The emergency lights flickered to life. Yvonne stood in the middle of the sordid group around her, panting. None of these people were hurtful. All just simple citizens caught in a situation beyond their control. As she realized this, she also realized the underlying emotion of fear gripping her and everyone else as well. Animal fear. Permeating the air. A single pulse beat below the surface.
The intercom crackled. “We are sorry for the inconvenience. There was a delay on the track due to a faulty switch. Please take your seats. The train will resume service in a moment.”
Yvonne breathed deeply. Armageddon had done the job too well, she realized. There was hardly a need to kill. Everyone was ready to do it for her. New York City was at her mercy.
XXVIII
“The mayor thinks we’re all loony tunes about this thing. Says our heads gotta be examined. The commerce of the city is its life’s blood. No one and nothing’s gonna interfere.”
Winnegar looked up over the top of his glasses at the newly appointed assistant commissioner. “Chief Inspector Reiley has a flair for the dramatic,” he said dryly.
Reiley shuffled his feet restlessly. He didn’t care much for the role he was being cast into. Politics was something he’d always shied away from where possible. Trouble was, the more ambitious you were, the higher office you attained, the more damn political you had to be.
“Bottom line it for me,” said an impatient Vinnie Sabbatini.
“For all of us,” added Warren.
Reiley stood before the wall map of New York City. He cracked his knuckles as he spoke. “No way, no how. The mayor won’t stand for it. And neither will the commissioner. Jesus knows how you pulled off some of the things you already did. And now you try and tell us to call off one of the city’s best potential money-making trade shows? Nuts to that. City don’t buy it. TTF’s not running the show.”
“Sounds like neither is P.D. running the show. Where’s it all coming from, Gracie Mansion?” He referred to the mayor’s official residence.
Reiley seemed frustrated and annoyed. “I gotta fight with you people, or what? Whose side are you on?”
“Whose side are you on?” said Dan Ryan.
Winnegar shot a sharp glance before their visitor could reply. He was behind his people totally — but he wasn’t about to buck direct orders from above, either. “You do owe us at least something of an explanation,” he said. “We’ve all busted our asses long enough on this thing.”
Reiley sighed with exasperation. “I only take direction like you do. You want it straight, you get it straight.” He held his hands forward, palms outward. “The mayor gets a call from the governor, whom I assume got the call straight from Washington. As of now — and I mean right now — TTF is officially off running this case. Whole thing is off your backs. FBI moves in, with cooperation from the state capital. Period. No ifs, ands, or buts. Call in your people. All your people. Everyone gets to go home and gets a good night’s sleep for a change.”
“Life’s a bitch, and then you die,” cracked Ryan.
Warren was outraged and didn’t hesitate in letting his superiors know it. “You people are fucking crazy, know that? Know how close we are? Know what could happen if we’re right? If Armageddon goes ahead with the next threat?”
“What I have to do with you crackpots, huh? This thing isn’t local. Never has been. And no way in hell is the governor, the mayor or anybody else let some goddamn lunatic mess up a highly political situation. There are tens of millions of dollars annually for New York at stake here.”
“Lives versus money. Guess who wins?”
Reiley chose to overlook the remark. “The implications of this thing are international, for Christ’s sake. Wake up, will you? Look at it from the mayor’s point of view. No way is this exposition gonna be called off, got that? No way. FBI thinks you’re way off the mark.”
“FBI still thinks Armageddon is a gang of international terrorists,” said Winnegar.
“As a matter of fact, so do I,” shot back Reiley. “All this hype and bullshit. Jesus, the press is already having a field day at P.D.’s expense. What more do you want? You people are thick-headed. What’s the matter with you?”
“What if the FBI is wrong and we’re right?” asked Warren.
“Don’t bitch about it to me, okay? I don’t want to hear.”
“Somebody’s got to hear.”
“Then the Feds take the heat for it, okay?” He raised his voice. “They take the goddamn heat.”
“Sure. And a whole lotta innocent bystanders are going to be dead to prove they were wrong. Let me speak with the FBI liaison.”
