“Just you and me, Presidente. Walk with me around the block.” She turned back toward acne constellation. “The rest of you are loitering, except for Lupe. Take off, and I won’t bust you for receiving stolen goods.”
“Yeah? Bust th-” acne constellation snapped. Almost instantaneously, Jorge’s hand shot out and clipped him on the chin.
“Do as the police officer says, Eddie. Come on, officer. Let’s you and me take a walk.”
Sara could feel Lupe boring holes in her back as she and Jorge headed for the street. “Jorge, I never met you before, so this is a chance for you and me to get off to a good start. I don’t know if you have any friends on the force, or if you ever thought about it. But it’s better to have friends on the force then not, don’t you think?” “Yeah I do. An’ I want to apologize about today. When Lupe tol’ me what you did to Hector yesterday, I 'bout bit the sidewalk. I mean, Hector is our numero uno soldier. He’s our enforcer. So I come to see for myself this bad lady cop, and I got to say, guapa, that you are everything I could have imagined.”
“Don’t let your imagination run wild. You seeing Lupe?”
“Lupe and I have an understanding, but I’m not tied down to any woman, place, or thing. What about you? You seeing anyone?”
“I’m married to the job.”
“You give Jorge a chance, he lure you away.”
“I’ll bet. You work for a living?”
“Jesus was a carpenter and so am I. When I gets the work. I can’t get in the union ’cause I don’t got no sponsor. I do after-hours stuff, get paid under the table.”
“The people who live in that building, a lot of them are old, don’t get around so well. The last thing they need is a gang of pachucos hassling them as they go in or out. I want you to keep this block safe. I want you to help these people, not hassle them. In return, you got a friend on the force.”
“I can dig it. Okay!”
“You need to get in touch with me, here’s my card.”
They did a multi-faceted soul clasp and Sara headed on down the block to the medical center. When she was at the end of the block she turned around. Lupe was walking angrily toward Jorge, who stood with his hands spread at his sides, like Alfred E. Newman.
A truck driver gave Sara the finger and leaned on his airhom as she went around him on Canal Street. In New York, that was like being serenaded by a bluebird. The station house was a mad zoo, reporters bumping into perps and cops at the entrance. Sara stashed her bike in the motor pool. The Hayabusa was back.
She could sense the tension going up the stairs, and her worst fears were confirmed when she pushed open the door to the detectives’ bullpen. Deputy Commissioner McElroy, with the physique and disposition of a nose tackle, was in Siry’s office, taking up most of the space and talking in a loud voice while one of his lackeys took notes in a pad. As if the fat blowhard had something to say. Everyone knew McElroy was gunning to be the next Commissioner, and was mainly concerned with covering his ass and making sure he made no mistakes.
As she headed toward her desk, trying to look inconspicuous, Raj hissed at her like a spitting cobra. Raj was a two-year veteran, originally a citizen of New Delhi who had emigrated several years ago, become a U.S. citizen, and joined the police force. He had dark, delicate, almost feminine features, hair the color of fresh-poured tar, and thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses.
“What up, Raj?”
“The captain asked me to review those tapes. I have been watching night and day.”
“And?”
“And I have found the killer on the tapes.”
A nova pulsed through Sara’s nervous system. “Where is it? Have you got it cued up?”
“In the break room.”
They went to the break room down the hall, where three detectives were stuffing their faces at the thrift store table. The break room contained a counter, cabinets, a sink, a refrigerator, a micro-wave oven, a wild collection of ugly furniture, and the “audio-visual center,” more fruit of the busted drug dealer tree.
Raj cued the fifty-two-inch TV, and a grainy black-and-white-blue-and-white, actually-image began to roll. Like crows sensing carrion, the three detectives rose or turned their chairs to watch.
“Watch-you will see,” Raj said softly.
