The cops knew that fire was arson.
His body folded to a hard sit-down on a concrete step. He had told the boy he was going to torch the house.
Loose ends. How many now? He had a picture of them wriggling like spider legs. Cut off one, and two grew back. Oh, and the mistakes. No one would buy Dwayne Brox as an accidental death, not with those marks on the body, not when they found the cop in the hall and the one downstairs stuffed in that carton.
Instead of a bathtub drowning, he might as well have slit the creep’s throat. All too clearly now, Iggy recalled the pounding he had given to Brox. Why? For two seconds of satisfaction? Did his mind have an off button? His memory had holes in it for sure. His eyes were trained on the steps leading down, as if searching them for a crucial piece of his brain that he was missing tonight.
Blame it on lost sleep. He had gotten none in the van. He emptied a vial of pills into his hand. Down to five tablets, he dry-mouthed them all. The rush kicked in. His heart jackhammered a million beats a minute. And he was on his feet. Jangled. Angry. His chest tightened up, and one fist broke through the plaster of the stairwell wall. This had to STOP! STOP! STOP!
He climbed the stairs.
29
The bathroom was enormous by New York standards and not the least bit crowded by a party of four, all of them wearing latex golves. The on-call pathologist stood by the door waiting for a go-ahead from the woman with the camera. The crime-scene photographer took a picture of the brandy bottle on the floor. “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “I’d say it started out as a staged accident, and then it all went haywire. You’re sure a pro did this?”
“Yeah,” said Detective Janos. “Our guy’s just getting sloppy.”
“Angry, too.” Washington stared at the fully-dressed corpse in the bloody water of the bathtub. The nose of the late Dwayne Brox was broken, smashed to one side, and there were front teeth missing. But their hit man could be pardoned for this lapse in professionalism. When their soaking-wet victim was alive, every aspect of him had screamed, Smack me! He turned toward the door. “There’s blood drops out there by the TV. So that’s where Conroy snapped.”
Janos followed his partner back to the front room and the litter of empty bottles for beer and brandy. “I say the perp’s just barely holding it together.”
“That won’t last.” Washington held a green bottle up to the light. “I figure him for the beer drinker, and this wasn’t wiped down.” His glance passed over an ashtray with half-smoked girly cigarillos to fix on the one full of unfiltered stubbed-out cigarettes. “He didn’t clean up his butts this time.”
Janos looked down at the blood drops on the carpet, and then he faced the television. It was still tuned to the city’s twenty-four-hour news station. “So Conroy’s watching TV, knocking back booze—”
“And there’s Andrew Fucking Polk on the screen, telling him the kid’s still alive. . . . I’m gonna check on Jonah.” Washington phoned the uptown sergeant in charge of the hospital security detail. It was a short conversation. “Bastard hung up on me. Says he’s getting calls from Special Crimes dicks every six minutes, and that’s gotta stop.”
—
THE BAREFOOT MAYOR in robe and pajamas stood on the staircase, barring the way to his personal quarters on the floor above. “I’m not worried.”
Mallory believed him. “Our perp’s on a killing spree.”
“He’s jacking up his body count,” said Riker. “But not for the money this time. You get it now? He’s killing loose ends. You think he won’t come after you?”
“Why should he? I’m the victim in all this.”
Yeah, sure you are. “The hit man’s little chat with Dwayne Brox was three beers long,” said Mallory. “And Brox took a beating before he died. Whatever he had on you—his killer knows it now.”
“Knows what, Detective?” The mayor’s tone made this a challenge.
Mallory smiled. “Did you know your aide and Dwayne Brox were classmates at Fayton Prep? They still meet for drinks.”
Only Riker registered surprise. She had shared Samuel Tucker’s cell-phone history to net them a mole in the DA’s Office—but not all the minutia of her background check and surveillance.
