“Why didn’t she?”
It took a few long moments before he answered. “Gloria. Gloria threatened to do something if Vanessa wouldn’t drop the whole thing. She even went so far, I think, as to talk with some psychiatrist. He told her that Vanessa was very ill, that she might need to be institutionalized.”
“Do you have Gloria’s last letter?”
He shook his head. “I destroyed it. It incriminated Vanessa. Would be used as evidence if charges were brought against her.”
“But you knew she was disturbed,” said Yvonne.
“Yes. I knew. But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything to hurt her. Not then. I doubt I could now. No matter what — what she is, or what she’s become, I know it’s not really her. It’s someone else. A stranger.” He now seemed to be pleading with Yvonne for understanding.
“You’ve really convinced yourself of that,” Yvonne said with some surprise.
“Yes. She needs help.” Tears filled the corners of his eyes. “I can’t give it to her. I pray someone can.”
“You really do love her.”
“More than anything. She was so filled with life.”
“Once, Ruben. Not now. What happened then?”
He was crying. Yvonne waited until he regained his composure.
“So now Gloria also became a threat,” Yvonne said. “Gloria was willing to expose everything. Vanessa must have planned the accident very carefully. Perhaps even been in the car with Gloria the night of the accident.”
“We both know the truth, don’t we, Yvonne? It wasn’t an accident. It was premeditated. Don’t ever underrate Vanessa. She may be ill, but she’s brilliant. In her mind and logic, she executed a traitor. No more, no less. Did it for the cause, for the good of the struggle. Totally justified in her mind. An unselfish act to her, because she loved Gloria to the last. It must have pained Vanessa to plan her death so meticulously, to the final detail. But not with any regret. It had to be done. In her state, she’s capable of anything.”
He’d painted a bone-chilling portrait of Vanessa Santiago. Armageddon. Yvonne rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. This was a zealot. A devoted fanatic, whose own life meant nothing. A soldier of the cause. Dedicated. Committed to her actions, and convinced they were justified. The most dangerous kind of adversary of them all.
“What are you going to do?” Ruben asked.
“Find her.”
He leaned forward pleadingly. “You’ll do what you can to help her, won’t you?”
She agreed. “I’ll do what I can. First I have to find her.”
“You won’t. She’s too clever.”
“You’re wrong, Ruben. I will.”
“Please — give her a chance — ”
“A chance?” She thought of Link lying in his hospital bed. His warning: Don’t hesitate like I did. It made her ill.
“She won’t give herself up, Yvonne. She’d rather die. And take the whole world with her.”
“She’s already tried. She’ll try again.”
His shoulder’s sagged. “I feel as though I’ve helped sign her death warrant.”
“Maybe you also helped save some innocent lives.”
“If you can find her, what then?”
She looked at him sharply. “Be sure that she never hurts anyone else again.”
XXII
Yvonne sneezed. She took the thermometer out of her mouth and held it to the light. It read, 100.1. Her low grade fever was rising, body aching again. Her lingering cold had seemed to pass, and now it was back — with a vengeance. It hurt to swallow. There was a bottle of antibiotics in the bathroom, prescribed for her more than a year ago when she’d been in bed with flu. She took one now, reluctantly, because antibiotics tended to make her sleepy, and this wasn’t a time she could afford the luxury. She had to be alert, her mind able to fully concentrate, physically at maximum efficiency.
“Tell me what you have, Martin,” she said in a raspy voice.
“Why don’t we do this tomorrow? It can wait. You look beat. Go to bed, get some decent rest. We can go over everything tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “Later I’ll sleep. We have to run this through first.”
