Step on a Crack (16 page)

I WAS STILL trying to come to terms with what I’d just heard as I staggered out of the boardroom inside Rockefeller Center. I’d been on some big cases before, but this was the first time I’d heard war declared.

Just when I thought things couldn’t escalate any further, I saw that the whole of the command center operation had been moved into the hallway for more space. I spotted my fellow NYPD negotiator, Ned Mason, placing a sheet of computer paper up on a corkboard filled with them. The FBI negotiator, Paul Martelli, was on the phone at a desk beside him.

“So it’s true? Thurman is
dead
?” Mason asked. I’d noticed that he always needed to know what was going on, to be in the loop.

I nodded solemnly. “He was dead when they threw him out on the street.”

Mason looked like a brick had just hit him in the face as he nodded back.

“How could this be happening here?” Martelli said. He looked shocked, too. “ Russia. Baghdad, maybe. But Midtown Manhattan? Jesus. Hasn’t this city been through enough?”

“Apparently not,” I said. “How’s the money-gathering going?”

“We’re getting there,” Mason said, gesturing toward the papers on the board. Each one indicated an individual hostage, their representative, and the amount of the ransom.

“I just got off the horn with Eugena Humphrey’s people in LA,” he said. “In addition to Eugena’s ransom, they’re going to put up the money for the two reverends inside as well.”

“That’s generous,” I said.

“If only the rest of them could be that cooperative,” Mason continued. “Rooney’s business manager refuses to release any money until he
personally
speaks with one of the hostage-takers. When I told him that was impossible, he hung up and is now refusing to take my calls. Can you believe it? It’s like he thinks he’s negotiating a contract instead of taking his client’s life out of danger. Oh, and one of Charlie Conlan’s kids has started legal action to block the transfer of any funds. The asshole’s argument is that maybe his father is already dead, and he’s refusing to put his inheritance in jeopardy.”

“Family values at work,” I said.

“You said it,” Martelli agreed.

“How much do we have collected so far?” I asked.

“Sixty-six million in escrow,” Mason said, after punching buttons on a desk calculator. “Another ten makes seventy-six, and we’ll be ready to wire it.”

“Did you subtract the mayor’s ransom?” I said.

Mason’s eyes widened as he looked up at me. “You’re right. Okay. Take away his three million, the total goes from seventy-six to seventy-three. Only seven million dollars to go.”

“Only,” I said. “You know you’ve been hanging out with the rich and famous too long when you use the word
only
before the words
seven million dollars
.”

“It’s like the man said,” Martelli added, putting the phone in the crook of his neck. “A million here, a million there. Pretty soon you’re talking
real
money.”

JACK SAT ON THE STEPS of the high altar with his cell phone antenna clenched between his teeth. He’d quit smoking eight years before, but he was seriously considering starting up again. He’d known the operation would be stressful. He’d even predicted the attempted breach.

But that was on paper. Actually dealing with it in real life, he thought, the blood pounding in his head as he scanned the surrounding jewel-colored windows for snipers, was a-whole-nother ball of wax.

Maybe I pushed it too far,
he thought, gazing at the flag-covered casket of the First Lady in front of him. Maybe they’d storm the place now, celebrities or not. He’d wanted to make a statement with the mayor, but he wondered if he hadn’t gone a little over the top on that one, too.

The pathetic whimper Andrew Thurman had made when Jack slid the Ka-Bar into his back still echoed in his ears. The saints on the holy windows seemed to stare down at him sternly, their strange dead eyes brimming with a malevolent disapproval.

No, no, no, Jack thought with a violent sneer. No way could he even think about going soft now. He knew what he had to do, and he was doing it. Killing the mayor had been nothing. Part of a formula that would end with his getting very rich.
Besides, the prick deserved it
, he reminded himself.

There was a time when Jack had badly needed the mayor’s help and had been left twisting in the wind.
Hizzoner had it coming
, Jack thought with a nod.

And there would be more killing before this was over, Jack thought. No doubt about that.

“Jack? Come in,” came a voice from his radio.

“What now?” he answered.

“Come back to the chapel right now!” the radio said. “One of the fish has fallen and claims he can’t get up.”

Jack shook his head with a snort of disgust. His guys were great come ball-crushing time. They had guts and were loyal and obedient to a fault. But have them make a decision on their own about the tiniest shit, you were asking for a confirmed miracle.

He keyed the Motorola.

“On my way,” he said, getting to his feet.

Not again
, Jack thought when he arrived at the rear chapel rail.

Another big shot was slabbed out on the marble floor.

