Part 4 (1/2)

13.

The precinct house was quiet. 'It's so cold out there tonight, the pickpockets are keeping their hands in their own pockets,' explained the duty officer as he led Charlie and Drummond down an empty, characterless corridor of mostly dark offices. The place had the same coa.r.s.e, sour smell as all the munic.i.p.al buildings Charlie had been to. He wondered whether the odor of all the humanity ma.s.sed into these places was too strong for any cleaning compound, or whether all the places simply used the same inadequate cleaning compound. Either way, all things considered, he felt as if he and Drummond had reached an oasis. house was quiet. 'It's so cold out there tonight, the pickpockets are keeping their hands in their own pockets,' explained the duty officer as he led Charlie and Drummond down an empty, characterless corridor of mostly dark offices. The place had the same coa.r.s.e, sour smell as all the munic.i.p.al buildings Charlie had been to. He wondered whether the odor of all the humanity ma.s.sed into these places was too strong for any cleaning compound, or whether all the places simply used the same inadequate cleaning compound. Either way, all things considered, he felt as if he and Drummond had reached an oasis.

They came to the squad room, a big, open s.p.a.ce painted a drab beige with few of the wanted posters or softball trophies Charlie had expected and none of the chaos. Three detectives doing paperwork was it for action.

The duty officer directed Charlie and Drummond to Detective Howard Beckman, a man well into his fifties who looked to have been a bruiser back in his day. His thatchy gray hair was now parted ruler straight. Like his sport coat, his oxford s.h.i.+rt was crisp. His silk tie, knotted with precision, was of the quality usually seen on a cop only if he were commissioner. Charlie took Beckman for a warrior forced to the sidelines by age restrictions, striving to soften his edges with couture*though couture couture probably wouldn't be his term for it. probably wouldn't be his term for it.

'So Murph says you fellas've got a good one for me,' Beckman said with a smile as he gestured Charlie and Drummond into the chairs before him. Charlie liked the old cop right out of the gate.

Battling his own incredulity, Charlie delivered what felt like a thorough rendition of events. Drummond sat quietly, occasionally nodding in corroboration, mostly gazing at his slippers.

Afterward, Beckman cupped his solid jaw in a hand, evoking a general pondering a battlefield map. 'Quite a day,' he said. His tone was pure sympathy. Unfortunately his eyes divulged skepticism. He disappeared behind a giant computer terminal. 'Let's start with the fire,' he said, picking up the pace. 'I see Chief Morris of Company two oh four ordered plywood over your windows and doorways to keep out looters, which is standard. He requested stepped-up police patrol*same reason, also standard. But there's no request for a look-see by a fire marshal, nothing like that. If he'd thought anything was fishy *'

'At that time the gas man and the boiler blowing up seemed like coincidence,' Charlie said. 'The two guys trying to shoot us made for a pattern.'

The detective slurped hot coffee from a tall Styrofoam cup. 'I've also got the report from the patrol car that the duty officer sent by.' He dipped behind the terminal again and read aloud, 'Resident officer saw and heard nothing out of ordinary. Officer observed no signs of gunplay, no casings, nothing out of ordinary.''

Charlie had the same creeping, itchy sensation he did when a horse he'd bet began to let the lead slip away. 'These guys, though, they clearly weren't amateurs.'

'Then they would've tidied up, yeah. Understand this wasn't a full forensics team Murph sent over.'

'What about the bullets in the Plexiglas divider in the cab?'

Beckman brightened. 'That could be something, yeah.' A burst of right and left index finger pecks at his keyboard and he relayed, with disappointment, 'No new incident reports from Transit on the system.'

'How long does it take for them to show up?'

'Not this long. It's the cab companies' first priority, if only so they can put in for insurance.'

'Wallid said he was going straight to his garage, but I wouldn't be surprised if he stopped to get a drink first. My luck, the cab was stolen while he was in the bar.'

'A lot of times, especially late night, the guy's an illegal with a borrowed hack license. Sh.e.l.ling out for the body work himself beats dealing with Immigration, you know?'

'Great,' Charlie said. So the cab getting stolen would actually be better luck.

'We can still get to him,' Beckman said. 'I show three licensed cabbies named Ibrahim Wallid in the metro directory, plus a Wallid Ibrahim. We'll call 'em tomorrow, find out if one of their vehicles is out of service.' He returned his attention to his coffee.

Charlie's anxiety escalated into a feeling like that of a cold coming on. 'So I guess, from a procedural standpoint, this doesn't rate any more immediate action than a purse s.n.a.t.c.hing?'

