Black Midnight Page 4

  More squad members were arriving. Thomas Horne, a burly fortyish man, unstylishly dressed in worn baggy trousers, short-sleeved white shirt, his Smith & Wesson .38 bulging from his jacket. Vinnie Sabbatini called him over, noticed Yvonne and nodded.

  She had come to like and appreciate Vinnie. He was fatherly, considerate, and frequently behaving like the hard-boiled stereotype cops you see on television. He talked out of the side of his mouth, conveying to a suspect the feeling of tightly coiled strength straining to be unleashed. A don’t mess with me attitude. During interrogations he was the one who played the heavy, while his partner of the moment acted the good-guy role, the friend of the suspect. A tested and proven police technique.

  Sabbatini had been a promising football player during his school years. Drafted by a professional team, they said. A bad hamstring cut short what could have been a spectacular career. A veteran of more than twenty years on the force, he’d been a member of the Tactical Patrol Force during the years of street riots. Big and broad, chosen largely for his menace value, few punks were inclined to take on a cop twice as big and mean as they were. But Vinnie wasn’t all brawn. His swarthy, broken-nosed face disguised a clever mind, savvy and tenacious. An eight-year stint as a squad leader in Arson had made Winnegar jump at the chance of having him become a part of TTF.

  Among the others in the squadroom was Brenden O’Connor. Buster, to his colleagues. Winnegar had to literally pry Buster out of his Homicide assignment. As dapper as he was athletic and muscular, Buster was the gentleman dandy of the TTF backroom. Soft-spoken. Gentle as a panda, he never used street language and rarely showed his temper. Always in total control. He often played the good guy to Vinnie’s baddie. Buster relished the role, practiced it in front of mirrors. Never once in all his years, it was said, did he need to use his gun.

  First Grade Detective Dan Ryan was a cop of the old school if there ever was one. Not unlike Captain Winnegar, he was especially proud of P.D. and the work they achieved. Getting on in years, Danny would never retire voluntarily, Yvonne knew. One day someone would find him slumped over his desk, folders in hand. The term workaholic wasn’t apt enough to describe this widower. A thirty-year plus man, he was almost as close to Winnegar as Vinnie Sabbatini. An Irish-brogued manager of the TTF backroom. Almost everything in one way or another was channeled through Ryan — every five, every field report, any matter from who was on sick leave to who’d missed pistol practice. He wasn’t the easiest man to get along with. Blunt in manners as well as features. At first Yvonne was sure Ryan resented having a woman in the command, sure that he was in waiting to show her up somehow, expose the feminine frailties and weaknesses, and then gloat with his “I told you so” attitude. He belonged to the “a woman’s place is at home” syndrome. And when the gruff detective had started to ride Link also, she was certain Ryan was just an out and out bigot. Those views changed. “Prove me wrong,” seemed to be his attitude. Show me. Yvonne had done exactly that: For months made herself noticed. Ryan had no patience for free-riders or grumblers. Hard work, smarts, and the ability to grin and bear it. That was his credo. Yvonne’s tireless work made him revise — albeit reluctantly — his opinions. So if their relationship remained impersonal and cordial, at least there was mutual respect.

  “What’s a nice Italian girl like you doing being a cop?” he’d once teased.

  “My father made me join,” she’d retorted.

  “Oh? He a cop?”

  “Nope.” She’d blown a plume of cigarette smoke in his face. “Mafia. Figured it was a good idea to plant someone on the inside.”

  Ryan frowned and backed off. Yvonne had to laugh. In fact, her father had been an insurance salesman. As American middle class as they come. Straight arrow, conservative, the son of an immigrant tailor from northern Italy. Proud of his heritage to be sure, but he’d loved his country and the city he spent his whole life in, and had ingrained that feeling of respect in his children.

  Her phone rang loudly. She picked up the receiver before the first ring could finish. “DiPalma.”

  She listened for a moment to the voice on the other end. “Yes, sir.” She shuffled a few papers, clicked a ballpoint as she rose. “Winnegar wants me,” was all she said.

  Link continued to sip from his cup.

