Mallory stumbled to the curb, stared up the street, searching. No trace of the dog at all. “Hon, what was that about? Max was terrified.” Gina touched his arm.
“Tired,” Mallory murmured. “Overreacted. Misread the situation.”
“You never misread situations, Frank. What did you see that got you shouting at a dog and throwing your own son at me?”
Gina waited, then shook her head and sighed. “I hate it when you do this.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Frank, please don’t do this. I saw the news. That hotel turned into Hell on Earth, there’s no way you can downplay it.” She moved into his line of sight, forced her husband to make eye contact with her. “Did you catch that guy?”
“We’re working on it, hon. Don’t worry.”
“And the dog?”
“He was charging Max, teeth bared. Honey, I’ve never seen that thing before and it was charging Maxie. I need more of a reason? Max was terrified.”
She whispered. “When you screamed at it, so were you.”
“I overreacted,” Mallory forced a smile at her.
Gina stared at him for a long time. “Frank, you’ve got less than two years before you can retire; you don’t need this.”
“You don’t understand—”
She stepped away from him. “I’m trying to, honey, I’m really trying to understand. All I do know is, we have Max inside upset, and you’re out here staring down the street. I find you in your car at three in the morning, working a case. When you’re playing catch with Kieran, I can tell your mind is wandering. You don’t come home from work, I see on the news that you’re in a war zone. Then you do get here, and goofing around with Max turns into some kind of crisis. You sounded terrified. I’m worried. You’ve never been like this before; never let work invade our home like this. It’s not healthy for you, Frank; it’s not good for the kids, for us. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She turned to her husband.
He was staring down the road.
TWENTY-FIVE
Later, clearing the dishes as she washed them, Mallory whispered to Gina so the kids couldn’t hear, “Want to hit the mall, get them Baskin-Robbins?”
She gave him a knowing look. “Usually I’d say no, it’s late, but I’ve got to get Kieran shoes for Easter, and you’re so jumpy tonight, walking around would do you some good. Maybe you should pick up a book or something, take your mind off things.”
The kids ran to the car, followed by Gina. Mallory locked up, taking one last look at the ugly brown maw that was their front door. Something had to be done.
Driving to the mall, Mallory floated his idea. “So I’m thinking about painting the front door—”
Kieran leaped right on it. “Let’s paint it Yankee blue!”
Gina was thoughtful. “A burgundy might be nice, or a deep violet.”
“How ‘bout this?” Max shouted pointing to the various colors on his shirt, which featured animated fruit characters: lime green, lemon yellow, and tomato red.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Maxie,” Dad smiled. “But I want something even redder than that.”
Kieran was so outraged he stopped playing his PSP. “Red! Da-ad, that’s the color for Boston. The Red Sox, remember?”
“I’m not thinking about Red Sox red, Kier, I’d never do that.”
Max was on the job. “What do you mean? Bouncy ball red? Fire engine red?”
“Yeah, fire engine red, something like that. A red-red, you know a real red?” Gina sighed.
“You’re not into a red door?” Mallory asked.
“I just thought we were going to the mall for Easter shoes.”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing. Max, I told you not to bring up painting the door.”
“Hey,” Max shouted with glee, “I din’t do nothing! You did!”
“Yeah, Dad, you Red Sox fan!” Kieran jumped in.
The kids’ giggles bubbled through the car. Gina smiled at him.
Once in the mall, Gina took over, as she always did. Shoes were bought, double-secret probation sales racks were found, books were acquired, husband points scored, then Max announced he had to go to the bathroom, immediately. Business as usual. Kieran lobbied to stay with Dad, so as Gina and Max made the mad dash, they leaned against a wall, two men talking baseball, MLB-The Show to be specific, one of Kieran’s favorite video games. “My team won again, 64-3,” Kieran crowed.
“You might want to try moving up to the next level of difficulty, slugger.”
