City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  “First the hotel, now this? Too fucking much of a coincidence.”

  Mallory flashed on the bulldog giving that single upward nod of its chin.

  Suddenly Dante jumped out from behind a bus, smiled, then gave a little wave before cutting right across the “square.”

  “Cocky bastard,” Mallory grunted.

  “Did that motherfucker just flag us?”

  “Yep.”

  Gunner fumed, “Suspected murderers aren’t supposed to fuck with us like that. Where’s the fear, the desperation?” Brakes squealed and drivers cursed as they charged across all four-lanes of East Tremont Avenue. “We got this asshole. He’s heading for the train.”

  “No, it just left. He’d be trapped on the platform,” Mallory tossed him the keys. “Grab the car. I’ll chase him on foot; you swing around, cut him off.”

  Gunner split off toward their car. “How ‘bout I swing around and run this arrogant motherfucker over?”

  The suspect charged down Lane Avenue, a short street off Tremont leading to Westchester Avenue. He was several car lengths away now. Mallory raced after him. Near the expansive entrance to the Six train, the suspect veered left, charged into the street, then suddenly stumbled next to a gypsy cab, hitting the blacktop hard. Mallory pushed himself to go faster, to catch this freak now. Traffic stopped him cold. The suspect was still down, perfect chance to make the arrest. Mallory waved his shield at drivers. This was The Bronx; no one was impressed. The suspect scrambled up. Mallory rushed right into traffic, shoving his shield in front of screeching brakes, hurrying across the street.

  The suspect ran to the only other gypsy cab around, parked right ahead. Mallory rushed into the street, within 20 feet now. A Ford Explorer blew past him, nearly clipping the detective, the woman behind the wheel flipping him an enthusiastic middle finger.

  The suspect yanked an older man out of the driver’s seat.

  He hurled him right towards the grill of the oncoming Explorer.

  The woman covered her face.

  The cabbie’s eyes widened.

  The Ford swerved.

  Its grill crunched the cabbie’s face, breaking his neck, shattering his shoulder.

  The body flipped back—

  —landing on the street with a sickening bounce—

  —then an ugly thud.

  The Ford swerved left, across the lane divider, ramming into an oncoming Trans Am. The sports car crumpled like the fiberglass piece of crap Mallory knew it to be, its driver smashing his head through the windshield. The woman hit her face on her steering wheel, gashing her forehead, then disappeared behind a crash bag. Neither moved. The second cab lurched forward, reclaiming Mallory’s focus. He ran to the first cab, the one the suspect had stumbled by. Then froze. He eyed the disappearing cab, looked back at his cab’s rear tire. Flat. The suspect hadn’t fallen. He had dropped down to slash the tire.

  Screeching brakes slammed to a halt behind him. Mallory spun, ran, jumped in. “He’s getting away.”

  Gunner floored it. “Fuck that.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “We get this bastard? I’m buying the beers. No sweat.”

  “I grew up around here,” Mallory warned. “We lose sight of this guy for a minute, he’s gone, onto the Cross Bronx to Manhattan or Jersey, the New England Thruway to Westchester. Or he can jump out and catch a bus, or the Six train at Zerega, Castle Hill, or Parkchester.”

  “He’s gotta stay off the train. I can’t do a French Connection here, I’ll ram right into these damn support pillars. I’m good, but I’m no Gene Hackman.”

  Gunner gripped the wheel tighter; hit the gas a bit more. A full block behind Dante now, struggling to keep up as their guy weaved in and around obstacles, using traffic and the damned elevated track support pillars to inch farther away. “Damn it. This guy’s crazier than we thought.”

  “Got that right,” Mallory said, tightening his seat belt. “The way he’s making decisions, he knows the area at least as well as I do.”

  Mallory raised the car’s police radio. “I’m calling for back-up.”

  “I called in an ambulance for DeLillo’s. But they already need a carnage update.”

  Mallory braced one hand against the door, spoke into the radio. “Central, this is Manhattan’s Major Crimes Unit.”

  “Proceed, Manhattan,” the voice crackled back.