  She knocked on the door, entered without waiting for a response. Captain Winnegar barely looked up as she entered. Joseph Fitzhugh Winnegar was a tall, lean imposing figure. Son of an immigrant Austrian father and an Irish Boston mother. Some likened him to the Old West marshal who sent shudders through rowdy cowhands. Wyatt Earp some of the TTF backroomers called him — but always with admiration, and frequently affection.

  Yvonne took the cushioned chair in front of his desk, folded her hands in her lap and waited. Winnegar was on another line. His face was tight, lips slightly parted. He was listening intently, saying almost nothing except an occasional, “I understand,” or “We’ll be right on it.” HQ. Yvonne instinctively knew. Either the chief of detectives Citywide, or perhaps the commissioner himself.

  Police work was Winnegar’s life; the choice of career had come from tradition. His grandfather had been a cop — a patrolman — his father a sergeant, uncle a detective. Raised into a family of civil servants, becoming part of that tradition was expected, and all he wanted. A degree from St. John’s University, followed by three years in the navy, then straight into N.Y.P.D. Winnegar not only lived up to expectations but far excelled them. Still on the right side of fifty, already heading the most elite unit in the department, he was a man to watch. A future commissioner, maybe later even a foray into politics.

  “You look tired, DiPalma,” he said, as he hung up the phone.

  “Bad cold. Keeps me up at night.” Winnegar twisted around to the tiny hotplate behind his desk, poured a mug full of boiling water into the freeze-dried coffee. He offered some to Yvonne; she declined.

  “I need fives,” Winnegar said abruptly. He referred to D.D. 5s. He hardly looked at Yvonne as he spoke to her. His glasses rested halfway down his nose, eyes glancing quickly across various papers scattered randomly before him. “I’ve pulled in everyone that can walk. Citywide is doing the same, combining efforts. For once we’ll have cohesion instead of confusion.”

  “Under Citywide direction, I assume.”

  Winnegar smiled thinly. “The commissioner’s come to us. TTF’s calling the shots on this one. I don’t have to tell you what the commissioner says — or what HQ expects.”

  “Miracles.”

  “Action,” Winnegar corrected emotionlessly. “City Hall has been screaming for hours. They want this one tied up fast. By the way, have you caught the television news yet?” She shook her head and he continued. “Special bulletins all over the networks. Broadway’s starting to look like a circus — and they’re going to make us the clowns. They’re saying how badly the subways are patrolled, how P.D.’s neglected this possibility, and that no one’s ever taken precautions against this sort of thing.” He frowned with distaste. “The mayor is holding a press conference at ten, with the commissioner at hand to assure everyone that this can’t happen again. But the real uproar hasn’t even begun to surface. That’ll come later. After community groups start to raise hell. Taxpayers demanding protection — and maybe a few sacrificial heads.” His thick brows slanted over his Viennese eyes. “The Bomb Squad is already inundated with calls, threats from cranks. They estimate up to a hundred false alarms before today is over. Offices and factories that’ll have to be evacuated for precaution. Whole city turned upside down.”

  “And TTF is going to take the blame if we don’t have the answers.”

  “Very astute, DiPalma,” he said dryly. He leaned back in his oversized chair and clasped his hands. Gray morning light splashed over his choppy features. For a moment he seemed tense. “So, what did happen down there?”

  “I’ll have a report for you in less than an hour.”

  He shook his head. “In an hour I’ll have twenty reports fr
om all over town. Tell me what you saw, Yvonne. Don’t spare the details.”

  She spoke slowly, deliberately, painting in words a vivid image of what she’d witnessed in the subway tunnel. Winnegar was a good listener. Once or twice he interrupted with a pointed question. Mostly though, he remained silent, taking in the facts, sorting them, sifting them, hearing her conclusions and forming his own.

  Captain Winnegar remained characteristically cool as she finished. You had to be impressed by him; he performed at his best in times of difficult stress. The professional Winnegar could be many different people. A good detective, like any good actor, was able to move easily into the appropriate role as required. Under more routine investigative circumstances he might grow red in the face, flare, chew you out until you quivered. Today called for an entirely different approach. There was enough confusion in P.D. already. What was necessary was exactly what Winnegar now provided — a steady, assuringly calm demeanor, together with rational judgement and analysis. Soft-spoken by nature, he was hard-driven and motivated. His people responded in kind. He’d never go tougher on you than he did himself. If Yvonne worked fifty-hour weeks, he worked fifty-five. She admired that. He never ran roughshod over anyone, and protected his team to the hilt when they were right, giving every member far more leeway than most other brass would ever permit. Still he ran his show his way, if not strictly by the book.

