Dayfall

by Michael David Ares

  “Besides,” the old man continued, regaining his composure quickly, “Dayfall doesn’t need any help to be as dangerous as it can possibly be. Have you talked to Gunther and Carter at NYU about their research into the scientific and psychological effects of it?”

  Jon remembered these names from his reading before coming to the city—they were the foremost experts on why the emerging daylight would make people go crazy.

  “Not yet, no,” he answered.

  “You should. I don’t think the MPD is nearly prepared enough for what will happen, and it’s only about twenty-four hours away.” He gestured at the top half of the transparent wall and the starless sky beyond it. “I’m not a scientist, but I can tell you something’s cooking in the atmosphere just by being this high up, and surrounded by metal maybe, I don’t know. I’ve noticed a bunch of, what do they call them … anomalies … right here in my place. Especially when the sun has broken through.”

  “I just have a couple more questions,” Jon said, and Render nodded. “Would you be willing to hand over all the flight records and any other information we request about aircraft you own or work with, so we can establish that GS hasn’t transported anyone to the buildings where our crimes took place?”

  “Absolutely. Anything you want.”

  “And I was curious,” Jon continued. “There’s an impressive lab tech at the MPD who is a Muslim, and I understand you wouldn’t hire her because of that.”

  “That’s right,” Render said without hesitation. “No disrespect or judgment about her personally, but this city saw what people of that religion can do to us. I know a lot of ’em are more moderate, but you’ve got the law of averages and there’s always gonna be some degree of suspicion. I’d rather be safe than sorry, and not roll the dice, and I believe a lot of the people in this city share my feelings.”

  “Okay,” Jon said. “Or not.… I’m not saying that’s okay. But you know what I mean. Thank you.”

  Render said the same, but only offered his hand this time to gesture them toward the elevator.

  “Man, you really have something against that guy,” Halladay said, this time waiting until they were out of the lobby and out of earshot. “And what’s with the ‘mother’ issue? You were almost out of control.”

  “I don’t know,” Jon said. “I can handle any other kind of insult, it really doesn’t bother me at all. But that one really does.” The younger man shrugged as he pulled his coat together in the front. “What can I say? I love my mother, despite our differences. And I’m the only one allowed to cuss her out.”

  “Yeah, well, I love my family, too. And right now I’m going to see them, and get some sleep, no matter what you say.”

  “I’ll come along, then,” Jon said, realizing he wouldn’t be able to change the big man’s mind this time. “Like I said, I haven’t slept in a long time, either.”

  “Okaaay.… Well, we do have a number of beds in the old homestead,” the older cop said with a mischievous smile.

  10

  DAYFALL MINUS 18 HOURS

  They got Halladay’s car from the garage behind the Flatiron Building and headed northeast to the older cop’s “homestead,” both sitting in silence during the ride. Jon studied the streets as Halladay drove, noticing the irony that there was some kind of club on almost every other block, but also about an equal number of those “survivalist” vendors and stores advertising similar merchandise in anticipation of Dayfall. The lines at some of the stores were as long as those at some of the clubs.

  Before too long they reached a rather nondescript, older brick apartment building in the Murray Hill section of the city, and Halladay pulled the car into a “No Parking” spot in front of it. Jon followed him inside to a smallish lobby that was more like a wide hallway, with a black-and-white checkered floor and a reception booth at the far end of it. As they traversed the lobby toward the booth, Jon could see that it was manned by a middle-aged Asian woman and a younger Asian man who sat behind her watching a TV. Halladay stopped before they reached the booth to check a mailbox in a bank of them along the wall, and Jon found himself standing between two wide doorways on either side of the hall. He was able to glance each way just long enough to see that they both had small but well-stacked wet bars, and several men of various ages were hanging out by the bars or on the furniture nearby. Jon saw only one young woman, who was dressed normally, sitting by herself on a couch, but then he saw another one, dressed provocatively, walk into the same room and approach one of the older men.

  “Country Boy,” Halladay said, “this is Bai Liang, better known as ‘Betty.’”

  Jon shot a disapproving glance at him for the nickname, then turned a smile toward the Chinese lady and said hello to her.

  “Don’t let her cherubic face fool you,” Halladay went on. “She can be a real bitch if she needs to. And Pan back there is a martial arts badass.… Don’t get him mad at you. Come on, I’ll show you mi casa.”

  They proceeded into a hall behind the booth with two elevators and waited for one to arrive. As they did, a giggling blonde in a low-cut evening gown pulled a nervous teen boy into the alcove from one of the rooms Jon had been checking out. She was stroking his hair as the two cops stepped through a door that opened, and Halladay gestured to the blonde in a way that indicated they would be riding alone and she should get the next elevator.

  “What is this place?” Jon said.

  “You don’t want me to call you Country Boy, but you deserve it if you can’t tell what this is. What, you don’t have many brothels in F for Fart, or whoever you’re from?”

  “Ephrata,” Jon said. “And last time I counted, I think it was exactly zero.”

