Black Midnight Page 16

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Nothing. We just wait.” She looked at her watch. It was early. The revelry had barely begun. A wino drifted toward the car, wet rag in hand, offering to clean the windshield.

  The driver rolled down the window. “Leave it alone,” he said.

  The wino didn’t want to go. He came to the driver’s side and tried to poke his head in the opened window. The stench of cheap wine was nauseating. So was his appearance. He was badly in need of a shave; clothes tattered, shoes missing laces, no socks. Other derelicts nearby were too busy sharing a bottle of five-dollar liquor to pay any attention.

  “Get lost,” said the driver.

  The wino winked, grinned. A set of yellow teeth stared at the man behind the wheel.

  Yvonne laughed. “Hello, Roberto.”

  He seemed disappointed she recognized him. “How’s life on the wild side, DiPalma?”

  The young officer did a double take.

  “Relax,’ said Yvonne. She leaned across his lap. “What’s it like out there tonight?”

  “A real zoo. Biggest parade yet. Gonna break all records. Saw some mark get his pockets picked a while back. Otherwise it’s been pretty quiet on my end.”

  “Night’s young. Oh, by the way … ” She indicated to her companion. “This is Roberto Salazar. Anti-Crime. Usually works Times Square, but we’ve got him on assignment with us tonight.”

  Salazar’s hands were grimy with oil and dirt. He stuck one into the car. The driver shook it. “Andrew Morales,” he said, still showing his surprise.

  “You TTF?”

  “Me?” He felt embarrassed. “Patrol. Twenty-Fourth Precinct. Central Park.”

  “Shit duty, kid. Anyway, good luck. Catch you later, DiPalma.” He stumbled away into the shadows, back toward the knots of visitors who were forming at the far corner to watch the ongoing procession.

  Yvonne took out a cigarette, offered one to her companion. “You been with P.D. long, Morales?”

  “No, ma’am.” He seemed reluctant to talk, and a little bit in awe of the woman he was sitting with. “Graduated the Academy last year.”

  “Like being a cop?”

  Morales took a long and deep drag on his smoke. “Mostly. It’s not exactly what I expected. You know, just patrolling all the time.”

  “Yeah, I do know. We all go through it.” She smiled. “Won’t last forever. Work at it and you’ll get a transfer.”

  “Hope so.” He became more animated. “I always wanted to be a cop. Do something good with my life. Help people.”

  It was a universal feeling of cops everywhere, Yvonne knew. No matter what state or city, or even what country. People motivated to become police always felt that way. Good guys protecting the public from bad guys. Corny, but true.

  “How’d you get this duty?” she asked.

  He looked at her wanly. “They pulled me off patrol a couple of weeks ago. Since then I’ve been driving the chief inspector around. This is his car, exclusively for his use. Yesterday I was told I was being assigned to you. I don’t know why.”

  “The chief inspector’s car?” She laughed loudly. “Damn, I didn’t know I rated that high.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t ask me.” He acted concerned because he didn’t know the answer to her question.

  “Come on, Officer Morales. Loosen up. I’m not your sergeant.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “I been uptight, huh?” A peal of loud bangs came from somewhere above. They both looked. Residents of the street were grouping on the rusting fire escapes, enjoying their own parties while trying to catch glimpses of the parade. Some joker had tossed a couple of firecrackers from a roof. “Morons,” he muttered.

  He was still jittery, she saw. “You married?”

  “Will be. Set it for January. How about you?”

  “Divorced.”

  He cast his gaze down. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, I’m not. Bozo did me a favor.” She shook her head bemusedly. “If he could only see me now.” She pushed back her hair, settled back in the leather seat. “He’s probably somewhere out in New Jersey, sitting at some great big desk, going over corporate accounts. Probably doesn’t even know the day or the time.”

  “An accountant?”

  “Worse. A lawyer. Hope your bride’s not a lawyer, Morales.”

  “Uh-uh.” He finally smiled. It was engaging. “Hairdresser. Opening up her own place.” He flicked the ashes out the window. “She’s good. Really good. Place she works now is really gonna miss her.”

  “Give me the address. I need a good hairdresser.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Sure I mean it. Why not?”

