MacAvoy looked at the ceiling. "Who the hell decided it was Cute Metaphor Day?"
"Watch your tone, Detective. I see a lot of supposition here."
Pointing at the warrant, MacAvoy said, "We got a scientific article backin' us up!"
"With all due respect to The Journal of Paranormal Studies, all the accounts in it are secondhand. We don't actually know what happened to Starling in that other dimension, we just know what Dr. Lieber was told happened to the entire team, with a pretty appalling lack of specifics. If we had any kind of evidence that Starling was altered into something like the descriptions we have of the Claw, then, maybe, I could see it."
Before MacAvoy could say something else impolitic, Milewski jumped in. "What if we can get that evidence?" She had no idea how to do so, but she was officially at the grasping-at-straws stage.
Velasquez folded her hands together. "I still couldn't sign it, because I also don't have enough specifics about whose DNA you're asking for."
Milewski blinked. "Sorry?"
"You're asking for Starling's DNA. Tell me—who is that?"
Now Milewski winced, seeing where she was going with this.
However, Velasquez kept going. "Let's say I do sign this, and you go up to that blimp, and you get DNA from a guy in Starling's costume. First off, what if the DNA doesn't match? It'll be a political and a PR nightmare, and your lieutenant, captain, and commissioner will all be getting it from on high, and you know that abuse'll kick down on both of you."
"The DNA'll match," MacAvoy said. "It's him."
"How do you know?"
"Because I been doin' this a while. I know when somethin' feels right, and this does. Your buddy here, my partner? She's a royal pain, and she don't always know her ass from her elbow, but one day she's gonna be good police, an' I know this 'cause she nailed this one. Starling's the Claw."
Milewski felt her jaw drop almost to the floor.
"Besides," Mac added, "if I'm wrong, I can take the heat. I'm three months from my thirty, I could give a shit if Dellamonica gets pissed at me."
Velasquez tilted her head in acknowledgment. "Fine. Now, let's say you are right, and the Claw is Starling, and the DNA you get from the guy in Starling's costume matches what you've found on the Claw's victims. So you go back to the blimp and arrest a guy in Starling's costume. How do you know it's the same guy? See, I've had McLean Foundation lawyers in my courtroom before. This goes to trial, first thing they'll do is move for a dismissal, because the deputy prosecutor won't have any proof that the Starling you took your DNA from is the same guy in the courtroom."
"That's nuts," MacAvoy said.
"Is it? Five people have been called Old Glory, and we only know two of their real names, and we didn't find those out until after they died. Hell, we don't have definitive proof that there were as many as five, or that there were only five."
MacAvoy exhaled through his teeth. "We'll have Starling's real name once we arrest him."
"Yeah, but that still won't necessarily be who you got the DNA from." She pointed at the piece of paper. "And that name isn't on your warrant. I need a real person to put there, and we don't have it."
"We could make it a material witness warrant," Milewski said. "Then we can not only take the DNA, but hold him until the results came in."
Velasquez shook her head. "You don't have enough for a material-witness warrant."
"Why not?" MacAvoy asked. "He's a person of interest, and he's an actual flight risk—he can fly and everything."
"Because we're back to the problem of your lousy PC."
Milewski shook her head. "What if we can get his real name?"
"I can issue a court order," Velasquez said with a sigh, "but only if you can get a DP to come up with a good legal argument to justify suspending his fourth- and fifth-amendment rights."
Standing up, MacAvoy said, "This is fucking insane."
The sharp look returned as Velasquez looked up at MacAvoy. "Watch your mouth, Detective."
MacAvoy smiled. "Sorry. This is fucking ridiculous."
"Mac—" Milewski started, but her partner was on a roll.
He started pacing the classroom-turned-chambers. "It'll take weeks to get all that, if we can find a DP with enough balls to take on the Six and if those fucking McLean Foundation lawyers you're talkin' about don't rip it to shreds. Meanwhile the Claw'll prob'ly kill a buncha other people, and the Six'll keep covering his ass."
"I don't like it anymore than you do, Detective MacAvoy, but this is what we have to deal with. You've been on the job for thirty years, you know the drill."