“Not a chance. And by the way, Resnick, why don’t you get the hell back to Homicide where you belong?”
“Resnick’s my man now. That hasn’t changed, no matter what the new policy.”
He pointed his finger at Winnegar. “You’re accountable for your squad, and everything they do, understand? Keep the sonofabitch, for all I care. Here on out, though, everything comes directly from the commissioner’s office. And I mean directly.”
“Fine. I’ve been wanting to have a few private words with the commissioner anyway.”
Winnegar was taunting him. Making it worse. Reiley angrily lighted a cigarette. He didn’t like what he was doing. Just following orders. Why the hell didn’t these TTF flakes learn to do the same? Whole unit was a mistake from the beginning, if you asked him. Should never have been formed. Shit, give somebody a little autonomy, and they think they’re in business for themselves. He made a mental note to disband the unit the minute the commissioner’s post was to be offered to him. A very distinct possibility these days with so many heads rolling.
“In any case,” he said more calmly, exhaling smoke, “It’s been settled. Call the mayor personally if you like.”
“We have some very good people out in the streets,” reminded Winnegar. “Devoted people. I can’t just call them up on the telephone and say come on home.”
“Don’t care how you reach your people, captain. Don’t care what it takes. The commissioner wants it that way. I want it that way. Have I finally made sense to you people? Just call in your dogs. Is my message getting through?” He rapped his knuckles against his balding head.
Winnegar nodded somberly. “Loud and clear.”
“Good. It’s about time. So it’s settled, right?” He was met by silence. “Jesus Christ, what am I doing here anyway?” He shook his head, pulled his coat from a peg, and left the room in a huff. The door slammed loudly behind.
“Clown,” muttered Dan Ryan.
“He’s feeding us a crock,” said Warren. “We’ve proven to the FBI and everyone else there’s no international terrorist gang here. What more do they want?”
“We’re all upset about this,” said Winnegar. “So what does it mean? We don’t have a choice. Right or wrong, we’re being written off. Officially, anyhow.” He looked to Vinnie. “So call ’em home. You heard the man. It’s off our backs.” He paused. “God help us.”
“What about DiPalma?” said Vinnie. “She’s deep inside. Give her a chance, and I think we’ll have our bomber. You want her home, too?”
“Especially DiPalma.” He turned to Warren. “You know her cover. Bring her in — personally if you have to. Kicking and screaming. Whatever it has to take.”
“She won’t be easy to persuade. And what if she’s so far underground even I can’t find her?”
“I don’t care. Track her through every sewer in the borough if you have to. Pull her back. Handcuff her to you. Only once you find her, don’t let her out of your sight.”
Warren nodded dispiritedly. “They’re making a mistake, captain. A terrible mistake.”
“Bastards probably are.”
He crushed an empty coffee container in his hand, sent it flying against the far wall. “Shit.” An outburst of emotion and frustration very unlike his character. “Just do it.”
*
Warren rang the bell. Over and over. No answer in Ellen Booker
’s apartment. No answer on the phone. No sign of her anywhere. Just what I need, he thought. DiPalma on the loose. Had she got wind of what was going on? Could someone from TTF — or outside it — have contacted her? It was possible. And if she did know about it, she’d get herself buried so deep she’d never come up for air.
*
It was quiet and dark. Yvonne stood at the edge of the pier staring into the night sky. From across the water the lights of Brooklyn glittered. She was cold; the temperature had dropped dramatically in the past few hours. Steam blew from her mouth as she breathed, and she folded her arms tightly, nestling her hands inside the sleeves of her sweater. A handful of small sailing ships berthed at the end of South Street Seaport’s small quay, bobbing gently with the rolling swell. Sails furled, draped in shadows, they seemed a quaint throwback to another time, another place, another century.
The Seaport was totally deserted. Markets and shops tightly shut until morning. An occasional private security guard passed along the cobblestone byway, making his lonely midnight rounds. Yvonne had slipped her way past them, walked along the dock well away from the thoroughfare and unwanted eyes.
