Cemetery Dance

Chapter 47

Laura Hayward stood in the ladies' room on the thirty — second floor of One Police Plaza, examining herself in the mirror. A grave, intelligent face looked back. Her suit was immaculate. Not a strand of blue — black hair was out of place.

Except for the year she'd taken off to complete her master's at NYU, Hayward had been a police officer her entire career — first with the transit police, then NYPD. At thirty — seven, she was still the youngest captain — and only female captain — on the force. She knew that people talked about her behind her back. Some called her an ass kisser. Others said she'd risen so high, so quickly, precisely because she was a woman, a poster girl for the department's progressive stance. She'd long since ceased to care about such talk. The fact was, rank really didn't matter that much to her. She simply loved being on the job.

Glancing away from the mirror, she consulted her watch. Five minutes to twelve. Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her at noon.

She smiled. All too frequently, life was a bitch. But every now and then it had its moments. This promised to be one of them.

She exited the ladies' room and walked down the hall. While it was true she didn't care much about promotions, this was different. This task force the mayor was putting together was the real thing, not some bit of fluff cobbled together for the media. For years there had been too little trust, too little high — level cooperation between the commissioner's office and the mayor's. The task force, she'd been assured at the highest levels, would change that. It could mean a lot less bureaucracy, a chance to dramatically improve department efficiency. Sure, it would also mean a huge career boost — fast track to deputy inspector — but that wasn't important. What mattered was the opportunity to make a real difference.

She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner's suite and announced herself to the secretary. Almost immediately, an aide appeared and led the way back, past offices and conference rooms, to the commissioner's inner sanctum. Rocker was seated behind his large mahogany desk, signing memos. As always, he looked exhausted: the dark rings beneath his eyes were even more pronounced than usual.

"Hello, Laura," he said. "Have a seat."

Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.

Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put her on her guard.

"There's no easy way to say this," he began. "So I'll just tell you straight. I'm not appointing you to the task force."

For a moment, Hayward couldn't believe she had heard right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep breath.

"I—" she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stunned, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"I'm very sorry," Rocker said. "I know how much you were looking forward to the opportunity."

Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her limbs. Only now — when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp — did she realize how important it had been to her.

"Who are you appointing in my place?" she asked.

Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically abashed. "Sanchez."

"Sanchez is a good man." It was as if she were in a dream, and somebody other than her was speaking the lines.

Rocker nodded.

Hayward became aware that her hands were hurting. Looking down, she saw she was gripping the arms of the chair with all her strength. She willed herself to relax, to maintain her composure — with little success. "Is it something I've done wrong?" she blurted.

"No, no, of course not. It's nothing like that."

"Have I let you down somehow? Come up short?" "You've been an exemplary officer, and I'm proud to have you on the force."

"Then why? Inexperience?"

"I consider your master's in sociology ideal for the task force. It's just that — well — an appointment like this is all about politics. And it turns out Sanchez has seniority."

Hayward didn't answer right away. She hadn't realized seniority was a factor. In fact, this was the one appointment she'd believed free of such bullshit.

Rocker shifted in his chair. "I don't want you to feel this is any reflection on your performance."

"Surely you were aware of our respective seniority rankings before you gave me reason to hope," Hayward said quietly.

Rocker spread his hands. "Fact is, seniority formulas can be rather arcane. I made an honest mistake. I'm sorry."

Hayward said nothing.

"There will be other opportunities — especially for a captain of your caliber. Rest assured I'll see to it that your hard work and commitment are rewarded."

"Virtue is its own reward, sir. Isn't that what they say?" Hayward stood and — seeing from Rocker's face there was nothing more — walked on slightly unsteady legs to the door.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, she had regained her composure. The echoing space was full of noise and lunch — hour bustle. Hayward passed the security checkpoint, then pushed her way out the revolving doors onto the broad steps. She had no real destination in mind: she just needed to walk. Walk and not think.

Her reverie was interrupted when someone collided heavily with her. She glanced over quickly. It was a man: thin and youthful looking, with acne — pitted cheeks.

"Pardon me," he said. Then he stopped and drew himself up. "Captain Hayward?"

She frowned. "Yes."

"What a coincidence!"

She looked at him more closely. He had dark, cold eyes that belied the smile on his face. She did a quick mental cross — check — acquaintances, colleagues, perps — and satisfied herself he was a stranger.

"Who are you?" she asked. "The name's Kline. Lucas Kline."

"What coincidence are you talking about?"

"Why, the fact I'm going to the very place you've just been."

"Oh? And where would that be?"

"The commissioner's office. You see, he wants to thank me. In person." And before Hayward could say anything more, Kline reached into his pocket, took out an envelope, removed the letter within, and held it open before her.

She reached for it but Kline held it back, out of reach. "Uh — uh. No touching."

Hayward glanced at him again, eyes narrowing. Then she turned her attention to the letter. It was indeed from Commissioner Rocker, on official letterhead, dated the day before, and thanking Kline — as head of Digital Veracity, Inc. — for his just — announced five — million — dollar donation to the Dyson Fund. The Fund, sacred among the NYPD rank and file, was named for Gregg Dyson, an undercover cop who'd been killed by drug dealers ten years before. It had been established to provide financial and emotional assistance to families of New York cops killed in the line of duty.

She looked at Kline once again. Streams of people were leaving the building, stepping around them. The smile was still on his face. "I'm very happy for you," she said. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you."

She shook her head. "You've lost me."

"You're a smart cop. You'll figure it out." He turned toward the revolving doors, then stopped and glanced back. "I can tell you a good place to start, though."

Hayward waited. "Ask your boyfriend Vinnie." And when Kline turned away again, the smile was gone.