  Mallory pointed up two blocks, to Seabury Avenue, where Dante could make a left toward backstreets. Instead the car sped forward. The detective continued speaking into the radio, more quickly now. “Be advised of a developing situation connected to the civilian injury reported at the DeLillo’s store on the corner of East Tremont and Westchester Avenues. Suspect we are pursuing also threw a citizen from a cab into oncoming traffic near the Westchester Square train station. Male Latino, approximately 50, hit by green Ford Explorer, license plate Boy Adam Charlie one-three-nine-Charlie.”

  “We’re 10-4 on the modified hit-and-run.”

  “Shit!” Gunner swerved around a young Mom with a baby carriage and two toddlers, all wandering into traffic trying to cross the street. “Maybe I am Gene fucking Hackman, baby!” With less than three inches to spare, he raced past one of the elevated Six train tracks’ ominously thick girders. “Oh shit!”

  Mallory gulped, retightened his seat belt. “Central. Add a head-on collision at same location, involving same Ford Explorer. Driver lost control of her vehicle after hitting the Latino male, drove head-on into a black Pontiac Trans-Am bearing vanity license plate Boy-Ida-George-Oscar-Nora-Edward. Both drivers sustained head trauma. Multiple buses needed.”

  “Um, Affirmative. You’ve been busy, Manhattan.”

  Mallory jabbed his index finger again toward the fleeing car, now fast approaching Herschell Avenue, another potential escape route, this one leading to the Cross Bronx Expressway/ Hutchinson River Parkway/ New England Thruway interchange he dreaded. Mallory stared at Dante’s taillights, praying he didn’t slam them on, fishtailing into a sharp left turn.

  “This guy’s gonna put me on a bender,” Gunner shouted.

  Dante shot past Herschell. Mallory lowered the radio. “He’s gotta take the next one, Zerega, or he’ll miss the interchange,” he shouted. “That would be too big a break. Sharp left into a two-way residential block which then turns industrial. Get ready.”

  “Shitshitshitshitshit.”

  It had to be this left. If their suspect took a right on Zerega, he’d get bogged down in double-and-triple-parked cars, and they’d have him. And traffic always slowed up ahead at both Castle Hill Avenue and at Hugh Grant Circle. This left on Zerega was his last chance to make a break.

  Back on the radio, as Dante approached the Zerega cross street, Mallory’s voice took on an edge. “Central, we are pursuing suspect in blue Plymouth sedan, license Boy-Boy-Charlie- seven-eight-zero-one on Westchester Avenue, about to head south on Zerega Avenue. Request any cars in the area as back-up.”

  “Major Case, be advised that 4-5 Charlie and 4-5 David are approaching.”

  Mallory threw the radio back into its dock, pointed to the left onto Zerega Avenue. “This has to be it.”

  The Plymouth swerved wildly, brake lights flashing, back tires swinging out with a screech of scorching rubber — and disappeared from view.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Blocking the street both ways, skid marks defining its recent trajectory, was the stolen gypsy cab. The passenger side door stood ajar. The motor was still running. The detectives were slamming right toward it.

  Gunner hit the brakes, spun the wheel hard, fishtailing to a stop inches from contact. Mallory’s neck whipped to the right painfully, his elbow crashing into the side door. Air bags inflated, pinning them to the seats.

  Mallory shouted, “Get out! We’re sitting ducks.”

  “Stay low!” Gunner yelled back.

  Mallory’s eyes darted frantically. He shoved the airbag aside as best he could, managing to spring his seat belt buckle. More fighting got his arms
over to the door latch. Just out of reach. Picturing the smiling killer sauntering over, calmly placing a gun to Mallory’s temple as he squirmed, trapped behind this suddenly stupid airbag, he stretched. Flashing on Gina and the boys, he sucked in a breath, stretched further. Then he felt it, pushed himself further until the latch was in his hand. He pulled hard, knocking the door open with his elbow, shocks of pain streaking up his arm.

  Mallory tumbled out, rolled, pawing at his hip holster. Drawing the Glock, he came to a stop on his stomach. Pushed himself up on his elbows —more pain— he scrambled into a crouch against an old Dodge Dart parked along the curb.

  Gunner came around their Chrysler, his own gun drawn. “See him?”