The timer in the comer of the screen indicated 11:30 p.m. The room was empty, light coming from the banker’s lamp on the counter, and from an overhead source. Movement. A slight, balding figure in a dark sport jacket, probably navy blue, entered the picture from the shop door and went behind the counter. He seemed agitated. He was fumbling for something beneath the counter-a gun? Another figure entered the room. The second figure was clad entirely in black, even his head, and seemed to flow into the room like a cat stalking prey. He erupted like a geyser in front of the old man-it was difficult to tell from the camera angle. He delivered a series of blows with his gloved hands, subtly, delicately, as if he were playing a harp. Then he seized the sword off its rack, plainly visible in the video, and in one graceful movement, flicked the blade through the old man’s neck as easily as if he were cutting a cheese log. The head fell heavily to the floor and rolled. A tingie ran up Sara’s arm from the costume bracelet.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the detectives said softly. “There’s your samurai killer.”
“Raj, can you freeze the frame?”
Raj ran the tape backwards, searched in slow-mo for the best angle on the assailant. There was no good angle. You couldn’t even tell how tall he was. Black cloth covered his entire body, including his hands. Everything but his eyes, which were exposed, but impossible to make out. “What is this ninja crap?” one of the detectives asked. “Pezzini’s on the case,” said Barley Carruthers, the size and shape of a restaurant freezer. “Freak of the week.” Baltazar stuck his head in the door. “Hey, Sara—Siry wants you in his office like five minutes ago.”
“Keep working on that tape, Raj,” Sara said. “There’s gotta be a computer geek around here somewhere who can tell us something. And you guys-please don’t mention this to anyone. The boss’ll have a cow.”
Deputy Commissioner McElroy was beet-colored and sweating as Sara entered Siiy’s office. This was not unusual. The Deputy Commissioner maintained a state of high dudgeon. That was his pose: the perpetually indignant public servant, fighting for the commonweal. Sara thought it must have been exhausting, but apparently it worked. McElroy had risen through the ranks without spending time on the street. If he could do it, more power to him, Sara thought.
“Detective Pezzini, you know Deputy Commissioner McElroy. Have a seat.”
Sara nodded and sat. Siry didn’t offer her anything to drink.
“Detective," McElroy wheezed, “Scott Chalmers was a close friend of the mayor. There’s no way we can keep this out of the papers, but we can try to minimize the sensationalism, so-to-speak, if we can assure the press that these killings are not related.”
Siry tried not to roll his eyes. He had witnessed many futile attempts at spin control over the years, but this was the dumbest. “Of course they’re related, Hank! The coroner’s already confirmed that.”
McElroy regarded Siry through little slit eyes, as if he beheld a snake. “The last thing the mayor wants is for this to become a media freak show. The public spooks easily.” “Sir, 1 respectfully disagree,” Sara said while Siry made a throat-cutting motion with his finger and tried desperately to signal her. When she refused to look at him, he retaliated by sticking the cigar in his mouth. “New Yorkers can handle anything this freak throws at them. I think they’ve proven that. Not that I’m suggesting you publicize this, but it’s hardly a terrorist attack. These men were specifically targeted for something they had: ancient Japanese swords.”
McElroy turned his gun slits on her. He appeared to be chewing his tongue. “Why is it you attract bizarre criminal elements, Detective? Why are you a freak magnet?” “Sir, this case was assigned to me. I think if you’ll check, you’ll see I was miles away from
either crime scene when the killings occurred.”
“You’re right, I apologize. The city’s lucky to have you. So. You’re obviously making progress. We’re looking for a murderous thief?”
“So it would seem. We have the killer on videotape, but it doesn’t tell us much. He’s just a blur dressed in black. We may be able to get more details from a computer enhancement.”
“All right. Now we’re getting somewhere. Anything you need, give me a call. The mayor wants you to know he’s behind you one hundred per cent. What’re you going to say at the press conference?”
Sara shrugged. “Sir, I haven’t had time to catch my breath since I woke up. If you’ll give me a few moments ...”
“Please emphasize that these are not terrorist incidents.”
“I’ll make it clear the killer only targets rich white men.” Siry grunted and tossed his cigar over his shoulder. “Are you trying to be funny?” McElroy asked heatedly. “I was. I was out of line.”
