Black Midnight Page 17

  The carnage had become as real as her nightmares.

  XIX

  “Mr. Washington?”

  The aging black man was sitting with his hands clasped between his legs. Shoulders stooped, head bent. He’d been soundlessly praying.

  He looked up at the call of his name. His face was wrinkled and weather-beaten, hair thick white. His clothes were neat and clean, not very expensive but well kept. He had the look of someone who’d struggled long and hard during his years. Nothing ever came easy in his life. Never would. His overall appearance was of a tired, weary man. Mellowed and bent by life and the misfortunes it always seemed to bring, but not beaten. Never beaten.

  His eyes were large and expressive, sad. Now they were watery.

  “Are you Yvonne?” he asked. His accent was Deep South. Mississippi. The decades spent up North had barely made a dent into it.

  Yvonne tried to swallow away the lump in her throat. “Yes, Mr. Washington. I’m Link’s partner. Yvonne DiPalma. I’ve often wanted to meet you.” She felt instant love and pity for this weary middle-aged man. He rose from his seat and took her outstretched hand. His hands were big and strong; she could feel the callouses.

  “My boy always talks about you. Likes you. Calls you ‘shark.’ Says you’re his best friend, and that there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do if you needed something.”

  “Link is my best friend, too.” She bit at her lips, tried hard not to cry. She forced her eyes not to even blink, but tears were rolling down her cheeks anyway.

  Elvin Washington glanced around at the waiting room. The plastic furniture, whitewashed walls. Cheap landscape prints hanging from them. There was an antiseptic odor. “I don’t like hospitals much,” he confided. “They make me uncomfortable. But they tell me this is a good one. A really fine one.”

  “It is. One of the best. Top medical team, surgeons. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Worry?” He smiled a sad smile. His features were craggy, aged, but the resemblance with his son were obvious, especially around the eyes. “I been worrying all my life, Yvonne. Some men are born to worry. I can’t remember a day when I didn’t.” He sighed. “This place is too lonely. Makes you feel alone. My wife worked most of her life in hospitals. Did Link ever tell you that? Never one as big as this — no, nowhere as big as this.” A pair of nurses passed outside the waiting room. Yvonne felt her heart skip a beat. The nurses didn’t pause in their stride. Chatting quietly, they headed toward the elevator.

  Yvonne felt a shiver run down her back. It was nearly 3 AM. Link had been out of surgery for several hours. Still no news. There should have been by now. Dear God, let him he all right.

  She went to the water fountain, took another tranquilizer. She was still half in shock herself. Things had happened so fast, so furiously, her overworked mind hadn’t yet time to assimilate it all. The paramedics had insisted she be taken to the closest emergency room. She’d gone with them in a daze, remembering only Warren helping her into the ambulance. He had wanted to come along. They wouldn’t let him.

  She’d been quite fortunate, the doctor had told her. A couple of minor lacerations caused by particles of flying glass, a few bruises from when Warren had thrown her to the sidewalk. Nausea attributed to anxiety reaction. Other than that, she was fine. Free to go home. She hadn’t gone home, though. They told her where Link had been taken, and she’d come here instead.

  Elvin Washington was staring out the window when she returned. Ten floors below the panorama of New York’s East Side spilled before him. The East River, F.D.R. Drive highway that skirted it. Even at this hour there was quite a bit of traffic moving on the roads, quite a few lights shining through distant windows.

  A radio was quietly tuned in to a news program at the nurses’ station. An orderly and several aids were sullenly gathered around it, listening to the latest updates. Yvonne couldn’t hear much; didn’t want to. A maze of reporters had been milling about in front of the hospital when she arrived. Uniformed police kept them at a healthy distance from the entrance, hustled her inside from the back. The newspeople were quieter than usual. All they’d been told was that one of the injured — a policeman — had been rushed here for emergency surgery. Most of the other victims had been taken to closer facilities, downtown hospitals, and there the activity was much greater.

