City of Endless Night

28

This is a first,” said Singleton, as D’Agosta and the captain emerged from the Municipal Building for the short walk from One Police Plaza to City Hall. It was a sunny, brutally cold morning, with the temperature hovering at ten degrees. As yet there had been no snow, and the streets were like halls of frosty sunlight.

D’Agosta was filled with dread. He had never been called to the mayor’s office before, let alone with his captain. “Any idea what we’re going to face?” he asked.

Singleton said, “Look, it’s not good. It’s not even bad. It’s horrendous. Normally, the mayor makes his views known through the commissioner. As I said, this is a first. Did you see that look he gave after the press conference?”

Without further discussion they turned into City Hall Park and entered the opulent neoclassical rotunda of City Hall itself. A gray-suited lackey, waiting for their arrival, routed them around security and took them up the stairs, down a vast and intimidating marble hall lined with dark paintings, to a set of double doors. They were ushered through an outer office and directly into the mayor’s private office. No waiting.

No waiting. To D’Agosta, that seemed the worst omen of all.

The mayor stood behind his desk. Lying upon it were two neatly squared copies of the Post: yesterday’s, with the big Harriman story, and beside it that morning’s edition, with a follow-up piece by Harriman.

The mayor did not offer them a seat or sit down himself, nor did he offer his hand.

“All right,” he said, his deep voice booming, “I’m getting pressure from all sides. You said you were developing leads. I need to know where we’re at. I want to know the latest details.”

Singleton had previously made it clear that D’Agosta, as the CDS on the case, was going to do the talking. All the talking. Unless the mayor directly addressed Singleton.

“Mayor DeLillo, thank you for your concern—” D’Agosta began.

“Cut the bullshit and tell me what I need to know.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “It’s…” He decided not to spin it. “Honestly, it’s not good. We had a number of leads in the beginning, several of which seemed promising, but none of them panned out. It’s been frustrating.”

“Finally some straight talk. Keep going.”

“In the first killing, we had reasons to suspect the father of the child the victim had killed in a hit-and-run. But he has an ironclad alibi. In the second killing, we were certain it was someone connected with the victim’s security system. In fact, we’re still sure of it — but the three most likely suspects did not pan out.”

“What about that guy, Lasher, who shot one of your cops?”

“He has an alibi.”

“Which is?”

“Caught on videotape by the DEA in a drug deal at the exact time of the killing.”

“Christ. And the third killing?”

“The labs are still developing the evidence. We found the boat that the killer used — stolen, of course. But it looks like a dead end. There was no evidence in the boat and no evidence at the marina from which it was taken. We did, however, get a clear footprint of the killer. Size thirteen.”

“What else?”

D’Agosta hesitated. “As for solid leads, that’s it so far.”

“That’s it? One bloody footprint? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the FBI? Have they got anything? Are they holding out on you?”

“No. We have excellent rapport with the FBI. They would appear to be as stumped as we are.”

“What about the FBI Behavioral Science Unit, the shrinks that are supposed to look into motivation and provide a profile. Any results?”

“Not yet. We’ve routed all relevant material to them, of course, but normally it takes a couple of weeks to get results. We’ve escalated our request, however, and we hope to have something in two days.”

“Two days? Jesus.”

“I’ll do everything I can to hurry it up.”

The mayor swept up yesterday’s copy of the Post and waved it at them. “What about this? This Harriman story? Why didn’t you see this possibility yourselves? Why does it take a goddamn reporter to come up with a viable theory?”

“We’re absolutely looking into it.”

“Looking into it. Looking into it! I got three bodies. Three headless bodies. Three rich, notorious, headless bodies. And I have a cop on life support. I don’t need to tell you the kind of heat I’m getting.”

“Mr. Mayor, there isn’t any hard evidence yet backing up Harriman’s idea it’s a vigilante, but we’re investigating that possibility — just as we’re looking at many others.”

The mayor dropped the paper back on the desk in disgust. “This theory that we’ve got some kind of crusading psycho out there, raining down judgment on the wicked, has really struck a chord. You know that, right? A lot of people in this town — important people — are getting nervous. And there are others cheering the killer on like some kind of serial-killer Robin Hood. We can’t have this threat to the social fabric. This is not Keokuk or Pocatello: this is New York, where we have everyone under the sun finally living in harmony, enjoying the lowest crime rate of any big city in America. I am not going let that come apart on my watch. You got that? Not on my watch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a joke. Forty detectives, hundreds of beat cops — one footprint! If I don’t see immediate progress, there will be hell to pay, Lieutenant. And Captain.” He thumped the desk with a massive, veined hand, looking from one to the other. “Hell to pay.”

“Mr. Mayor, we’re pulling out all the stops, I promise you.”

The mayor took a deep breath, his massive frame swelling, and then exhaled with a dramatic rush of air. “Now get out there and bring me something better than a damned footprint.”