Black Midnight

by Graham Diamond

  Warren read out loud:

  I told you, bastards. And I mean what I say. Have a black Halloween.

  All eyes stared at Resnick. He cleared his throat, reading out the now familiar signature, Armageddon.

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Link. He felt goosebumps rising on his neck.

  “The people at the News are hot to let this out,” Yvonne said quickly. “It took all the persuasion HQ could muster to keep the lid on. The paper gave its word — at least for now.”

  Spinrad scowled. Promises made by the press didn’t sit well. He’d seen too many broken. Hysteria sells newspapers.

  “This gives the first note legitimacy as far as I’m concerned,” Yvonne went on. She turned to Link. He nodded without saying anything. The first note could have been a fluke; the second wasn’t. He was starting to come round to her way of thinking.

  “Still nothing hard in any of this,” cautioned Warren, “but I’m beginning to lean toward your corner, too.”

  Yvonne glanced at the calendar on the wall. Little more than a week remained until the last day of the month. October 31 — Halloween. “Armageddon gave us a clue with the reference to happy riding. What does this one mean by ‘black Halloween’?”

  Link’s mouth turned down. “Witches? Covens. Black magic maybe.”

  “Cultists?” offered Yvonne.

  “Or racially motivated,” said Warren, thinking of the use of the word black.

  “Or just a black day,” interjected Spinrad. “Another bloody massacre. Turn it into a night of real horror.”

  Yvonne lit a cigarette, restlessly played with her lighter. The prospect was terrifying. “There’ll be literally hundreds of thousands of kids on the streets trick or treating all night long. In a city of seven million, covering hundreds of square miles.”

  “So which way does Armageddon take it from here?” said Link. “Poison someone’s candy? Slaughter a bunch of children in masks and costumes? Blow up a bus or another train filled with partygoers. Mama, ain’t no end.”

  “We could discuss the possibilities for a month,” said Warren.

  “What would you do if you were Armageddon?” asked Yvonne. “How would you try and outdo One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street?”

  “By scaring the bejesus out of everyone,” Spinrad said thoughtfully. “This time prove that nothing’s safe.”

  “Maximum impact,” agreed Yvonne. “If it were me. I’d find the fanciest party in town. Let them revel all evening, then — smack.” She hit her palm on the table. “Let loose with both barrels.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Spinrad gruffly. “But where? There’re countless parties. How the hell do we find the right one to choose from?”

  “We start with the most obvious,” said Yvonne.

  Warren snapped his fingers nervously as he thought. “What about down in Greenwich Village? The annual costume parade. There’ll be tens of thousands on hand, and press coverage galore. New York’s version of Mardi Gras. You couldn’t pay for better publicity.”

  Yvonne searched their faces one at a time. “Make sense, guys?”

  “I’ll buy it,” said Link, breaking the silence with a tone of finality.

  “The parade may be too obvious,” cautioned Spinrad. “Cops everywhere, all night. Armageddon likes things quiet, it would seem. That’s the pattern.”

  “We don’t really have a pattern yet,” Warren pointed out. “Anyway, this second note comes across to me as a dare. Kind of a ‘Here I am. Try and stop me — if you think you can.’”

  “I agree,” said Link. “Armageddon’s intentions are openly being given to the press on a platter. Demanding publicity, and lots of it.”

  “We’re being challenged?” said Yvonne.

  “That’s the way I read it.”

  “If that’s right,” said Spinrad, “Armageddon’s feeling his oats. Had one success and now’s ready to become bolder.”

  Yvonne sighed. Her head was throbbing again. “Taunting and daring us at the same time.” Frustrated, she rested her face in her hands. Her experience in drawing psychological profiles led her to try and get into the mind of the bomber. If she herself were planting the bomb, where would she put it? She struggled for a time, finally saying, “Mardi Gras on Halloween. Makes the most sense to me.”

