Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  “Wanna take it with you?” Solly Blue Eyes asked.

  Lost in thought, Vinda did not hear the question. He continued staring down at the suit. Happenstance, he repeated over and over to himself. A vague uneasiness began to mount inside his stomach, and he thought, Catching this guy is going to be like grabbing smoke.

  “You hearing me, John? You want the suit or not?”

  Vinda schooled a smile onto his face and said, “Yeah, Solly, I want the suit.”

  Vinda’s mind had been racing down new paths as he headed downtown. He stopped for the traffic tie-up at Bowery and Grand and casually looked up into the rearview mirror at the traffic jumble behind him. He didn’t spot them at first, but when he saw the familiar face scrunching down in the passenger seat of the black Camaro, he tensed. Keeping his eyes on the car, he slid out his revolver and put it on the seat next to him.

  The driver of the Camaro was a pug-nosed man somewhere in his late forties. Vinda didn’t recognize him. But the man sinking down in the passenger seat was definitely Mr. Biceps, Malcolm Webster’s bodyguard. Why are they on me? he asked himself, immediately thinking up applicable violations of law to use against them, starting with harassment as a misdemeanor and inflating it up to felonious assholery.

  The bottleneck broke; traffic spewed out. The Camaro stayed behind him. He made a right turn into Canal Street, and found himself fighting the traffic creeping into the Holland Tunnel. If Mr. Biceps was part of Webster’s security staff, he’d more than likely be armed, ditto Pug-nose. An idea brought a flush of excitement to his face. So they wanna play, do they? he thought, snatching the handset from under the dashboard. Holding it chest-high so they could not see what he was doing, he pressed the transmit button and radioed, “Special One to Central, K.”

  “Go SP-One.”

  “This unit has uninvited guest, K.”

  “Your location, SP-One?”

  “Heading west on Canal toward the tunnel, just passing Sullivan Street.”

  “Can you ID guests, SP-One?”

  Vinda gave descriptions of his shadows and their car, advising Central of the identity of Mr. Biceps.

  “Do you want backup, SP-One?”

  “Negative that, Central. Notify New Jersey state police to Eighty-five this unit the other side of tunnel.”

  “Ten-four, SP-One.”

  A crescent of sunlight signaled the end of the underwater highway. As he came out of the tunnel, he noticed the revolving turret lights of two New Jersey state police cars flashing yellowish beacons over the highway. The cars were parked alongside a green garbage dumpster.

  Vinda reached under his seat and took out the portable turret light. Opening the window, he slapped it onto the roof, and waved to the two state troopers waiting inside their patrol cars.

  The Camaro drove out of the tunnel. Vinda stuck his hand out of the car window and pointed to it, at the same time nodding to the two troopers.

  The troopers acknowledged, and wedged their cars into the traffic flow, intercepting the Camaro, boxing it front and back. The loudspeaker of one of the police vehicles blared, “Keep your windows closed and follow us.”

  The Camaro was convoyed through the traffic over to the dumpster. The troopers got out of their vehicles. Both young, well-built men, they took their time strutting over to the Camaro.

  This was going to be their show, so Vinda got out of his car and walked slowly over to the dumpster to watch.

  “Turn off the ignition and get out,” the taller trooper ordered. Pug-nose, who had the battered features of a losing middleweight contender, demanded, “Why’d ya pull us over?”

  The shorter of the two officers came up to Pug-nose and barked in his face, “Assume the position.”

  Biceps glared at Vinda, who smiled and shrugged innocence.

  Biceps and Pug-nose turned and spread-eagled against the dumpster. The shorter trooper began frisking Pug-nose. “My, my, what have we here?” the trooper said, yanking a nine-millimeter S&W automatic from a hip holster.

  “I got a carry permit,” Pug-nose announced smugly.

  “Really?” the taller trooper said in mock surprise. The shorter trooper shoved the automatic into his Sam Browne belt and proceeded to frisk Biceps.

  “I got a carry permit too,” Biceps said, when the trooper patted his holstered .38 Colt.