  Shyly, he jotted down the name and number on the back of a card. Yvonne thanked him as she put it away in her purse.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “About TTF. I hear a lot of stories. You know, I mean its reputation and all that.” He shook his head. “You’re a rough bunch.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she answered spryly. Impressions about TTF ranged from the heroic to the demonic. Some thought of them as not even being a part of N. Y. P. D. It always amused her.

  “How long have you been with the task force?”

  “Virtually since its inception. I was working out of Homicide when my application was accepted.” She proudly added, “I was the first woman on the squad. How about you, what are your goals?”

  “Me? I’m planning to study law. Not to practice, but to learn. It can’t hurt to help me get ahead. I’ve already applied. Classes start in January. TTF, though, that’s another breed. Yes, ma’am. Another breed.” He began to add something more, then faltered, indecisive about whether he should say what he was thinking.

  Yvonne sensed his reluctance. “Go on. Speak your mind. We’re just killing a little time.”

  “They say your unit’s the toughest in the city. Given license to go and do almost anything you want. Not many questions are going to be asked about it, either. P.D. royalty, they call it. Some guys I know say you’re killers. Cold-blooded. Only difference is that you’re on the right side.”

  “Is that what you hear?” She’d listened impassively, aware that his perception was not an unusual one. Few cops seemed to understand what TTF was all about, and fewer cared to try. “It’s true,” she said at last. “We do have some privileges. But we’re not princes — and not much different from anybody else. Maybe a little harder around the edges — but then we’re trained to be. Ever use your gun. Morales?”

  “Only in target practice. We were taught never to draw it — unless we’re prepared to use it.”

  “Same as every other cop, and most never do. In fact most cops spend a whole career never using their gun in anger. But maybe we have more occasion and reason than the rest.”

  She was wearing new jeans and a very bulky knit sweater. The sweater had been purposely oversized, and she showed Officer Morales why. She leaned forward, pulled the side of the sweater up. The holster of her snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson was attached to the back of her belt. Easy to reach, and easy to draw. “I have used my gun in anger, Morales. More than once. You think that makes me a killer?”

  “No, of course not. It was only an expression.”

  “But an accurate one.”

  He was taken aback. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything like that — ”

  She cut him off. “You didn’t, so go easy on yourself. I took it as an unintended compliment. See, by using my gun, I save lives. Innocent lives. And if that makes me — or any of my squad — killers, then I’ll accept the tag.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  Yvonne fidgeted impatiently. “You never asked me why we’re sitting here now, or what we’re supposed to be doing. I’m going to tell you anyway. There’s a nightspot around the next block, and if we aren’t able to act in time, a few hours from now there might be carnage tonight. So let’s
say I’m stalking. Waiting in prey like a leopard. Lean and hungry. When I get the signal to move, I’m gone like the wind.

  “Tell you another thing, Morales. I’m hoping I do get the chance to use my gun again tonight. ’Cause if I do, a great deal of innocent misery is going to be prevented. There’s a lunatic somewhere out there roaming the city streets. Prepared to wreak havoc on as many people as possible. Me, my partners, we’re here to try and stop it any way we can. Putting our own bloody lives on the line.”

  He wanted to look away, but her eyes fixed harshly on his, smoldering. Her intensity kept him riveted. “Say a prayer for me, Morales. And wish me the best luck in the world. I’ll shoot the bastard down in cold blood, if I have the chance. Want to know something else? I won’t even blink an eye.”

  *

  Link flushed the urinal, zipped up his fly, and waited in a short line to wash his face. He was sweating profusely. The air-conditioning was on full power, but the swell of humanity barely allowed you to breathe. Lady Luck was wall-to-wall flesh. Bodies pressed so tight you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.

  He was wearing a cowboy outfit: vest, plaid shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed leather boots. He’d come in with a Lone Ranger mask, but soon took it off. The majority of guests were decked out in Halloween costumes, some ridiculously outlandish. Tarzans, Jungle Amazons, college girls dressed up as Marie Antoinettes and Times Square hookers — everything from Richard Nixon to Julius Caesar. A fair number, though, had come in regular street clothes, giving the mix inside an even more peculiar flair. It was like a scene out of a movie. A very bad movie.