She needed time alone. She needed to think. Clear her mind, hash everything out, make some sense and pull herself together. The world appeared bleaker than ever before. She was crying openly, and making no effort to wipe away any of the tears. Smudged mascara wetly streaked under her eyes. She turned her face down, gazing into the flowing waves.
A single phone call she’d made, that’s all it had been. All it had taken to now leave her feeling completely shattered. Fran, her sister, nearly hysterical, sobbing the news. Their mother had slipped into a coma three days before, and late the next morning passed away. The family had been desperately trying to reach Yvonne every possible way they knew. At home, at Paul’s, at police headquarters. No answers at her home. Paul confided that he hadn’t seen or heard from her in weeks. Police headquarters said they’d pass on the message, but reaching Detective DiPalma was impossible at this time. Why? That was classified. Where was she? That was classified also. She was incommunicado.
Fran had wanted her to be at the hospital. Needed Yvonne to be there with her and with Mama before she died. But no one could locate her. As though she’d disappeared off the face of the Earth.
Mama’s dead, Yvonne. Where were you? For God’s sake, where were you? How long has it been since you last came to see her? She’s asked for you so many times. How many more excuses was I supposed to make?
How could she ever explain? Or live with the guilt she was now feeling? Her mother dead, and she didn’t even know. The burial this morning, too late to attend. If she hadn’t called Fran today she might not have found out until — how long?
Some way to live your life, Yvonne. Turn your back on your family when they needed you the most.
But I didn’t turn my back. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
Her protests to ease her conscience were futile. She should have been there, had the obligation to have been there. Should have kept in closer touch with Fran. Mom had been ill for months. Her health steadily failing. Lingering, finally clinging to life. But always somehow managing to hang on. The doctors had been saying she could slip away at almost any time. She had enormous strength and courage. It was the only thing that kept her going.
Damn her work. Damn TTF. Damn Armageddon. She was all too human. A woman, nothing more and nothing less. So why should anything more be expected of her?
Don’t lie to yourself, Yvonne. Con somebody else, but not yourself. Don’t throw the blame on others. You wanted it this way. Wanted to be different. Everything has a price.
Two deaths within a few short days of each other. Two of the people in the world she loved most deeply. Both gone. Forever from her life. And as she stood there and cried she wondered whom she was crying for the most. Was it her mother, was it Link? The answer was as painful as the question, and not easy to take. She was crying for herself.
The water was dark and seductively beautiful; the tang of salt and clean air on the wind. It was a life-giving feeling. Restoring. Too late to change the past, she knew. Just learn to live with it. Not bury it as before. Her unlined, ascetic face was sad and troubled. The consensus of her whole life was negative. Beside the gold badge what did she really have to show for it? Home, husband, kids? Happiness? Nothing. Zero. Only her work. Her reputation. DiPalma was the best.
The best at what, she thought bitterly. It’s a sham. A waste.
She remembered fond memories. Her youth, her parents. Home meant home. But home was lost. A dream, an illusion.
She clasped her hands in prayer. Forgive me, Mama. Please.
Despondent, she stood shivering in the cold of late November. Only days remained until the exposition. She’d have to survive her trials, she knew. Push everything aside one more time. One last time. Let it be over first. Then she could give in. Then she could break down.
A police helicopter flew over the East River in a wide arc. Its rotor blades thrummed loudly as the chopper passed over South Street Seaport. Wind slashed against the dark water, causing waves to break and smash into the dock. Salt water sprayed. Yvonne looked up and wiped her eyes. Ruefully she stared at the flashing blue and red lights blinking. In the midnight stillness she could almost hear the crackle of the police radio.
She saw the helicopter markings, the silhouette of the pilot as he roared his craft away and headed out toward the tip of Manhattan on some urgent instruction.
N.Y.P.D. never sleeps.
Raucous, blaring rock music greeted her at the door. Yvonne opened the lock cautiously, pushed the door gently open. “Ellen?” she called out in the darkness. It took long moments for her eyes to adjust and be able to make out shapes. She squinted and glanced around.