  Yvonne had found it interesting to learn that outside of the shop Winnegar was both an accomplished fine artist as well as an amateur musician. He spent much of his leisure time at theaters and museums, delving into cultural activities and charity work with the same zeal he did as commander of TTF. Yvonne had met his wife, Alma, only once. It had surprised her to find that her boss was married to someone who seemed so opposite. Genteel, soft featured, her slender frame dwarfed by his height, she was a perfect foil. Quick-witted and intellectual, her smile was engaging, manner elegant. She was a respected pianist, winning acclaim in her field. They were a curious match, Yvonne had thought. One well worth the effort of the psychological profiles she enjoyed drawing up on her colleagues for amusement. On personality alone the traditional profile guidelines said this marriage wouldn’t last two years. The Winnegars had been wed for nearly twenty. So much for the accuracy of professional profiles.

  He leaned his elbows on the desk, regarding her with sincerity. He was the picture of repose; neatly dressed in conservative shirt, tie, and jacket, outwardly the epitome of father figure and authority. “What do you think, Yvonne? Gut feelings, I mean.”

  “Depends on who claims it.” She referred to any one of the hundred or so radical groups who conceivably might be expected to gleefully telephone the newspapers and television stations.

  “I mean your feeling right now. While it’s fresh. Uncolored.”

  She shrugged. “A very select group. Small, relatively unknown. I’d guess that no more than two were in the tunnel. Minimum involvement. One to stand lookout, maybe, while the other set the mechanism.”

  “You’re ruling out a great deal of ground.” The telephone rang as he spoke. He ignored it, let the call be taken by someone outside in the squadroom.

  “Just a hunch,” replied Yvonne. “They wanted it big, splashy — but not in the same way as a hijacking. There you’d need a larger group to control things and people. If they’d wanted to commandeer the train and hold the passengers as hostage, say, that would be different. More like what we’d expect.” She spoke with confidence. She knew her job well. The ins and outs from every angle.

  He looked at her askance. “Could it have been handled by an individual acting alone? Not by a team at all? Maybe someone with a personal gripe?” It was clear that Winnegar had respect for her ideas.

  She thought for a moment. “Could. I wouldn’t rule it out. It’d be tricky, though. A lot of angles to cover. Expertise in explosives, and the like.”

  He nodded. “What kind of background? Foreign or local?” By local he meant anywhere within the United States.

  “Again I’d have to guess, but I’d go with local.”

  “Vinnie’s already calling it foreign. Hit squad from overseas. Proving to the world that it isn’t only Europe or large airports that can be targeted. Americans can be reached at home.”

  “We can,” Yvonne said as she mulled it over. Then added, “But I think Vinnie’s wrong on this one.”

  “Why?” Winnegar was ever relentless.

  “I’m wary of the tie-in. Blow us out of the sky, yes, machine gun an airport waiting room filled with arriving and departing passengers. Photos on page one, gore, and plenty of it. Out in the open for both our friends and enemies to see how vulnerable we are. This one’s too … ” She groped for the right word, “too … concealed. Why hit at us this way — underground, in a subway at three in the morning? A subway line that anyone outside of New York never heard of. I don’t know.” She hesitated. “Maybe I’m on the wrong track.” It was impossible to know what Winnegar was thinking. His face was smooth as stone. However she knew the regard he held for Vincent Sabbatini, and how often the lieutenant detective’s hunches had proved uncannily accurate. Bucking Vinnie meant you damn well better have your leads ready and your facts right. Yvonne had neither. But Winnegar had asked her to be frank, and these were her honest thoughts.

  It came as something more than surprise when he said, “On this one I’m thinking you may be right.”

  Her eyes widened. “Captain?”

