“Sounds like we’ve opened Pandora’s Box. Think about it. We began by investigating a sniveling junkie, and now we’re knocking at the door of governments.”
“There may be more worms yet. We’re coming close to elections, don’t forget.” She continued. “So Selin evidently fought with DeVicente when he unexpectedly showed up at her door. And perhaps during a heated moment he dropped a few peculiar hints as to what was going on in his little revolutionary life.”
“Like what?”
“Like about his good friend Vanessa Santiago, and how he was going to help put her name on the map.” She looked at him evenly, the smile vanished.
Warren whistled. “My God, Yvonne.”
“Let the newspapers get a hold of this one.” It would be a bombshell, they both knew. Repercussions beyond state borders. The office of the governor withholding pertinent evidence of the biggest ongoing investigation in state history.
“Makes you wonder, huh?”
“Makes me shudder.”
Yvonne hastily took out a folder filled with photocopies of the Armageddon notes. She handed Warren the latest. “Take another look at it,” she said.
He read it over carefully, although by this time he’d seen it so many times it had long been committed to memory.
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
“What does it say to you now?”
He wasn’t sure what she was driving at.
“Remember Warren, Selin Turkel had nothing to do with Los Campions. In fact, she despised them. While on campus, she was openly opposed to their demonstrations. She’d come from a background that was grateful to countries like the United States and Canada for giving them a home.”
“So?”
“So there was no love lost between any of the group’s members and Selin. A fair guess is that some of them hated her outright. And Vanessa was never one to forget an enemy,” she reminded. “Quite the contrary.”
“Have there been threats against Selin?”
“Personally against her, no. But indirectly, yes. The note, Warren. The Armageddon note.”
He read two sentences aloud. “Regards to the turkey in the hospital. Sweet candy to the rest of you Turkeys … ”
“First line,” said Yvonne. “Lower case ‘t.’ Probably refers to Link. But the second line — the word turkey is spelled with a capital ‘T.’ As in a country name. Grammatical error? Could be. But my money says it isn’t. The one single solid clue in the entire note was completely overlooked until now.” Yvonne nervously lighted another cigarette. “Vanessa is a good deal smarter than we’re giving her credit for.”
“Selin Turkel is Turkish,” said Warren quietly. “So is her brother, Gil Todd.”
“The main composer for Back Alley.” Here she groped for carefully chosen words, “Warren, I don’t think this note predicts the next bombing is going to be at the Thanksgiving parade at all. I think it was written in this cryptic fashion to purposely mislead us all. And Armageddon almost pulled it off beautifully.”
“What do you think?”
“I had HQ do some quick checking this morning. On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, the Turkish government is sponsoring an open air exposition of its new exports. Quality imported goods: leathers, cottons, foodstuffs, and the like. It’s going to be held like a fair at the South Street Seaport. Our mayor will be there to officiate, and they expect mobs of visitors and dignitaries.”
“South Street Seaport,” repeated Warren. It was one of New York City’s biggest and finest attractions. Dozens of sailing ships in harbor, the port street jammed with tourist shops that regularly attracted thousands on any typical day. The day of the fair would be anything but typical. Perhaps tens of thousands on hand for the exposition’s opening. There could be no control over a crowd of that size should something happen, no matter how many police were on hand. A crazed bomber’s dream. A policeman’s nightmare.
Yvonne knew precisely what he was thinking; exactly the same thoughts had been swimming through her mind for the past hour. “One last item of interest, Warren. The highlight speaker of the opening ceremonies will be no less than the governor of New York.”
Now Warren became openly unsettled. “The man Vanessa Santiago has vowed to assassinate.”
“So she’s carefully taken passages out of Gil Todd’s songs to use as clever ways of telling us how she’ll pay her old debts. Even to the end. The last song Gil Todd wrote for Back Alley is titled, ‘Sweet Candy.’”
There was a long silence before either spoke. “How do we stop her?” said Warren at last.