Beckman smoothed his tie. 'The thing you gotta understand is, even on a slow night like this, we're gonna have half a dozen complaints where somebody's actually been shot. What the department would need to sink its teeth into yours is the why. Why why. Why would a sixty-four-year-old appliance salesman, even one who's surprisingly good with his fists, have professional hit men after him?' would a sixty-four-year-old appliance salesman, even one who's surprisingly good with his fists, have professional hit men after him?'

All Charlie could come up with was, 'That's the question of the night.'

With an outstretched palm, Beckman put it to Drummond.

Drummond raised his shoulders.

Beckman ma.s.saged the bags under his eyes. 'The best thing'd be if you fellas come back tomorrow when the flip-chart lady's here so she can sketch composites of your guys. They match anything in the system, we're off to the races.'

'What do we do in the meantime?' Charlie asked.

'I'll put the write-up into play on the double. Maybe we'll get lucky and the name Kermit Smith, even if it's fake*or Smith in some combination with MacKenzie*will click somewhere in the system. Or, you never know, maybe a call will come in from an old lady on Prospect Place who was up late watching the Shopping Channel, saw two young male Caucasians in business suits pile into a car, thought it was suspicious that one of them had a b.l.o.o.d.y nose or a gun or a gun, and wrote down the tag number.' Beckman plucked an ornately monogrammed leather card holder from his top drawer and dealt a pair of business cards across the desk. 'Till then, if anything comes up, or if there's anything else I can do*'

The bulky dot-matrix printer on the stand behind him sputtered type onto tractor-fed paper, giving him pause and halting the activities of the other detectives.

'I'll get it in a sec,' he told them. He was also telling Charlie and Drummond that their interview was over.

Charlie saw no remaining choice but to plead. 'What if MacKenzie used the taxi's tag number to track us here? Or what if Smith followed us in his own car*like that new BMW, which, come to think of it, no one in his right mind would have left on the street overnight?'

Beside the printer stand was a window with a view of the street in front of the precinct house. With a tilt of the head that way, Beckman said, 'Be my guest.'

Approaching the gla.s.s, Charlie was irked by the reflection: The detective was rolling his eyes. All Charlie saw outside that he hadn't before was a Daily News Daily News truck delivering tomorrow's copies to the sidewalk vending machines. Nothing else even moved. Beckman's reaction no longer seemed unwarranted. truck delivering tomorrow's copies to the sidewalk vending machines. Nothing else even moved. Beckman's reaction no longer seemed unwarranted.

What the h.e.l.l were you expecting? Charlie asked himself. MacKenzie lying in wait with a sniper's rifle? Smith revving the black BMW in preparation to mow you down?

As he stepped away from the gla.s.s, the message on the tractor-fed paper grabbed his attention.

12/26/:58:04.

*.TXT SENT VIA NATIONAL LAW ENFORCEMENT TELECOMMUNICATIONS SYSTEM*

TO: NEW YORK PD 107 STATIONS.

FROM: DC FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION 100037870.

CHARLES CLARK, 30, AND DRUMMOND CLARK, 64, SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING BY FBI RE: TONIGHT'S (12/26/09, AT APPROX 2330) ARMED ROBBERY/HOMICIDE OF TAXI DRIVER WALLID, IBRAHIM ELSAYED, 43, IN THE MACY'S PKG LOT ON FLATBUSH AVENUE IN BKLYN, NY. MULTIPLE EYEWITNESSES SAW CLARKS FLEEING SCENE.

14.

Charlie grabbed the printer stand to steady himself, then looked over the message again, to find the words that in his harried state he must have misread. the printer stand to steady himself, then looked over the message again, to find the words that in his harried state he must have misread.

He saw he'd misread nothing.

Poor Wallid, he suspected, had merely stumbled into the same dark pit he had. He wanted to study the message further, in hope at least of deriving some idea of what to do now, but he didn't want to risk drawing the detectives' attention. He was certain of just one thing: Staying here in the precinct house meant submitting to arrest, which would only make life easier for Smith and MacKenzie. If they*or whoever sent them*could either fake an FBI bulletin or get the FBI to send a real one, they'd be able to waltz into a holding cell here. They'd have Charlie and Drummond in their custody within fifteen minutes.

'n.o.body out there?' Beckman called over.

Shaking his head, Charlie summoned an earnest-sounding, 'Detective, thank you so much for your time. We won't take up any more of it.'

'Okay,' Beckman said with cheer that seemed genuine. He started up from his desk chair, headed for the printer.

At the same moment, the thick toe of one of Charlie's Converse All Stars caught the carpet at a bad angle. He stumbled and flailed wildly at Beckman's desk. Intentionally. The target of his flailing was the large Styrofoam coffee cup on the desk.