Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) (47 page)

 
30

Rookies never partnered with rookies, but Sergeant Murray had made an exception. Not one to waste manpower, he had counted these two as half a man each and posted them on the least likely access point for Gracie Mansion. Parked in the driveway with their taillights hanging out on East End Avenue, the youngsters had a view of the Wagner Wing beyond the gate, but the patrol car all by itself would guarantee that the hit man would not come this way, and so it was the safest place for kiddie cops tonight.

The sergeant leaned down to the open window on the passenger side, and he pointed to the computer on Officer Rowinski’s lap. “Keep your eyes on that video feed.” This was busywork, but it should keep them alert or at least awake. The screen was broken up into squares the size of postage stamps, one for each security camera in the park. Some were lit by spotlights, and others relied on the path lamps.

“Three of these got hardly any pictures,” said this rookie riding shotgun. “They’re not night-vision cameras, right?”

“You’re a genius, Rowinsky.” At times like this, Murray saw himself as a babysitter with a sergeant’s stripe. “But our perp ain’t as smart as you.” Well,
that
was a damn lie. “Before the guy dumped those four
bodies, he took out half the park cameras with a paintball gun. So . . . if you see a camera go out, that’s a clue he’s in the park. Got it?” Now he glared at Officer Morris, the kid behind the wheel. “Just keep
your
eyes on the wing’s front door.”

“And if I see something? We got no contact numbers for the mayor’s protection detail.”

“No, Morris, you don’t. . . . You have a
gun
. This is why we hand out so
many
guns.” And now it seemed necessary to remind both of them, “No check-in calls, no calls to anybody.” That had been Riker’s idea, and it was a good one. A patrol cop on a phone or a radio might rattle a hit man turned spree killer. Conroy would just kill everybody in sight, and maybe take out the mayor, too.

Murray walked away from the car, assured that the kids would see no action tonight. He had other cops to check on, the grownups on foot patrol in the park. This operation was all eyeballs and guns. Farther down the block, his knock on the side of the surveillance van as he passed by was the announcement that all was well on the sergeant’s watch.

—

INSIDE THE VAN
, the monitors showed video feeds from security cameras—piss-poor security in the estimation of Carlstad, a civilian borrowed from Tech Support. He watched the uniformed police walking in and out of shots. The areas outside camera range were too large for this kind of surveillance to be effective. The only clear monitors were lit by spotlights on the mansion’s roof. Others were dependent on path lamps through the surrounding parkland, and they were not all that bright. It was hard to tell if some of his monitors were even working. “Three of these feeds are useless,” he said to no one who might care.

Behind him, two detectives were watching screens with live images of the streets and the promenade. The third cop, Mallory, sat at the
audio station, wearing a headset to kill Carlstad’s complaints, though she was from the planet of Pretty Chicks who did not actually need earphones to tune him out.

He covertly watched her reflection in the dark glass of one dead monitor. And now she creeped him out. As if she sensed his eyes on her, she turned her head to watch
him.

A movement called his attention back to the live monitors. He followed a figure in the bright shots around the mansion perimeter, but it was only Murray doing his rounds, checking on his men again. With these overhead shots, Carlstad could not make out the sergeant’s stripe, but now he was familiar with the man’s build and gate.

In the civilian’s geek opinion, this strategy of camera positions really sucked. They were all too high. He checked the monitor for the wing’s rear entry to the basement level. Another cop was posted there. This one was seated on a chair. No movement at all, and everything was—

Carlstad sucked in his breath.

Mallory was right beside him, bending low, her head an inch away from his, and he was in hands-clammy panic mode even before she said, “Conroy’s inside!”

No! Not possible!

“Where inside?” asked Riker. “What’d you hear?”

“Nothing. Look at this.” She pointed to the camera shot of the cop in the chair.

And Riker said, “Goddamn!”

Behind him, Carlstad heard the van’s door sliding open, detectives leaving, the door closing. He never took his eyes off the monitor. What had she seen? How did she know? The guard’s face was obscured by the brimmed hat. A minute ticked by as Carlstad continued to stare at this cop, who never moved, never shifted his butt or kicked out a leg to keep a foot from going to sleep. The guard on the wing’s basement door was as still as a photograph.