“Only one workable chance: Vanessa has to be drawn out into the open. And the only way we might be able to do that is through Ellen Booker. Vanessa still wants her dead because of the link with Sally Cooperman. So we offer the bait and hope she bites.”
“We can’t ask Ellen to put her life on the line, Yvonne — ”
“I know.” She blew out a plume of smoke. “So we need a decoy. Vanessa doesn’t know Ellen by sight. Someone will have to move back into Ellen’s apartment and pose as her. Openly. No matter how long it takes. Inviting Vanessa to try and kill her like she did Sally. Ellen and I are not so dissimilar physically. If you think about it, all I need is a change in hair color, fashion — ”
He stared at her, frozen. “You’re crazy.”
Yvonne’s own demeanor was equally as somber. “Know a better way?”
“Getting you found dead isn’t a solution.”
“Getting Vanessa dead is. It’s a high risk, but with an equally high probability that Ellen is marked. That makes it worth the chance. Besides, what are our alternatives? To chance having hundreds killed this time? Maybe the governor along with them? And then what? What does our Armageddon do next for an encore? The president of the United States?” She spoke with a hard logic he couldn’t dispute.
“We could find another volunteer for Ellen. Your responsibility is to the team. Another woman cop can decoy and — ”
“No, Warren. This is my thing. From the beginning. I’ll see it through. Anyway, Winnegar already knows, and approved the plan. He gave me a go-ahead. Total discretion.”
“Sure. It’s not his damn ass on the ropes.”
“I took on this assignment, Warren. It’s what TTF is all about. Stopping terror — at any cost.”
“Okay. Then I become guard dog. Constant duty at Ellen’s building, have that apartment monitored up and down.”
“Can’t. Too risky for us. Vanessa might catch on. She’ll know what’s happening, and go deeper underground. We can’t allow that to happen. No, it has to be done my way.”
“When are you planning to move in?”
“Right away. Tonight. Dye my hair, dress in Ellen’s clothes, take over where her life left off. Make myself obvious for anyone watching. What I do want you and Spinrad to do is focus on finding DeVicente. If there’s one other outside chance we have, it’s catching Vanessa through him. Enlarge the manhunt. Winnegar says sky’s the limit.” She leaned closer to him. “We’ve got to do this, Warren. We’ve got to.”
The telephone rang. Warren reached for it. “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you for calling right away.” Then he put the phone back. His face was as white as chalk.
Yvonne felt her heart leap. She felt his anxiety and it heightened her own. With dire foreboding she grabbed his arm. “What is it? What happened?” She was trembling.
“Link. He — Last night he began to hemorrhage. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. They rushed him to the operating theater.”
Yvonne’s hands leapt to cover her mouth. She felt suddenly very sick.
“They’ve been operating all morning. Trying. About a half an hour ago he died.”
XXVI
She sat in the twilight with the glass of Scotch in her hand. In her mind’s
eye she could hear the bagpipes playing, the dull thrum of beating drums, the uniformed procession marching slowly from the church. Sober faces, angry faces. A full inspector’s funeral with honor. The way Link had foreseen it happening.
This time there were no tears to shed; the tears wouldn’t come. She sat lost in murky and morbid thought, occasionally her fingers thumbing through old copies of National Geographic magazine, eyes staring at the colorful photographs but not seeing anything.
Dancing across her vision came Link. Standing in front of her. Tall, smiling, handsome, boisterous as ever. The way she wanted to remember him. His boyish grin as he’d try and sneak up behind her. The charm and sparkling eyes as he purposely digressed into jive and street talk. When they’d first met, the way he would deliberately speak to her in the foulest language imaginable — always trying to shock her, catch her off balance, but never quite able to. The shared hours of long talks into the night. His love for his street kids. How, more than anything, he wanted to make a difference. Turn someone’s life around. Help make it worthwhile. That was Link. His life barely beginning. So much to achieve. So much to be done. The dreams of what the future held for them both. Later, the closeness and warmth of being partners.
“Tough lady,” he used to call her. Then he’d laugh. They’d both laugh.