  “Well, there’s a few here, but this one’s unique. Officially it’s known as ‘Three Hundred Lex,’ but people call it ‘Hetero House,’ because Betty won’t allow any gay sex at all. She’s a born-again Christian, considers it her job in life to keep people biblical, you know. So she provides these … services, for teens, especially. A lot of them are sent by parents who want their first experience to be hetero, to put ’em on the right path from the beginning, they think. You’d be surprised how many people around here are worried about that, at least privately, though they might be really tolerant in front of everyone else. And Betty obliges them.… ‘Screw ’em straight,’ that’s her motto.”

  “Only in New York,” was all Jon could mutter before the elevator stopped at the top floor, which was the eighth, and Halladay led them to a door with a police badge taped next to the number.

  “There’s something else unique about this establishment,” Halladay said as he turned a key in the door. “It’s protected. They don’t have to move around or worry about getting shut down by the cops … as long as they let me and the missus stay up here.” He opened the door and took Jon inside to show him a modest but nice living room. “Ta da. A little ‘penthouse’ of my own.… It’s not One Madison, but I like it.” He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled, “Yoohoo … anyone home?”

  Both men stood quietly, lost in very different thoughts, until out of the far hallway there appeared a young black woman, with a hint of Asian, pulling a robe around her. Her hair was messy, but she was still quite attractive. Halladay sprang toward her and started kissing her.

  “What time is it?” she said, gently pushing Halladay away.

  “What difference does it make,” the now red-faced cop said jokingly, “when it’s always nighttime?”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Well, you’ll have to take a little break, ’cause your man’s here now. Jon, this is Nina Cobra, my main squeeze. Nina, this is my new partner.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jon said, and looked at his partner. “Where did that nickname come from?”

  “It’s not a nickname,” Halladay said. “Believe it or not.”

  “It’s my work name,” Nina said.

  “It used to be her work name,” Halladay corrected her. “When she used to work here.” The tall o
lder man looked down at the short younger woman, and pulled her closer. “Before I saved her.”

  “Yeah.” She hugged him back. “He saved me from everybody else.”

  “So she’s taken,” Halladay said to Jon. “But Betty can get you one.… What kind do you like?”

  Jon shook his head and laughed nervously, but then answered, “I guess I like the same kind you do—the kind you don’t have to pay for.”

  Halladay and Nina looked at each other, not sure whether that was a compliment or an insult. So John changed the subject.

  “Do you have children?” he asked, expecting a ‘yes’ because of Halladay’s references to going home to see his family.

  “Are you kidding?” was all the big cop had to say about that. “Okay, well, I’m gonna get some R and R with Nina … literally, but in reverse order. You can raid the fridge and crash on the couch if you want—the other rooms in this building aren’t available for just one person. Sorry if any noises make it hard to sleep, though—the walls are a bit thin.” He winked at Jon and pulled the woman down the hallway and out of sight.

  After standing in the same position for a little while longer, Jon shook his head and stepped over to the kitchen area of the big open room. He opened the refrigerator and immediately wondered if Halladay’s reference to “raiding” it was an intended or unintended pun, because along with some food and drink it contained various kinds of illegal drugs, with no attempt being made to hide them. There were conspicuous amounts, too much for just the woman or the two of them to ingest, so Jon assumed that this was Nina’s new source of income. She probably provided them for the hookers and their customers, keeping them here because it was the most protected place in the building.

  Jon didn’t see anything he wanted to eat, and his appetite was also stunted by the sounds that were now floating out from the back room, as advertised. Along with some rather loud music there were squeals of delight, which Jon found mildly amusing at first. But then he felt increasingly uncomfortable and knew he would indeed have trouble getting any rest here. So he checked the time on his phone and stared for a while at Halladay’s keys, which were beckoning to him from the coffee table. Finally, he snatched them up and headed out of the apartment.

  As he passed by the older Chinese woman and her cubicle in the lobby, she asked if he was leaving without sampling the merchandise.

  “It’s free for you,” she said in a thick accent.

  Jon stopped in front of her briefly, curious and with plenty of time to spare before his 2:00 P.M. date.

  “I heard you won’t serve me if I’m gay,” he said.

  “Right,” she said. “Straight is natural, gay is not natural. Says that in the book of Romans.”

  “How can you get away with that,” he asked her, “with the discrimination laws and all?”

  “We’re illegal already,” she said.

  “Hmmm, I guess that makes sense,” Jon said, to be polite, and then added, to be honest: “Or doesn’t.”

  He smiled awkwardly at her, waved goodbye, and headed out to the car.

  It took him longer than expected to get back to the Flatiron District, because the GPS on his phone stopped working a few times along the way and he had to guess which direction to go in. When he got there, he found a parking garage not far from The Office—not wanting to test Halladay’s illegal parking methods without the older cop there—and then walked to the bar. He had made it with just ten minutes to spare before 2:00 P.M.

  Mallory was still working behind the bar, as was a good-looking young man with bright gold tips in his short dark hair. She saw Jon when he was about halfway across the room, and moved to make sure she would be serving him when he took a seat.