  “The mayor has just come from Lower Manhattan Hospital,” the radio announcer was saying. “He called tonight’s bombing an act of ‘barbaric savagery’ and swore that the citizens of New York would rally around this tragic occasion and draw strength from it. He also said that the police department had done a magnificent job in their speedy efforts. He acclaimed them for their work, saying that their valiant courage and personal sacrifices had saved many, many lives … ”

  Yvonne shut her ears to the broadcast. She didn’t want to hear any more.

  The elevator rang. A knot of raincoated men glumly got off and looked around. A young resident accompanied them, pointed toward the waiting room. Warren was among them. So was Winnegar and someone she knew to be from the FBI. All eyes at the nurses’ station turned attentively at their arrival.

  A plainclothesman stayed behind at the elevators. Winnegar was speaking quietly with Warren when he saw Yvonne. She left the waiting room to greet them.

  She looked a mess, Warren saw. Pale, troubled, red-eyed, and tearful. She was wearing the same jeans and bulky sweater. Grimy now, stained and tattered.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’m okay.” She gestured to where Elvin Washington was standing, still staring from the window, oblivious to the new visitors. “Link’s mother had to be sedated, the nurse told me. She’s at home being cared for by family. Family doctor wouldn’t allow her to come. Only the father is here.”

  Winnegar looked long and hard at the bowed black man. Link was his only son, he knew. The pride of his life. Now that son’s own life was hanging in the balance.

  “Any word from the doctors?” he asked Yvonne.

  “Not yet. Should be anytime, though. He’s out of surgery.”

  “It’s a good sign,” he said unconvincingly. Winnegar slowly made his way toward Elvin Washington. Yvonne watched them shake hands, then turned her back as they spoke.

  Warren took Yvonne by the arm. “Better sit down for a while. You look ready to faint.”

  She refused. “I’ll make it okay.” Her fingers tremored as she tried to light a cigarette. Warren lighted it for her. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. You might have a mild concussion. In fact you shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “And let my partner die alone?” she bristled, pulled away from him. Instantly she was sorry. “I didn’t mean that, Warren.”

  “I know, kid.” He led her to the waiting room. They both sat on a small couch. Warren soberly looked at her. “Have you heard what the broadcasts are reporting?”

  “Not much. I can wait.”

  “It could have been total disaster. Scores killed. Link’s finding the bomb prevented a holocaust.”

  She sucked in cigarette smoke, blew it out slowly. “I should have been inside Lady Luck also. It might have given him a few seconds’ more time.”

  “You couldn’t have done a thing. It was over that fast.” He snapped his fingers. “No one could have helped. By the time the Bomb Squad people were in virtually every soul was long out.”

  “How bad was it, Warren? Don’t hold back. Just the truth.” Her eyes were intense.

  “Ninety-five percent of the injuries were light. Lots of glass cuts, some concussions, a few broken limbs. Smoke inhalation. The Bomb Squad was already trying to defuse it when it blew.”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “Killed two instantly. In the line of duty. They never knew what was coming, I promise you. Never felt a thing.”

  Yvonne drew a mental picture of the slain specialists. Could visualize the gruesome scene as they feverishly worked to diffuse the explosives — and the blown-away remains after they fa
iled. Her nausea was returning.

  “One waitress caught it pretty bad. She was behind the bar. The ceiling came crashing down over her. It’s touch and go. She may survive, at least she’s got a fighting chance. A foreign couple, tourists, were also standing in the wrong spot. Too close to the fire exit. That wall was opposite the men’s room. It blew out like a rocket. Both are in comas. Again, touch and go. That’s about the worst of it.”

  “And Link?” She was becoming unglued again; tears streamed. “Where was he? How come he wasn’t clear of the goddamned bomb?”

  He looked at her with a strange countenance. “Yvonne, don’t you know? Didn’t anybody tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” she cried. “For Christ’s sake, Warren, don’t torture me. What happened to him?”

  “Link was out of danger from the blast,” he said somberly. “He’d been chasing someone out into the street. Yvonne … ” He took hold of both her hands and held them tightly. “Link wasn’t injured by the blast. He was shot.”