McElroy glared at her with his knockwurst face. He heaved himself to his feet. “No jokes! Short and sweet. The mayor is watching.”
Siry and Sara got up, too. They all shook hands, and McElroy rumbled out the door like a hay bailer and headed for the stairs.
Sara held her hands up, trying to suppress a smile. “I know! I’m sorry.”
“Sara, why do you do this to me? Putting me on the spot in front of the Deputy Commissioner... if you weren’t my best detective, I’d, I’d ...”
“What, Joe, what? Say it! Ship me out to Far Rock-away.”
“You heard what the man said. You’d better prepare a statement. Keep it short-twenty-five words or less. You got-” he glanced at his watch “-one hour.”
“You’re hosting this thing, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“You know what you’re going to say?”
“Some whack-a-ding-hoy is running around in black pajamas slicing off heads.”
Sara pointed a finger at him. “That’s good, Joe.” She let herself out and headed toward her desk. Baltazar worked his eyebrows like he was transmitting a secret message and nodded toward the front desk.
“You got a visitor.”
David Kopkind lounged, one leg up, on the wooden bench facing the bullpen.
Unexpected pleasure flushed Sara’s system, along with a small rain of embarrassment. She’d only just met the guy. And she had work to do. She was under the gun. She was going on live TV in one hour. She walked over to the wooden rail separating the visitors’ area from the bullpen.
“Mr. Kopkind. What brings you here?”
He grinned and stood, completely un-self-conscious. “Detective, I’ve been invited to a party at James Bratten’s house.”
“Bratten the retired NBA All-Star?”
“Yeah. He’s a devotee of Eastern culture. Owns a lot of swords. I’m his polisher. A lot of big-time collectors will be there.”
Sara was immediately hooked. “You’re telling me why?”
“I thought maybe you’d like to go as my date. Give you an opportunity to see some of these players, and the type of sword we’re talking about. Adrian Hecht will be there.”
Hecht, a big-shot developer and owner of the New York Apples, for whom Bratten played, was putting together a major development near the former site of the Twin Towers. Cops rarely received invitations to such functions.
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow night. I’m sorry it’s such short notice ...” “I’ll go.”
“Great. Great! Can I pick you up?”
“Where is it?”
“Bratten’s got an estate in the Hamptons.”
“You have a car?”
“Sort of. It’ll get us there and back.”
Sara did the math. She could ride her bike to the Village, hook up with Kopkind. It would work. “I live in Brooklyn. I’ll meet you at your place. What time?”
“If you live in Brooklyn, I could pick you up.”
“No, I’ll come there. Say, about five?”
“Great! See you then.”
She gave him the briefest of smiles. “ ’Bye.”
When she turned around, heads swiveled back to work, not quickly enough. Baltazar’s desk was closest.
“James Bratten—that’s the high-priced district, Pezzini. Better use the right fork.”
“Thanks, Baltazar. Think you could show me?” “Anytime.”
“Not with egg on your tie.”
Baltazar looked down, chagrined. There was, indeed, a fleck of breakfast still clinging to his lifeless, loose tie. “Try that astronaut food. It’s hard to spill.”
Sara returned to her desk, thumbed on her computer and composed two short statements, one for her boss and one for herself. She was acutely mindful that she’d become something of a media darling. She wouldn’t have gotten nearly as much attention if she’d looked like Janet Reno.
Next, she pulled Jorge Candido’s rap sheet. There
wasn’t much: one arrest for assault as a juvie, plus a couple of parking violations.
She was relieved to learn he wasn’t a serial killer.
The news conference was held in the media room of the courthouse next door. At 4:45, Sara and Siiy went next door via the skywalk, down the marble steps to the first floor, where a tall black cop Sara had never seen was on duty at the door. The media had gathered, hanging out on the broad apron, sucking on cigarettes as if their lives depended on it. The new breed, who didn’t smoke, had already staked out the best positions inside.