—

THE MASTER BEDROOM
of Gracie Mansion was less than grand, but large enough to accommodate a couch and armchairs, and the formal mantelpiece was not overwhelming. Two windows overlooked the river, and the walls were painted a calming green, the color of money, and lit by the glow of a single lamp. One might call it a tranquil setting. The small man in the four-poster bed reached under the pillow, but his gun was not there.

The thug looming over him wore a police uniform, yet this offered the mayor no sense of security. The stranger’s eyes were disturbing, and then there was the fist so close to— Oh,
there
was the missing gun. It was all but lost in the large clenched hand of the intruder. “I take it, you’re not a police officer.”

“You got that right.” The man sat down on the edge of the mattress. The tiny derringer now rested on his open palm. “
This
is a peashooter. It’s only good for pissing off—”

“I’m not going to yell.”

“Go on. Scream your head off.”

“Did you kill the—”

“Naw, I don’t do cops. But those guys won’t be gettin’ up again any time soon.” The faux policeman removed his tri-cornered hat and dropped it on the bedcovers. Either his mother had taught him to remove his hat indoors, or he planned to stay awhile—just getting comfortable—and death was not imminent.

“Let’s you and me talk about hearts and a few other loose ends.”

“I assure you, I won’t turn you in if—”

“I know. I had a little talk with Dwayne Brox.
I
get caught,
you
go to jail—just like you done all those murders yourself.”

“I understand that you . . .
eliminated
Mr. Brox.” The mayor sat up and reached for the pillow on the other side of the bed. He stacked it
on the one behind him so that he could lean back in comfort. “So allow me to thank you for—”

“I know what Brox did with those hearts. He sent them to you.”

“All marked proof of death. Yes, very dramatic.”

“Where are they now?”

“Forgive a cliché, they sleep with the fishes . . . in the East River. Except for the last one. The
counterfeit
heart? The police took that one away.”

“But first you got Jonah’s picture—the one with him holding a newspaper.”

“Proof of life. Yes, that’s gone, too. No worries. I erased it from my cell phone.”

“You
wanted
that kid to die.”

“I’ve never met a child worth any part of my stock portfolio. I assume you’ve paid the boy a visit by now?”

“Yeah, thanks for the tipoff. I caught your act on TV.”

“My pleasure. But we both know you’re not going to kill
me.
The mayor of New York City? You’d never walk away from something like—”

“How did Brox figure to get away with it? He said the plan was foolproof.”

“It was. It was brilliant. I could never turn on him. Or you. Incidentally, I have a yacht at your disposal. It can take you anywhere you like. But I want something in return. My aide, Tucker—he might be involved. Or maybe not. I can’t be sure. He lives at—”

“What was the payoff plan for Brox? You got an offshore account?”

“No, not anymore. Foreign banks are falling like dominoes. Round heels, I call them. They spread their legs like whores, one new tax treaty after another. But the ransom wouldn’t require an offshore transfer of funds.”

“So how’d Brox expect to get paid?” The thug pounded the mattress, and there was frustration in his voice.

“You don’t just
want
to know.” Andrew Polk smiled. “You
need
to know. It’s making you a little crazy, isn’t it? Well, I think we can work this out. What shall I call you?”

“Damn amateurs, the two a you, playin’ your little murder games.” The man put the derringer on the nightstand. “No stupid toys.” He reached into a back pocket. Now, what looked like a penknife protruded from his fist. “
This
is a weapon.”

Click
.

Not
a penknife. A switchblade. Such a
long
blade, and rather wicked looking. And—
Oh, my
—the tip of it was hesitating in the air, a bare inch twixt sharp tip and a mayoral eyeball. Without so much as a tremor in his voice, Andrew said, “You can’t do this, can you? You really
need
to know—”

“
Idiot.
You got
two
eyes. And me? I got the time.”

So distracting was the blade, the mayor never saw the detective, only her hand—red fingernails—a big gun, its muzzle gently pressed to the knife wielder’s temple.

Her voice was soft, one pure silk note.
“Don’t.”

