photos of Danny Boy and distribute them.”
“To Communications. Officer in need of assistance. Ambulance. Urgent. Give address of Castle.”
“To Deputy Inspector Thorsen: ‘He’s running. Will keep you informed. Delaney.’”
“To Assault-Homicide Division. Crime in progress at Castle. Give address. Urgent. Please assist Operation Lombard.”
“To Bulldog Ten. Recall to Barbara with car.”
“To Bulldog One. Seal Danny Boy’s apartment in White House. Twenty-one H. No one in, no one out.”
“To Stryker. Seal Danny Boy’s office. No one in, no one out.”
“You and you, down to the Factory to help Stryker. Take Ten-0’s car when he arrives.”
“To Special Operations. Urgently need three heavy cars. Six men with vests, shotguns, gas grenades, subs, the works. Three snipers, completely equipped, one in each car. Up here as soon as possible. Oh yes…cars equipped with light bars, if possible.”
“You and you, pick up the Mortons, at the Erotica on Madison Avenue, for questioning.”
“You, pick up Mrs. Cleek at the Factory. You, pick up the owner of The Parrot on Third Avenue. You, pick up Charles Lipsky, doorman at the White House. Hold all of them for questioning.”
“To Communications. All-precinct alert. Give description of car and Danny Boy. Photos to come. Wanted for multiple homicide. Extreme caution. Dangerous and armed. Inform chief inspector.”
Delaney paused, drew a deep breath, looked about dazedly. The room was emptying out now as he pointed at men, gave orders, and they hitched up their guns, donned coats and hats, started out.
The radio crackled.
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Got you, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald. Outside the Castle. Fernandez down and bleeding badly. Tiger One down. Unconscious. At least a broken leg. Bulldog Three gone after Danny Boy. Bulldog Two and Searcher Two blocking off the street. Send assistance. Am now entering Castle.”
Delaney heard, began speaking again.
“To Communications. Repeat urgent ambulance. Two officers wounded.”
“To Assault-Homicide Division. Repeat urgent assistance needed. Two officers wounded.”
“Sir, Deputy Inspector Thorsen is on the line,” one of the telephone operators interrupted.
“Tell him two officers wounded. I’ll get back to him. Recall guard on Monica Gilbert and get men and car over here. Recall taps on Danny Boy’s phone and Monica Gilbert’s phone. Tell them to remove all equipment, clean up, no sign.”
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Come in, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald here. We have one homicide: female, white, black hair, early thirties, five-four or five, a hundred and ten, slender, skull crushed, answering description of the Princess. White, male boy, about twelve, naked and hysterical, answering description of Anthony Montfort. One white male, six-three or four, about one-sixty or sixty-five, unconscious, answering description of houseman Valenter, broken nose, facial injuries, bad breathing. Need two ambulances and doctors. Fernandez is alive but still bleeding. We can’t stop it. Ambulance? Soon, please. Tiger One had broken right leg, arm, bruises, scrapes. Ambulances and doctors, please.”
Delaney took a deep breath, started again.
“To Communications. Second repeat urgent ambulance. One homicide victim, four serious injuries, one hysteria victim. Need two ambulances and doctors soonest.”
“To Assault-Homicide. Second repeat urgent assistance. Anything on those cars Communications sent to block the George Washington Bridge?”
“Cars in position, sir. No sign of Danny Boy.”
“Our men there with photos?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Anything from Bulldog Three?”
“Can’t raise them, sir.”
“Keep trying.”
Blankenship came over to the Captain, looking down at a wooden board with a spring clamp at the top. He had been making notes. Delaney noted the man’s hands were trembling slightly but his voice was steady.
“Want a recap, sir?” he asked softly.
“A tally?” Delaney said thankfully. “I could use that. What have we got left?”
“One car, unmarked, and four men. But the recalls should be here soon, and Lieutenant Dorfman next door sent over two men in uniform to stand by. He also says he’s holding a squad car outside the precinct house in case we need it. The three cars from Special Operations are on the way.”
“No sign of Danny Boy at the Bridge, sir. Traffic beginning to back up.”
“What?” the other radio operator said sharply. “Louder. Louder! I’m not making you.”