I love you Link, she said mouthing the words soundlessly. And I’ll miss you terribly. You made a mark on my life I can never forget.
“Hey, DiPalma. Ain’t gonna get nowhere cryin’ over me.” The voice was imagined, but right now it seemed so real. His lanky frame sternly towering over her, hands to his hips, the grin as wide as ever. “Don’t start gettin’ too sentimental over me, hear? Can’t wallow in self-pity. You gotta move on. It’s a fact of life, lady. Real life.”
Tears fell for the first time, although she wasn’t aware of them. She put down her whiskey glass, mournfully staring at the imagined figure looking down at her. “Link — I — You weren’t supposed to die. They said you’d recover. That you were strong. What’ll I do without you?”
He wasn’t there. The room was empty and cold. The world was empty and cold.
You were a damn fine cop, Lincoln Jefferson Washington. And a finer man. If there is a God, if there is a heaven, you won’t have died in vain.
Yvonne allowed herself the luxury of falling off into sleep. Come tomorrow there’d be little enough to look forward to.
*
“Detective Washington’s funeral was attended by nearly one thousand mourners,” the radio was saying, “including the mayor and the chief of police. In a brief statement afterward, the … ”
Warren snapped off his television with the remote control. Karen Resnick came quietly behind him, placing her hands over his shoulders and gently massaging his neck. There were tears in her eyes as well as his. She was glad she’d never personally met Detective Washington; it would make this moment all the harder. But she vividly remembered her husband’s own near brush with death a few years earlier, and how lucky Warren had been. Too many other police wives hadn’t been so fortunate.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked him.
Warren turned around and looked at her. His eyes were baleful. He shook his head.
She continued to massage him while he slumped deeper on the couch.
He’d come home from the funeral in mid-afternoon. Silent, morose, almost morbid. The way almost all police react when they lose a friend. The drone of the bagpipes and the pounding of the drums were still ringing in his ears. Over the years, he’d known a few cops who had died in the line of duty, but never one belonging to his squad, or a partner. Today, almost half the top brass of N.Y.P.D. had been on hand for Link’s church eulogy. A number of speakers hammering home how senseless a death this had been, and how it must never be allowed to happen again. Empty words, they had seemed to him. How often they had been repeated.
Now, though, all Warren could think of was Yvonne. Her absence from the funeral had been more noticed than her presence ever would have been; the questions posed to him about her carefully deflected by him. Only three people in all of New York knew where she was: Himself, Winnegar, and Spinrad. By now she’d fully assumed the identity of Ellen Booker, and he knew that her own vendetta with finding Link’s killer would only grow. Vendetta. The word itself haunted him. It had now become a common bond shared between Yvonne DiPalma and Armageddon. One formidable will against the other.
The children in the street were singing, “Happy Birthday to You,” playfully dancing around the building’s stoop while one of their number, dressed in a party dress, stood embarrassed. Yvonne glanced briefly from the side of the curtain, went back about her business. She’d spent most of the day washing and ironing, then vacuuming up Ellen’s apartment. Rarely did the spot where Sally Cooperman’s body had fallen come to mind. The walls had been freshly painted, rug shampooed. There was no obvious reminder of the grisly murder which had taken place such a short time before. Strange, Yvonne mused. It’s as though Sally Cooperman never existed at all. All trace of her young life gone. Her existence replaced by a coat of paint.
In the early evening she went out, purposefully strolling casually along the streets of Greenwich Village. Her hair was several shades darker, trimmed much like Ellen’s. Her clothes were her own, except for the knit sweater of Ellen’s that she wore against the chill. She lingered around Washington Square Park for a time, listening to the musicians, watching the elderly men playing chess. Outwardly she seemed the picture of repose. Not a care on her mind. Only the occasional darting glance gave away her secret. She was looking. Stalking. A hungry, loose tiger on the prowl.