MacAvoy moved toward the door—a wooden door with a small square window that the judge had covered with a cloth to preserve privacy. "Twenty-nine years, nine months, and three weeks. And lemme tell ya, that last three months and one week can't come fast enough."
He threw the door open and left.
With a sigh, Milewski stood up. "I'd better go catch up to him before he does something stupid."
Velasquez smiled. "You mean besides being too dumb to realize he has two months and one week to retirement?"
Almost involuntarily, Milewski laughed. "No, it really is three months, he's just been on the job a month shorter than he's counted it. I stopped correcting him a couple days into our partnership."
"He's an ass, but he's a good cop—his testimonies in my court have always been solid, and he makes good cases." She smiled. "And he seems to like you."
"This isn't any definition of 'like' I'm familiar with. Mostly, I get saddled with the him-being-an-ass part." She shook her head. "Whatever, it's only three more months. I'll tough it out. Thanks, anyhow."
Velasquez got up and walked around the desk. "No problem. And it's good to see you—but next time, could you wear a suit you haven't slept in?"
"I didn't sleep in it, I just—" Milewski felt her cheeks flush. "Never mind—let's just say that I never made it home last night."
Now Velasquez's pleasant smile modulated into a mischievous grin that no one ever saw in her courtroom. "Was he any good?"
Shuddering, Milewski said, "He was engaged."
"That wasn't what I asked." At Milewski's look of disbelief, Velasquez added, "Hey, c'mon, us old married types have to live vicariously through you single ladies."
"Gimme a break." Milewski shook her head. "Speaking of which, how are Pablo and the kids?"
"Pablo's got a job interview tomorrow, and the kids're fine. Giaconda asked about her aunt Krissie the other day."
Milewski got a warm smile at that. Gia was a sweet kid. "Tell her I'm fine, and I'd love to see her if her Mom ever invited me over to dinner."
Her face growing serious, Velasquez said, "Let's see how the interview goes."
"Yeah."
They briefly hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Then Milewski went to the door. In a plastic garbage can next to the door were both her and MacAvoy's umbrellas. Somehow it didn't surprise Milewski that her partner was so busy storming out in a huff that he forgot his umbrella. "Take care, your honor."
"You too, Detective."
After pulling open the door, Milewski jogged down the linoleum hallway toward the corner staircase, in the hopes that she didn't play catch-up with Velasquez for so long that she lost her partner.
She chastised herself for thinking that her friendship with the judge would get her any special treatment. Velasquez wasn't one to do that. The pair of them had spent many a night at a bar bemoaning the old boys' network, and she wasn't about to engage in that kind of behavior, not even for her old high-school buddy.
As Milewski went down the wide staircase, she thought about poor Pablo. The small tech consulting firm he'd worked for since graduating college had their offices trashed by the Pantheon six months earlier, and the owners took the insurance money and disappeared to Costa Rica, leaving their dozen employees—including Pablo—suddenly unemployed. He hadn't been taking it well, which was why Velasquez had deferred inviting Milewski over for dinner. Pa
blo wasn't fit company when he was in a bad mood.
MacAvoy wasn't anywhere to be seen on the ground floor, but Milewski figured he was standing outside the big metal doors sucking nicotine.
Sure enough, when she pushed the horizontal bar in to release the door, it opened to reveal MacAvoy standing under the overhang with a cigarette in his mouth.
"'Bout time you got down here," MacAvoy said, taking one final drag before dropping the cigarette and stepping on it. He grabbed his umbrella out of Milewski's hands and opened it. "C'mon, we're goin' to the SchwartzBuilding."
Milewski opened her own umbrella. "What?"
"We can't get a court order for DNA, 'cause we need a name. Fine, no problem. Y'know what we don't need a court order to do? Talk."
"Talk?"
MacAvoy nodded. "Talk. We go to the SchwartzBuilding, and ask to speak to Starling as a person of interest in the Claw case. And then we sit down with him and ask him questions."
"Which he probably won't answer." The pair of them turned into the parking lot, heading for their Malibu.
