Halladay pointed across the east end of the park at a thick, imposing-looking structure that sat to the left of one with a taller and thinner tower topped by a large lighted clock. The tan stone facade of the building on the left was terraced and buttressed in an almost martial fashion, and the top seemed to be abruptly truncated rather than decorated with a tower like the one adjacent.
“That’s Eleven Madison, known as the Metropolitan Life North Building,” Halladay continued. “Because the one next to it with the clock was the first one built for MetLife. They say the North was supposed to reach a hundred stories and be the tallest building in the world, when it was designed back in the 1920s. But then the stock market crashed and they only ever got to thirty floors.”
I guess that explains the truncated look, Jon thought.
“I think Render said it represents something,” Halladay added, “like how he’s been rebuilding the city but isn’t done yet … something like that. Maybe he’ll finish it when he’s in charge.”
“We can ask him when we go to see him,” Jon said, eliciting a puzzled look from the bigger man. “Will he be there later today?”
“Either there or where he lives. That’s the other building I wanted you to see.”
Halladay turned to his right and gestured in the direction of an insanely tall and thin skyscraper with glass for walls, which was a block away on the same street from the Flatiron and obviously much newer than any of the surrounding buildings.
“That’s One Madison, finished in 2010, sixty stories of some of the most expensive real estate in Manhattan. Render owns the top four floors.” He gestured with both hands at two of the three of buildings he had described. “What I want you to see is the difference between the headquarters of Gotham Security, and the one the cops and Mayor are working out of.”
Jon looked again at the fortress-like stone building across the park, and then at the Flatiron. From where they were standing in front of it, the latter only looked like a tall thin column. He knew that was just an optical illusion, because the city’s original skyscraper widened progressively toward the rear, and the buildings behind it had been co-opted for offices and parking. But he got the idea of how the private company of Gotham Security seemed to have a lot more resources than the city government itself.
“Now look at where Render lives,” Halladay said, gesturing again at One Madison, and then pointed to the other side of the Flatiron Building, across the street from it. “The Mayor lives in that old building with the cool gold dome on the top.” He turned to face Jon. “All of this’ll show ya how the Mayor is facing some tough odds, but also why a lot of people are still betting on her. You’ve got the big, impressive properties of GS, because they care about utility and security and power. Then you’ve got the Mayor picking buildings because they’ve got history and artistry.”
The contrast between Render and King seemed to be further confirmed for Jon when he accompanied Halladay inside the Flatiron Building to the crime lab and met Amira Naseem. On the way, Halladay told him that she was one of the few police they could know for sure wasn’t in bed with Gotham Security in any way—because she was a Muslim. Gar Render was reportedly opposed to Muslims even being allowed in the city, so he likely would never have one on his payroll.
She was on the tall side, with a medium build, and wore her white lab coat over the typical black attire Jon had seen on other Muslim women, with a long top and loose pants below it. An attractive olive-green head scarf framed a face that was not strikingly beautiful, but her eyes were, and the scarf itself was ironically much nicer than the white mesh nets that other lab workers had to wear on their heads. She looked to be in her thirties.
“Princess Jasmine,” Halladay said when he saw her, reminding Jon that the mercurial cop had a nickname for everyone, and worrying about what his own might be. Then he found out, when Halladay added, “Meet my new partner, Diaper Dandy.” Jon didn’t know whether this just meant that he was young and new, or whether Halladay somehow knew about his pissing incident in the cemetery. He hoped it was the first.
“I’m Jon,” he said to Amira, shaking her hand.
“The Princess here will get us everything we need,” Halladay said, “And we’ll only work with her.” He looked at the woman meaningfully, making sure she knew not to involve others. “What do you want from her, DD?”
“You mentioned telling the research staff to find out who might make a custom jacket for serial killers, to hold knives inside.” Jon said this to Halladay, but then turned to Amira. “What have you found out?”
“I was kidding,” Halladay said.
“It’s not a joke. We should be working every possible angle.”
Amira said, “Good idea,” while Halladay rolled his eyes.
“Any blood of another type that could be from the perp at any of the scenes?” Jon said this to Amira.
“No,” she said. “Just a lot of the victims.’”
“Anything from the trash that could have been used to clean the knives off?”
“That we have, but it’s a needle in a stack of needles.”
“Show me,” he said. “Please.”
Amira retrieved a big plate of glass from the back of the lab with various pieces of refuse attached to it, separated from one another according to which crime scene they were from. Immediately Jon noticed several napkin portions with dried red stains on them, and gestured in their direction.
“Ketchup,” Amira said right away.
“Did you examine them to see if there could be blood mixed in?” The killer could have been clever enough to cover his tracks in that way.… But Amira had thought of it and checked them.
“What’s that?” Jon asked.
“Part of a towelette wrapper from Wednesday’s killing in the Village. There were ripped pieces in a trash can a few floors down from the scene. It’s a long shot, but I thought maybe he could have put them in his pocket, not wanting to risk clogging a toilet, maybe … then unloaded them on his way out, worried about getting pinched at the door or something.”