“There is no…”
Mallory gazed at his son. He was so much bigger than Max. Mallory found himself wondering whether he would have overreacted if the bulldog had gone after Kieran? Of course. It wasn’t the dog so much as the gut feeling. The same feeling he got at the subway entrance, in the garage, at the hotel: recognition of an old friend.
Not going there. Old news, long dead. He’d buried those myths along with Heinz.
Heinz. A childhood friend. He’d gotten tagged with the nickname at age 10 for being so slow someone said the famously thick ketchup was quicker. Mallory and Heinz’s friendship predated even his nickname. They had grown up together from before kindergarten, called each other’s mother “Mom.” Mallory had even gone to Heinz’s summer home where they participated in the small beach town’s costume parade, as the skinniest pirates ever to wave a plastic scabbard and yell “Arrgghh!” They were 13 then, and had almost scored with a couple of girls, but were too young, too goofy, to pull it off.
In the spring of the next year, Heinz died. The family explained it as an accident; local jerks whispered suicide; Mallory blamed God. He quit altar boys, ditched his Christ-head medallion, avoided the church completely. Along with God, Mallory swore off any other fictional character connected with those lame myths, including the devil. It was all useless storytelling. Of all his friends, only Ross understood. He always did. Maybe a call to him, talk all this—
“Dad! I’m talking to you!” Kieran stood with his hands on his hips.
“Sorry, pal, what’s up?”
“You said I had to try the next level up,” Kieran fumed. “I’m trying to tell you there is no other level. This is the game. You have to play what’s there, Dad.”
Mallory liked that. “Play what’s there, huh?”
“Ye-es. Told you.”
“Thanks, Kier,” Mallory rubbed his son’s curly hair.
Behind him stood one of the last banks of pay phones he’d seen anywhere in years. One of the phones rang, shrill, piercing. Mallory instinctively reached to his right, grabbing for Kieran. He found only empty air. He shot a glance to his right, then left: the boy was gone. The phone rang again.
“Kieran? Kieran!” He found himself whipping around as the phone shrieked again—
“KIERAN!”
The boy ran out from behind a candy machine placed at the center of the walkway, right in front of the restroom entrances, where no kid could miss it. He had been doing an eight-year-old’s version of window shopping. Mallory felt like a jerk. Kieran hurried to his Dad, shook by his father’s expression, near tears due to his own fear of getting punished for doing something he didn’t know was wrong.
He forced his voice to sound calmer. “Sorry, buddy, I just didn’t know where you were. Stay with me all right? You want to look at something, tell me.”
Kieran stared at the ground. “I did tell you.”
Mallory hugged the boy. “Sorry, pal. I’ve got too much on my mind tonight. I’m putting all that away now. Me and you, okay? Me and you.”
The phone kept ringing. Mallory tried to ignore it.
The phone rang again, loud and insistent. Mallory looked over to the entrance of the ladies’ room. Gina and Max still weren’t out. “What’s keeping Max and Mom?”
“Girls bathrooms can have long lines, boys bathrooms never do, except at Yankee Stadium,” Kieran offered.
“You’re probably right,” Mallory said. But his eyes wa
ndered to the ringing phone. Then to the restroom entrance. Back to the phone. He stepped over, picked it up. There was no voice, but he thought he heard breathing or maybe just static.
Mallory pulled Kieran closer. Looked around. No one was watching them. After the line crackled a little louder, he blushed, hung up. Almost immediately, it rang again. Mallory jumped. Mallory took Kieran’s hand. “We’re going to get your Mom.”
“No! I hate the girls’ room!”
“Don’t worry, I just need to—”
At that moment Gina and Max strolled out, Max sort of dancing his way across the tiles. Gina caught her husband’s expression immediately. “What?”
“Tired, that’s all. Is he okay?”
Gina let her deliciously low-toned chuckle float over him. “Max wanted to use every stall, every way he could think of.”
Mallory exhaled. “Hey, Maxie, that’s not a playground in there.”