Polk lifted one shoulder in a shrug to say that this was of no consequence—but the timing was off. This was bad news to him. He looked down at the bodyguard standing by the banister. “Brogan, could you make me a sandwich?” Addressing the man’s partner, he said, “Courtney, give him a hand with that.” And the two detectives assigned to protect him walked away to do the job of kitchen maids with guns.
Riker was not liking this, watching cops being shamed, though Mallory knew he had no use for those two screwups. She looked up at the mayor. “How much do you trust your security detail? A lot got past them.”
“All those ransom notes and body parts,” said Riker. “What if they miss something tonight? Oh, I don’t know—say a hit man walks in the door?”
“Not likely, Detective.” The mayor flicked his fingers to send them on their way.
“We saw your help-wanted ad on TV tonight—the press conference,” said Mallory. “It’s like you begged a stone killer to murder a little boy. Is that why you think he won’t come after you? Because you’re his new client?”
This test of the waters should have brought on outrage and threats on her badge. But Polk only wore a smarmy expression, an unspoken suggestion to prove it or shove it. Apparently, he had tired of making an effort to hide what he was. Playing nicely with cops had become tedious.
She marched up the stairs, advancing on Polk, as if she planned to walk right over him on her way to the upper floor. The mayor stepped aside. They all did that.
“Mallory, that’s enough,” said Riker, playing peacemaker tonight—and philosopher, too. “If the mayor dies, he dies. . . . It’s all good.” Facing startled Andrew Polk, he said, “We’ll just do a walk-through—check windows and doors, make sure the alarm system’s working. Now that’s gonna happen. . . . So you might wanna clean up any dope or body parts you got lyin’ around . . . sir.”
—
OH, SWEET JESUS. The kid’s uncle?
Iggy pulled the door shut to kill the crack of bright light from the hospital corridor.
He had spent the load of his dart gun on the cop who lay at his feet. And now a second dart, pulled from his pocket, was jammed into the other man before he could rise from his chair. Harold Quill had not cried out. He had missed that chance in the confusion of taking Iggy for another cop, and now, wide awake, terrified, paralyzed, he slumped back down in his chair by the hospital bed.
The small war for the room was over in five seconds, and so quietly that it did not wake the boy. All the light that remained was the little bulb mounted on the headboard of the bed, dim as a nightlight, and it only lit Jonah’s face. The uncle sat slumped over in shadow.
Iggy stared at this man, this brand-new complication in his life. And what had the kid said to Uncle Harry?
Screw it! He would do them both. First Jonah.
The room stank of flowers. It smelled like home. Iggy saw no vases in the surrounding darkness, but somebody must have cleaned out every rose in the hospital gift shop. He leaned into the patch of light over the bed. Gently, he lifted the sleeping boy’s head to steal a pillow.
Jonah’s eyes snapped open.
Iggy backstepped to the foot of the bed. Why would the kid do that? What use were eyes to him?
The boy sat up. Nose high. Deep breath. “Aunt Angie?” He knuckled grains of sleep from his eyes and grinned wide as he threw off his bed sheets. “I know you’re here.”
No, kid. They don’t come back. Blame it on the stinking roses.
Or maybe Jonah had not yet shaken off his dreams.
Iggy gripped the pillow, and he sank down on the mattress. The boy turned toward him—so over-the-moon hap
py—his hands reaching out to touch, to see.
“Lie down,” said Iggy. “It’s not gonna hurt.”
Jonah’s body stiffened, and his smile was a frozen mistake. Then he sagged, as if he had no bones, and collapsed, falling back to lie flat on the bed. His lower lip curled under his front teeth, and he bit down hard. He was not going to cry. This was the boy’s last get-even act. No tears.
Stubborn kid. Good for you.
Jonah’s face was in shadow now.
The pillow blocked the light.
