Normally they’d move silently up on their rubber-soled boots, then the breaching officer would wait while one cop slid a tiny camera on a cable under the door. But now—with the perp’s surveillance of them a possibility—they’d have to race to the door and move in fast.
Heller pointed to Sachs and to the right. Then to another officer and aimed a thumb to left. Then to himself and moved his hand up and down, like a priest offering a blessing. Meaning he’d take the center.
Sachs, breathing hard, nodded.
The breacher lifted the battering ram—a four-foot piece of iron—from his canvas bag. And at a nod from Heller, all four ran to Griffith’s apartment. The breaching officer slammed the metal hard into the knob and lock plate, and the door crashed inward. He stepped back and unslung his H&K.
The three other officers stepped inside, Sachs and the other flank officer spreading out, sweeping their weapons around the sparsely furnished room.
“Kitchen clear!”
“Living room clear!”
The left bedroom door was partially open. Heller and the other officer moved forward, Sachs covering. They entered the small room. Heller called, “Left bedroom, clear.”
They returned and approached the closed door of the front bedroom, which had both a number-pad lock and a dead bolt.
Heller said, “S and S report. The front bedroom’s sealed. We’re about to enter. Any sign of life? K.”
“Still can’t tell, sir. Too well shielded.”
“K.”
Heller regarded the number lock knob. There would be no element of surprise now, after their noisy entry, so Heller pounded on the door and said, “NYPD. Is anyone in there?”
Nothing.
Again.
Then he motioned over to the officer with a stalk camera. He tried to jimmy it under the door but the gap was too small; the device wouldn’t fit.
This doorway was narrower. Only one officer could go in at a time. Heller pointed to himself and held up a single finger. To Sachs, two. The other officer, three. Then he motioned the breacher forward. The burly cop arrived with his ram and they got ready for the final stage of the entry.
CHAPTER 48
Weird. I had just been writing in my diary:
The worst day.
That had been in the past, that day. But now, today, was just as bad.
Not worst, no. Because I haven’t been arrested, haven’t been shot to death by Red and the Shoppers.
But pretty fucking bad. I’ve known the People’s Guardian couldn’t go on forever. But I thought I could slip away from the city and remain anonymous. Get on with my life. Now they have my name.
I’m wheeling two suitcases, a backpack holding my most important worldly possessions. Some of my miniatures. The diary. Some photos. Clothes (my size, hard to find). My hammer, my wonderful Japanese razor saw. A few other things.
Lucky, lucky.
Just a half hour ago. Was back home, Chelsea, thinking of my next visit to a Shopper, planning to scald, when I got, imagine this, a call.
“Vernon, listen.” The crackly-voiced kid from Crafts 4 Everyone.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him. Because something was wrong.
“Listen. The police were just here.”
“Police?”
“Asking about things you bought. They found some notes with your name on them. I didn’t say anything.”
The kid was lying. There was no reason there’d be any notes with my name on them. He sold me out.
“They didn’t find your last name. But.”
But, yeah.
“Thanks.” I hung up and began to pack. Had to leave fast. The kid at the crafts store would die and painfully. He was a Shopper, after all. I’d thought he was a friend. But there’s no time to worry about that now.
I finished packing, rigged some surprises for Red and the Shoppers who’d be there soon enough.
Now, head down, slumping to hide the sack-of-bones height, I’m heading downtown with two big suitcases like a tourist from Finland who’s just arrived at the Port Authority and needs a hostel room. Appropriately I find such a place now, well, a cheap hotel, not hostel, and I step inside. Inquire about rates and, when the desk clerk steps away I go to the bell captain and check my bags, telling him my flight’s not till this evening. He cares about the five dollars more than the explanation, and I leave again, carrying only my backpack.
In twenty minutes I’m at my destination, an apartment not dissimilar to mine, which makes me sad. My womb in Chelsea, my fish, my Toy Room. All gone. Everything ruined. My whole life . . . Red did it, of course. I shiver with fury. At least anybody slipping into the Toy Room will get a lovely surprise. I hope Red’s the first one in.
Now I stare up at the dirty white façade for a moment, then look around. No one to notice me. I hit the intercom button.
The superintendent was in his basement unit, taking care of his own plumbing for a change, a toilet issue, when he heard a thud upstairs.
And then a scrabbling sound.
Sal wasn’t sure what a scrabble actually sounded like—a big crab from a horror film maybe, somebody on all fours scurrying away from a spider. Who knew? But that was the word that came to mind. He returned to fixing the chain to the ball cock and got it snapped into place. Just as he did, there was another thud, more of a crash of things falling, and then voices. Loud.