“Sure. You’re the chief.” Spinrad chewed on his toothpick and scowled. He’d been at it nonstop also. For the last two days. Diligently searching through the public records archives, running and rerunning computer readouts, collecting documentation and double-checking everything, while constantly making phone call after phone call. Managers, agents, concert halls, record companies, musicians, sound people, stage hands, anyone and everyone who’d had the slightest known contact with the Back Alley band in the past few years. Especially the time elapsed since Vanessa Santiago had supposedly died. During that period the band had literally crisscrossed the world, playing their music in places as esoteric as Tokyo, Istanbul, and Buenos Aires, and more mundane locales like California and Colorado. A worldwide tour, booking them in eleven countries and ten states. Several stints had included New York City.
He was as bone weary as he could remember. The slow plodding of his investigation had made him impatient. Impatience had turned to irritability, irritability to testiness, testiness to frustration and anger. “There must be a thousand roadies and groupies that follow this bunch around,” he said, sounding cranky. “No way on earth to single out one face. No one ever heard of either a Gloria Popolos, or a Sally Cooperman. I also threw in the names Vanessa Santiago, and just in case, Jaime DeVicente. No good. Nobody heard of nobody.”
Yvonne’s face was flushed; she was beginning to shiver. There couldn’t have been a worse time to get sick. It figured. “What about the group members themselves? Personal contacts and relationships?”
“You could count a thousand women ready to throw themselves at these guys at any one time and place. All they have to do is snap their fingers. They have their own security, so tight their own mothers couldn’t get within fifty feet.”
Yvonne sipped at her plain tea, stirring the spoon in small circles when she put the glass down. Fingertips massaged her throat. She could tell that her glands were swollen. “Give me a little background on the Back Alley.”
Spinrad read from scrawled but prepared notes. “Started out some six years ago,” he began. “Local clubs and spots around London. Nothing much. They’d already cut a few records before the first big one. Hard Life. Sold better than three million, worldwide. Skyrocketed them on the way to fame and fortune. Brought them to the States. Since then, five gold records, numerous albums, appearances on network TV, European tours and sold-out concerts wherever they play. Five members in the band. Nothing particularly noteworthy in their personal lives. Lower middle class backgrounds. Working families. No fancy education. One had some college. Three British, one Jamaican, the other from Australia. The Jamaican was a late comer. He replaced a Canadian. One married. Two divorced. Two never bothered. All are straight, all like to party. Snort, drink, nothing heavy. No politics, no special messages in their songs, no causes — except they took an active role in the Help The Children campaign — other than that, they’re a rolling money machine. Estimated gross this year in the neighborhood of twenty million.”
“Sure none had any political involvements?”
Spinrad nodded with assurance. As always he’d done his groundwork well.
“Okay.” Yvonne sighed. For a moment she felt dizzy. It had been almost four hours since she’d last taken aspirin, she realized, and now she took two more.
Swallowed them down with her tea. “So why them, Martin? What’s so special about this band, and what’s Vanessa’s connection?”
“Who knows?” he said, shrugging. “May I?” He poured himself a cup of tea, found milk in the refrigerator. He stood leaning against the refrigerator door as he sipped at it. “Maybe they just turned her on, maybe their music had some special meaning for her, maybe her first lover was an admirer.” He frowned. “Too many possibilities.” He was getting sleepy; he loosened his belt on
e notch. Flab spilled over the belt.
“How much time have they spent in New York?”
“Strictly passing through. Never been here more than a week at a time. And no,” he quickly added, second-guessing her next question, “they’ve never played Albany.”
Yvonne’s mouth turned down. “Somehow I didn’t expect they had.” Her throat felt like it was on fire. It hurt her to talk, and Spinrad could tell.
“Go get some rest, Yvonne. Let’s wrap it for tonight, huh?”
“Soon, Martin. Ruben Pulido put a lot of loose ends into place today. But a few missing links still have to be connected. You said there was another player in the band. A Canadian?”
“Yeah. He’s currently up in Toronto. Now he’s doing PR work for a small record company up there. He’s still trying to make it in music though, forming a new band, I was told.”
“Did you follow up on him?”
Spinrad shook his head. “Didn’t have time to do much. Anyway, he’s been gone from the group for about three years.”
“Why? Why did he leave?”
