Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  Think, he told himself. Get ahead of it.

  Sam Lonegan surely would be properly dressed in a suit and tie. There would be nothing about him to alert anyone’s attention. In fact, he would probably look like another prosecutor. That would be Milton’s little inside joke. He might even have the proper name tag. What Matthew had to do was determine where the assassination would occur. It wouldn’t matter that Sam Lonegan would be caught right afterward or shot. His body would disappear somehow. He was confident of that. Keith Arthur hadn’t been seen again.

  For dust you are and to dust you will return, he thought. Everything he does is in one way or another a mockery of scripture.

  He studied the picture of Lonegan and then got out and walked slowly to the hotel, looking at every man he passed. He stepped into the lobby and paused. The famous King Cole Bar looked crowded. Every seat was taken at the dark, lavish wood bar with the famous Old King Cole mural. There were enough suits in there to tell him that there must be a break between sessions going on. It was an opportune time for Lonegan, a man no one but he would recognize.

  The desk clerk and hotel security personnel looked curiously at him standing there, turning in a slow circle, studying everything with an unusual intensity. They could see some people were disturbed by the way he scrutinized them. One of the security men stepped up to him.

  “Sir? You looking for someone? Are you here to register?” he asked.

  Matthew took out his identification and showed it to him.

  “Oh. Well, what’s up, Lieutenant?” the man asked.

  “There’s going to be an attempted assassination here, maybe at any moment,” he replied.

  “What?” The man’s face paled.

  “Don’t worry. I have it under control,” he said, and stepped toward the bar. He could see Mike Barrett at a corner table, talking to two other men. He panned the crowd. No one resembling Lonegan appeared to be in there.

  “Sir,” the security man said, coming up behind him, “are more police personnel on the way? Should I clear the room? Is there anyone to alert?”

  “There’s no time to get any more help now,” Matthew said.

  He started walking into the bar but stopped. Something made him turn around and look toward the entrance.

  “I don’t understand,” the security man said.

  Matthew put up his hand, his gaze fixed on the man who had turned to the right so he couldn’t see his face clearly. The man was in a black suit and a black tie.

  “I’ll call the manager,” the security man said. Matthew didn’t respond.

  Sam Lonegan turned slowly, looked at Mike Barrett, and then turned to leave the hotel. Matthew shot out after him. He might have stopped him now, he thought, but he’d be out there waiting for another opportunity. He paused at the entrance and saw Lonegan hurrying east. He was walking fast, almost gliding over the sidewalk. Matthew hurried after him, walking fast and then breaking into a run when he saw him turn between a truck and a taxi and head into a narrow alleyway.

  Matthew held up his hand to bring a vehicle to a stop, with the driver leaning out of his window to scream profanities. He didn’t look back. In moments, he was in the same alleyway. It wound around behind a restaurant. He took out his pistol and moved slowly. When he made the turn, he saw Lonegan just standing there, smiling. He had his own gun out.

  Instinctively, Matthew went to one knee and got off his first shot, a perfect shot, drilling a hole right in the center of Lonegan’s forehead. Lonegan looked surprised for a moment and then returned to his smile as he literally folded like an accordion in slow motion, his head and neck sinking into his chest, his chest into his hips, his hips into his legs, and all of it into his feet, before he settled in a pile of ashes on the ground. Matthew stared, astonished. It was almost like killing a werewolf with a silver bullet.

  The sound of his pistol unloading still echoed in his ears, seeming to bounce off the alley walls before spilling into the busy street and merging with the cacophony of car horns, the sound of a jackhammer, and what he distinctly believed was a shrill cry of rage and sorrow rising from the sewers.

  He rose slowly, and as he approached the ashes, he recited the Lord’s Prayer. He holstered his pistol, took a deep breath, and called John Fish. As soon as Fish answered, he told him his location.

  “I need a backup team here ASAP,” he said. “I was just in a shoot-out, a very unusual shoot-out.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just move quickly,” he replied. He ended the call and took out a handkerchief to wipe his face. He could feel the layer of cold sweat covering his forehead, cheeks, and neck. As he stared down at the ashes, he wondered just how much information forensics would be able to determine. Certainly not any identity, since all DNA was destroyed in cremation. Maybe all they could determine was that they were the ashes of a human. He remembered that sometimes a tooth might survive, and with the barrel of his pistol, he moved the ashes around, searching. The bone-colored material was as fine as sand.

  Who would believe him? He couldn’t get a confession from Beardsly now. He knew that Morgan Foster would be sufficiently vague about who had picked up the urn, and although Fish had accompanied him to investigate the funeral home, he could confirm nothing that would relate to this. Neither he nor Michele believed anything he told them. He knew that.

  He spun around when he thought he heard someone laughing. For a few moments, he stared at the alleyway, half expecting John Milton to come sauntering toward him, wearing that same wry, confident smile he had worn in the courtroom when he had cross-examined him. No one came. He heard the sound of police sirens and breathed with some relief.