—
WHEN THE OFFICER’S cell phone beeped, Harold Quill’s eyes jumped in their sockets. A nurse leaned into the room for a moment, and then she withdrew, closing the door, shutting out the quick crack of light from the hospital corridor. Plunged back into shadows, he could no longer see the body on the floor, sticking out from the hem of the sheet by one black shoe. Like that paralyzed policeman, Harry could not speak, nor could he move one finger, but his wide-open terrified eyes madly darted like ricochet marbles.
30
Rookies never partnered with rookies, but Sergeant Murray had made an exception. Not one to waste manpower, he had counted these two as half a man each and posted them on the least likely access point for Gracie Mansion. Parked in the driveway with their taillights hanging out on East End Avenue, the youngsters had a view of the Wagner Wing beyond the gate, but the patrol car all by itself would guarantee that the hit man would not come this way, and so it was the safest place for kiddie cops tonight.
The sergeant leaned down to the open window on the passenger side, and he pointed to the computer on Officer Rowinski’s lap. “Keep your eyes on that video feed.” This was busywork, but it should keep them alert or at least awake. The screen was broken up into squares the size of postage stamps, one for each security camera in the park. Some were lit by spotlights, and others relied on the path lamps.
“Three of these got hardly any pictures,” said this rookie riding shotgun. “They’re not night-vision cameras, right?”
“You’re a genius, Rowinsky.” At times like this, Murray saw himself as a babysitter with a sergeant’s stripe. “But our perp ain’t as smart as you.” Well, that was a damn lie. “Before the guy dumped those four bodies, he took out half the park cameras with a paintball gun. So . . . if you see a camera go out, that’s a clue he’s in the park. Got it?” Now he glared at Officer Morris, the kid behind the wheel. “Just keep your eyes on the wing’s front door.”
“And if I see something? We got no contact numbers for the mayor’s protection detail.”
“No, Morris, you don’t. . . . You have a gun. This is why we hand out so many guns.” And now it seemed necessary to remind both of them, “No check-in calls, no calls to anybody.” That had been Riker’s idea, and it was a good one. A patrol cop on a phone or a radio might rattle a hit man turned spree killer. Conroy would just kill everybody in sight, and maybe take out the mayor, too.
Murray walked away from the car, assured that the kids would see no action tonight. He had other cops to check on, the grownups on foot patrol in the park. This operation was all eyeballs and guns. Farther down the block, his knock on the side of the surveillance van as he passed by was the announcement that all was well on the sergeant’s watch.
—
INSIDE THE VAN, the monitors showed video feeds from security cameras—piss-poor security in the estimation of Carlstad, a civilian borrowed from Tech Support. He watched the uniformed police walking in and out of shots. The areas outside camera range were too large for this kind of surveillance to be effective. The only clear monitors were lit by spotlights on the mansion’s roof. Others were dependent on path lamps through the surrounding parkland, and they were not all that bright. It was hard to tell if some of his monitors were even working. “Three of these feeds are useless,” he said to no one who might care.
Behind him, two detectives were watching screens with live images of the streets and the promenade. The third cop, Mallory, sat at the audio station, wearing a headset to kill Carlstad’s complaints, though she was from the planet of Pretty Chicks who did not actually need earphones to tune him out.
He covertly watched her reflection in the dark glass of one dead monitor. And now she creeped him out. As if she sensed his eyes on her, she turned her head to watch him.
A movement called his attention back to the live monitors. He followed a figure in the bright shots around the mansion perimeter, but it was only Murray doing his rounds, checking on his men again. With these overhead shots, Carlstad could not make out the sergeant’s stripe, but now he was familiar with the man’s build and gate.
In the civilian’s geek opinion, this strategy of camera positions really sucked. They were all too high. He checked the monitor for the wing’s rear entry to the basement level. Another cop was posted there. This one was seated on a chair. No movement at all, and everything was—
Carlstad sucked in his breath.
Mallory was right beside him, bending low, her head an inch away from his, and he was in hands-clammy panic mode even before she said, “Conroy’s inside!”
No! Not possible!
“Where inside?” asked Riker. “What’d you hear?”