  The line at the urinals was growing longer. Some of the partygoers were already plastered drunk or flying high, although the evening was young.

  “Hey, man,” Link called to the tottering partygoer standing at the adjoining urinal. Urine was splattering on the floor, near his boots. “Wanna watch where you pee?”

  Link moved away in disgust. The offender was too spaced out to know where he was, let alone what he was doing. Link soaked his head with cold water at the sink, dried his hands with cheap paper towels. A hulking figure made his way beside him in the crowded lavatory. Wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, boots. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Zero.” Link crumpled the paper towels, tossed them into a filled trash basket like an agile basketball player. “Doesn’t look promising.”

  “Give it time. Night’s just beginning.”

  “Shit.” He frowned. “Bomb Squad people combed this place top to bottom this morning. Used every detector known, including dogs. Clean through and through. Only thing they came up with were a few small caches of grass. Hell, they probably belong to the waiters. Weren’t even anywhere as good as the junk I passed to pretty boy. Why should Armageddon show up now, in the middle of this stampede, I’m wondering? Risk his or her own fuckin’ neck?” He rolled his eyes. “Good swing, DiPalma, but strike one.”

  “Then we focus on finding DeVicente. Either way, we come up with something.” Warren wasn’t nearly as hopeful as he sounded. They both knew it.

  “Yeah. You catch that freak dressed as Santa Claus out there? Ask him to wrap up DeVicente for Christmas. I think this is gonna be one big dud.” He made a face. “Guess we’d better get back outside.”

  “I’ll check with you later.”

  “Sure. Later.” Warren went back outside first. Link lingered a moment, then he turned and squeezed through the door. As he did, someone pushed by him into the men’s room. A short figure, dressed in tux and stovepipe black hat, beard and fake nose. A comical Abraham Lincoln. Link would have thought absolutely nothing of it had it not been for one small item he caught out of the corner of his eye. Mr. Lincoln was carrying a book under his arm. A pretty heavy volume of the Bible. Somehow it didn’t fit with the costume.

  He stood aside while several others entered the toilet, then pushed his way back inside. Mr. Lincoln had entered a toilet booth. Link pretended to be too impatient to wait in line for the urinals and hurried back out. He squinted, scoured the dance floor for Resnick. The strobe lights were blinding. The blare of disco music bellowing. He could have screamed his lungs out and nobody would hear it.

  Almost all of the tables had been removed for the night, turning the place into one huge ballroom packed with humanity. The fire code said it was illegal to hold more than two hundred and fifty. There were at least twice as many inside. And many more milling about on the sidewalk outside, hoping to get in at least for a while. He tried to locate Warren, jostling his way toward the bar. Patrons blocked his every turn. Some danced, some elbowed their way toward other destinations. Resnick was off on his own, lost amid the avalanche.

  “Damn,” said Link. Even getting back to the lavatory became a task. He bumped his way rudely, hurrying now. A few angry partygoers shoved back at him. Link paid no attention. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. Sense it. Almost touch it.

  The Bible, he realized. About the size of a package. Weighty, identical with the one found at One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street. It had to be.

  The lavatory door swung open. Mr. Lincoln walked out between several taller men. Scurried to disappear into the crowd. Link’s long arm grabbed onto a shoulder. The costumed Lincoln stared at him with wide eyes, pulled away hard, and loosened Link’s grip. The eyes darted nervously. They were frightened. Link lunged again, this time missed. Mr. Lincoln was tearing toward the exit — and this time there was no Bible under his arm.

  “Resnick!” Link shouted. His only answer was the pounding of drums and blast of electric guitar. Spotlights flickered. On, off. On, off. The maze grew thicker. Link bolted toward the exit as fast as he could. It was like a slow-motion nightmare. The more he struggled, the more he slowed.

  Mr. Lincoln appeared for an instant during the flash of the strobes, staring Link’s way. Then he was gone again. Link stood dead center on the floor. Buried alive, helpless. Sweet Jesus, Yvonne was right after all. Don’t let me lose him now.

