by George Mann
“So we lost everything?”
Mullins shook his head. “Ah, well, there's perhaps one small bit of good news, sir. We managed to extract the corpse before the arsonist was able to make his move. None of the files, none of the photographs you wanted, but we have the body in the police morgue.”
“Well, at least that's something, Mullins, although it's hardly much consolation when it's about to find itself accompanied by twelve others. Did anyone survive?”
Mullins shook his head. “Not so far as we're aware, sir. It was the middle of the night. They'd have found themselves trapped in their apartments by the flames. The first most of them would have known about it, it would already have been too late. It seems the arsonist started a secondary fire in the basement, just to be sure.” He dabbed ineffectually at his forehead with a handkerchief. “One thing's clear though, sir. The dead man wasn't a government agent.”
Donovan frowned. He realized the butt of his cigarette had burned down to the filter and had gone out. He flicked the remains of it into the ashtray on his desk, scattering plumes of gray ash. He reached inside his jacket for another. “Not an agent?” he asked quizzically. “Go on.”
“We managed to get a positive identification for the man from our records, sir. He never worked for the government in any official capacity. He was hired muscle by the name of Paulo Lucarotti. He had a connection to the mob. What's more, he'd been in custody at a state penitentiary until two months ago, at which point he was given an early pardon and released.” Mullins stood back, evidently pleased with himself. But, Donovan noted, the haunted expression had not left his eyes.
“That's unusual,” Donovan replied, frowning. “So you're telling me a mob heavy gets released from jail early in order to go after a British spy, winds up dead, and then the scene of the crime gets torched, killing twelve innocent people in the process.”
“That's about the size of it, sir, yes,” said Mullins. “There's one other thing, too.”
“What's that, Mullins?”
Mullins placed his hands on Donovan's desk and leaned forward, glancing from side to side before he spoke. When he did, his voice had dropped to a whisper, so that Donovan had to lean forward in his chair to hear. “Commissioner Montague himself is the signatory on the release papers.” He stood back, rubbing the base of his spine, as if leaning forward had unbalanced him and caused his creaking bones to grate.
Donovan exhaled smoke thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth. “The commissioner…Now that really is interesting, Mullins.”
“I thought so, sir.”
Donovan studied the sergeant's face but could see no trace of irony there. “Good work, Sergeant. Very good work, indeed.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think it's time I went for a little chat with the commissioner, to update him on our progress.” He jammed his cigarette between his teeth and spoke around it. “Be a good man, Mullins—get the coffee on. You look like you could use it as much as I could.”
For the first time that morning, Mullins smiled.
Donovan felt suddenly imbued with nervous energy as he mounted the stairs to the commissioner's office. He didn't know if it was the caffeine finally starting to take effect, or more a sense of trepidation at what he might be about to uncover. What had the commissioner gone and gotten himself involved in? First Senator Banks, and now this…irregularity. Why was the commissioner getting personally involved in the early release of a mob heavy? Had he been leaned on? Donovan thought that unlikely—he'd never had Montague down as a mob man. Was it some half-baked attempt to send a hit man after the British spy? That would make more sense, but it was hardly above board, and clearly unlikely to succeed. He wondered if the dead man was actually their last resort—if they'd tried everything else already in their attempts to locate the spy.
More to the point, however, Donovan wasn't sure what he would do if he did discover the commissioner was involved in something murky. Who the hell would he go to with that? The commissioner was involved in state politics at the highest level, and had friends in all sorts of places. He probably thought he could do whatever he wanted, and he wouldn't have been far wrong. Short of being caught with his hand in the money pot, or around the throat of a whore, Montague was pretty much untouchable. Especially when one factored in the consideration that he was working closely with a state senator. With Banks there beside him, Montague could be confident that pretty much nothing would stick.
Donovan rapped on the door of the commissioner's office with a heavy heart. He knew that whatever happened here, he was in for a rough ride. The commissioner would want to know why Donovan wasn't any closer to bringing in the spy, and would probably even berate him about the arson attack on the apartment building. The commissioner would have to deal with the public relations nightmare that would arise from the death of twelve innocent civilians, and that would put him in a bad mood for days. And, Donovan suspected, the man wasn't likely to take kindly to being questioned about his conduct by a junior officer.
“Come.” The command was a muffled bark from within the room. Donovan reached for the doorknob, turned it in his clammy palm, and stepped into the room.
It took him a moment to pick out the commissioner from among all the furniture that dressed his ostentatious lair. He was propped in an armchair by the window, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth, wreathed in gray-blue smoke. He was wearing a smart pinstriped suit and a burgundy cravat. Donovan wondered if he'd just come from an important meeting.
“Ah, Donovan! Come in,” Montague said, waving for Donovan to come closer. “I hope you come bearing good news.”
Donovan cleared his throat. “Well…”
The commissioner's demeanor changed almost immediately. “Sit down, Donovan.” He grabbed his cigar between his thumb and his index finger like a pencil, withdrew it from between his teeth, examined the now-sodden end, and then pushed it back into his mouth. Then, grasping the arms of his chair, he leaned forward, eyeing Donovan as he lowered himself into one of the chairs. It was comfortable—far too comfortable in Donovan's eyes—more like something from a high-end hotel than an office.