“Conroy!” Her partner was standing on the other side of the bed, aiming his weapon.

The knife never wavered. Andrew Polk resumed his cross-eyed stare at the blade’s sharp point
.

Detective Mallory said, “I’ve got all your answers, Conroy.”

The knife dropped to the mattress.

Excellent.
One might say the relief was an orgasmic release—all the fireworks splendor of sex.

—

RIKER
’
S EARPIECE DANGLED
from one pocket by a wire, and now he could hear the feet of other men on the stairs beyond the door.

Detective Gonzales bent the hit man over the mattress. He had his
prisoner handcuffed before the two young rookies entered the room to deliver the body count for the house and grounds.

“Four officers down,” said Rowinski.

“Ambulances on the way,” said his partner, Morris.

“So . . . about that stiff you left back in Jersey.” Gonzales yanked Conroy to his feet. “The one who died in your bed? We figure him for a homeless guy. I don’t suppose you got his name?”

“They have names?”

“Sorry, man. Stupid question.” And Gonzales said this with all due sincerity.

Riker had to agree with the sentiment. A pro was unlikely to implicate himself in burning a man alive—but what the hell. Worth a try.

Mallory held up a Miranda card. “Ignatious Conroy, you have the right to—”

“
Iggy.
Call me Iggy.”

“Iggy,” said Riker, “your client, Dwayne Brox, died tonight. . . . We’re sorry for your loss.” He snapped on a latex glove and picked up the knife. “What’ve we got here? You and the mayor got some weird little sex fantasy going on? ’Cause I’d be willin’ to buy that—my hand to God.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Detective.” The mayor smoothed out his bedding and fluffed his pillows. “Oh, no,” he said, as if five more detectives were filing into his bedroom just to irritate him. “Get out, all of you. Just take your prisoner and go.”

“Iggy stays for now.” Riker never responded well to that tone for ordering servants around. He tipped back a lamp on the nightstand and removed a small metal pellet from its base. “Mr. Mayor, you’re the one who’s leaving.”

“You
bugged
my—”

“Yeah, when we did that walk-through. We got ’em all over the mansion.” Riker laid a folded sheet of paper on the mayor’s lap. “That’s
the warrant for the bugs. I told a judge your security detail was doin’ a shabby job. I’m not sure he really cared. That judge didn’t vote for you, but he signed the warrant anyway . . . for your protection. And your confession to conspiracy? Hey, that was a bonus.”

“A confession under duress is no good in court. I was only—”

“The mayor’s got a point,” said Riker. “I suppose we could just use the part where he admits to siccing Conroy on the kid in the hospital.”

“No,” said Mallory, as though this might be a serious negotiation. “I like the part where he tries to hire a hit on his aide. We should play that for Tucker. See if he wants to roll on his boss.” She turned to their audience of grinning detectives and two rookie officers—one hit man. “Any volunteers to cuff Mayor Polk and read him his rights?”

Hands went up all around the room, and Mallory picked the winners.

Andrew Polk was so startled, he inadvertently invoked his right to remain silent before those words were read to him. He barefooted out of the room, cuffed and in the custody of the youngsters in uniform. Mallory’s selection of these officers was taken for generosity that netted thumbs up from other detectives. A high-profile collar would make those two rookies shine tonight. But Riker put it down to his partner’s sick sense of fun. When their sergeant saw them come down the staircase with the mayor in handcuffs, that poor bastard would faint dead away.

Iggy Conroy stood manacled between Lonahan and Gonzales. Mallory pointed to the armchair by the bed. “Sit him down.”

Great idea. The lights were low. The furniture was comfortable. No lawyers in sight.

She finished reading his Miranda rights, with a small elaboration. “If you invoke your right of silence, I can’t tell you about—”

“Okay, you got questions,” said Conroy. “Me, too. Go for it. But first you gotta tell me the game those two clowns was playin’.”

“I can do that,” said Mallory. “When Polk was a Wall Street broker, he swindled ten of his own investors with bogus information on a stock offering. Then he bribed the victims with hush money—just a small percent of their losses. When they signed off on that deal and lied to the feds, every one of them was complicit in Polk’s felony.”