“No problems, then? They’re going to be evicted?” The man’s legal circumlocutions had a slippery feel to them.
“Absolutely. And I haven’t even mentioned to you our legal fall-back position: even if they had gained some sort of rights to the property, we could still acquire it by eminent domain. The commonweal must take priority over individual needs.”
“The what?”
“Commonweal. The common good of the community.”
“So what’s the timetable?”
“Timetable?”
“Yeah. When are they out?”
Wartek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’ve agreed to put the matter before our lawyers to draw up the legal case for eviction, on an expedited schedule.”
“Which is?”
“With the legal preparation and research, then a trial, followed by an appeal—I can only assume these people will appeal—I would think we could have this case concluded within, perhaps, three years’ time.”
There was a long silence in the room. “Three years?”
“Maybe two if we fast-track it.” Wartek smiled nervously.
D’Agosta rose. It was unbelievable. A joke. “Mr. Wartek, we don’t have three weeks.”
The little man shrugged. “Due process is due process. As I told the mayor, keeping the public order is the function of the police, not the housing authority. Taking away someone’s home in New York City is a difficult and expensive legal process. As it should be.”
D’Agosta could feel the anger throbbing in his temples, his muscles tensing. He made an effort to control his breathing. He was going to say You haven’t heard the end of this, then decided against it—no point in making threats. Instead, he simply turned and walked out.
Wartek’s voice echoed out into the hall as he exited the office. “Lieutenant, we’re going to have a press conference tomorrow to announce our action against the Ville. Perhaps that will help calm things down.”
“Somehow,” D’Agosta growled, “I doubt it.”
47
Laura Hayward stood in the ladies’ room on the thirty-second floor of One Police Plaza, examining herself in the mirror. A grave, intelligent face looked back. Her suit was immaculate. Not a strand of blue-black hair was out of place.
Except for the year she’d taken off to complete her master’s at NYU, Hayward had been a police officer her entire career—first with the transit police, then NYPD. At thirty-seven, she was still the youngest captain—and only female captain—on the force. She knew that people talked about her behind her back. Some called her an ass kisser. Others said she’d risen so high, so quickly, precisely because she was a woman, a poster girl for the department’s progressive stance. She’d long since ceased to care about such talk. The fact was, rank really didn’t matter that much to her. She simply loved being on the job.
Glancing away from the mirror, she consulted her watch. Five minutes to twelve. Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her at noon.
She smiled. All too frequently, life was a bitch. But every now and then it had its moments. This promised to be one of them.
She exited the ladies’ room and walked down the hall. While it was true she didn’t care much about promotions, this was different. This task force the mayor was putting together was the real thing, not some bit of fluff cobbled together for the media. For years there had been too little trust, too little high-level cooperation between the commissioner’s office and the mayor’s. The task force, she’d been assured at the highest levels, would change that. It could mean a lot less bureaucracy, a chance to dramatically improve department efficiency. Sure, it would also mean a huge career boost—fast track to deputy inspector—but that wasn’t important. What mattered was the opportunity to make a real difference.
She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner’s suite and announced herself to the secretary. Almost immediately, an aide appeared and led the way back, past offices and conference rooms, to the commissioner’s inner sanctum. Rocker was seated behind his large mahogany desk, signing memos. As always, he looked exhausted: the dark rings beneath his eyes were even more pronounced than usual.
“Hello, Laura,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.
Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put her on her guard.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he began. “So I’ll just tell you straight. I’m not appointing you to the task force.”
For a moment, Hayward couldn’t believe she had heard right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep breath.
“I—” she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stunned, unable to form a coherent sentence.
“I’m very sorry,” Rocker said. “I know how much you were looking forward to the opportunity.”
Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her limbs. Only now—when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp—did she realize how important it had been to her.
“Who are you appointing in my place?” she asked.
Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically abashed. “Sanchez.”
“Sanchez is a good man.” It was as if she were in a dream, and somebody other than her was speaking the lines.
Rocker nodded.
Hayward became aware that her hands were hurting. Looking down, she saw she was gripping the arms of the chair with all her strength. She willed herself to relax, to maintain her composure—with little success. “Is it something I’ve done wrong?” she blurted.
“No, no, of course not. It’s nothing like that.”
“Have I let you down somehow? Come up short?”
“You’ve been an exemplary officer, and I’m proud to have you on the force.”
“Then why? Inexperience?”
“I consider your master’s in sociology ideal for the task force. It’s just that—well—an appointment like this is all about politics. And it turns out Sanchez has seniority.”
Hayward didn’t answer right away. She hadn’t realized seniority was a factor. In fact, this was the one appointment she’d believed free of such bullshit.
Rocker shifted in his chair. “I don’t want you to feel this is any reflection on your performance.”
“Surely you were aware of our respective seniority rankings before you gave me reason to hope,” Hayward said quietly.