  After sticking the Colt in his belt, the shorter trooper said, “Let’s see those permits.”

  They took out their wallets, removed their permits, and handed them to the trooper. Scrutinizing the official documents, a scowl of disappointment glided across the trooper’s face. Without comment, he passed the permits to Vinda, who looked at them and said to Biceps, “You don’t have anything to say, and I strongly advise you not to.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Biceps growled, thick cords taut against his neck.

  “The lieutenant means,” the taller trooper said, “that your permits license you to carry concealed weapons in New York State, not in the State of New Jersey. You’re both under arrest.”

  “You Mickey Mouse cops can’t arrest us,” Biceps shouted into the trooper’s face.

  “I bet when the weather gets real hot your IQ can get as high as fifteen,” Vinda snarled at him.

  “Fuck you!” Biceps shouted back.

  The troopers separated, slowly backpedaling, their hands drifting toward their holsters. The taller one reached across his chest, plucked the nine-millimeter from his belt, and tossed it in front of the prisoner’s feet. A nervous twitch started up in Pug-nose’s right eye and cheek. “It’s a setup! They’re gonna whack us.”

  Vinda rushed them, shoving them up against the dumpster. “You scumbags got a choice, you can go quietly now, or in the morning, with the garbage.”

  “I hate lawyers,” Malcolm Webster bellowed across the expanse of his twenty-fifth-floor lower Broadway office. “And you’re forcing me to spend good money on them to defend my people on your trumped-up charges.”

  “We all have bad days, Malcolm,” Vinda said, standing before the plate-glass wall, soaking up the spectacular view. The ferry was making its run to Staten Island, sunlight gleaming off her wheelhouse as her prow bit into the incandescent water. “You know what we call it when we find a dozen lawyers floating facedown in the East River?”

  “What?” Webster snapped.

  “Urban renewal.”

  Despite himself, Webster laughed. He had installed himself behind a large redwood desk that appeared to stretch halfway across the room and was bare except for two telephone consoles on the right side.

  Vinda turned away from the wall to ask, “Why?”

  Webster turned and gazed out at the scudding clouds. “I want the man who murdered my daughter. And I want him punished. I thought by having you followed …” He pulled an ironed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and, without unfolding it, brushed it across his eyes.

  Vinda came over and sat on the edge of the desk and said, “Even God can’t change the past, Malcolm. I want to catch this guy too. And you have to be made to understand that by hindering me, you are helping him. Time, that thing that keeps everything from happening at once, is on his side, not ours.”

  Webster’s shoulders sagged. “Assign more detectives. I’ll pay for them.”

  “We’ve assigned all the resources we can. The NYPD has caught over twenty-nine hundred homicides so far this year, and we’re still counting. We’re stretched thin, very thin.”

  “How do you know you’ll catch him?”

  Vinda evaded the question, saying, “If you get in the way you can screw it up—and then we won’t nail him.”

  Webster took in a deep breath, and said, “I won’t interfere again.”

  “Now I can get back to work,” Vinda said, picking up his coat from the leather-covered couch against the wall.

  Watching the detective, a forlorn expression on his face, Webster said, “Isn’t there something I can do to help?”

  Slipping his arm into o
ne sleeve of his coat, Vinda said, “Maybe.” Every cop in the Job quickly learns: You do what you gotta do. And every cop was also aware that the Disciplinary Orders were filled with Charges and Specifications against cops who did what they had to do—and got caught. The thinking of the Palace Guard had not changed since that first watchman patrolled his New Amsterdam beat back in the seventeenth century: Do it! Don’t let me know you’re doing it. And if you get caught, you’re it.

  Walking back to the desk, Vinda placed his palms on the edge and, leaning forward, explained, “If you should aid this investigation, it would have to be done confidentially. No one, and I mean no one, could know.” As he leaned across the desk, he could smell the faint scent of Webster’s after-shave. “If what you did should become public knowledge, any fruits of your help would very likely be inadmissible in court, and could result in the perp walking. A man like you has a lot of connections; you can get into places that I can’t, and you’re in a position to grease palms, which I can’t do.” He fixed his eyes on the face of the dead girl’s father. “Still want to help?”