REAL ESTATE TYCOON Xavier Brown’s eyes were rolled way back in his head, his open silk shirt showing an expanse of snow-blind white belly. The talk show woman, Eugena, was sitting almost on top of him, compressing his chest with the heels of her hands, saying, “Hold on, hold on, Xavier.”

“What the hell did you do to him?” Jack said to Little John.

“Nothing,” Little John answered defensively. “That’s just it. Fatty got up, complained his arm was hurting him, and then boom, down he goes. Beached whale.”

Jack knelt next to the talk show lady. He had to admit, even given how much he despised these worthless, privileged wimps, it was a little weird. He was starting to
respect
some of them-like Eugena.

“How’s he looking?” he asked her.

“Very bad,” Eugena said, continuing CPR. “His pulse is very weak. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he’ll die.
No
, I don’t know that for certain, but it’s what I think.”

“Damn,” Jack said, standing directly over Brown. Another snag. Potentially a very costly one. What to do to protect his investment?

Jack snatched up his phone and hit redial.

“Mike here,” came the detective’s voice. Jack had to admit the cop was good. They just sent out the mayor carved up like a Halloween pumpkin, and the cop sounded like a concierge at a four-star hotel.
You know it, pal. The hijacker is always right
.

“You got a problem,” Jack said. “Hot-shit honcho Xavier Brown’s stock has just taken a sudden nosedive. I think his ticker’s having trouble keeping up with all the fun and excitement. Tell you what, Mike, I’ll let him out of here before his aorta explodes, but you have to pay his ransom first.”

“We don’t have it all together yet, Jack,” the detective said. “You have to give us more time.”

More time, is it? Jack thought. Wonder why. To figure out another way in and take us out, perhaps? These dolts couldn’t help sticking to the dusty playbook, could they? No wonder he was going to get away with this.

“Go ahead and send his money first then,” Jack said. “Or then again, don’t. But tell his people they better decide quick. X. Brown is looking like the next time he makes it into the
Wall Street Journal
, it’s going to be on the Obit page. I’ll be watching the account. I see my money, I open the front door.”

“I’ll let them know,” the negotiator said.

“You do that,” Jack said.

It took five of his men to drag the heavy financier up the aisle toward the main entrance of the cathedral. His guys looked like a radical tree-hugging order of monks trying to save a manatee. Eugena Humphrey tagged along the whole way, even dropping down to give the tycoon CPR in the vestibule. She was turning out to be a pretty good chick.

He turned when one of his men called to him from one of the little security rooms off the main altar. A laptop sat on a beat-up desk before the man.

“They did it!” the gunman said with excitement. “They moved it already. The money is there.”

Jack smiled as he came over and looked at the screen. A three followed by six zeros was in the column next to their Costa Rican bank account number. By way of a half dozen Cayman Island, Isle of Man, and Swiss banks, untwisting the pretzel of dummy accounts and wire transfers would be impossible.

Three million. He was a millionaire.

Before he was forty, too.

He was almost giddy when he lifted his radio.

“Release the Fat Man,” he said.

JACK WAS SO JUICED by the progress, he helped pass out lunch to the hostages himself. Actually, he took great pleasure in providing a cold Mickey D’s-only menu for the fussy celebrity gourmands. “Dah, dah, dot, dah, dah-I’m lovin’ it.”

He paused at the front of the chapel, staring out at his favorite captives. Funny, they didn’t look like they were ready for the red carpet anymore. Had to be a real bitch and a half, trying to face the day without their maids and personal trainers and lifestyle coaches. Pale and crumpled and baggy-eyed, munching on their fast food, they reminded him of something.

Oh, yeah, he remembered.

Human beings.

He took the microphone off its stand.

“Hey, everybody,” he said. “Finally, things are starting to break our way. Ransoms have begun rolling in. Won’t be long now. Hope all your stockings are hung over the chimney with care.”

Jack paused. His amplified sigh was almost wistful.

“Got to hand it to you as a whole, guys,” he said. “I really thought a bunch of soft celebrities like yourselves would freak out under the circumstances. But for the most part, you’ve proved me wrong. You held up better than expected, and for that, you should be proud. And I really do hope the authorities continue cooperating. You can take this experience with you and get on with your lives. And even if a couple more of you have to be eliminated, you can go down realizing how lucky you are to die in your prime. It’ll be James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and you. You might have made yourselves stars, but think about it. A couple in the back of the head on the steps of St. Paddy’s? It’ll turn you into legends.”

As Jack stepped down from the pulpit, Eugena Humphrey stood.