  And then it happened.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a rush of air spun around him and scooped up the ashes. He turned quickly as they rose in a funnel and began to scatter at least a dozen feet above him. Another breeze swooping down from the tops of the surrounding buildings picked them up and swept them away, scattering them in the air before it all became totally calm again. He looked down at the empty place where the small pile of ashes had been, just as he heard the first patrolman call to him from the alleyway. Two more uniformed patrolmen came rushing behind him, guns drawn. The three paused and looked around. Matthew holstered his pistol again.

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” the first patrolman asked.

  Matthew reviewed his response before replying. He could start to explain this to them, but they’d end up being witnesses to establish that he had lost his senses. John Milton would grab victory from the jaws of defeat, for after all, he did stop the assassination. He had beaten him this time, and it was most important to be able to beat him another.

  “I had a tip that someone was going to assassinate the DA,” he replied. “I spotted a man who looked suspicious to me, and he ran out of the St. Regis.”

  “Where is he?” the second patrolman asked, glancing around.

  “I thought he went down the alley and I’d be in a shoot-out, but he must have slipped out or gotten into a car or something.”

  The patrolmen looked at him, then at each other, and holstered their pistols.

  “I’ll make a report,” he said. “Thanks for getting here quickly.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant,” the first patrolman said. The three hesitated as Matthew gazed around and then up at the tops of the buildings. Milton’s resurrected assassin was back in hell, at least.

  And now he knew that they could die twice.

  He nodded and followed his backup patrolmen out of the alley.

  He walked back up to the St. Regis. Whatever break the conference participants had taken had ended. The bar had only half a dozen people in it. One of them was Michele Armstrong. She had apparently just arrived and was speaking with the security man who had first approached him. The moment she saw him, she broke away.

  “Where have you been? What did you do, Matthew?” she asked.

  “I stopped him,” he replied. “Let’s get a drink.”r />
  He walked over to the bar. She stood back, hesitant, but then joined him.

  “What would you like?”

  “Nothing, Matthew. She slipped onto the stool next to him. “Just tell me something . . . sensible.”

  “Grey Goose and soda,” he told the bartender. “Sensible,” he repeated, as if he was turning the word around and around, checking it like a jeweler determining the value of a diamond.

  “Yes, sensible, for Christ’s sake.”

  He smiled. “I guess in a way, it all is for Christ’s sake. When I finish this drink,” he began after the bartender put it in front of him, “I’m going to report my having a life-and-death struggle with Tom Beardsly.” He turned to show her the bruise on his cheek.

  “About that business with the urn?”

  “Yes, that business. He admitted to picking it up and delivering it to John Milton, but apparently, Milton kept him in the dark about what he would do with it, what it all meant. Our discussion got . . . how should I put it . . . out of hand. He attacked me, and we struggled. He almost killed me, but I was able to get off a shot and—”

  “You killed him?”

  “For now,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “I’ll bet you and anyone else a thousand dollars that he’ll be cremated and probably at the same funeral parlor.”

  “Matthew, you have to report this now. It’s a fatal shooting. It needs to be properly investigated.”

  “I know the drill. I’ll take care of it. It will put me down for a while until everything is stamped kosher. The important thing is I’ll be back. You can deliver that message if he takes you out to dinner again.”

  She shook her head, looking at him with far more pity than sympathy. It made him smile.

  “I told you. The devil’s greatest asset is the fact that so many don’t believe he literally exists.”

  She looked down at her hands clasped together on the bar. “I really like you, Matthew. You’re a very bright and interesting man. Maybe you’re just working too hard. This shooting review will give you an opportunity to step back, get some rest.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “Just give it a chance. Go up to your country retreat, and don’t do anything that remotely relates to law enforcement. Read, cook, fish, whatever. Do it for a while, and I’ll try to come up for a weekend.”

  “That would make me happy, but I repeat, it won’t change anything. Michele, you’re good. You’re still dedicated and idealistic enough to believe you can make a difference. You only can do that if you’re aware of those who will try to stop you from doing it. Unfortunately, a good dose of cynicism and distrust is very important in this world. It’s just the way it is.”

  “Okay, Matthew.”

  “No, it’s not okay, Michele. I hope you’ll realize that soon. Outside the halls of justice—which is a misnomer to start with, because what goes on inside doesn’t have as much to do with justice as it does with power or money—there is the statue of Lady Justice. She supposedly wears the blindfold to be objective and impartial, but I’ve come to believe that she wears it because she can’t stand seeing how the scales are tipped with much more than facts and truth. The rich get their version of justice, and the poor get punished for being poor. It’s almost as though he designed it. No wonder he’s here now. No wonder he’s deeply entrenched in it.”

  “Milton?”

  “Whatever name he goes by at the time. It’s all humorous to him, Michele. Do you know who John Milton was, what he wrote?”

  “Yes. Paradise Lost.”

  “In which Lucifer is a tragic hero. ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.’ He’s doing a good job of turning this into a suburb of hell.”