He rose, wiped his hands and walked to the open back window. The voices, from the apartment directly above his, were more or less distinct.
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . You did that, you did what you’re telling me, Vernon?”
“I had to. Please. We have to go now.”
“Are you . . . Vernon! Listen to what you’re saying!”
Alicia Morgan, the occupant of 1D, was crying. She was one of the better tenants. Quiet, paid on time. Timid. Something fragile about her. Was this her boyfriend? Sal had never seen her with anybody. What was the fight about? he wondered. She didn’t seem like the sort who would fight with anyone.
Fragile . . .
The man—“Vernon” apparently—said in a shaky voice, “I shared things with you! Private things! I’ve never done that with anybody.”
“Not this! You didn’t tell me you’d done this, you hurt people!”
“Does it matter?” The man’s voice wasn’t much lower than hers. It sounded weird. But he could hear the anger in it. “It’s for a good cause.”
“Vernon, Jesus . . . Of course, it matters. How can you—?”
“I thought you’d understand.” Now the voice was sing-song—and all the more threatening for it. “We were alike, you and me. We were so much alike. Or that’s the way you wanted it to seem.”
“We’ve known each other for a month, Vernon. A month. I’ve stayed over once!”
“That’s all I mean to you?” There was a huge crash. “You’re one of them,” the man shouted. “You’re a fucking Shopper. You’re no better than any of them!”
Shopper? Sal wondered. He didn’t get exactly what was going on but he was growing quite concerned with the escalating dispute.
Alicia was sobbing now. “You just told me you’ve killed some people. And you expect me to go away with you?”
Oh, hell . . . Killed somebody? Sal fished out his mobile.
But before he could hit 911, Alicia screamed—a sound that was cut short in a grunt. Another thud as she, or her body, hit the floor. “No,” came her voice. “Don’t. Vernon, please, don’t! Don’t hurt me!”
Another scream.
Then Sal was moving, grabbing his aluminum baseball bat. He flung open his door and charged up the stairs to Alicia’s apartment. He used his master key to open the door and he shoved inside. The knob smacked the wall so hard, it dug a crater in the plaster.
Panting from the sprint, Sal stared, wide eyed. “Jesus.”
The tenant lay on the floor, a huge man standing over her. Easily six three or four, skinny, sick looking. He’d hit her in the face, which was bleeding from her cheek, swollen badly. Tears poured as she sobbed and held up her hands to protect herself, uselessly, from what he held—a ball-peen hammer, poised over his head about to crack her skull open.
The attacker spun around and at the super with mad, furious eyes “Who’re you? What’re you doing here?”
“Asshole, drop it!” Sal snapped, nodding at the hammer and brandishing the bat. He outweighed the guy by thirty pounds, even if he was six inches shorter.
The assailant squinted and looked from the super to Alicia and then back again. His breath hissed from his throat as he drew back and flung the hammer toward Sal, who dropped to his knees to avoid it. The scrawny man grabbed a backpack and ran to the open rear window, tossed the bag out and jumped out after it.
The breacher picked up the battering ram and Heller again pointed out the order of entry into Griffith’s front bedroom, the one protected by the number lock. They all nodded. Sachs set down the H&K submachine gun and drew her pistol.
The choice of weapons was always the tactical officer’s to make. She felt more comfortable with a handgun in a confined space.
The breacher was drawing back the ram when Sachs held up a hand. “Wait.”
Heller turned.
“I think he’s rigged something. A trap. It’s his style. Use that,” she said, pointing into the breaching officer’s canvas bag. Heller looked down. He nodded, and the officer withdrew the small chain saw.
Sachs pulled a flash bang stun grenade from her pocket. Nodded.
The breacher fired up the tool and sliced a two-by-four-foot hole in the door, kicked in the cut piece. Sachs pitched in the live grenade and, after the stunning explosion—disorienting but not lethal—Heller and Sachs, remaining outside still, went to their knees, pointing their weapons and flashlights inside.
Scanning.
The room was empty of humans.
But it was booby-trapped.
“Ah.” Heller was pointing to a piece of thin wire that was attached to the inside doorknob. If they’d bashed the door in, it would have slackened the wire and released a gallon milk jug, cut in half horizontally, filled with what seemed to be gasoline, spilling the contents onto a hot plate that sat smoking on a workbench by the window, sealed by the thick shutters.
The officers entered and dismantled the device. Then they cleared the room—the connected bathroom too.
Heller radioed Haumann. “Team A. Premises secure. No hostile. Team B, report.”
“Team B leader to Team A leader. No hostiles in back. We’ll sweep the other apartments. K.”