Then they heard the hoarse, agonized whisper:
“Barbara…Bulldog Three…cracked up…lost him…”
“Where?” Delaney roared into the mike. “God damn you, stay on your feet? Where are you? Where did you lose him?”
“…north…Broadway…Broadway…Ninety-fifth…hurt…”
“You and you,” Delaney said, pointing. “Take the car outside. Over to Broadway and Ninety-fifth. Report in as soon as possible. You, get on to Communications. Nearest cars and ambulance. Officers injured in accident. Son of a bitch!”
“Barbara from Searcher One.”
“Got you, Searcher One.”
“MacDonald. One ambulance here. Fernandez is all right. Lost a lot of blood but he’s going to make it. The doc gave him a shot. Thanks for the towels. Another ambulance pulling up. Cars from Assault-Homicide. Mobile lab…”
“Hold it a minute, sergeant.” Delaney turned to the other radio operator. “Did you check the cars on the Bridge?”
“Yes, sir. The photos got there, but no sign of Danny Boy.” Delaney turned back to the first radio. “Go on, sergeant.”
“Things are getting sorted out. Fernandez and Tiger One (what the hell is his name?) on their way to the hospital. The way I make it, Danny Boy came running out of the Castle and caught Fernandez just as he was straightening up, beginning his draw. Swung his ax at the lieutenant’s skull. Fernandez moved and turned to take it on his left shoulder, back, high up, curving in near the neck. Danny Boy pulled the ax free, jumped into his car. Tiger One rushed the car from across the street, firing as he ran. He got off there. Two hits on the car, he says, with one through the front left window. But Danny Boy apparently unhurt. He got started fast, pulled away, side-swiped Tiger One, knocked him down and out. The whole goddamned thing happened so fast. The men in Bulldog Two and Three were left with their mouths open.”
“I know,” Delaney sighed. “Remain on station. Assist Assault-Homicide. Guards on the kid and Valenter until we can get statements.”
“Understood. Searcher One out.”
“Any word from the Bridge?” Delaney asked the radio operator.
“No, sir. Traffic backing up.”
“Captain Delaney, the three ca
rs from Special Operations are outside.”
“Good, Hold them. Blankenship, come into the study with me.
They went in; Delaney closed all the doors. He searched a moment, pulled from the bookshelves a folded road map of New York City and one of New York State. He spread the city map out on his desk, snapped on the table lamp. The two men bent over the desk. Delaney jabbed his finger at East End Avenue.
“He started here,” he said. “Went north and made a left onto Eighty-sixth Street. That’s what I figure. Went right past Bulldog Three who still had their thumbs up their asses. Oh hell, maybe I’m being too hard on them.”
“We heard a second series of shots and shouts when we alerted Bulldog Three,” Blankenship reminded him.
“Yes. Maybe they got some off. Anyway, Danny Boy headed west.”
“To the George Washington Bridge?”
“Yes,” the Captain said, and paused. If Blankenship wanted to ask any questions about why Delaney had sent blocking cars to the Bridge, now would be the time to ask them. But the detective had too much sense for that, and was silent.
“So now he’s at Central Park,” Delaney went on, his blunt finger tracing the path on the map. “I figure he turned south for Traverse Three and crossed to the west side at Eighty-sixth, went over to Broadway, and turned north. Bulldog Three said he was heading north. He probably turned left onto Ninety-sixth to get on the West Side Drive.”
“He could have continued north and got on the Drive farther up. Or taken Broadway or Riverside Drive all the way to the Bridge.”
“Oh shit,” Captain Delaney said disgustedly, “he could have done a million things.”
Like all cops, he was dogged by the unpredictable. Chance hung like a black cloud that soured his waking hours and defiled his dreams. Every cop lived with it: the meek, humble prisoner who suddenly pulls a knife, a shotgun blast that answers a knock on a door during a routine search, a rifle shot from a rooftop. The unexpected. The only way to beat it was to live by percentages, trust in luck, and—if you needed it—pray.
“We have a basic choice,” Delaney said dully, and Blankenship was intelligent to note the Captain had said, “We have…” not “I have…” He was getting sucked in. This man, the detective reflected, didn’t miss a trick. “We can send out a five-state alarm, then sit here on our keisters and wait for someone else to take him, or we can go get him and clean up our own shit.”
The 1st Deadly Sin Page 65