  “Okay, let’s go with it,” said Warren. “So where do we stand on facts? We’ve got a stalking killer or killers out there, threatening to create disaster in a week. No way can we get the parade cancelled — even if we were damn well certain it was the target. And we’re not. We could be way off on this. HQ’s keeping a total blackout on any leads, which precludes anyone from being warned or even cautioned. The alternative is worse: Lift the blackout and let the media have a real field day. Then a real three ring circus begins, with every lunatic coming out of the cracks and holes and making even more threats. Compounding and confusing the matter until the whole city locks itself behind closed doors. Damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. Armageddon’s well aware of it, too. Either way we come up losers, seems to me. Our hands are tied.”

  “We have to begin somewhere, my man,” drawled Link. His exhaustion was beginning to show. “So where do we start, shark?”

  “We begin with names,” Yvonne said abruptly. “Tonight we hit the computers. Get the make on every ID we can — and at the same time hit the streets. Maybe — just maybe … ” Here she spoke emphatically. “We’ll find a strong lead. A tie to someone connected with Armageddon.” She turned to Spinrad. “Get us a readout on every service veteran known to have a criminal record, especially those with backgrounds in explosives. Also activists, political and otherwise. Check out vets who’ve been released from mental hospitals. Begin with New York, then spread outward. Collate with an FBI liaison. Hookup to their computers. We’ll have the Citywide canvass squads give them top priority.”

  Looking to Link she said, “Make some street connections. Follow through on your Hispanic contacts. We need to establish if One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street had ethnic overtones.”

  “You got it, Yvonne.” He rose to leave.

  “And make it short, Link. We start early tomorrow.”

  Detective Washington gave her a grin and a thumbs up. “Sure thing, shark.”

  “What about me?” said Warren.

  Yvonne stifled a yawn. “You and I start to go through the fives. Maybe somewhere somebody’s already done a little of our legwork.”

  VII

  It was misty, not raining very hard in the early morning. Just gloomy and depressing. Dawn was creeping, the sky the color of lead. Gray and black clouds insidiously pushed at each other for prominence. Yvonne opened her front door and picked up the delivered newspaper. The headline screamed at her in huge bold type: Subway Motorman To Be Buried Today. The page one photograph showed a distraught son and family friends glumly standing in a soggy rain outside of a worn frame house.

  The coffeepot was boiling. Her eyes fixed on the story as she sleepily shuffled into the kitchen. Eulogy to be given at Lady of Martyrs Roman Catholic Church in the Briarwood section of Queens …

  She reached for a tissue, blew her nose. She had another coughing spell as she poured a tall glass of grapefruit juice.

  It had been close to 1 AM by the time she’d come home from Downtown. No sooner had she put the key in the lock than the phone started to ring. Paul calling. Livid. As angry as he’d ever been, chastising her for not returning a single one of his messages, for breaking all their dates. She had wanted him to come over — God, how much she hadn’t wanted to be alone last night — but she somehow couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead, she listened to his complaints and apologized. Paul calmed. He always did once he got it off his chest. The tone of his discouragement was plain, however. Things couldn’t go on this way, he’d told her again. And she didn’t have the energy to try and explain how completely engrossed she’d been. How totally committed she was expected to be, was obligated to be. No, that was a lie.

  Yvonne didn’t kid herself a
bout it anymore. She wanted it to be that way. It came with the turf, the unrelenting commitment to her work. How, in her own small way, she was responsible for the safety of people, for their lives. Hell, Paul had heard it all before anyway. Many times. Their relationship was barely hanging by the thinnest of threads — and she just didn’t have the strength to try and solidify what remained of the bond. Things had taken a sour turn, were becoming too reminiscent of her marital breakup with Kevin. She recognized the symptoms all too well. So many loose ends, misunderstandings, hurting each other, followed by growing anger that couldn’t be quenched.

  Be good. Stay loose. Hang in there.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult. Too much already. More than she could handle. God, she thought, on mornings like this I think I’m losing my grip.

  No. She wasn’t. Not really. Just feeling too weary to fight.