  Her eyes widened, her mouth hung open. She stared at him dumbly. Amid the chaos it had not dawned on her that he wasn’t a victim of the blast. She assumed he’d been injured the same way as the others. Only perhaps more severely.

  “Listen to me, Yvonne. Link must have caught up with Armageddon. Maybe they scuffled, maybe the bomber realized he was a cop in pursuit. I don’t know. What I do know is that Link’s got two slugs in his stomach.”

  Two white-coated doctors came down the hall. Yvonne sat upright, reflexively clasping her hands in prayer. They walked straight to Elvin Washington. “May we speak with you alone?”

  “These are my son’s partners,” he said. “Say what you have to in front of them. It’s all right. Only please, say it quickly.”

  “Your son has lost a great deal of blood. We’ve been giving him transfusions for hours. The bullets hit cleanly. There’s been a rupture of the spleen. Internal bleeding, damage to one kidney … ”

  Elvin Washington’s eyes were wide and childlike. “Is he going to die, doctor?” His voice was pleading.

  “We can’t make any promises, but he’s young and strong, and a fighter. His heart is fine. He should survive. And if he does, the outlook will be excellent. He could recover completely.”

  The old man’s shoulders shook. He could not hold it back any longer. Unashamed, he burst into tears, then sobs. Yvonne jumped up and threw her arms around him.

  “Five minutes,” the doctor warned sternly. “Not a second more. He’s very weak.” It was only because of the urgency of the situation she was being allowed to see him at all.

  Yvonne wiped her eyes as she nodded. It was already early morning, sunlight brightly streaming outside. Inside the intensive care unit the heavy curtains were drawn. It was dark.

  Link was lying in the bed, head propped up, with a white sheet pulled up to his neck. His heart was being monitored by an electrocardiogram. The beeps came in low intermittent volume. Bottles of plasma and whole blood hung from two electronically controlled I.V. stats on both sides of the bed. I.V. tubes were stuck in his arms. Another in his nostrils. His face was hollow and chalky, jowls swollen. His eyes were open, badly bloodshot. He appeared to be in a delirium, but as Yvonne inched closer she saw the pupils enlarge, seem even to smile with recognition.

  She bent over the bed, blew him a kiss. “Good to see you, detective.”

  His voice was a whisper. He had no pain. He’d been shot up with morphine. “You look like hell, DiPalma. Mascara all over yo’ face. Never gonna get you a man.” She sniffed as she smiled. “Who are you to talk, you dumb fuck. What an asshole thing to go and do. Be a hero in someone else’s unit, not mine.”

  He couldn’t grin, so his eyes did it for him. “My fault. Takin’ orders from a bitchy wop. Say what, gonna call in sick tomorrow. And the day after. Fuck you.”

  “I love you, you shit eater. Don’t you ever pull this on me again.”

  “No, ma’am. Not worth it a bit. A real black midnight.”

  “The worst. But you’ll pull through.”

  “Medical men tell you that?”

  “Better source. Winnegar himself. He knows everything.”

  It hurt him to smile. “That’s a relief. About now I figured I was gonna get an inspector’s funeral. Bagpipes and all. Weeping women.”

  “By the score. Best stud around.”

  “You know it, shark.” He sighed. “I’m glad to see you’re okay. I was worrying. What about Mr. Resnick?”

  “Jewish luck, I figure. He’s all right.”

  Link closed his eyes. “I’m glad. I prayed you both would be.”

  Her hand reached out and lightly brushed at his hair. “I swear to you, Link, I’ll pay it back for you. Double.”

  “Don’t you go gettin’ stupid, Yvonne,” he warned. “Now I really know what we’re up against. Dangerous, Yvonne. Be careful. Please. Promise me.”

  She nodded. “I promise. No heroics. But I will find DeVicente for you — ”

  He shook his head. “Yvonne.” He beckoned her closer. He was going under. Wouldn’t be able to speak for long. “It wasn’t DeVicente. Not a man.”

  “But Warren said you saw him, in the lavatory.”