  “Yes,” Webster replied in a subdued tone. “I’ll do anything I can.”

  Vinda jammed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and chose his words carefully. The instinctive distrust that cops have for all civilians was overcome only with difficulty. “I’ve got a psychological profile on this monster from one expert. What she told me would get me thrown off the case if I put it in a report.” Looking away from Webster, he said thoughtfully, “I want you to reach out and find some other top experts—you know, shrinks who make sense, people that courts will listen to. I’ll give you copies of some of my notes. Find people who can tell me more about this guy.”

  He started to leave, and had a last-minute thought. “I’ll need a very secure phone number, a direct line I can reach you on, day or night.”

  SIXTEEN

  A cacophony of traffic blended with the refrain of Christmas carols as streams of people poured into subway stations. It was Monday evening, and the Empire State Building’s spire stabbed the low clouds against the black of the sky. The usual pre-holiday revelry had been subdued by the horrible murders that dominated the headlines and filled the television screens. White-collar bars emptied quickly as darkness fell, and men walked their female co-workers to catch their buses and subways.

  Around the corner from the famous landmark, on Thirty-third Street a little west of Fifth Avenue, most of the furniture showrooms had closed for the day. On the south side of the street, six buildings in from Sixth Avenue, a steel gate was locked across the front of an empty store with a large FOR RENT sign in the window. Five of the six lofts above the store were in darkness; the one on the first floor was dimly lit by a bare bulb hanging down from a tin-covered ceiling. Inside this loft a woman in her twenties stood on a folding ladder, tacking feminist posters to the wall. A lectern stood in front of ranks of folding chairs that stretched back across a wooden floor. On the speaker’s platform stood a boom-box playing a tape cassette of Haydn’s The Creation.

  Kate Coswell’s long, bulky sweater came down over her jeans to mid-thigh. Kate had always been a believer in women’s rights, but had not become active in the movement until one night last year when she had taken a shower in her boyfriend’s apartment. She had planned on spending the night there, so she had brought along her personal articles and a change of clothes. While in the shower, rubbing a fragrant skin conditioner over her stomach, she noticed a tube of the same product standing upright in the shower caddy. Curious, she picked it up and saw that it was the same size as hers, manufactured by the same company, had exactly the same ingredients, and cost two dollars less than the ladies’ body scrub. It was labeled FOR MEN. She had squeezed a glob of the green paste into her hand and lathered it under her breasts, finding that it felt and smelled exactly the same as the stuff in her tube. Her girlfriends were right: if men menstruated, Tampax would be free. It was at that moment that Kate Coswell decided to become active in the movement.

  Climbing down, she carried the ladder to the other side of the room, and put up more posters.

  Outside in the street, Michael Worthington loomed back in a doorway, staring up at the first-floor loft with the big sign in the window announcing tonight’s meeting of The Women’s Register. Lost in the gloom of a winter’s night, Worthington clutched a shopping bag crammed with the supplies he had so carefully packed. Stepping out of the doorway, he looked up and down the street and then quickly crossed to the other side, slipping into the vestibule of the building.

  The narrow lobby had a cracked tile floor and an elevator with ancient sliding doors with gilded scrollwork. The staircase was to the left. He took the steps swiftly and silently, aware that he did not have much time. Reaching the first level, he put his ear to the door and heard, “Wir preisen dich in Ewigkeit!” We praise Thee in eternity, he translated, thinking, Someone has the good taste to be listening to Haydn. He carefully turned the doorknob, opened the door a crack, and peered inside. A woman was standing on the top step of a ladder, tacking posters to the wall. He looked around and, seeing no one else, concentrated his attention on her. Her hands were young, and her long hair flowed down her back. His mouth went dry, and flashes of warmth surged across his stomach.