The little guy threw up his hands. “Dad, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
Mallory laughed. “Let’s get ice cream.”
As they walked away, the phone suddenly stopped ringing. Mallory glanced at it, took his sons’ hands, then picked up the pace, just a little.
TWENTY-SIX
It was almost 9 p.m. by the time he pulled into his tiny driveway and became Dad again.
He kissed his wife gently before the impact of two running toddlers knocked his legs ever so slightly. He scooped both up. “Hey, how’s my boys?” They laughed as he kissed their necks.
His wife looked deeply into his eyes. “I was so concerned I even forgot to put them into bed. Were you anywhere near that horrible situation at the hotel?”
He held his hand up to her nose, she recoiled a bit. “I was filling up my gas cans.”
“You going flying again?”
“Soon,” he smiled. “Did a bit today, and I need to prep for more. I’m going to fly a lot this week. I really need it.”
“Good, it’s high time you started doing what you love.”
His smiled widened. “Hon, this is my time. Things are turning around for us now; I know what I have to do.”
She smiled for him. He kissed her, boys still in his arms, all of them so together. “This is it, kid. We’re going to get our place in the sun.”
“You deserve it,” she whispered.
He nodded up once with his chin, towards the kids. “They deserve it, all of it: a yard to play in, a good life, a better world. And it’s all coming for them.” He turned his eyes to his boys. “Come on, fellas, let’s go read a bedtime story.”
One of the toddlers screamed, “Would you could you!”
Daddy looked at his son, proud. “Yes I could.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
When he entered the squad room, case files in hand, Gunner was standing beside Detective Laura Jacobi, wincing at the hotel mayhem on the morning news. After a hyperbolic summary of events by an Asian reporter with perfect hair, glossy lipstick and a gleam of Hollywood intensity in her eye, Police Commissioner Anthony Delguardo came on the screen looking somber. “We are investigating incidents at this hotel, but the situation is not ongoing, beyond the processing of potential witnesses. Any rumors you may have heard about this investigation are just that. The NYPD has never before, and will not now, compromise an investigation by discussing details while said investigation is ongoing.”
The report cut to an angle showing the reporter just a few feet away from Delguardo, ahead of the press mob. She leaned forward while asking her question, putting herself at the center of attention. “Even the rumor that the killer was a member of the NYPD, Commissioner?”
“Especially that rumor,” the PC bristled. “What people saw were officers responding quickly to the situation, not causing it.”
“Commissioner, the public has a right to know the extent of the danger they face, especially since this is connected to the subway—”
Delguardo cut her off. “Once again, Ms. Kim, you repeat as fact what is now only rumor and innuendo; that has not as yet been established as fact.”
Ms. Kim went right at him. “Are you saying you have ruled out a connection?”
“No, and we haven’t ruled out a connection to Jack the Ripper, but that doesn’t mean people should be worried about him.”
The reporter flipped her hair back, outraged for the masses. “Citizens of this city are in considerable danger—”
“All eight million? I suspect you are overstating the case.”
Ms. Kim boiled with righteous indignation for the camera. “Tell that to the families of those who have been murdered. Tell that to this madman’s next victim, Commissioner.”
A jelly donut hit the screen, smearing itself over the reporter’s face. Before Gunner could do any more damage, Jacobi pressed a well-worn button on the remote shutting the television off. Gunner growled. “The PC got nailed. He’s gonna crucify Danvers as pay back.”
“We’ll be hanging to his left and right unless we come up with something fast,” Mallory agreed, slapping the files down on his desk.
Detective Jacobi handed Gunner paper towels, pointed to the television. “How about the fax? Anything come of that?”
“Fax,” Mallory scanned his desk. “What fax, Laura?”
“I put it on Gunner’s desk—”
“Big mistake,” Mallory said, leaning over to his partner’s overflowing “in” box, half buried under a haphazard pile of shoddy file folders, mostly marked with coffee rings. “Gunner’s desk eats important documents. He once lost a witness in here.”