  She stared at her alarm clock. It was 6:30. She’d have to be in Downtown by 8:00. Maybe she should grab a taxi. Linger a while at home. Luxuriate under a hot shower and pamper herself. P.D. owed her that much, didn’t they?

  She sat at the round table for two in her sparely decorated kitchen. The wallpaper she’d hung when she first took this apartment was starting to fade, in a few places peel. Wearing at the edges in precisely the same way she was. The view from the window was a smashing panorama of the alley. Dulled red brick walls adorned the highrise across the street, their pattern broken by rows of shaded windows.

  The steaming coffee was good. She had a second cup, broke a slice of toast into small pieces and buttered them one by one. Her throat was still raspy, ears clogged. The ringing of the phone jarred her. The hospital? News about her mother? She grabbed at the receiver, hoping it was only Downtown or Winnegar.

  “DiPalma,” she said, holding her breath.

  “Taxi, lady. Need a lift to work?”

  She didn’t have to recognize the voice; the words were the same.

  “Sure.” The tensions eased, and she permitted herself a small laugh. “If your car can still start.”

  “Surprise, DiPalma. Bought a new one. Four door, super six. Pick you up in, oh, say half an hour?”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.”

  The gray sedan was double parked in front of her building, passenger door already open. Yvonne didn’t bother to open her umbrella. She scurried through the drizzle and slid onto the seat. “Thanks, Warren. I do appreciate the ride.”

  “Sorry I can’t make it a habit. No school today, so Karen doesn’t need it for the kids.” Warren turned on the ignition and sped down the block. The road sign ahead had an arrow pointing to the Expressway.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Like a rag. Tossed in the sink.” She yawned.

  “Yeah,” was all he said.

  Yvonne could feel herself becoming suddenly uncomfortable. This scene seemed all so familiar, yet also strange after so long. Like a dream. She felt awkward, sensed that Warren was feeling the same. When in doubt, mask it with small talk. DiPalma’s law. Book one, chapter one. “I hate this lousy weather,” she said pulling up her collar. Her gold badge glinted.

  “Stinks.” Warren put on the windshield wipers. The rubber blades squeaked loudly against the wet glass. “Sits on top of your head.”

  “Anyone for Arizona?” She rubbed at cold arms while he put on the heater.

  “So how you been, Yvonne?” he asked. This was their first moment alone in almost exactly too years, they both knew. Warren’s eyes momentarily darted her way.

  She smiled. “Older and wiser.” She paused, adding, “I think.”

  “Sure, but are you happy?”

  “Blindly miserable, and you can quote me.” Her laugh was hollow. “How about you?”

  “Blind and miserable.” The car stopped for another light. This time Warren faced her fully. He seemed hesitant to speak, then overcame his reluctance. “I have missed you, Yvonne. I want you to know that.”

  “I do know. It was hard for me also, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  They didn’t speak for a while. The car pulled onto the Expressway. Traffic was badly backed up. Ahead, a police car’s light was flashing, indicating a lane closed off.

  “Has everything straightened out with Karen? Are you two back on track?” It was an awkward question, but she still felt close enough to him to ask.

  He blew out a mouthful of air. “I suppose we are. We made our peace, if that’s what you mean. We’ve both settled into, er, a mutual acceptance. Each going our own way, but at least we’ve learned to be open with each other. Communicate better.”

  “I’m glad. Really.”

  Yvonne rolled her window partly down, took out a slightly crushed pack of cigarettes. A heavy mist was lowering and cutting visibility sharply. “I was furious with you at the end, Warren,” she admitted. “Not that I meant to be — I couldn’t help it.”

  He nodded. “I know. But you had no right to be, Yvonne.” They were both thinking the same thoughts, recalling the same events. The breakup of partners is always hard; theirs had been all the harder. The strain had taken a greater toll on their lives than either had wanted to admit. Like not being able to see the forest for the trees.

  “Guess things finally got to me,” she said, lighting up. “I didn’t want any more.”

  “I don’t blame you for that.”

  She regarded him sharply. “You did back then.”