“Can you find out who makes them, and where they’re sold in the city?”
“Yes,” the head-scarfed woman said, “but that will be a needle in a mountain of needles.”
“Narrow it down to anywhere near here,” Jon said, and when Halladay asked why, he answered, “Just a hunch.”
“What’s on the paper towels from today’s scene?” Halladay asked.
“It’s makeup,” she answered. “They’re from the women’s bathroom, not from where he did the vic. But it was deposited near the time, so I used my imagination again and thought, ‘What if he was in disguise somehow, went over to the other bathroom and took something off to make it easier to get out of the building?’ Then again, a woman may have just been at the mirror somewhere around then.”
“No, that’s good thinking,” Jon said. “Check to see if it’s just normal makeup, or if there’s anything unusual about it. If there is, run a search for where it’s sold in the city and give us the results.”
“Would she help us with the building access issue?” Jon continued, addressing Halladay now. “Or would that be someone else?”
“Normally it would be someone else, but in this case let’s run everything through her.”
“So I want to know every group in the city that could possibly finagle dropping someone on the roofs of these buildings, since that seems to be the only way they could have gotten in. Whether it’s by helicopter, by parachute, whatever.”
“Unlike the other leads,” Amira said, “that’s a very short list. Maybe someone from the police could manage it, but it would be hard, especially more than once. Even Gotham Security can’t navigate by air around the city without us knowing it.”
“I’m especially interested in how Gotham Security might have managed it,” Jon said. “Or how someone in the police might have let them.”
“There you go again,” a puzzled Halladay said. “You seem to be really worried abo
ut GS.…”
“One Hundred Park Avenue is protected by Assure Security, which is one of the few remaining competitors of Gotham. Assured and Classic had to merge a few years ago just so that they could stay in the game, and barely. Maybe GS wants to ‘assure’ people that they can’t protect them.”
“You did your homework,” Halladay said, “But not well enough. Two of the previous Dayfall killings were in buildings protected by GS.”
“Oh,” Jon conceded after an embarrassed pause, but then moved on persistently. “How about the chaos crimes? Do I talk to Amira about those?”
“No,” Halladay said with an annoyed sigh. “That investigation’s run by Airhead and Dickless.… I’ll take you to them.”
“More nicknames,” the younger man observed to the older one as they said goodbye to Amira and walked away from her. “I’d rather you just call me Jon.”
“Just be glad I didn’t call you Piss-Pants,” Halladay said with a smirk, confirming Jon’s worst fears. “Yeah, I did some checking on you, too.”
6
DAYFALL MINUS 24 HOURS
“I need to go home for a while after we talk to these guys,” Halladay said as they headed toward the Chaos Crimes offices. “I’ve been on for twenty hours and I need some rest.”
Jon didn’t respond, but studied the two plainclothes officers who were talking in an enclosed office with a lot of glass on the front, until they noticed Halladay and him heading their way. One was an Indian man and the other a blond woman.
“You can ask them whatever you want,” Halladay told Jon. “But don’t give them anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re on the take with GS.”
“Is this the new blood?” the Indian man said as they approached.
“This is … Jon Phillips,” Halladay said with a slight hesitation. “Jon, this is Airhead.”
“Ari Hegde,” the man said while shaking Jon’s hand, not even bristling at Halladay’s nickname for him.
“And this is Dickless,” the older cop said about the blonde.
“Compliment,” she responded, and then offered her hand to Jon: “Brenda Dixon.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t have an insulting name for you yet,” Hegde said to Jon. “He even called Amira ‘Towelhead.’”
“That was before I got to know her,” the big man replied. “Notice how I still call you Airhead.… That should tell you something.”
“So … the chaos crimes,” Jon interrupted. “What can you tell me about them?”
“Not much to tell, unfortunately,” Hegde answered. “Random violence when the sun’s been out, mass psychology of some kind, probably. Fights, arson, theft, some deaths … happened at random places around the city, heightened during the daylight.”
“Random,” Dixon added, and nothing more.
“No common themes or repeated perps? Have you made arrests?”
“Some, though it’s really hard to respond to widespread panic like that. A few we brought in said they felt something affecting them, one or more said they weren’t in their right minds, that sort of thing. They seemed pretty normal after being inside for a while.”
“Halladay’s theory,” Dixon offered.
“Yeah, has Halladay infected you with any of his paranoid ideas?” Hegde said with a smile. “Like right wing radicals are behind the Dayfall chaos because they want Render to gain power in the city?”
Jon looked at Halladay, hiding his surprise, then asked Hegde and Dixon why they didn’t find Halladay’s theories credible.
“Because they’ve always turned out to be wrong,” Hegde answered. “And besides, the government has too many other problems to be nosing into our business here.”
“Ridiculous.” This from Dixon.
“I suspect everyone and everything,” Halladay explained. “That’s what makes me a good cop.”
“That’s what makes you wrong so often,” Hegde said.
“How many deaths?” Jon asked.
“Twenty-four to date, and a lot more injuries.”
“Ballistics?”