"Maybe. But he definitely ain't gonna answer 'em if we don't ask. 'Sides, if it's a choice between talkin' to another costume or tryin'a get one of the limp-dick DPs to get that court order before I retire, I'm gonna go back to the blimp."
Milewski wanted to argue with MacAvoy, but found she actually agreed with his logic.
Disgusted by the very thought, she went to the passenger side, hoping she remembered to stick a protein bar in there.
She closed and shook the umbrella as she clambered into the car, then dropped it on the floor in front of her. As she leaned down to open the glove compartment in the hopes of finding food, she caught a flash of light out of the corner of her eye.
Looking up and out the windshield, she saw a speck of light in the sky that seemed to be growing larger.
Within the space of two seconds, it grew incredibly large, showing itself to be a round metal object that seemed to be plummeting toward the ground. It kept getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger, plowing through the cumulous clouds. For a moment, Milewski thought it was going to crash right into the city. In fact, she reached for the Malibu's radio, just in case—though she was sure PCD was being flooded with contacts from cops on the street at this point.
Suddenly, the UFO—for that was what the thing truly was, an unidentified flying object—decelerated with frightening speed and efficiency, settling about a thousand feet over the city. From the looks of it, the thing was hovering right over the ThomasRiver. A massive sonic boom rocked the car briefly, shattering glass all up and down the street, and setting off at least three nearby car alarms.
Holy shit.
MacAvoy sat in the driver's side, looking out at the same tableau. Reaching nonchalantly into his jacket pocket, he took out his pack of cigarettes. "Great. Another damned alien invasion…"
6.17pm
The rain was pounding against the windshield as Trevor Baptiste heard the sound of Rhonda Fontaine's favorite TV show theme coming from his partner's pocket.
He was behind the wheel this time. To Baptiste's relief, she actually offered to let him drive, as she was in a bad mood. Since her last bad mood involved treating 13th Street like a slalom course, he was more than happy to accede to that particular request.
At present, they were sitting on the shoulder of the Goodwin Expressway, watching the traffic go by. With the big alien ship in the sky, and nobody yet knowing who or what it was about, people often panicked, and panic on highways with cars going sixty-five miles-an-hour or more could get dangerous. Right now, the ship wasn't doing anything, and Baptiste had seen one of the Superior Six—he wasn't sure which—flying toward it to investigate.
Fontaine took out her phone and said, "Yeah, Yasmin?"
Baptiste could hear the babysitter's voice. "I am very sorry, Miss Mara, but Rhonda needs to speak to you right away. I know you do not like to be bothered while at work, but—"
"It's okay," Fontaine said quickly. "Put her on."
Sounding incredibly relieved, Yasmin said, "Thank you, Miss Mara. Here she is."
Now the voice on the phone was shakier and quieter. "M—Mommy?"
"I'm here, Rhonda-bear. It's okay."
"Mommy, I'm scared."
Baptiste winced. Fontaine leaned forward in the passenger seat. "I know you're scared. But it's gonna be okay."
"No, it's not! The aliens are gonna kill us all! I know it!"
"They're not. Don't worry, Rhonda-bear, it'll be just like the last time, and the time before that. Everything will be fine."
Shaking his head, Baptiste tried not to think too hard about the fact that, at age seven, his partner's daughter was already on her third alien invasion.
"Can you come home?"
"Unit 2205, this is PCD. We have a signal 10 at 472 82nd Street. There's blood dripping from the ceiling of the ground-floor apartment."
Baptiste gave Fontaine a look. They were on the shoulder right near the 81st Street exit on the expressway, which would put them just a few blocks from that address.
"I'm sorry, but Uncle Trevor and I just got a call. We need to go protect people, okay? But I promise, right afterward? We'll come by and say hi, all righty?" She glanced at Baptiste, who smiled and nodded as he put the cruiser into gear and merged into the traffic on the Goodwin.
"All righty, Mommy." Rhonda sounded less shaky.
"Take care, Rhonda-bear," she said as Baptiste exited the expressway and took the left turn onto 81st. "I love you lots."