“Sir,” she called out bravely, “may I communicate with you about something? Can we talk?”

Jack reached into his robe for his Taser, then stopped himself. There was a mesmerizing sincerity in the talk show host’s face that even he couldn’t deny was compelling.

“Make it snappy,” Jack finally said.

“Thank you,” Eugena said. She cleared her throat and looked directly into Jack’s eyes.

No wonder this lady was so successful, Jack thought, feeling the weight of her confidence and intensity. It was as if the two of them were together in a small, cozy room-instead of yelling at each other over guns and hostages.

“What I want to say is this,” Eugena said. “We’re all truly sorry if who we are and what our lifestyles are all about have hurt you in some way. I’ll be the first to admit that I am sometimes consumed with things instead of other people’s feelings. But, honestly, after this ordeal, I do feel different. I’m going to enjoy the simple things in life again. I’ve learned from this experience, as I’m sure all of us have, and in some strange way, I’d actually like to thank you. But please, don’t kill anybody else. Because deep down, you’re right. We’re
not
special. We’re just people. Like you.”

Jack stood there, just staring at the woman. He would have thought it was impossible, but he almost felt guilty for a second. This stupid broad’s somewhat eloquent plea had almost unnerved him. He didn’t even watch her stupid show.

Jack was about to announce that whatever happened, she herself would be spared, when Little John, standing beside Eugena, drew his nine millimeter. He pressed the steel barrel to the talk show host’s cheek.

“That was really emotional,” Little John said, cocking the hammer with his thumb. “I’m crying so hard, I wet my panties. But you must have missed the e-mail about nobody giving a crap. Now, you either put a sock in it, or I’ll put a bullet in it. This isn’t your talk show, lady. This is
our
show.”

Jack called out to his compatriot, “Little John, I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

HOW COULD IT be Christmas Eve? I thought.

I stood on the corner of 50th Street and watched as snow began to fall, but not the soft, feathery flake variety. I flipped up my collar at the gritty bits of frozen rain that scoured at my face like sand tossed in a wind tunnel.

Over at the command center, I’d heard about a new problem for us to contend with. Along the lines of barricades, tourist crowds had gathered and were resisting being dispersed. Having been denied a peek at the Rock Center tree that had been cordoned off, they were content to stand around and gape at the unfolding spectacle.

I watched a group of teenage girls, cheerleaders from Wichita, Kansas, arrive at the northwest corner of 51st, laughing as they pumped handwritten free mercedes signs into the air. A few had siege of st. pat’s T-shirts over their sweaters.

I shook my head. You knew you were in trouble when somebody was selling T-shirts. I could see every member of my Manhattan North Homicide squad sporting them when I returned to the squad room.
If I returned
, that was.

I wandered over toward Lieutenant Reno and HRT chief Oakley, who were commiserating in front of the black FBI tactical bus. Oakley had a folded blueprint in his hand.

“Mike,” Oakley said, “we’re going over that first idea you had about the north spire again. Figuring out some way to go in the cathedral up there.”

I looked at the commando chief. His face was drawn and weary, but even in the cold murk, there was no mistaking the determination in his eyes. Oakley had lost one of his men, and it didn’t look like he would be slowing down until something was done about it.

“It’s probably the next best tactical option,” I said. “But after what happened in the concourse, I’m worried about getting ambushed again. And it might be a lot harder to fall back from three hundred feet in the air.”

“We’ve spoken to Will Matthews and the FBI special agent in charge,” Reno said. “The next decision to go tactical will be a full-force breach from every side. Next time they send us in, we won’t stop until every hijacker is taken out, Mike.”

I was standing there, trying to shrug off the implications of what Reno had just said, when I heard the squall of feedback coming from the north. I rubbed my eyes, trying to register what I was seeing. Here we go again.

Beyond the barricades and news trucks, a group of young black men was standing on top of a yellow school bus. A short boy tapped at the microphone stand in front of him.

“One, two,” came his amplified voice. Then there was a pause, and he started singing.

The song was “I Believe I Can Fly.” It was like a punch in the chest when the choir joined the soloist, bursting in with “Spread my wings and fly away.”

I could read the banner on the side of the bus. boys choir of harlem. Most of them were probably from one of the kidnapped reverends’ congregations.

All we needed was a Ferris wheel and cotton candy, and we could start charging admission to this freak show on Fifth Avenue.

Though I had to admit, the boys’ soaring voices brightened the gloom somehow.

Reno must have thought so, too, because he grinned as he shook his head.

“Only in New York,” he said.