Ross studied the photos, read the short report, glanced at the photos again, then looked up. “Your boy made a mistake.”
Mallory scanned the report. “Where?”
“Here he’s portraying Paolo and Francesa, whom Dante called down from their punishment in that level of Hell and spoke to briefly.”
Gunner made a face. “Who are they?”
“Dante included Italian politicians, mythical characters, historical figures into The Inferno, including these two. Around 1250, 1275 or so, this deformed warrior, Giovanni the Lame — no really, that was his name — was given Francesa in marriage for political reasons. But Francesa didn’t love Giovanni, she was hot for his younger brother Paolo, even though Paolo was married and had a few daughters. They had a secret affair until the day Giovanni found them in the sack, and killed them both right then and there. For giving in to lust over loyalty to their sacred vows, these two joined the lustful, who are buffeted about by horrendous winds, forever passing each other, but eternally unable to touch, to comfort, to make contact with the source of their passionate sins.”
“That’s fucked up,” Gunner admitted.
“We are talking about Hell,” Ross shrugged. “Fucked up is their business.”
“You said they were ‘eternally unable to touch.’ So gluing their fingers together was our guy’s mistake; tells us he’s not as well-versed in Dante as he thinks. He is just a man,” Mallory said.
Gunner raised an index finger. “Or he wants us to think that he’s not.”
“Or he could be a guy who fucked up here,” Ross interrupted. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s keep looking at the big picture. We can split hairs on this later.”
Mallory continued. “Then we have the gluttons, Level Three. But why did he pick our pal Mr. Hanky? That guy was rail thin.”
Gunner pressed his thumb against his fingers, aimed them up, then shook them at Mallory, Bronx-Italian sign language for ‘don’t be stupid.’ “A little respect, will ya? It’s Hanky Man. And I’ve got a theory on this one, but it’s giving me the willies.”
Mallory nodded, took a sip of quickly cooling tea from his huge Yankees mug.
“If our guy caught any of Hanky’s act, even in passing while we walked from the garage to his office, it would have been easy to see what he was all about: this guy loved procedure, reputation, etiquette, the bureaucracy of the hotel, the elite power structure, the exclusiveness. He lived for all that happy horseshit.”
Ross spoke. “Did he flaunt his position?”
“Always.”
Mallory added, “He couldn’t get enough of it. Hanky Man was—”
“A glutton for it.” Gunner showed Ross the relevant cards and paper work, recounted that murder scene. “So, our guy gave him more than he could handle. You could say he was buried in his work.”
“Ouch. Your puns are showing.” Mallory pointed to Whitfield’s cards. “So Whitfield becomes Level Four; the avaricious. Everything we heard supports his being a rich, greedy, nasty monster. So, home run on that. Which brings us to… us; Level Five, the angry and the sullen.”
“Bastard made us into both,” Gunner sneered. “Angry at getting fired upon, sullen over being played for suckers.”
Mallory reviewed for Ross the details of the hotel room shooting, the fire alarm, the subsequent chaos.
Gunner fumed. “And he pulls the whole reverse pickpocket move on the Lieu not only to make sure we know, but to make sure that we know he knows we know.”
Mallory reviewed the notes on Level Five. “This guy had his plan down, I’ll give him that much. Says here Level Five’s punishment is ‘attacking each other’. He fired on us while wearing a fellow officer’s uniform.”
“It’s like he has all the time he needs to script everything out,” Gunner said, then downed the last of his coffee. “How can that be?”
Ross nodded, smirking. “That’s exactly his point. He’s finding out perfect examples easily. What’s that tell you?”
Gunner shrugged. “That his luck has been freaky.”
“Luck is not what this guy’s about,” Mallory frowned. “He’s saying to us that it’s so bad out there he can find examples for any level of sin he wants almost anywhere he looks.” He paused. “The bastard’s got a point.”
“Say something like that again, I’m gonna arrest your ass.” Gunner gave his partner a quick frown. “He might be losing his edge, though. Level Six was less well thought out. Maybe he’s running out of ideas.”