There was no sign of Ellen Booker in the living room. Yvonne went over and turned down the volume of her stereo. She didn’t put on any lights. She did draw her gun.
Only five days since she’d left her own apartment to move into Ellen’s, and already her apartment seemed somehow different. A strange feeling, as if it were no longer home at all.
A quiet moaning came from the unlighted bedroom. Yvonne proceeded with care. Then, holding her gun with both hands, finger on the trigger, she kicked open the door, swinging her aim at the dim figure huddled in a fetal position in the corner.
Yvonne stood in a crouch, panting, staring, aiming. There was Ellen, sitting on the floor nestled between the bed and the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, slowly rocking back and forth.
The windows were open wide, Yvonne saw, curtains blowing freely. Yvonne switched on the light. Ellen made no move to look up. She remained in her childlike position, softly crying.
“Ellen, what’s happened?”
Ellen Booker made a squealing sound. She lifted her face; it was cut. One thin incision running from the corner of her right eye, across her cheek, down to her jaw. The laceration was razor thin, and only a thin line of blood showed cleanly along the slash. Careful work, Yvonne realized. Meticulously done. Not some wild cutting motion of a spontaneous act.
Yvonne went for the telephone.
“No!”
She looked down at Ellen. Wide, pleading eyes gazed back at her. Terrified eyes. Yvonne cradled the phone.
“Don’t call anyone.”
“Who did this to you?”
“It wasn’t … They did it as a warning to you … ” Ellen’s voice was thick, shaky. Barely understandable.
Yvonne felt her heart miss a beat. “What kind of warning, Ellen?” She spoke softly, soothingly.
“I was told to tell you that they know … ”
“Know what? Please, Ellen, tell me everything.”
Ellen nodded. She made an effort to speak, found that she couldn’t. She put her hands to her face and wept. Yvonne knelt beside her, put her arm around the frightened woman and held her close. “It’s all right, I promise.” With tissues from her handbag she wiped away the smear
of blood. The cut wasn’t deep. Wasn’t intended to be, she saw. Only to scare — and to scar.
“They … They said they’ll come back. Kill me next time. But first they wanted me to tell you … ”
“What, Ellen?” she repeated. “Tell me what?”
“That they know everything. All about you. Who you are, what you’re doing. All about me. That you’ve been staying in my apartment. They’ve watched you. From the first day. All the time. They said to tell you they were there when it rained. They were there in the subway when it stalled. And before, on the night of the Lady Luck explosion. They said they enjoyed killing your partner. It was too easy, though. They hoped for better from an experienced cop. He was stupid. Walked right into it. You’ll be next. Your friend Washington was lucky. He didn’t die with pain. You’ll have pain. Lots of it.”
Yvonne recoiled. “What else?”
“That you’re as good as … dead.” Ellen began to cry again.
“You said they. Who is they?”
There was no answer. Only deep sobs. Yvonne put her hands on Ellen’s shoulders and held them tightly. “I have to know, Ellen. Please. Try and tell me.”
“They came through the window. I was asleep. I felt hands on my throat. Squeezing hard. I was helpless. The other went into the living room and put the music on loud. So no one could hear me scream. Then they took out the knife. Like a surgeon’s knife. Small. Sharp. One held me down, while the other spoke and cut me.”
“Describe them, can you? The one that cut you, it was Vanessa Santiago, wasn’t it? The one that said these things.”
Ellen shook her head. “It wasn’t her, Yvonne.”
“How do you know?”
“It couldn’t have been. Don’t you understand? It was a man.”
DeVicente!
Her heart was pounding. “Go on. What else?”
“Not much more. They told me to stay put. To wait. They knew you’d come, sooner or later. And they’ll be watching. Always watching.”
Yvonne felt a shiver. Prey and hunter. Hunter and hunted. Again the lines were blurred. But how … how did they know so much? How was it possible? No one knew about her cover. Only her partners.
Black Midnight Page 24