“Fallout with the others. Apparently he wanted their music to take a turn. Expand. Try different styles. He felt they were stagnating as musicians. The others disagreed. They liked the formula. Made them all rich. Why spoil a good thing? So he decided to split. Happens all the time. When he dropped out, their manager brought in the Jamaican. He made them an even bigger success.”
“And the Canadian’s been out what — three years?”
“Almost. Was in for the first few big sellers. Missed out on the more recent. Probably cost him millions.” There was a hint of satisfaction in his tone.
Yvonne reached for the Back Alley album covers she’d been collecting. She stared at their faces, the boyish, denim-clad figures, grouped and professionally posed amid splashes of color. She compared an early album cover with the latest, identified the missing face on the first. “What’s the Canadian’s name?”
“Todd. Gil Todd. Rhythm guitar, backup vocals. Wrote a lot of the material.”
She turned the cover over. A large number of songs bore his name as composer. She skimmed the titles, jotted down the ones he’d written. “Curious,” she told Spinrad absently. “He did the lyrics for both ‘One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street Station,’ and ‘Black Halloween.’” She suppressed a coughing spasm. “Check him out — thoroughly.”
“I’ll get on it,” said Spinrad. “You gonna rest now or what?” He stared at her, partly with annoyance, partly with sympathy. “You look really wiped, DiPalma.”
“Thanks for the concern, Martin. I’ll rest, okay?”
Spinrad left; she locked the door and shuffled her way to the bedroom. She barely made it to the bed before the lights went out all over.
*
“The News refuses to sit on this any longer.” Winnegar spoke dispassionately. “They’re talking about featuring it in tomorrow’s first edition. Which means it’ll be the lead story by the eleven o’clock news tonight. Every channel.”
Vinnie Sabbatini, Dan Ryan, and several other TTF squad leaders stood in stony silence. The implications of release were enormous. “Here come the fireworks,” someone cracked.
Warren was incredulous. “If this goes public we might as well all pack up and go home. The entire investigation’ll be ruined.” He clenched and unclenched his hands in anger, outrage and disbelief written on his face. “We have to stop them — right away.”
“Calm down,” said Winnegar, making a gesture with his hand. “We’re doing everything possible to keep the lid on. There’s a liaison from HQ over at the paper right now. The mayor himself’s been on the phone with the managing editor, I’m told. P.D.’s doing everything it can. We can’t ask for more.”
“And if they still refuse? Our mayor isn’t exactly the most endeared man to the press. They’ll love it having him beg.”
“No begging,” retorted Winnegar. “We go for an injunction. Immediate restraining order. Take it to the Court of Appeals, if that doesn’t work.”
“By then it will be too late,” offered Sabbatini. “The horse is long out of the barn.”
“Then threaten to shut them down for anything we can throw at them,” Winnegar replied very calmly. “Fire violations, health code infractions.” He added caustically, “Bomb scares of our own. Anything we can come up with.”
“Sure. Close down the largest selling paper in the city,” Warren said vigorously. “Then watch it all turn into a cause célѐbre by every other damn TV, radio station, and newspaper in the country. Interfering with the freedom of the press. Place will look like a three-ring circus — with P.D. featured as the clowns.”
He knew no way existed to neutralize the paper’s action once they decided to run the story. And Winnegar knew it, too. Everyone knew it.
Winnegar glanced at the clock on the wall. “Whichever, we’ll have our answer in less than an hour.”
As it was now, there was mass confusion and anger in the press. Wild speculations as to who the bombers might be, and why the police were so adamant in refusing to release whatever information they had gathered. Editors were up in arms. The press demanded facts and action — and they didn’t care in which order. It was Son of Sam all over again. The city in fear — and where and when would be next the topic on every commentator’s lips.
“Meanwhile, gentlemen,” said Dan Ryan, frustrated at listening to everyone bicker among themselves, “we have real work to do. So how about we stop arguing among ourselves, okay?”