“I disagree.” Ross was comparing the copy of Bryan’s Dante notes to the copy of the index card the Lieu found in his pocket. “I think he actually got better with Level Six. When the detectives stared at him, he met their eyes with his own steady, brilliant blue gaze. “You have yesterday’s Daily News? I’ll show you.”
Mallory rescued the paper from the paper recycling bin in the garage. Ross flipped through the pages until he found the fourth page of coverage on the hotel chaos. Three columns wide and taking up the top third of the page, a ghostly picture showed shadowy hotel patrons standing in the street. Many of the faces were lit by the glow of cigarettes, others lit partially from nearby neon. Other details included one woman clearly dressed in lingerie, another whose ample cleavage was completely on display. Others wore thick furs. One older guy huddled in a tight circle with two semi-dressed, much younger beauties, all holding martini glasses.
“According to Bryan, Level Six is populated by heretics, those who commit to beliefs denounced by the church. You can see examples of people that fit such a description in this photo. In The Inferno these lost souls are encased in burning tombs.” He held the picture up to them, pointing to the cigarette glow, the encircling smoke. “Then, this guy threw Molotov cocktails down on these people, right? How many?”
Mallory consulted a Xeroxed police report, found what he needed. “Hnnh,” he grunted, looked at Ross. “Six.”
“More burning tombs. He is finding his symbols everywhere he looks.”
Gunner stared into his empty coffee mug. “We’re gonna need more caffeine.”
FORTY-EIGHT
They studied Bryan’s notes regarding the last three levels for the next hour, pausing only to cover up the notes and make a fuss over the kids when they got up. After a few moments, Gina shepherded the boys into the Yankee room and served them breakfast there, leaving Mallory, Gunner and Ross to work.
Level Seven featured murderers, those who in other ways are violent against neighbors, as well as suicides, and, most obscurely, those who sinned against religion through blasphemy. Each group was punished outrageously, of course, drowning in rivers of blood, boiling in the desert, or burning from a rain of fire.
“Shit,” Gunner sighed. “He’s already got that rain of fire trick down. Are we gonna have to deal with another terrified crowd?”
“Maybe he considered the crowd his Level Seven,” Ross shrugged.
“Maybe not, Mallory countered. “Maybe we’re right about Level six. Maybe he was just warming up.”
Level Eight posed another problem: it was subdivided into 10 sections focusing on different sins, but, according to the notes, these sinners were all guilty of some form of fraud: pandering to those in power, weaseling unearned blessing, or seducing with lies to gain profit. Again, punishments were symbolically appropriate, like fortune tellers having their heads twisted backwards or thieves having their bodies stolen.
Gunner whistled a long low note. “If he wants to punish all the liars, con artists, bullshitters, and weasels, this guy’s gonna haveta blow up all a’ Manhattan.”
Level Nine featured the big gun himself: this was where Lucifer was punished. He, like all others assigned this lowest depth of Hell, was judged to be guilty of treason. The punishment here was eternal remorse, not in fire, but in ice.
Mallory shook his head. “There is no way to tell what this guy is going to do next.”
Gunner nodded. “But we can’t just wait for him to make his next move—”
&nb
sp; The phone rang. It was Tizzie. Four cars of detectives were a couple of blocks away. “The troops are here,” Mallory said. “We need to get Gina and the boys out safely.”
“You got it.” Tizzie shot back. “You said you needed something else? Name it.”
“When you get back to the office? In my top right hand drawer is a copy of the case file. In there you’ll find a Ticketmaster customer list. Behind that are the interview reports for each of them identified as witnesses.”
“What do you need us to do with them?”
“I need you to contact their jobs, check attendance records for this week.”
“All of’em? The prints on that horny divorced babe and the guy with the kids came up empty. You still want to check them out along with the rest?”
“Just to be sure. We can’t arrest all of these people, but if you can verify absence from work when the murders occurred, narrow the numbers, then we can at least bring those in for questioning.” Mallory watched Gunner remove an American Express card from his wallet, hold it up, then make a check mark with his free hand.