“It's a simple job, Donovan. Find the man and bring him in. That's all I ask. Manhattan Island is not that big a place. Anyone would think I'd asked you to find the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
Donovan swallowed, biting back not fear, but anger at the man's recriminations. What the hell would he know about it? He measured his next words very carefully. “By your own admission, Commissioner, this man is trained to be an expert in subterfuge and espionage. He's dangerous, and he knows how to lose himself in a conurbation. Without any leads—”
“You had a lead!” the commissioner snapped. “And a damn good one. Mullins tells me you managed to stumble across his hideout, full of all the leads you'd ever need, as well as a damn corpse! What more do you need?”
“Well, sir, it's really not that simple,” said Donovan in a conciliatory fashion.
“No,” the commissioner replied sullenly, shaking his head, “it never is.” He chewed on the end of his cigar for a moment. Then, as if deciding Donovan had been given enough of a dressing down, his tone altered. “So, what—someone torched the place?”
“That's about the size of it, Commissioner,” said Donovan, echoing Mullins's earlier words, “before we'd had the chance to strip it of anything useful. The walls were covered in maps, schematics, photographs—it was a treasure trove. Whoever torched the place was clearly trying to prevent us from getting hold of it.”
“Hmmm,' said the commissioner. “I'd have thought that much was obvious, Donovan, even to you.” Donovan winced, but the commissioner's tone lacked malice. “Did you get anything?”
Donovan shrugged. “Just the corpse.”
The commissioner was frowning, staring into the middle distance. “I'd wager…” he trailed off and then turned to Donovan, seeming to snap out of whatever reverie had momentarily distracted him. “I'd wager it was this spy himself who torched the place.
Realized you were on to him, took his opportunity while your back was turned. You shouldn't have let your attention wander, Donovan. You shouldn't have left it all to Mullins.”
Donovan nodded. Perhaps the commissioner was right about that. Perhaps he had put too much on the sergeant's shoulders. But Mullins was the only one he trusted, and he had to stand up for him. “He's a good man, Commissioner. He'll make a fine inspector one day.”
Commissioner Montague frowned. “I don't doubt it, Donovan. But that doesn't mean he's ready to take on something this big. He's inexperienced. He'll miss things you might see.”
“I hardly—”
The commissioner waved him silent. “Excuses,” he said, and his bristly eyebrows raised, as if challenging Donovan to go against him.
Donovan realized he was bunching his fists by his sides, and he made a conscious effort to relax.
“So you got the corpse, then.”
“Yes, and Mullins identified the dead man this morning.” He let that hang for a moment, studying the commissioner, watching for any response. “A mob man by the name of Paulo Lucarotti. Does that mean anything to you, sir?”
The commissioner's eyes went wide in surprise. The timbre of his voice raised an entire octave. “Me? Why in God's name would it mean anything to me?”
Donovan smiled inwardly. He could tell by the man's reaction that he was either deeply offended, or else deeply concerned. He couldn't tell which. “Lucarotti was released from state custody two months ago, sir, by a special order. He's a known criminal, held up on charges of attempted murder and grievous bodily harm.”
“What's that got to do with me?” the commissioner asked, and this time Donovan was sure the man had something to hide. He was protesting just that little bit too strenuously. Donovan studied his careworn, liver-spotted face.
“Because you signed the release papers, sir,” he said in reply.
“What? I…well, no, I don't know him,” he stuttered in response. “I sign hundreds of those ruddy things. The desk sergeant brings them up, puts them in front of me. I sign them on recommendation, he returns and takes them away again, end of story. I don't doubt the man's release papers have my signature on them. Half the time I don't even look at their names anymore. You know what it's like, Donovan. You have to file reports. Don't tell me you always go over the fine details.”
Donovan nodded slowly in response. Now it seemed as if Montague was appealing to him to turn a blind eye, to brush it under the carpet. But he recognized the commissioner's explanation for the bullshit it was—the last time Montague had openly signed any release papers was at least two years earlier, and then only under considerable pressure from the diplomats involved in a particularly sensitive peace treaty with the Japanese. There was much more to it than that.
Donovan considered pressing on with the questions. Why had the commissioner's photograph been on the wall of the spy's apartment alongside that of Senator Banks and a gaggle of other powerful men from the city? What exactly was the spy threatening to do?
For now, though, Donovan considered it best to let the situation slide, to let the commissioner think that he'd successfully managed to brush the situation under the carpet. It wouldn't do to have the man breathing down his neck any more than he already was, and perhaps this way, Donovan would have the chance to get to the bottom of the situation. On top of that, he didn't suppose the particular line of questioning he had in mind would get him anywhere. The commissioner would simply clam up, and that would be the end of the interview. Donovan would leave with his card marked, his position compromised. Perhaps even worse. He didn't yet know how far the commissioner was involved. Had he had anything to do with the fire at the apartment? Was the commissioner trying to prevent Donovan from discovering the truth about what he was up to with the senator? Ask too many of the wrong questions and Dononvan might find himself on the receiving end of an arson attack.