After the park she rambled up and down busy Eighth Street, after that Sixth Avenue. She visited art galleries, stopped for coffee in a popular local cafe, tried to make herself as quietly visible as possible. In a small boutique she bought a blouse, purchased a bunch of fresh flowers from a street vendor. She was making herself an open target. Hoping that somewhere among the dark streets and alleys Armageddon might be watching for her. And coldly Yvonne calculated her every move, allowing herself to feel sure that sooner or later Vanessa would be tempted to betray herself. Yvonne felt no fear. With her Smith & Wesson at close reach she found herself hoping it wouldn’t be long. Hunter and hunted; the roles blurred. It was her one advantage: She was the prey, but she was also the hunter.
Even in the damp of November the night streets swelled with life. She kept mental notes of the comings and goings of those around her. Filing away portraits of passersby, measuring heights and builds, and focusing on anyone who in the slightest way fit the physical attributes of Vanessa Santiago. The sidewalks reeked of spilled cheap wine and urine. Here and there, young rookies sauntered up and down the avenues, occasionally stopping spaced-out junkies, or chasing away area hookers from the residential streets and back to the main thoroughfares.
That night she slept uneasily. Windows open, she listened to the sounds of New York: ambulances screaming, traffic rumbling, the cries of stray cats, barking dogs, and the baleful voices of addicts and drunks as they wandered aimlessly during the early hours before dawn. Shadows played tricks across the walls. Sometimes forming shapes and patterns, other times outlines of places or things. A darkened vista of the city’s panorama, or the imagined silhouette of a figure crawling among the rustling curtains. The curtains shuffled with a strong breeze. More rain was on the way. In the distance of the Hudson River she heard a tugboat wail its lonely horn. Closer, dim murmurs of the droning thunder of the subways below the surface. All sounds so common to New Yorkers that they are no longer conscious of them. By dawn, the sanitation department trucks were groaning up and down the narrow streets, clanking trash cans loudly. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted on the wind from the nearby bakery. Along with the reek of garbage.
The next day passed as uneventfully as the last. Yvonne browsed the streets and shops, this time stopping to chat with some of the children playing on the street. She learned their
names, told them her name was Ellen. Toward evening she visited an art supply store, bought primary color oil paints, rolled canvas, turpentine, and a handful of brushes.
Painting had been an old hobby of Yvonne’s long discarded, and a primary enjoyment of Ellen Booker’s. It was love of art that brought Ellen to befriend Sally Cooperman in the first place. Vanessa would be aware of that; would perhaps anticipate that Ellen would be drawn all the more to art now that she was alone again.
Back out on the street, she walked up and down the now familiar neighborhood. A handful of faces she’d already come to readily recognize. Locals. The Korean couple who ran the video tape shop; a lonely elderly woman who constantly sat staring from her front room window, watching life go by. A couple of teenagers, hanging around one particular stoop, who seemed to have nothing but time on their hands, and a joint to share. Others, also. Families, children, mothers. An ordinary street of no particular distinction. Nothing unique about it at all.
For supper Yvonne went to the Chinese food takeout place on the next corner. She ordered dishes she knew Ellen enjoyed, again trying to fit into the role as perfectly as possible. Thunder and an unexpected heavy rain greeted her as she left to go back home and, without an umbrella, she scurried between the cars and to her front door. Arms holding the food, she fumbled for the keys, opened the front door and started to climb the stairs. There was a noise from the top. She halted, held her breath. Let it be now!
Silence followed. Come on, yon bitch, she thought as her hand eased behind to the bulk in her sweater. Her hand was all but grasping the opened holster of her gun. Then a door slammed loudly. Louder footsteps came hurrying down the stairs two at a time. A top-floor neighbor brushed past her in a huff without uttering a word.
Yvonne sighed, disappointed.
She opened the door of her apartment, put the wet package down. She wiped rain-soaked hair away from her eyes, then eased out of her leather boots. It was only then she noticed the piece of white folded paper on the floor. Almost missed entirely. In fact, if the rain hadn’t forced her to take off her boots, she might never have noticed it at all.
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