“I know where everything is. Even that witness; lower left hand drawer. He sleeps in the file marked ‘witness protection’.” Gunner cleaned the screen, more or less, then joined Mallory at his desk, but refrained from helping, preferring instead to nosh on an oversized pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese.
“Got it,” Mallory said, raising a fax from below three smudged files. “It’s from Ticketmaster’s own Camille Simmons. Thank you, Detective Jacobi. Once again, you’re timing is perfect.” She blushed, nodded, rushed away to answer a phone. Mallory read the four-page fax carefully, each line seeming to make him more delighted.
Gunner spat bagel crumbs as he spoke. “Dead end, right? Those execu-troid types couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a seeing-eye dog.”
Mallory shook his head. “Ye of little faith.” He waved the papers. “Complete list of who bought the Who tickets.”
Gunner spat more crumbs. “Get outta here.”
Mallory summarized the sheet. “Every seat we asked for. For example, the initial 24 seats we discussed were purchased through eleven sales. Will and his friends accounted for four seats, all in one purchase, a credit card phone order—”
“So those tough guys had Mommy buy their tickets. Heh.”
“Eight others were bought in pairs, and there was a threesome, all also purchased with credit cards, five by internet order, four through phone sales.”
“So? How’s that help us?”
“Each sale is broken down, including credit card account information: full names, addresses, phone numbers, age, gender, even social security numbers.”
Gunner raised his eyebrows. “How about the seat where our scribbler sat?”
Mallory theatrically referred to the sheet one last time. “That ticket was a single purchase made in cash at a music store in The Bronx. Actually, a place I know, not far from my old neighborhood, in fact.”
“Allow me to confirm that, as any good detective would,” Gunner smirked. He took the list, and, without looking, pulled another sheet of paper from the scary “in” box. This one featured the sketch of numbered seats he made at the Garden. Gunner lined up the Ticketmaster list with the numbered seating sketch. The single ticket was the same seat Will’s friends had pegged as the seat where the note-taking guy sat.
Mallory stood, taking his coffee and untouched bagel with him. “We’ll delegate the other names to the squad. Danvers has them acting as a task force on
this. Let’s me and you go to The Bronx—”
“A mistake,” Gunner said, wiping his mouth diligently with a napkin.
“It’s the most likely lead.”
Gunner busied himself wiping crumbs off his battered desk into his palm, and then depositing them in his trash bin. “We should handle the core interviews ourselves. We can’t do the whole list ourselves; I’ll admit that, but those directly behind Willie Boy’s seat? They’re most likely to pay off.”
“The task force can cover this list much more quickly.”
“They’ll be finished with the hotel follow-ups by noon, then the rest of the names on this list. That’s more than enough work for them to do. The core seats? That’s gold, Mal, it ain’t canvassing a neighborhood. Every single one of these people is either the perp or has high potential to be a key witness. We start with this couple in the 40s, work our way through those in the immediate vicinity, our core list, those most likely to have been annoyed by Willie and the poor boys’ fucking around all night. One of them is gonna prove to be our prime suspect.”
“Yeah, the single ticket guy who sat directly behind Will. Why not go right for him?”
Gunner deposited the used napkin, took out a handy wipe, cleaned his hands, deposited that as well. “Look, we have addresses, socials, all sorts of information on everyone else, but only the store address for this Bronx guy. We can go directly to everyone else; some of them can give us a description on the one guy we know the least about. We are going to have to look for this guy, not just ring his doorbell. See why we should go to The Bronx last? This way we’re gathering witness statements at the very least.”
“You want to start with the couple who live in gentrified, ridiculously expensive Clinton?”
“Don’t get cocky, pal. That neighborhood used to be called Hell’s Kitchen. Who’s to say this rocker ain’t a holdover from the old neighborhood?”
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