  “No.”

  A voice from behind made both detectives jump. “He gone.”

  They spun around as one, aiming their weapons at the speaker, fingers tensing, ready to fire—

  On a 10-year-old.

  They yanked their guns up frantically, gasping, crazed waves of horror ripping oxygen from their lungs, nerves on overload. Gunner took two steps and plunged his head down toward his knees trying to recover.

  The boy, who was round-faced, but otherwise skinny and small, seemed unfazed by the guns or their panic. He pointed beyond the road-blocking cab. “He drove off in that man car. You shouldn’t play like that. Somebody gonna get hurt.”

  Mallory, still gulping air, held up his hand, waving it to signal the boy should get back. “Thanks for the advice, big guy. Now I need you to go wait for us at the corner.”

  Gunner and Mallory edged around the stolen cab, guns ready. Throughout their slow progress the kid kept talking, ignoring Mallory’s directive.

  “That man spinned that car around like it was a Big Wheels. He come out all smiling like he done something good but his Momma gonna whup his ass she find out he making this mess. You cain’t leave stuff out like this.”

  The detectives were almost there, ready to come out firing if the suspect was laying in wait for them. “Go back to the corner, son.”

  “If I made this mess? Left my toys out in the street like this? My Momma would whup mah ass for sure. Your Momma ever whup your ass?”

  The detectives exchanged glances, knowing they couldn’t make a move with the kid still around. Gunner called out. “Nah, my Daddy done the whupping.” Then he growled. “You want me to show ya how?” The kid tore ass to the corner.

  The detectives stepped around the car fast, guns arcing from position to position, frantically securing the area. All they found was another body. The man, African-American, early 30s, blood pouring from a gash above his eye, was unconscious but alive. Mallory checked his pulse, Gunner searched his pockets. Out came a wallet, then a driver’s license, and behind that a vehicle registration card.

  Gunner retrieved the police radio. “Central, this is Manhattan Major Crimes, still touring The Bronx. We need another bus—”

  “Manhattan, where do you need this fourth bus sent to?”

  “Zerega, just off Westchester Avenue.” Gunner read off the registration. “Also, we are now looking for a blue 2001 Honda Accord, license plate Adam – Boy – King – four – three – three – one. Suspect we were pursuing is believed to have switched cars and is now fleeing in this newly stolen vehicle. We are unable to pursue.”

  “Manhattan, an APB has been issued for a blue 2001 Honda Accord, license plate Adam – Boy – King – four – three – three – one. Over. Hope to soon hear you’ve left The Beautiful Bronx.”

  Mallory eyed his partner. “Reporting the Honda was a major assumption.”

  Gunner nodded behind them, to another set of skid marks. “What made those? Where do you think this guy was when he encountered our suspect?”

  “You right,” the kid was back. “I seen it. That man took this man car, and raced off backward. And then he rip off his own head.”

  Both men turned slowly, stared at the kid. He nodded vigorously, eyes wide. “He did. Look, it still there in the street.” Now their necks swiveled in the opposite direction. Laying about 150 feet away, alongside a set of curving skid marks that suggested the suspect spun the vehicle around before finally driving off, sat a black baseball cap.

  Under the hat was blonde hair.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mallory and Gunner finished giving their statements to local detectives who would be handling the assault in DeLillo’s, the involuntary manslaughter on Westchester Avenue, the subsequent head-on collision, and the second assault (and stolen vehicle) on Zerega. The partners would do their own paper work back at the squad room, but this much chaos needed local documentation as well.

  A young gold shield out of the 45th Precinct, Detective Juan Rivera, stood taking notes, shaking his head, speaking loudly over the departing uptown Six train above. “No offense, guys, but next time you visit The Bronx, please give me a head’s up so I can call in sick. You got me doing paperwork for the next 10 hours here.”

  “So? You owe us a beer for all that overtime,” Gunner smiled. “Part of the deal, kid. We got at least as much time in paper-work hell waiting for us downtown.”

  Mallory tried to be more positive. “Listen, we do appreciate the assist. We’re trying to nab this guy before his next attack. Look how much damage he did just getting away from us. We really need any help you can offer us.”