Xeroxed copies of Armageddon’s latest letter were in every hand, its latest threats engraved in every mind. This time no one derided the message. Warren looked at his copy. It was as vindictive and cold-blooded as he’d ever seen. Armageddon was becoming more than bold:
Zealously audacious. Daring not just the police, but the whole world to stop her.
Ryan reread the note aloud.
Nice try, you bastards. Next time you won’t be so lucky. Regards to the turkey in the hospital. Sweet candy to the rest of you Turkeys. Be my guest. Happy holiday.
Armageddon
The reference to Link left Warren sickened. So did the inference to the “Happy Holiday.” This was November. It seemed apparent Armageddon’s next attack would come on Thanksgiving.
“Christ almighty,” muttered Sabbatini. “What’s this one supposed to mean?”
Winnegar looked at Resnick over the top of his glasses. “Care to take a stab at it? You’re the number one team in this investigation.’”
Warren exhaled loudly. “Remember in Britain about some ten years back — the Yorkshire Ripper they dubbed him. He raped, mutilated, and murdered at least thirteen women in the north of England. Brutal and savage killings, the whole nation in terror. It became the most extensive manhunt in the annals of Scotland Yard. The Ripper remained on the loose for years until they finally caught him.” He paused for emphasis. “Our Armageddon could surpass that toll a hundredfold, easily if she wants. And the terror also.”
“What do you suggest we do?” He was surrounded by TTF’s top brass, and didn’t relish the role of having them put him in the spotlight. “You’re supposed to be the experts in counterterrorism, not me.” He felt uncomfortable at their glances and masked it by keeping a rigid face.
“Like yourselves, I’ve read the psychiatrists’ reports,” he went on after a moment. “Evidently, Armageddon’s psychosis is too deep to allow any pangs of remorse, or doubts about what she’s doing. Psychotics may be deeply disturbed, but they’re often brilliant.” As he spoke, a police psychologist nodded in agreement. “As I see it, Armageddon’s turning this into some kind of huge hideous chess game: with the whole city at bay like a pawn. She makes a move, we plan a countermove. She moves again. More boldly this time. She knows our weaknesses and vulnerabilities. And also realizes her strengths. It’s almost impossible to single out one individual among a city of seven million. So, Vanessa Santiago will go on and on, each time raising the stakes another notch. I’m c
onvinced — and so is DiPalma — that she even realizes we’re aware of her identity. Knows how extensive this manhunt has to be. And still doesn’t care. Proof is that her latest note is the most brazen yet. Christ, she must be glowing with satisfaction. Savoring every moment as she plans her next move. All of N.Y.P.D. — plus the FBI — powerless to stop her.”
Winnegar chewed at his thumbnail. “So imagine what will happen when copies of her letters are splattered across page one of every paper. News, Post, Times. Flashed on your television screen while you eat your dinner.”
“Sometimes the known can be better than the unknown,” commented Sabbatini thoughtfully. “Releasing her notes might prove a blessing in disguise. At least then the whole city will know what we’re looking for. Give them a real face, a real person to focus on. Not some damn phantom.”
“You think so?” said Warren. “Then picture the panic when our good citizens learn that Armageddon’s planning to go on and on bombing away. I’m telling all of you that if the News does decide to go to press with this tonight — ”
Winnegar grabbed the suddenly ringing phone. He listened momentarily, then slowly eased the receiver back in the cradle. His expression was calm, but his complexion had visibly paled. “It’s going public,” was all he said.
XXIII
“And, on Sunday, the Jets will square off against their oldest rivals, the Los Angeles Raiders, at the Meadowlands … ”
No one in the small, neighborhood restaurant seemed to be paying any attention to the radio’s sports announcer. It was late, the restaurant getting ready to close. A few customers lingered over their beers at the bar, a few more over coffee at the tables. The single waitress on duty yawned, impatiently waiting for the last customers to pay their bill and leave. The dishwasher was openly carrying filled plastic garbage bags to the street. They both wanted to go home.
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