“Only one gun death, and that was one of our arrests. Store owner who got scared of the people crowding into her store because they were scared of what was going on in the street. Told them to leave, one man came at her, to take the gun, she thought.… She shot him.”
“The rest?”
“Blades, blunt instruments. People carry these things, they’re gonna use them when threatened.”
“Descriptions of the attackers from the ones who survived?”
“Uh … actually, the injured people were just from the fires and explosions caused by the fires. Shrapnel, burns, etc.”
“No survivors of the manual attacks?”
“No, not that we know of yet.”
“And not a single homicide suspect in custody?”
“Nope,” said Hegde. “Boring job, actually.”
After a pause, he added, “Are we done here?”
“Why, are you busy?” Halladay chimed in, seemingly more interested in Hegde’s rudeness than anything he had to say about the crimes. “How can you be, if your job’s so damn boring?”
“Have you checked for any civil lawsuits resulting from the mob crimes?” Jon continued, “to see if anyone brought forth evidence or testimony that might be pertinent?” He’d read that many Manhattanites made a living, or at least supplemented their income, by filing lawsuits when anything went wrong—and even when it hadn’t. They needed the money, he guessed, so they could party all the time.
“That’s an idea,” Hegde said, “but what’s the point? Even if we do tap someone, they were under the influence of whatever’s happening out there, and probably protecting themselves from everybody else.”
“So you buy the Dayfall idea, that something’s coming over these people, something they can’t control?”
“We wouldn’t need this department if it wasn’t true, though I can’t say I understand it myself. You’ll have to talk to the experts at NYU about that.”
“Can I see what you have in your lab?” Jon asked.
“I guess we can’t stop you, if you fill out all the forms and manage to get them signed. But last I checked, you were Serial Homicide and we’re Chaos Crimes. Why don’t you do your job, and we’ll do ours.”
Jon looked at Dixon, waiting for a word from her, but she just nodded.
“Nice meeting you,” Jon said after studying them a little more, and turned to go.
Halladay flipped them the bird as he did the same.
When they were clear of the other cops, Jon asked his partner, “Did you ever do any investigation into the right-wing government conspiracy angle?”
“No.”
“You don’t believe your own theories enough to follow up on them?”
“No, because they’ve always turned out to be wrong,” he said with a smile.
“Well, I want Amira to follow up on mine. Have her check into any civil lawsuits that have been filed as a result of the chaos crimes. I also want her to question some of the injured survivors.”
“Really?” Halladay groaned. “She’s already too busy with what you just gave her.”
“And tell her to look for anything that even smacks of intentionality.”
“I don’t see the point,” the big cop persisted, and Jon noticed the similarity to what Hegde had just said. “These crimes are different in every way from the ones we’re investigating.”
“Not in every way,” Jon said. “They’re both making people afraid of Dayfall.”
Halladay grunted and fumbled with his phone as Jon followed exit signs, looking around at the police staff and wondering how many of them sympathized with Render. Did a lot of them agree that the Gotham boss would make the city safer if he was in charge?
They were back out in the long night, in front of the Flatiron Building, by the time Halladay was done talking to Amira on the phone.
“The Princess told me,” the big cop said to Jon, using his nickname for Amira, “th
at she found some businesses who’ve bought those towelettes you asked her to check on.”
“Anything near here?”
“Yeah,” Halladay said with a puzzled look. “One’s a bar only a couple blocks away.”
“That’s it,” Jon said, causing the other cop’s brow to furrow even more. “I want to check out that bar. But first we should talk to Render.” He gestured at the two big buildings owned by Gotham Security—the stone fortress at Eleven Madison and the thin glass tower a few buildings to the right of it. “Where do you think he is right now … at work or at home?”
“I’d try work first,” Halladay responded. “But listen, like I told you, I need to go home, see the family and get some rest. You’ll have to visit Garth Vader by yourself.”
“Come on, Frank. I really need an extra pair of eyes and ears for this. And time is of the essence, remember?”
“My time is the essence,” Halladay said. “I’m going home.”
“How about a compromise?” Jon said after a moment of thought. “Let’s check out the bar first, we can get a drink or two, and then you can decide what you want to do.”
“Okay,” the big man said after a moment of his own. “Only because I would’ve stopped for one on my way home anyway.”
“Great.” Jon patted him on the back and gestured forward. “Lead on…”
“One more thing,” Halladay said, “since we’re making a deal. Take that bandage off the bottom of your chin—you look like a dick. It’s not still bleeding, is it?”
“No,” Jon said, feeling it with his fingers. “But it looks kinda gross underneath.”
“Naaah. It’ll make you look tough.”
As Jon removed the bandage, Halladay led them north on Broadway, straddling the left side of the park and then veering away from it for a block until they reached the St. James Building at the corner of Twenty-Sixth Street. On its first floor, with an entrance on Twenty-Sixth, was a newish-looking establishment called “The Office.” Jon chuckled at the name and followed Halladay in and up to the bar, where they took the two stools farthest away from the other patrons, just a few at this hour.
Dayfall Page 4