  “You got it,” the officer nodded. “Where you think this scuzz is headed?”

  “Too many escape routes to tell,” Mallory shrugged. “But I’d bet far away from here. Queens, Manhattan—”

  “I’ll take that bet, sir.” A uniform cut in, just arrived DeLillo’s. Gunner and Mallory eyed him, their tired silence urging him on. “We, uh, we just recovered the second stolen vehicle, detectives.”

  Mallory glowered. “Where?”

  “Um, responding officers don’t know exactly when it arrived, sirs. But, um, it was, um, it’s parked eight cars up the block from DeLillo’s.”

  The detectives looked beyond the uniform, down the street, toward DeLillo’s. Even from a block-and-a-half away, they could see a blue Honda. Gunner locked eyes with his partner, fire in his, fury in Mallory’s. “This guy is definitely, categorically, undeniably fucking with us.”

  As if on cue, the uniform held up an evidence bag. It contained a single three by five index card. “This was under the driver’s side wiper blade,” he offered. “The C.O. on duty wants to know if it means anything to you.”

  Mallory stepped forward. He took the plastic baggie, held it up, easily reading the familiar, oddly scrunched handwriting on the card:

  You should have heeded the warning. Now there’s only one thing left to say:

  Mallory turned the bag over, read the back of the card.

  Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Mallory and Gunner slouched deep down into the worn out chairs in the Lieu’s office as Danvers flipped through the report on his desk, a massive collection of U-68s and other report forms. Finally he looked up, frowned, making eye contact with one, then the other.

  “What bothers me is this: why did he bring the stolen vehicle back to the crime scene?”

  The detectives exchanged looks; Mallory expressed their confusion. “Aren’t you going to nail us for not getting the guy?”

  Gunner shared his partner’s mystification. “Or for winding up in the middle of all that chaos?”

  “Or for the body count?”

  Danvers met each detective’s gaze, holding one, then the other. “Way I see it, this guy showed up and created all of that on his own,” Danvers pushed the mound of paper work aside. “Considering his overt aggression, I’m proud you handled yourselves as well as you did.” He shook his head. “It’s the final car stunt that bothers me. Why would he take that risk?”

  Gunner replied, “To fu—mess with us one more time.”

  Danvers held up his hands, palms up. “If that’s true, if he was compelled to drive in as close as he could possibly get to an ongoing pol
ice investigation, within sight of dozens of police officers as well as the detectives who already visually identified him, we would be forced to assume this guy is reckless to the point of stupidity.”

  “Our guy is not stupid,” Mallory said.

  “Then why did he do it? Why didn’t he ditch it elsewhere and walk to the scene of the crime if he wanted to gawk? Actually, why risk returning at all?”

  Moments passed without a sound. Mallory finally broke the silence. “He needed to retrieve something else in that area.”

  “No way did he think he was getting those cards,” Gunner said.

  Danvers nodded. “Right, the store was closed off to him. He had to be there for some other reason. Unless we want to believe he’s just psychotic.”

  “He functions too well,” Mallory stood up, walked to a filthy window. “It’s too planned out. Even today’s chaos had logic to it. This guy is driven by some vision of how things should be, and can think on his feet, improvise.”

  “Agreed,” Danvers said. “And maybe the last index card taunt was an improv, but I don’t buy it as the reason he went back.”

  Through the grime, Mallory watched a cop he knew exit the precinct.

  Behind him, Gunner spoke. “He’s pulled more elaborate stunts already, Lieu. No offense, but have you checked your pockets lately?”

  “Point taken.”

  Mallory watched the cop pass a bunch of other officers on his way to a car. “How does he know our moves?”

  Gunner chuckled. “According to his writing, he’s a demon with contacts.”

  The tone of Danvers’ voice grew sharper. “Detective, are you in fact trying to help here?”

  “He watched us all day at the hotel,” Gunner spoke more seriously. “He could be following us, though that would make us sucky cops.”

  “Why would you be looking for a tail?”

  Mallory watched the cop get in his car, start it, pull away. The others took no notice of him. “He came back for his car.” He turned around. “If he has been following us, he had to have one.”