“Roger.”
“Sachs,” she heard through her earpiece. Surprised to hear Rhyme’s calm voice. She hadn’t known he was patched in to the tactical frequency.
“Rhyme. He’s gone. Rabbited. We should’ve thrown the Crafts For Everyone guy in protective detention to keep him from talking. That’s how Griffith got tipped off, I’m sure.”
“The nature of democracy, Sachs. You can’t tie up and gag everybody who ought to be tied up and gagged.”
“Well,” she said, “we’ve got a pristine scene. When he left he didn’t take much. We’ll find something here. We’ll get him.”
“Walk the grid, Sachs, and get back soon.”
CHAPTER 49
An hour later Sachs was on the doorstep of Vernon Griffith’s apartment, sweating in the Tyvek bodysuit.
Reading aloud from a notebook.
It’s society that’s the problem. They want to consume and consume and consume but they don’t have any idea what that means. Collecting objects, collecting things is what we focus on. In other words, dinner SHOULD BE about people, families getting together to commune at the end of a work day. It’s not about having the best oven, the best food processor, the best blender, the best coffee maker. We focus on those things, not on our friends!!! Not on our family.
“You still there, Rhyme?”
“Somewhat. It’s a rant. Like the others. The People’s Guardian.”
“It’s his full manifesto. The title’s The Steel Kiss.”
Poetic, she reflected.
She put the book back into an evidence bag. “Got lots of trace. Some paperwork. Lon’s running vitals. Sold his family house in Manhasset and no other residences show up positive at this point. Lon’ll have some people follow the public records.”
“Anybody else’s friction ridges?”
“One more than others. A woman’s, I’d guess. Or a small man’s. But probably a woman’s. I found long blond hairs. Seem to be dyed blond with traces of gray. And the alternative light source? He had a pretty active sex life. I mean, busy boy.”
The ALS imaged bodily fluids that would otherwise have been invisible.
“So, he has a girlfriend.”
“But no evidence that she lived here. No women’s clothing or cosmetics, toiletries.”
“He may be there now,” Rhyme muttered. “Wonder where the hell she is. Get the prints back here ASAP, Sachs, we’ll IAFIS them. I want to move.”
“I’ll be a half hour. I—”
Her phone rang. She recognized the number from NYPD Dispatch. “Detective Sachs.”
“Amelia, it’s Jen Cotter. Wanted you to know, there was a nine one one of an assault in Midtown West. Vic’s hurt but’ll live. Respondings say she’s ID’d her attacker. Vernon Griffith.”
Well. “Who’s the vic?”
“Alicia Morgan, forty-one. Don’t know the exact relationship with the perp but they knew each other.”
“She there, or the hospital?”
“Still there, far as I know. This just happened.”
“The perp?”
“Got away.”
“Give me the address.”
“Four Three Two West Three Nine Street.”
“Tell the respondings I’m on my way. I want to talk to the vic. If they take her to a hospital, let me know which one.”
“Will do.”
Sachs reported the developments to Rhyme and hurried to her car. Fifteen minutes later Sachs and Haumann’s tac teams were parked at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 39th, before a five-story apartment building.
It was unlikely Griffith was anywhere near here but he was obviously unstable, if not psychotic, and he might very well have stayed around after the assault. Hence the firepower.
Two EMTs, a detective and a uniform were standing over a slim woman in her early forties lying on a gurney. Her face was bandaged and bloody. Her eyes were red from crying and she had an expression that Sachs could describe only as sorrowful bewilderment.
“Alicia Morgan?” Sachs asked.
The victim nodded, then winced from the pain.
“I’m Detective Sachs. How’re you feeling?”
The woman stared at her. “I . . . what?”
Sachs displayed her shield. “How are you?”
Her voice was a whisper. “It hurts. Really hurts, I’m dizzy.”
A glance at one of the EMTs, a solid African American. “He hit her, with his fist, at least once. Pretty bad. Probably a fracture and a concussion. We’ll need X-rays. We’ll take her in now.”
As they wheeled her to the ambulance Sachs asked, “How did you know Vernon?”
“We went out some. Did he really kill those people?”
“He did, yes.”
Alicia cried softly. “He was going to kill me too.”
“Do you know why?”
She started to shake her head and then gasped at the pain. “He just showed up and wanted me to go away with him. He told me he the one who was in the news. Who killed the man in the escalator and burned up that other one in the gas explosion! I thought it was a joke at first. But, no, he meant it. Like it wouldn’t matter to me that he was a killer.” She closed her eyes and winced. Then carefully wiped tears.