  There was Warren. Standing by the railing that divided the bar from the dance floor. Link waved frantically to get his attention. By sheer luck Warren caught sight of him. Link pointed wildly in the direction of the mens room. Warren couldn’t make out what he was trying to communicate. But he was certain something was wrong.

  It took Warren long moments to push his way past the railing and onto the dance floor. Shouting “police,” trying to clear a path, he inched his way closer. Through the din and smoke and darkness he caught a glimpse of what Link was yelling. One word: bathroom.

  He pushed his way to the lavatory door, banged it open. Men at the urinals stared at him. “Police!” he shouted. “Clear the bathroom.”

  “Hey man, you gotta be nuts — ”

  He took the costumed protester by the collar of his rugby shirt and hurled him out the door. “Everyone, outta here!” he hollered. No one else argued.

  Two men came hurrying out of the booths, pulling up their pants. Warren kicked open the doors. He saw the black Bible resting on the floor beside one of the toilets. He approached it with held breath, kneeled. The book was titled Holy Scriptures — only it wasn’t a book at all. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. His fingertips brushed the cover, felt a slight vibration. It was a package. And it was ticking.

  The commotion in the bathroom began to cause confusion. One woman screamed as her frightened boyfriend bolted from the men’s room. That was enough. A chain reaction began. Fora moment onlookers stood in numbed silence. Then helter-skelter they scattered toward the exits. Stunned waiters and bartenders stood back in fear. There were shouts of “raid,” and “bust,” and then “fire.” No one knew what was happening.

  Warren blew a police whistle. A handful of undercover men leapt from among the crowd and fought their way against the tide. The music stopped. The lights dimmed. Warren grabbed a plainclothesman by his shirt. “Bomb Squad,” he panted. “Get them fast.”

  Somebody heard the word bomb. Soon it was being scre
amed all over. Pandemonium broke loose. A few women stumbled and fell. They were trampled over by a sudden crush that had become mindlessly consumed with fear. A mob. Terrified, ready to panic. Looking for somewhere to run.

  Sirens screamed in the streets. The crowd from Lady Luck spilled out in droves. They mixed with the street throng, running, causing more confusion. Blue and white police vans pulled in front of the disco. Squad cars screeched sideways and blocked off the intersections. Bomb Squad men, flak-jacketed, wearing helmets, some with gas masks, raced into the building. A grisly Halloween spectacle to horrified bystanders.

  “Clear the streets!” uniformed police were yelling. The entire block had been cordoned off, confused citizens being hurriedly herded away to safety.

  Yvonne caught up with Warren at the busy corner of Eighth Street. The wail of police sirens permeated the air. Red lights swirled everywhere. A battery of patrolmen trying to hold back a growingly desperate herd of human cattle knocking over barricades, fruit stands, vendors. Strings of colored lights were torn down, placards announcing the parade flung, people stumbling and grabbing onto their loved ones. Mayhem was breaking loose all over. Quickly deteriorating into chaos. And nothing seemed to be able to stop it.

  “Armageddon was inside,” he panted, sheltering Yvonne from the fleeing crowd. “The bomb was planted in the men’s room. Made to look like a book. A Bible. Link discovered it. Thank God he did. Otherwise — ”

  Yvonne gasped. “Where’s Link now?” she was shouting above the noise.

  “Don’t know, Yvonne. Lost him somewhere back in the crowd. But I’m sure he got a look at the bomber. He was trying to shout something to me. Couldn’t make it out. I — ”

  The roar of the explosion almost knocked them off their feet. Masonry erupted outward like a volcano. Flying glass everywhere. Warren pushed Yvonne to the sidewalk, fell on top of her. Black smoke rose high and thick. For what seemed like an eternity there was nothing but silence. Then suddenly cries. Screams. Louder, more frantic. The wailing of sirens resumed. Police. Then ambulances. Yvonne coughed, lifted herself to her knees. The blast’s concussion had been devastating. All she could see was a mass of blue uniforms. Outlines of paramedics running toward ill-fated Lady Luck. Roaring motorcycles. Crying children. Hysterical mothers. Dazed and bloodied revelers. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “Oh, God, we were too late,” she cried. “We couldn’t stop it.”