  “The tie-ins bother me also, Yvonne.” He shuffled a few papers restlessly, clutched his fountain pen. The one the squad team had given as a gift for his wedding anniversary. “Too many deviations. Maybe they intended to break the pattern, I’m not sure either. What I do know is that we’ve got our feelers out halfway across the world. Interpol, London, Jerusalem. Loading the computers with every name, alias, fellow traveler of every known group under the sun.”

  “Then the emphasis is on foreign. Infiltration.”

  “It’s our most likely source. As I said, though, I’m not convinced, and I’ve got to cover every contingency. So I’m breaking this down into teams. Small groups working on their own, following up their own leads.”

  “Of course.” She fidgeted in her chair. She tried not to show her disappointment. “Vinnie’s probably got me slotted as a second-in-command already.” This case spelled opportunity, she knew. And she was hungry.

  “Before we get into that, I want you to see something.”

  He took out an 8x10 brown envelope from the top drawer of his desk, placed it down. “A few days back this note was mailed to the city desk at the News. They didn’t make much of it. These kind of crank notes come in all the time. Someone stuck it into a drawer. But when the night editor got word of the explosion, it jogged his memory and he notified P.D. right away. HQ has the original, delivered me a photostatic copy. Nothing says there’s any real connection, but right now it raises some questions.” He leaned closer toward her, gesturing to the envelope. “Open it. Read it and tell me what you think.”

  She took out the single sheet, stared at the scrawled script. The message had been written with a ballpoint pen. She read it aloud.

  Bastards. This is only the first. Happy riding.

  It was signed in big looping letters, Armageddon.

  Winnegar gave one of his brief enigmatic smiles. “Mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing. Except the biblical reference, Armageddon.”

  Winnegar seemed troubled, Yvonne noted. On the surface, the note was meaningless: It could refer to anyone or anything, or just be someone’s sick idea of a prank. But both the captain and the detective were struck by one item in particular — the part about happy riding. It stuck in Winnegar’s craw, and bothered him a lot. Coincidence?

  “Never try and second guess me, DiPalma,” he said.

  She cast her gaze at his. “No, sir.” Winnegar always played his cards well.

  “We’ve got to get going on this, Yvonne. Local or foreign, we’ve got to
get a quick handle on it. So, I’m breaking precedent and rules.” He paused, kept eye contact. “Congratulations. I’m having you lead a team.”

  “Sir?” She was sure she hadn’t heard right, but her excitement was obvious.

  “No ordinary measures would be enough to get a break on this fast enough. So I’ve pulled every string I could. Whoever did this made one fatal flaw: They’ve crippled a cop. And if there’s one thing that’ll bring cohesion to P.D., it’s this. I told you that we have Citywide at our disposal — and more FBI cooperations than in all the history of N.Y.P.D. Eight units from TTF will work with detectives from Citywide. Most with FBI, a select few on their own. Four to a team.”

  “Four’s small for this kind of canvass. This is a twenty-four hour a day operation. Besides, Lieutenant Sabbatini might resent me being given this much independent authority.”

  He cut her off curtly. “Vinnie has his instructions, and his own groups lined up. You’ll answer to no one — except me.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, your team will consist of only two from TTF, the others will have to come from outside.”

  “Me and just one other?”

  “That’s it, at least for now. Listen, Yvonne, I don’t mean to hamstring you. There isn’t much choice except to try and work it this way. We’re not manned for this big an operation on our own. Take whomever you feel most comfortable with, okay? If they’re already assigned I’ll get a reassignment to you, no questions asked. Sorry, it’s the best I can do for now.”

  “I’ve always worked well with Link,” she said immediately.

  “Washington’s yours. Anyone in particular from Citywide?”

  She took out a cigarette, rolled it between her fingers before she lighted it. “There is a detective I knew from Homicide. Martin Spinrad.”

  “Did you work well together?”

  “Never had much practical experience. But he’s good. And smart.”

  “I’ll inform Homicide. Get somebody to call the Precinct Investigation Unit, and don’t take any stalling from PIU, either. We’ll have your man here today. What about the other one? Draw from the general assignment pool? If not, it would be useful to have a liaison officer to help coordinate what’s going to be a mess of confusion.”