Whatever the case, however outlandish that might be, he was feeling particularly uneasy. If he'd been suspicious earlier, now he was sure. Commissioner Montague was hiding something.
The commissioner, seemingly relaxed once again, had leaned back in his chair and was puffing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “It sounds to me, Donovan, like this mob fellow had a bone to pick with our British spy. Perhaps he was working on behalf of the mob; perhaps it was a more personal affair. Whatever the case, he confronted this Jerry Robertson and went and got himself killed. I wouldn't waste any more time on him. A man like that, well, we're better off with him six feet under, don't you think?” Donovan didn't like where this was going, the dismissive nature of the commissioner's tone. It was as if he was being warned off. “No,” the commissioner continued, “get on with the case in hand. Damn shame that apartment block went up in flames. A damn shame. But that tells us the spy can't have been very far away. He's still here in the city. He must have been watching the place and saw you arrive, for him to know that you were on to him. And that means one of two things is about to happen. Either he's about to go deeper undercover to try to throw you off the scent, to lose himself in the slums, or he's going to get desperate and show his hand. If I were a betting man”—he extracted his cigar and allowed the smoke to plume lazily from his nostrils, a wide grin cracking his face—”then I'd wager the latter was true. Otherwise, why would he have torched the place, unless he was nearing his endgame?” He pointed at Donovan with the burning tip of his cigar. When Donovan didn't speak, he shrugged and continued. “Whatever the case, you need to be ready. Don't want you ending up like that Luca-whatshisface, Donovan.”
Donovan couldn't argue with the commissioner's logic. He'd been thinking pretty much the same thing himself—that the spy was either going to make a play for it, or was already halfway across the Atlantic—although he wasn't as ready to accept the notion that the spy was responsible for the arson attack as the commissioner appeared to be. There were other people who might benefit from the loss of the material at that apartment, possibly the very same people who had hired Paulo Lucarotti to go after the spy. Possibly, even Senator Banks and the commissioner himself. Either they were targets, or they were responsible for whatever it was the spy was attempting to investigate. Whatever it was, Donovan was sure it wasn't worth the lives of twelve innocent people.
Without the evidence of those photographs, however, there was no way of implicating anyone else in the whole sordid business. Donovan supposed that was exactly the point.
He nodded, keen to get away from the commissioner's office, to give himself space to think. “Very good, sir. I'll get on it right away.”
“See that you do, Donovan,” came the considered reply, “see that you do. Senator Banks is breathing down my neck. This goes all the way to the top, Felix. There's a great deal at stake. I hope you're not going to let me down.”
“Oh, I won't allow that to happen, Commissioner,” Donovan replied drily. “I'll do what's right for the city, and for my country.”
Commissioner Montague stood and clapped a hand on Donovan's shoulder. “Delighted to hear that, Felix. Truly I am. Now”—he gestured to the door—”go and bring me the head of that British spy.”
Donovan nodded and made for the door. Once outside, he gave a long, deep sigh, but it did little to relieve the tension he could feel bunching in his neck and shoulders. This really did go all the way to the top, and Donovan wanted no part of it. He would not be a cog in their machine. He would not idly sit by while twelve or more innocent people were allowed to perish uncommented, simply to save the reputation of a handful of rich old men. No, he would do exactly what was needed, whatever the cost. That was what Flora had meant when she had married him, when she had whispered to him all those years ago about making a difference. He would fight this corruption for all he was worth.
He took the stairs two at a time. He needed to make a call.
Donovan didn't stop to collect his coat, nor did he acknowledge Mullins, whom he saw frantically trying to get his attention across the preci
nct floor, as he marched straight toward the exit. Outside it was brisk and cold, but Donovan walked with intent, weaving his way through the press of pedestrians bustling on the sidewalk.
Two blocks later he made a sharp left and ducked inside a small store. The legend above the door read KOWALSKI'S GENERAL GOODS. Outside, racks of fruit and vegetables were lined up, trying to tempt any passersby. Cured meats hung in the windows.
Inside, Donovan stamped his feet to shake himself free of the cold. The shopkeeper—a small, broad, balding man in his late fifties—looked up from behind the counter and caught Donovan's attention. “Morning, Inspector.”
“Morning, Chuck. I need to make a call.”
The shopkeeper jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “You know where it is, Felix. Go help yourself.”
Donovan smiled and patted the older man on the shoulder as he made his way out the back. There, among the heaped boxes of stock and stacks of brown paper wrap was a holotube terminal. It was an illegal device, connected to the network but tampered with so as to be virtually untraceable. Donovan had used it many times before for just this reason—to call someone who didn't want to be traced.
Donovan made directly for the device, flicked the switch to the “call” position, and dialed a number from memory. A moment later a familiar face began to resolve in the mirrored cavity.
“Gabriel,” said Donovan, not even waiting until the image had fully resolved, “we need to meet.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To him, the rooftops of Manhattan were like a second home. He thought this as he drifted lazily above them, the rocket canisters at his ankles blazing with furious orange light. His breath formed ghostly shapes in the frigid air as he twisted and turned, taking it all in, and he found himself absorbed by the wintry canopy, high above the avenues and streets below.