“Nothing. Look at this.” She pointed to the camera shot of the cop in the chair.
And Riker said, “Goddamn!”
Behind him, Carlstad heard the van’s door sliding open, detectives leaving, the door closing. He never took his eyes off the monitor. What had she seen? How did she know? The guard’s face was obscured by the brimmed hat. A minute ticked by as Carlstad continued to stare at this cop, who never moved, never shifted his butt or kicked out a leg to keep a foot from going to sleep. The guard on the wing’s basement door was as still as a photograph.
—
THE MASTER BEDROOM of Gracie Mansion was less than grand, but large enough to accommodate a couch and armchairs, and the formal mantelpiece was not overwhelming. Two windows overlooked the river, and the walls were painted a calming green, the color of money, and lit by the glow of a single lamp. One might call it a tranquil setting. The small man in the four-poster bed reached under the pillow, but his gun was not there.
The thug looming over him wore a police uniform, yet this offered the mayor no sense of security. The stranger’s eyes were disturbing, and then there was the fist so close to— Oh, there was the missing gun. It was all but lost in the large clenched hand of the intruder. “I take it, you’re not a police officer.”
“You got that right.” The man sat down on the edge of the mattress. The tiny derringer now rested on his open palm. “This is a peashooter. It’s only good for pissing off—”
“I’m not going to yell.”
“Go on. Scream your head off.”
“Did you kill the—”
“Naw, I don’t do cops. But those guys won’t be gettin’ up again any time soon.” The faux policeman removed his tri-cornered hat and dropped it on the bedcovers. Either his mother had taught him to remove his hat indoors, or he planned to stay awhile—just getting comfortable—and death was not imminent.
“Let’s you and me talk about hearts and a few other loose ends.”
“I assure you, I won’t turn you in if—”
“I know. I had a little talk with Dwayne Brox. I get caught, you go to jail—just like you done all those murders yourself.”
“I understand that you . . . eliminated Mr. Brox.” The mayor sat up and reached for the pillow on the other side of the bed. He stacked it on the one behind him so that he could lean back in comfort. “So allow me to thank you for—”
“I know what Brox did with those hearts. He sent them to you.”
“All marked proof of death. Yes, very dramatic.”
“Where are they now?”
“Forgive a cliché, they sleep with the fishes . . . in the East River. Except for the last one. The
counterfeit heart? The police took that one away.”
“But first you got Jonah’s picture—the one with him holding a newspaper.”
“Proof of life. Yes, that’s gone, too. No worries. I erased it from my cell phone.”
“You wanted that kid to die.”
“I’ve never met a child worth any part of my stock portfolio. I assume you’ve paid the boy a visit by now?”
“Yeah, thanks for the tipoff. I caught your act on TV.”
“My pleasure. But we both know you’re not going to kill me. The mayor of New York City? You’d never walk away from something like—”
“How did Brox figure to get away with it? He said the plan was foolproof.”
“It was. It was brilliant. I could never turn on him. Or you. Incidentally, I have a yacht at your disposal. It can take you anywhere you like. But I want something in return. My aide, Tucker—he might be involved. Or maybe not. I can’t be sure. He lives at—”
“What was the payoff plan for Brox? You got an offshore account?”
“No, not anymore. Foreign banks are falling like dominoes. Round heels, I call them. They spread their legs like whores, one new tax treaty after another. But the ransom wouldn’t require an offshore transfer of funds.”
“So how’d Brox expect to get paid?” The thug pounded the mattress, and there was frustration in his voice.
“You don’t just want to know.” Andrew Polk smiled. “You need to know. It’s making you a little crazy, isn’t it? Well, I think we can work this out. What shall I call you?”
“Damn amateurs, the two a you, playin’ your little murder games.” The man put the derringer on the nightstand. “No stupid toys.” He reached into a back pocket. Now, what looked like a penknife protruded from his fist. “This is a weapon.”
Blind Sight Page 35