  She put her right hand on his arm. “I can’t believe you believe all this, that you’ve become so paranoid.”

  He shrugged. “A good detective has to be paranoid.”

  “Certainly not to this extent.”

  “What’s happening with your rape case?”

  “We’re dropping the charges. After more research, I found that there were even more complications.”

  “But you were out front on it. Rozwell put you there. Get a little paranoid, Michele, before it’s too late.”

  “Cynical and paranoid.”

  He shrugged. “It’s survival.”

  “Okay. I won’t give up on you. My aunt wouldn’t permit that, anyway.”

  He nodded. “When you do, he’s won a big victory.”

  She stared into his eyes for a moment and then leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and slipped off the stool.

  He watched her walk out. And he wondered.

  How far away would she be the next time he saw her?

  Epilogue

  John Milton watched Bill Simon sign the papers that essentially turned the firm over to him. John had added three more attorneys and replaced every secretary. As they sat there in the conference room, the designer John had hired was beginning the renovations of the offices. John had bought out the leases on the adjacent offices, too, and the work had begun to tear down walls and expand. Simon was astonished at how quickly John was getting the building permits and approvals. When he mentioned that, John shrugged and smiled.

  “Isn’t all life a matter of who you know more than what you know, Bill? Surely someone who has reached your age and had your experiences knows that.”

  “No, what I’ve learned is it isn’t who or what you know. It’s who or what you can buy,” he replied. “Exhibit A,” he added, lifting the papers with his signature on them.

  John laughed.

  “I’d wish you good luck,” Simon added, “but somehow I don’t think that ever mattered to you.”

  “Every successful man knows you make your own luck, Bill, or, rather, when a fortunate opportunity arises, you have to have what it takes to make it beneficial. That’s my definition of luck.”

  “Yes.” Simon sat back. “As you did after Warner Murphy’s inexplicable death.”

  “The king dies. Long live the king. Nothing’s new about that.”

  Simon stood and looked around. “I didn’t think I would get so tired of all this so soon, but when you’re mired in the uglier side of things daily, you can’t take a shower hot enough or long enough to feel clean.”

  “Cleanliness is overrated,” John said.

  “My mother used to tell me that cleanliness was next to godliness.”

  “Exactly. Overrated,” John said, standing. He extended his hand. “Good luck to you in your retirement, Bill, and thank you for preparing a great foundation for a great firm.”

  “What will you call it now?”

  “What else? John Milton and Associates.”

  Simon nodded. “Good lu—I mean, make good use of your fortunate opportunities.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He watched him leave. Then he went to the window and looked down at the city, at the lines of traffic moving like snails, the pedestrians rushing over sidewalks and across the streets. He saw only vulnerable souls, people looking over their shoulders suspiciously at strangers.

  “How frightened they all are. Why did you make them so frightened? They fear being hungry, being cold, being tired, and being sick. They fear failure, and most of all, they fear death. You created them with lust and jealousy, sloth and vanity. You challenged them to be angels after you failed even with the angels you had created. Don’t you realize how easy you made it for me?

  “Or is this all part of your grand scheme? Am I walking into another trap? Don’t reveal it. If I knew where I was heading, it would take away the joy of the trip.”

  He laughed and then heard a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  Nora entered, looking sexier than ever. Her red silk dress was more like a second layer of skin. She looked bright and excited, and that excited him.

  “What delicious thing are you here to tell me, Nora?”

  “The Jacob twins are here,” she sa
id.

  “Ah, my teenagers accused of patricide. Did I ever tell you that it’s one of my favorites to defend?”

  “I wonder why,” Nora said. Her eyes narrowed, and her tongue thinned and emerged to taste his scent.

  He smiled. “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  In the moment, in the silence that followed, he had his first feeling of doubt in a very long time. It was like a cold passing breeze. He shook it off quickly.

  Then he opened the door and, holding himself as regally as he once was, returned to the battlefield like a soldier who could live nowhere else.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge Adam Wilson, my editor, who is one of the brightest new stars on the publishing scene today.

  For Anita Diamant

  One Classy Lady

  Prologue

  Richard Jaffee hurried down the steps of the court building in New York’s Federal Plaza more like an attorney who had just lost a case than an attorney who had just won. Strands of his thin raven-black hair broke loose and danced about his head as he raced down the stone steps. Passersby took only casual notice of him. People in New York were always rushing to make a train, to make a cab, to beat out a changing light. Often they were just being carried along by the momentum moving through Manhattan’s arteries, pumped by the invisible yet omnipresent giant heart that made the city pulsate like no other city in the world.

  Jaffee’s client, Robert Fundi, lingered behind to absorb the attention of reporters who clustered around him with the mindless energy of worker bees. They were all shouting similar questions: What did the owner of a major private sanitation firm in the Lower East Side think of his being declared innocent of all charges of extortion? Was the trial just political because there had been talk of him running for borough president? Why didn’t the prosecution’s key witness tell all that he had allegedly told the prosecution?