  Opening the door wide, he slipped inside and stood with his back against the wall, watching her, unable to suppress his budding desire. Looking about, he spotted a door a few feet to his right, and inched his way over to it. He slipped inside and found himself in a cleaning-supply room filled with the pungent smells of solvents and cleaners. He switched on the light and saw the large cardboard drum standing against the wall. He removed the metal lid, and saw that it was one-quarter filled with some kind of granulated cleaning compound. He turned off the light, went to the door, and cracked it. When he saw her again he was convinced that the Eternal One had sent her to him—it was His will. Suddenly he realized that he had not brought his vestments with him, and he admonished himself. That was dumb, dumb. But he did have his sacred instrument. He quietly undressed and folded his clothes, putting them up on one of the shelves. Naked, he inserted his gleaming implement and padded over to the door. “Dem Schopfer haben wir gedankt.”

  Kate walked to the back to admire her work. She was standing with her hands on her hips a few feet in front of the supply room, with her back to the door. He plunged out, grabbing her, cupping his hand over her mouth, sweeping the terrified woman up into his arms, and hauled her back into the cleaning-supply room.

  The Creation drowned out the sounds of her muffled screams.

  Her nails clawed at his back in her desperate struggle for life. “How sweet you are,” he said, arching her thrashing body up to his mouth so that he could reach her young, vulnerable throat. His heightened excitement made him oblivious of the bloody gouges she was digging across his shoulders. He ran his tongue over her throat and gave her a vampire kiss. He jerked his head back, saw the stark terror in her eyes, and then struck, slashing as he withdrew. He snapped her body away from his, so that her blood would gush into the cardboard drum.

  The tape deck abruptly stopped; the loft was quiet.

  Worthington cleaned himself off with a roll of cheesecloth he found on one of the shelves. He dressed now, acutely aware of the searing pain in his shoulders. Back in the main room, he spent several minutes studying its layout and noting the ventilation grilles in the walls. He smiled and muttered, “Piece of cake for ol’ Dinny’O,” easily slipping back into character.

  He carried the ladder over to the grille behind the lectern and climbed up. He took a Swiss Army knife out of the shopping bag, pulled out the screwdriver blade, and unscrewed the grille, carefully placing each of the six screws in his shirt pocket. Reaching back into the bag, he took out a bar of plastique and placed it down on top of the ladder. Pulling out the larger knife blade, he cut off a quarter of the bar, picked up the grille, and molded the explosive over the back. Going back into the bag, he fished out a three-inch t
ube that resembled a meat thermometer with an electrical wire running out of one end and leading into a digital timer with a watch-sized face. He inserted the detonator into the plastique. After checking the time, he set the timer for an hour and a half. He proceeded to check the bomb to make sure he had set it up properly. The detonator was inserted firmly into the explosive. When the minute hand of the timer struck the appointed time, the alarm would go off, closing the circuit, sending a current of electricity into the plastique and exploding it.

  How excellent and fitting a sacrifice, he thought. And, for a moment, it was as if two men stood there in the room, each a stranger to the other.

  SEVENTEEN

  A temporary morgue had been established in the Bagel Joint, a luncheonette five doors east of the disaster scene. A row of blistered, oozing, unrecognizable hulks were lying on plastic ground sheets on the floor in front of the lunch counter.

  The building where The Women’s Register had held its meeting no longer existed; in its place was only a huge mound of smoking rubble, protruding beams, and jagged slabs of masonry.

  Emergency Service Division police officers and Fire Rescue Teams gingerly picked their way over the rubble, probing it for survivors, while heavy-duty cranes stood ready to lift debris off any that were discovered.

  C-of-D Leventhal stood outside the temporary headquarters trailer with other police brass. An Emergency Service sergeant, his uniform caked with plaster, came over to them and announced softly, “Definitely an explosive device. So far we’ve come up with eight bodies, and we’re still looking.” The grim-faced officials looked at each other. The sergeant drew the C-of-D aside by the arm and confided, “Chief, we’ve found something you should see.”

  Thirty minutes later, Vinda stumbled his way over the rubble to the knot of detectives huddled around the entrance to an underground chamber that had been formed out of tumbling I-beams and debris. Floodlights illuminated the cavern; a parachute harness had been set up to lower and raise people from the chamber.