"I love you more than lots!"
With a smile, Fontaine put the phone away. "Rhonda was scared because of—"
"Yeah, I heard. You keep your phone's volume far too loud."
"Sorry." She sighed. "I'm starting to think we should've put off that call."
"Taylor'd be on our asses if we did that. We'll swing by to see your girl afterward." Baptiste smiled, then. "'Sides, I ain't tickled her in way too long."
Baptiste turned onto Cornell Place, which brought them quickly over to 82nd. The 400 block of 82nd Street was entirely three-story brownstones. He double-parked the cruiser in front of 472.
Fontaine called into PCD that they'd arrived, and then both officers climbed out of the blue-and-white, their police hats protecting them from the rain. She glowered at him as they approached the building. "You know she hates being tickled, right?"
Chuckling, he replied, "Nah, she loves it, she just pretends to hate it to maintain her dignity."
"She's seven, Trevor, she doesn't have dignity."
Like most of the brownstones, 472 had a big stone staircase leading up to the main door, which had two doorbells—likely for the first- and second-floor apartments. To the right was a gate to a tiny verandah that had a door recessed into the staircase, which led to the ground-floor apartment, from which the call had come.
Baptiste opened the gate, which creaked open, walked across the verandah, and rang the doorbell next to the door under the stairs. It had a laminated piece of paper with the words hao & xue hsu in the slot beneath it.
The door opened to reveal an older Asian woman, with short, paper-white hair and heavy wrinkles down to her jowls. She wore a shabby white housedress and large fuzzy white slippers. Baptiste assumed this was Xue Hsu.
"Hello," she said in a low, accented voice. "Thank you for coming. There is dripping from the place upstairs."
A male voice from inside the apartment screamed out something in what Baptiste figured to be Mandarin or Cantonese, given the last name on the doorbell. That was probably Hao Hsu. The woman turned around and yelled back into the apartment in the same language, her voice an octave higher, several decibels louder, and considerably faster.
Then she turned back. "Please excuse my husband. He cannot hear very well, and he wants to know if mail came."
Baptiste asked, "We were told it might be blood?"
Xue nodded. "At first we think it's rain—the ceiling has leaked before—but this is red. We call ups
tairs, but she not answer."
"You know your neighbor personally?" Fontaine asked. That wasn't a given, after all. In fact, Baptiste didn't know any of the other people in his own building, aside from the superintendant.
Again, the old woman nodded. "We feed her cat when she go out of town. But she not answer cell phone."
"You sure she's home?" Fontaine asked.
"We hear walking around—floors lousy here. That why it leaks." This time she shook her head. "We know every time she home."
"What is her name?" Baptiste asked.
"Joan." She gave a small, sheepish smile. "I not pronounce her last name."
Baptiste gave her a reassuring smile back. "That's fine, ma'am. We will check it out."
"Thank you." She retreated back inside, shouting something back to her husband in the high-pitched wail she used for her native tongue.
Baptiste looked at Fontaine, shrugged, and then walked out of the verandah, again opening the creaky gate.
The rain was getting harder. "Christ," Fontaine muttered, "if that damn spaceship has to be there, couldn't it at least block some of the rain?"
That earned her a chuckle from Baptiste as the pair of them walked up the steep stone steps to the large wooden double doors with etched glass. The downstairs doorbell had the name ankhmeni under it—like the Hsus, the paper was laminated—while the top one had a regular piece of paper that had been water damaged, smudging the ink and rendering the name illegible.
"Damn," Fontaine said, "no wonder she couldn't pronounce it. I sure as hell can't."
Smugly, Baptiste said, "It's 'onc-MEN-ee'."
Fontaine just stared at him sourly, and ruined all his fun by dismissing him with a, "Whatever." She rang the bell.
After a few seconds, nobody answered. Baptiste reached for the doorknob of the rightmost of the double doors, and was surprised to find that it turned and the door came open, swinging out toward him.
He and Fontaine exchanged shrugs, and then they went in, each pulling out their Berettas.
Case of the Claw Page 18