Sara went over Siiy’s notes with him in the hall. “You ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Let’s go.”
They entered the media room through the door near the dais. Klieg lights turned the room into an incandescent star chamber. There were about twenty reporters bunched toward one end of the long, rectangular room. Siry had long ago learned not to look into the lights, but to look into individual faces. Reporters immediately started asking questions.
“This have anything to do with A1 Qaeda?”
“Is it true the victims were decapitated?”
Siry held his hand up and waited for silence. “Hello. I’m Captain Joe Siry, of the Eleventh Precinct. As far as we know, there have been two homicides: Thaddeus Bachman and Scott Chalmers. Both victims were beheaded. We have some significant leads which we are following, and will report to the public as soon as we have made progress.”
“Is this Detective Pezzini’s case?”
Siry turned the dais over to Sara. “The first murder occurred in my precinct and I was assigned the case purely on a random basis.”
“Oh, come on!” screeched the reporter from the Village Voice, a belligerent leftie who was convinced the cops had nothing better to do than conspire to deprive minorities of their civil rights. “You’ve developed a reputation for weird cases, detective. What about the Ore killings? And the Cemetery Demon?”
“Well, Mr. Mathers, the press tends to amplify any lurid angle. Admit it. You love me, because weird sells papers.”
The reporters laughed. Siiy and Sara beat a hasty retreat. The tall black cop stopped the stampede of reporters after them as they made their way to the second floor and across the sky bridge.
“I thought that went rather well, don’t you?” Siry asked.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to watch the news later and see.”
The detective bullpen was in a lather, cops milling outside the interrogation room.
“What’s going on?” Siry demanded.
“We got him,” one of the detectives replied. “The samurai killer.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
NINE
FOURTEEN
SEVENTEEN
FOUR
./According to witnesses, the alleged perp, a native of Jamaica named Sh'mall Ibanez, had boarded a bus at 110th Street with a machete hidden under his jacket. Screaming “White man is devil!” he began hacking his way through the bus, severely
mauling two people before he was overcome by other passengers, most of whom were black or Hispanic.
Sara joined a hepped-up Baltazar at the one-way to stare at this sad specimen of humanity as he twitched on a bench. His dreadlocks looked like hair clogs in a drain. He was emaciated, had a black eye and a split lip, and wore baggy Oshkosh B'gosh coveralls. Sara thought she could smell his foul odor and bad breath through the glass.
Baltazar was practically frothing at the mouth, licking an Italian ice and exulting over the apprehension. “There he is! Don’t look like much does, he?”
“Oh come on, Roy!” Sara protested. “Look at that guy! Have you seen the video? That guy can’t even tie his own shoes, let alone sneak into a penthouse on Park Avenue.” “Pezzini, he confessed! Case closed.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“No way.”
“Come on. It’s my case.”
“We already got a confession, and somebody tipped off the Public Defender’s office, so one of their birds is headed our way.”
“Come on, Baltazar. You owe me that much.”
“Owe you? How do I owe you?”
“For all the bull puckey practical jokes I put up with, for one thing.”
Baltazar grinned snarkily. “Okay. But I’m going in with you, in case he tries to twist your head off."
Siry stood behind them. “Go ahead. I want to see this.” Sh’mall Ibanez smelled like a cage at the zoo. He stared at them with pin-prick eyes, ivory yellow whites showing all around, like an extra from I Walked With A Zombie.
“White devils!” he barked.
“Mr. Ibanez, I’m Detective Pezzini. Would you mind telling me what you told this other gentleman earlier?” “’Bout what, white devil woman? Dat I and I kill de white devil antique man and de guy on de park? Dat is not in doubt. I already told you. Jah come to I and I in a vision—he were the Lion of Judah riding on a black horse-he command I and I to kill de white devil.”
“How did you kill them, Mr. Ibanez?”
“I stab dem wit’ Judah’s mighty sword!”
“Where did you stab them, Mr. Ibanez?”
He touched himself on the forehead and in the heart. “Here. And here.”
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