Rocker spread his hands. “Fact is, seniority formulas can be rather arcane. I made an honest mistake. I’m sorry.”
Hayward said nothing.
“There will be other opportunities—especially for a captain of your caliber. Rest assured I’ll see to it that your hard work and commitment are rewarded.”
“Virtue is its own reward, sir. Isn’t that what they say?” Hayward stood and—seeing from Rocker’s face there was nothing more—walked on slightly unsteady legs to the door.
By the time the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, she had regained her composure. The echoing space was full of noise and lunch-hour bustle. Hayward passed the security checkpoint, then pushed her way out the revolving doors onto the broad steps. She had no real destination in mind: she just needed to walk. Walk and not think.
Her reverie was interrupted when someone collided heavily with her. She glanced over quickly. It was a man: thin and youthful looking, with acne-pitted cheeks.
“Pardon me,” he said. Then he stopped and drew himself up. “Captain Hayward?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“What a coincidence!”
She looked at him more closely. He had dark, cold eyes that belied the smile on his face. She did a quick mental cross-check—acquaintances, colleagues, perps—and satisfied herself he was a stranger.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The
name’s Kline. Lucas Kline.”
“What coincidence are you talking about?”
“Why, the fact I’m going to the very place you’ve just been.”
“Oh? And where would that be?”
“The commissioner’s office. You see, he wants to thank me. In person.” And before Hayward could say anything more, Kline reached into his pocket, took out an envelope, removed the letter within, and held it open before her.
She reached for it but Kline held it back, out of reach. “Uh-uh. No touching.”
Hayward glanced at him again, eyes narrowing. Then she turned her attention to the letter. It was indeed from Commissioner Rocker, on official letterhead, dated the day before, and thanking Kline—as head of Digital Veracity, Inc.—for his just-announced five-million-dollar donation to the Dyson Fund. The Fund, sacred among the NYPD rank and file, was named for Gregg Dyson, an undercover cop who’d been killed by drug dealers ten years before. It had been established to provide financial and emotional assistance to families of New York cops killed in the line of duty.
She looked at Kline once again. Streams of people were leaving the building, stepping around them. The smile was still on his face. “I’m very happy for you,” she said. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you.”
She shook her head. “You’ve lost me.”
“You’re a smart cop. You’ll figure it out.” He turned toward the revolving doors, then stopped and glanced back. “I can tell you a good place to start, though.”
Hayward waited.
“Ask your boyfriend Vinnie.” And when Kline turned away again, the smile was gone.
48
Nora Kelly’s eyes flew open. For a moment she struggled to understand where she was. Then it all came back: the smell of rubbing alcohol and bad food; the beeping and murmuring; the distant sirens. The hospital. Still.
She lay there, head throbbing. The IV, hanging on its rack next to the bed, was swaying in the bright moonlight, creaking back and forth like a rusty sign in the wind. Had she caused it to move like that? Perhaps a nurse had bumped it while checking on her just now, administering more of the tranquilizers she kept insisting she didn’t need. Or maybe the cop that D’Agosta stationed outside had looked in. She glanced over; the door was shut.
The IV bottle swayed and creaked unceasingly.
A strange feeling of dissociation began creeping over her. She was more tired than she’d realized. Or else perhaps it was a side effect of the second concussion.
The concussion. She didn’t want to think about that. Because that would take her back to what caused it: to her darkened apartment, the open window, and…
She shook her head—gently; squeezed her eyes tightly closed; then began taking deep, cleansing breaths. When she was calm again, she opened her eyes and looked around. She was in the same double room she’d been in the last three days, her bed nearest to the window. The blinds of the windows were closed, and the privacy curtain had been drawn around the bed nearest the door.
She turned, looking more closely at the drawn curtain. She could see the outline of the sleeping person within, backlit by the glow filtering out of the bathroom. But was that really the outline of a person? Hadn’t the bed been empty when she’d fallen asleep? This was her third night here now—the doctors kept promising it was just for observation, that she’d be released tomorrow—and that bed had always been empty.
A horrible sense of déjà vu began to steal over her. She listened and could just hear the breathing, a faint, ragged sighing. She looked around again. The whole room looked strange, the angles wrong, the dark television above her bed crooked as the lines of a German Expressionist film.
I must still be sleeping, she thought. This is just a dream. The torpor of dreamscape seemed to surround her, swaddling her in its gauzy embrace.
The outline stirred; a sigh came. A faint gurgle of phlegm. Then an arm reached up slowly, its silhouette imprinted against the curtain. With a shudder of dread Nora gripped her sheets, trying to shrink away. But she felt so weak…
The curtain slid back with a slow, terrible deliberation, making a faint eeeee as the metal loops ran along the cold steel rail. She watched, paralyzed with terror, as the dark outline of a person emerged, first in shadow—then into moonlight.