  “Yeah. But I also saw those eyes.” He remembered them vividly. Cold, frightened, filled with hate. He’d never forget. “A woman’s eyes, Yvonne … “

  She wasn’t sure now he was fully lucid. The sedatives he’d been given were powerful.

  “I ain’t out of it yet,” he whispered. “I’m tellin’ you. It was a woman in that Lincoln disguise. Ironic, huh? Me gettin’ shot by someone with my own name.” He became serious again. “But I know what I saw. You were right, hit it from the start.”

  “Are you sure, Link? Are you sure?”

  “Lady shark, I’ll bet my life on it.”

  “Okay, Link. Okay. Vanessa Santiago?”

  “Better than even money if I was making book.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. She’ll never harm anybody again. Sleep now, Link. Get better. Healthy again. I need you.”

  “A deal.” He yawned. He was fighting the sedatives, trying to remain awake. “Say hello to Resnick for me. Tell him I said he ain’t bad for a partner.”

  “No, he ain’t.” She smiled, blew another kiss. “I’ll be back first time the doctors allow it.” She turned to leave, turned back around as he called her name.

  “You’re a good cop, DiPalma. The best. Just one last thing: Don’t hesitate like I did. Kill her. On sight. Blow her away.”

  “We can have Ruben Pulido brought down to the city,” Winnegar said. “Easy enough. One phone call, and we’ll have it arranged.”

  Yvonne shook her head vehemently. She sat with her legs crossed and arms folded, opposite the captain’s desk. “No. I’ve made the arrangements myself. I’ll be up at Attica by late this afternoon.”

  Winnegar took off his glasses. “What are you up to, Yvonne?”

  “Just my job. I want it this way.” She blew out a stream of smoke toward him. He waved it away with his hand, scrutinized her carefully.

  “You’ve been under tremendous stress, I know. It’s only natural. However I want to emphasize that Link was wounded in the line of duty. Don’t lose sight of that. He knew the risks. We all do.”

  “Occupational hazard,” she said bitterly.

  “Listen, Yvonne. I understand your feelings. Who wouldn’t? But this can’t turn into a personal vendetta. I won’t allow it. If you can’t keep your objectivity, then bow out. We can’t afford to allow personalities enter into this. Or grudges. Remove yourself. Take a leave. Sabbatini can take over your team.”

  “I have not lost my perspective, captain. I’m a professional, and I’m going back up to Attica because I want to confront Pulido in an environment that’s familiar to him. Pull him away, drag him down to P.D. here, and he’ll tighten up. We both know that.”

  “It’s your only reason?”

  She nodded. “Only reason.”

&
nbsp; He regarded her long and hard. “Somehow I don’t quite feel convinced, Yvonne. I think you have motives you’re not telling me.”

  She smiled. “No, sir. I’m a police officer. Doing the job in the best way I know how.”

  “You’re also very good at manipulating people to get what you want.” He mulled it over for a moment, questioning not only her motives but his own judgement. DiPalma was as fine a cop as he’d ever known. Why should he doubt her now? “What is it you want?”

  “First to put an end to the killings. Then justice.”

  “No more, no less? No vendetta?”

  “Strictly justice. And a speedy conclusion to this investigation.”

  He leaned back, made a pyramid with his hands. “All right, Yvonne. I’ll buy it. But I’m still not convinced. I have a hunch you’re going to act beyond the limits of police procedure. Even TTF limits.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because if I were in your place, that’s exactly what I would do.” He looked at his watch. “Better get going. You want to be there on time.”

  *

  Yvonne was dressed in a gray business suit, blue blouse, expensive shoes. With her tortoiseshell glasses lifted over her head, small briefcase in hand, she seemed more like a district attorney preparing to plead a case in court than a police officer. Ruben Pulido came into the room and looked her up and down. She was a better-looking woman than he recalled. Much better.

  “Pretty lady,” he said, eyeing her from top to bottom. “Never expected to see you again.” He was chewing gum, didn’t appear to be the least bit upset or curious about her being there.

  She pushed a wooden chair toward him. It scraped across the bare floor. “Take a seat,” she told him.

  He hesitated, stared.