Mallory nodded to his partner, spoke into the phone. “How about running a check on their credit cards for, say, the last couple of months? I know I’m asking a lot—”
“Hey, this prick violated your home. You want us to frisk every guy in Manhattan, you got it.”
“Thanks, Tizz. Then with credit cards? We need to see if any odd purchases pop up. Weapons, gasoline, anything.”
“Whatever it takes. See you in a few minutes.”
Mallory thanked him again, explained the evacuation plan he had in mind. Gina would drive the kids, Gunner following in his car, Mallory in his own. As they passed, their fellow detectives would fall in line behind them, block any unknown cars from following, making sure Mallory’s family got away clean.
Gina had taken charge, packing bags of clothes, toys, pillows, and blankets, loading the mini-van in the windowless garage, so no one could see what she was doing. The fellas thought it was great to have a surprise day off from school. They leaped into the mini-van like they were going on vacation. But fear made the corners of Gina’s eyes fill, her lower lip tremble. Mallory gave her a hug, kissed her.
“I’m sorry for all of this,” he whispered. “We’ll end this as quickly as possible. With you and the fellas safe, I’ll be able to concentrate on stopping him, okay? Don’t worry.”
Gina glanced over at their sons bouncing around in the car. “Get him, Frank. Whatever it takes.”
Gina pulled out of the driveway, Mallory and Gunner were already in their cars, in the street, waiting. Ross left his car there, rode with Gunner. After the escort, Ross and he would go back to Gunner’s, where the detective could shower and get dressed. Everyone was scheduled to meet in the squad room by 10 a.m.
The plan was executed with precision, Mallory spotting no less than five unmarked detective vehicles falling in behind, then pulling over any driver who drove more than two blocks in the same direction as Gina. Mallory felt badly for the poor civilians unlucky enough to be on the road behind them, but frankly, if hassling civilians meant Gina and the boys would be out of danger, he could live with it.
When Gina pulled into the driveway of her mother’s home the only other cars moving in either direction belonged to NYPD detectives. The plan worked, his family was safe. Mallory blew Gina a kiss, drove on, not wanting to chance their guy coming around a corner and seeing him by his in-laws’ house. He looked in the rear-view mirror, saw one of the detectives pull over to keep an eye on the house. The others followed Mallory for two more blocks before circling back for a double check as they had agreed. He dialed Tizzie.
“Everything’s quiet, Mal, they got in safe,” Tizzie reported. “Sal and Johnny are taking the first shift, and we’ll keep a car by the house.”
“Thanks Tizzie, you’re really coming through here.”
“Don’t get me wrong, kid,” Tizzie chuckled. “You’re still a weirdo, but you’re our weirdo. NYPD protects its own.”
Mallory’s next call was to his partner. Upon hearing Tizzie’s latest motto, Gunner chuckled into the phone. “There’s a bumper sticker for ya. But you know what? I feel better. At least we can fall back on the squad. For the first time since this whole mess started, I feel like we’re getting back some control.”
Mallory pulled into his driveway, climbed out of the car. “Don’t jinx us.”
As he entered the house, the phone rang. He snatched it off an end table, looking at the Caller I.D. readout: his sister Maggie. “Hey Mags—”
“Frankie! It’s Daddy! He can’t catch his breath. The cab driver won’t take him in his condition. I can’t drive him alone. I can’t do it.”
Mallory ran back out of the house, hit the locks, home phone still in his hand. “What happened? Is it his arthritis?”
“He’s going to miss his surgery, Frank!”
“Surgery? What surgery? He’s going in to discuss test results—”
“He can’t breathe, Frank. It’s the cancer.”
FORTY-NINE
Seven minutes after Maggie’s hysterical call, Mallory whipped into her driveway. She leapt out of her door, slamming it shut behind her, keys attacking the locks in a badly controlled frenzy. She ran to his car, long, luminous red curls whipping around, adding to the frenetic air.