Bill.
The same bloated face, matted hair, blackened, sagging eyes, gray lips. The same dried blood, dirt, foulness. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry out. She could only lie and stare as the nightmare to end all nightmares unfolded.
The figure got out of bed and stood up, staring down at her. Bill… and yet not Bill, living and yet dead. He took a step forward. His mouth opened and there were worms. The claw-like hand reached out, its nails long and cracked, while the head slowly bent down toward her—to kiss…
She sat up in bed with a cry.
For a moment she just sat there, shaking with terror, until relief flooded through her as she realized it had, in fact, been a dream. A dream like the last one—only worse.
She lay back in bed, bathed in sweat, her heart slowing, feeling the nightmare recede like a tide. Her IV bottle wasn’t swaying; the television looked normal. The room was dark: there was no bright moonlight. The modesty curtain was drawn around the next bed, but there was no sound of breathing. The bed was empty.
Or was it?
She stared at the curtain. It was swaying just slightly. The curtain was opaque and she could not see inside.
She willed herself to relax. Of course there was no one in there. It was just a dream. And on top of that, D’Agosta had told her the room would remain private. She closed her eyes but sleep didn’t come—nor did she really want it to come. The dream had been so dreadful that she feared falling asleep.
That was silly. Despite her enforced time in the hospital, sleep had been hard to find. She desperately needed rest.
She closed her eyes, yet felt so awake she almost couldn’t make her eyelids shut. One minute passed. Two.
With an irritated sigh she opened her eyes again. Against her will, she found her gaze sliding once more toward the adjacent bed. The curtains were moving again, ever so slightly.
She sighed. It was stupid, her overactive imagination. No wonder, really, after a nightmare like that.
But when she’d gone to sleep, had those curtains been drawn?
She couldn’t be sure. The longer she pondered it, though, the more convinced she became that the curtains had been open. Yet she’d been in a fog, still concussed—how could she rely on her memory? She turned away, stared resolutely at the far wall, tried to close her eyes again.
And once more, against her will, her eyes were drawn back to the closed curtains, still gently swaying. It was just air currents, the forced-air system: a breeze too faint for her to feel but enough to stir those curtains.
Why were the curtains shut? Had they been shut while she was asleep?
She sat up abruptly, her head throbbing in protest. It was silly to be worrying about this when a simple action would solve the problem once and for all. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, careful not to tangle her IV line. Two quick steps, then she reached out, grasped the modesty curtain—and hesitated. Her heart was suddenly pounding in fear.
“Oh, Nora,” she said out loud, “don’t be such a coward.”
She yanked the curtain back.
A man lay on the bed, utterly still. He was dressed in the starched white of an orderly’s uniform, his arms crossed on his chest, his ankles crossed, laid out almost like an Egyptian mummy—except his eyes were wide open, gleaming in the light. Staring directly at her. Toying with her.
In that moment of frozen fear, the figure leapt up like a cat, slapped a hand over her mouth, forced her back on her bed, and pinned her.
She struggled, kicking, trying to make a sound, but he was very strong, and she was trapped. He forced her head to the side and she saw, in his free hand, a glass syringe
with a steel hypodermic needle attached, long and cruel looking, a drop of liquid trembling at its tip. A swift motion and she felt it sting deep into her thigh.
How hard she tried to struggle, to move, to scream—but paralysis enrobed her like a succubus, no dream this time but horribly and undeniably real, wrapping her in an irresistible embrace, and then it was as if she were falling, falling, falling down a bottomless well that shrank to a terminal point—and then blinked out.
49
Marty Wartek folded his sweaty hands over the edges of the podium and looked out over the crowd assembled in the plaza before the New York City Housing Authority’s Batchelder Building. It was his first press conference and it was an experience both daunting and, if truth be known, rather thrilling. To his left and right stood a few subordinates—whom he had hastily corralled for appearance’s sake—and a couple of uniformed cops. The podium had been set up on the lower steps, wires duct-taped up its rear edge.
His eye slid over to the small group of protesters huddled in one corner of the plaza, held at bay by a scattering of cops. Their chanting had a diffident air that encouraged him to think they would stop as soon as he began to speak.
He cleared his throat, heard the reassuring amplification over the PA system. He looked around as the crowd quieted. “Good afternoon,” he began. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I will read from a prepared statement.”
He began to read, and as he did so even the protesters fell silent. The legal process, he explained, was in motion. Action would be taken if warranted against the Ville. Everyone’s rights would be respected. Due process would be observed. Patience and calm were the order of the day.
His voice droned on, the platitudes having a soporific effect on the gaggle of press. It was a short statement, not more than a page, which had been written by committee and vetted by half a dozen lawyers. It had the virtue of saying nothing, conveying no information, making no promises, while at the same time giving the impression that everyone’s agenda was being dealt with. At least, that was the idea.
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