  “I hope it’s not a coincidence,” she said, drawing as close as the bar would allow, “that you came when I’m about to get off.”

  “I definitely wanted to catch you before you left,” Jon said, letting her possible pun go. “To show you these pictures.”

  Jon needed to gauge whether his plan for the next few hours was even necessary, though inwardly he was hoping that it would be. So he pulled out his phone and showed Mallory the photos of the four recent customers from the security tapes that had been identified by the facial recognition software at police headquarters. He asked her if any of them might be suspicious in any way, or if she thought there was any possibility one of them might be the killer they were looking for. He watched her closely as she looked at them, and then went back through them a second time to observe her reactions further. She laughed out loud at two of them as she said “No way,” and didn’t recognize a third, but her laughing from the prior one modulated involuntarily when Jon switched to the photo of the female who had mistakenly come up under a male name. And the second time through the pictures, Jon noticed that Mallory seemed to make an extra effort to compose herself when she denied recognizing the short, round woman.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” Jon said, giving her an opportunity to compose herself by putting the phone away and flashing his nicest smile.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” she said. “Whaddaya want?”

  “I’ll take a Link Up.”

  “Okay,” she said, thinking. “That’s American whiskey and Russian vodka, with lime juice, right?”

  “Usually Southern Comfort, I think.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  As Jon sat on his stool, admiring Mallory while she made the drink, he realized that his secret wishes for the next few hours were coming true, and so were his worst fears about her.

  11

  “You won’t have much time to drink this if you’re gonna walk me home,” Mallory said when she returned with the cocktail. She was completely composed again by now.

  “That’s okay,” Jon said. “I don’t ever drink the whole thing anyway. I only take a few sips.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t really like the taste. It’s just a hobby for me, ’cause I love a series of books by a guy who drank a lot, and his detective character drank a lot. So it’s kind of a way to be like him. I know it’s weird. But I also can’t afford to be off my game mentally at all.… I like succeeding at what I do, and I’m pretty much working all the time.”

  “That’s not weird at all,” Mallory said, and seemed delighted to hear this from Jon. “Well, maybe it is, but I’m weird, too.” She lowered her voice. “I’m a bartender, but I don’t actually drink myself. Not a drop.”

  “Hmmm. Why’s that?”

  “I’m like you, I don’t really like it. But also my dad, who bought the bar with me … he has to have it all the time. Can’t get to sleep without it, gets irritable without it. It’s sad.”

  “Is he the man sitting over there in the corner?” Jon said, and Mallory looked surprised and asked how he knew. He responded, “Pretty basic detective work.” Then he changed the subject, not wanting his job to be the center of this conversation.

  “So when you leave—and it’s almost two, by the way—I’m guessing the number of men in the bar goes down considerably. You’re the biggest source of business, I imagine.”

  “Not really. They like Bree, too.” Jon realized she must have been referring to another bartender who was not currently working.

  “And him, over there,” he said, nodding toward the young man with the gold tips, “he brings in the female crowd?”

  “Some, and men, too. Most of the women come for the men who come for me and Bree.”

  “Ahhh,” Jon said. “I think I followed that.”

  As if on cue, another attractive girl with dark hair appeared behind the bar from the rear entrance. She was a lot shorter than Mallory, but like her boss also made the most of a similar black outfit, utilitarian yet classy.

  As Mallory said, “Ready to go?” to Jon, and came out from behind the bar with her purse and coat to walk with him to the door, both Bree and the male bartender stopped what they were doing, wearing surprised
looks at the sight of their boss leaving with a customer. Apparently that didn’t happen very often.

  “My place is on the other side of the park,” she said as they hit the night air, which seemed to be warmer than Jon remembered it.

  “Do you usually say goodbye to your dad when you leave?” Jon asked as they were walking.

  “Uh, yeah, I do, actually. I forgot this time.”

  “You’re distracted.”

  “It’s your fault,” she said, after thinking for a few seconds. “Asking for a drink named Link Up.… That was really subtle.”

  “At least I didn’t order a Screaming O. Though I thought about it.”

  “You could have had a Flirtini.… That would have worked.”

  “Nah, I like to skip right past the flirting, and go straight for the Screaming O.”

  Jon almost winced at this theatrical banter, which sounded more like Halladay than himself. But it was a part of the role he felt he had to play to get more information from Mallory. He also was aware, however, that she was doing the same thing for reasons of her own.

  They both laughed half-sincerely at the jokes they continued to make as they traversed the park, bathed in the otherworldly light of the UV lamps. By the time they had reached the other side of it, they had both taken off their coats and were each holding them in one hand, because it really was getting warmer out. And their other hands were clasped together.

  Her apartment was a couple blocks beyond the park, on Twenty-Third Street, and shortly after they reached it they had taken off a lot more than their coats, and a lot more than their hands were clasped together. The words “dream girl” floated across Jon’s mind as he saw and felt more of her, and when he apologized for the various wounds and bandages on his body, she even said that she liked them. (“They’ll leave some major scars, and I’ve always loved men with scars.”)