Mallory’s kid sister, in her mid-thirties now, was usually a study in detached indifference. She stood about five foot four, had fair, creamy Irish skin with a hint of faded freckles across her cheeks, offsetting expressive blue eyes. She had never lacked for a social life, and was happily married for a couple of years now to Matt, a mid-level executive who kept slavery hours at Price-Waterhouse.
As Maggie approached, Mallory slid the case file under his seat, out of sight. Maggie ripped the passenger door open, jumped in, slammed it. “He really scared me, Francis. Oh my God, he scared the hell out of me.”
By way of answer, Mallory pulled out and headed right for the highway, 30 or so blocks away. He couldn’t go fast enough to satisfy Maggie.
“Is this the best route?”
“Yeah, kid.”
“Fastest?”
Mallory pumped the gas a little for her. “Tell me about Pop.”
“He could hardly breathe, was barely able to speak. Francis he scared the—”
Mallory patted her knee. “What did Bitsie say?”
“That this morning he couldn’t breathe without the oxygen tank—”
Mallory all but plowed into a parked car. “Excuse me?”
“Oxygen tank. Frank, he’s been using one on and off for two weeks now.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“They didn’t want to worry you.”
Mallory’s anger iced each word. “You could have told me.”
“When do we ever talk nowadays? And with this crazy case of yours all over the news, everybody thought you had enough on your plate.”
He sighed. “What do I need to know?”
“He can barely walk.”
Mallory yanked the wheel to the right, screeched to a halt at a curbside bus stop. He turned to face her squarely. “I just spoke with him a couple days ago. He was wheezy, got out of breath at the end, but nothing like what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t hear him just now, Francis.” Maggie’s eyed filled. “I’m so scared.”
Witnesses are often unreliable, the big brother detective reminded himself as he threw the car back into drive, floored the gas. Time he saw for himself.
He’d been to the hospital room many times, but always at night, when it was quiet. The bustle of morning medical business agitated him. His mother meeting them at the elevator only made it worse. Bitsie had been all of five feet tall when they were growing up, but the years had shrunk her considerably — thus the nickname. She kept her dark gray hair short. There was a tuft of pure white hair along her right temple from a trauma long ago. Her complexion was blotched; Bitsie had been crying.
“Oh Francis, Margaret. Your father is not doing good.” Bitsie tried to speak properly, but The Bronx came out in the old girl when she was upset. “He’s on the turlet right now. He’ll be right out.” She walked into the three patient room, and unleashed a banshee wail. “PATRICK! THE KIDS ARE HERE!” The other patients seemed shaken but used to it.
Mallory heard a struggle, a landing, another struggle, then someone grabbing the bathroom doorknob. It didn’t open — he must’ve needed it to steady himself, Mallory thought. Not a good sign. There was muffled movement, cursing, then shifting of some kind, followed by a metallic ding.
Bitsie shook her head. “It’s hard for him with that thing.” She waddled down the short hall to the bathroom door. “Patrick? You need help in there?”
There was a muffled answer Mallory couldn’t make out.
“WHAT?” Bitsie was far louder than she was tall.
From behind the door. “I can’t… get these damned pants up.”
Mallory couldn’t contain himself. “He can’t dress himself?”
The lavatory door opened. Mallory turned his back to it respectfully. He pulled Maggie over with him. “We don’t want to embarrass him.”
“Ma said that too,” she confirmed. “He can’t dress himself any more.”
“The other day he was fine. What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the cancer, Francis.”
“He told me arthritis. Somebody should have told me the truth.”
“You know how Dad is. He refused to get in the way of ‘The Job’.” She pronounced the last two words with utter disdain.
“Does he know about… what’s on the news?”
“Not that I know. Don’t tell him.”
“You got that right.”
Maggie couldn’t help a smirk. “So, holding back information is okay when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh?”
“Shut up.”
Down the hall, Ma gained access to the bathroom. “Don’t, Patty. I’ll get them.”
Mallory glanced over his shoulder, then forced his eyes back to Maggie. “What did happen? The real stuff now, not this ‘he’s going for arthritis tests’ crap.”
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