  “I felt hurt. How was I expected to react? Two years — more — two years of our lives. I did all I could, Yvonne.” Emotion showed as he said, “I tried.”

  “We both tried, I guess.” She sighed wistfully. “Funny how things never wind up the way you think they will.”

  “The story of my life.”

  “Ever stop by Charlie’s since those days?” It was a quiet restaurant where they’d spent many an evening.

  “Best seafood I ever had,” he recalled. “No. I’ve never been back. But I once ran into Joey.” He referred to the head waiter, a man detectives Resnick and DiPalma had befriended. “He asked about you, what you were up to.”

  “Good old Joey. Bad jokes and no taste in wine. How’s he doing?”

  “Got laid off from Charlie’s about a year ago, he was saying. Found a good spot at some new fancy West Side eatery, though. Says it’s an even better place. Also told me he split up with his lover, too. Left him heartbroken. What was his name — Eddie?”

  “Frankie,” Yvonne corrected as she smiled. Joey was a small, slender fortyish man with soft feminine movements. Frankie had been a longshoreman type. Barrel-chested, powerfully muscular, built like Arnold Schwarzenegger. A more unlikely gay couple you’d never encounter.

  “Sometimes I still think about the old days,” she admitted.

  “I try not to.”

  Yvonne stared from the window. The drizzle was turning into a steadier rain. The wipers slapped faster. She could feel a lump rising in her throat, her eyes moistening. Memories, all kinds, were suddenly flooding back. She didn’t want ghosts returning, but didn’t fight them off, either.

  “Oh, Warren, it isn’t fair. What happened, none of it was fair. Not to you, not to me.”

  “No blame. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just couldn’t work, that’s all.”

  “Victims of circumstance.” There was more than a trace of irony in her voice. More than a hint of suppressed anger. It was wrong of her, she realized instantly.

  “You’re more cynical than I am,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry, Warren.”

  “No offense taken.” She started to cough. He looked at her. “You’re not well, Yvonne. Been taking anything for it?”

  “Some juice. Aspirin. Vitamin C. It’s just a chest cold, that’s all.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s getting better. You should take more care. Maybe see a doctor.”

  “I’ll be fine, really I will. Tell you what, stop by a drugstore when you can. I’ll run in and get some cough syrup, cold
medicines. You don’t have to worry about me so much.”

  “Sure about that?”

  She smiled fully. “Positive.”

  Traffic was beginning to ease, and the car picked up speed. The road was wet. Rain reflected colorfully off the asphalt. Warren was a good and cautious driver, handling the conditions carefully.

  “We’ll be downtown in fifteen minutes,” he said. “There’s a drugstore off Broadway and Chambers.”

  She opened her pocketbook, searched for her purse. The pocketbook was crammed; hairbrush, compacts, nail polish, tissues, telephone hook, a few unmailed bills, pad filled with notes.

  “Haven’t changed a bit,” he cracked. “Disorganized as ever.”

  “Only in my personal life, smartass. I’m still the most thorough cop you’ll ever find. Anywhere.”

  Warren laughed. “And modest, too. Still won’t even stand for any teasing. Reminds me of the night we had to canvass that flea bag hotel, remember?”

  She nodded. “After the night clerk found a corpse in one of the rooms we had to investigate every single tenant.”

  “Homicide suspected murder because drugs had been found somewhere on the premises.”

  “One of the highlights of my life,” Yvonne said. “We had to go round door to door. Speak individually with every last one of the occupants.”

  “Yeah. And there was this middle-aged woman who came to the door with a huge snake wrapped around her. Called herself a snake dancer by profession, if I recall.”

  “I’ll never forget. Kept a real python in her room. Said it was more than a pet. Her companion. Christ, it was at least ten feet long, coiling around her body. Fed it small mice.” She pulled a face.

  Warren chuckled. “So when you tried to inform her it was illegal to harbor a dangerous snake — ”

  “She went crazy on me. Started screaming. Raving. Then quoted me the law chapter and verse.”

  “While the snake slithered onto the floor.”