The Bone Vault

31

I pushed away from the table and stood up to leave. Just as quickly, Mercer clamped a hand on my shoulder and I dropped back into my seat.

“I’ll baby-sit. Do whatcha gotta do,” Mike said.

Mercer was a member of the hostage squad, an elite group of detectives selected and trained to negotiate with some of the most unstable criminals in the most life-threatening situations. They responded to bank robbers with automatic weapons, holding dozens of citizens after a silent alarm trapped them at the crime scene; domestics in which a psychotic or intoxicated husband had a butcher knife to his wife’s throat; and political disputes when dissidents invaded a consulate or residence. The cops chosen for the assignment came from every unit in the department. In addition to their regular squad duties, they were on call for these emergency situations whenever they arose.

Mercer had the intelligence, patience, and personal skills for the job. I had watched him coax deranged felons and jealous paramours out of their weapons several times in the years I had known him. Mike’s temperament made him completely unsuitable for the job. He had no tolerance for a perp’s threats or demands, and a shorter fuse than even I possessed.

We both watched as Mercer headed out the door to try to save the life of a kid who had jumped into water and was in way too deep over her head. I remembered that she had fabricated the forcible rape charge when Felix told her that he had had better sex with her girlfriend, who had Ralphie’s name tattooed on her rear end. Undoubtedly, this was Angel’s opportunity to get back at both of them by throwing herself at Ralphie.

“C’mon. Time to go home. We got a lot to do tomorrow.”

I walked to Mike’s car, unable to focus on the next day’s work, completely distracted by the thought of the young girl looking into the barrel of a gun and wondering whether I had helped to drive her there.

“One favor?” I asked.

Mike pursed his lips and gave me a firm, “No.”

“Ride up First Avenue, please? I swear I won’t get out of the car. I just want to know whether her mother’s out there. I’d like to see if she needs anything.”

“What you really want to see is the kid, and you know you can’t. Sticking you in her face would be like grinding sand in an open wound. I’ll humor you, blondie, but only so I don’t have to listen to you whine.”

We reached the projects a few minutes before midnight. There was a police barricade at each end of the block. A lieutenant with a bullhorn was standing on the sidewalk, and Emergency Services had set up klieg lights that were directed at a window on the sixth floor. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement, behind the row of wooden horses guarded by uniformed cops, who were encouraging the onlookers to move along. An ambulance was double-parked at the curb in case the bargaining process was unsuccessful.

I searched for Mercer among the group closest to the lieutenant in charge, but I couldn’t find his head. That was a good sign. He had probably been sent into the building to try to soothe the angry young man and convince him to open the apartment door and release his captive.

“There’s nothing to see. It’s a work in progress, Coop. Nobody hurt. They’ve got the right man for the job.” Mike reached over and took my hand off the dashboard, squeezing it tightly as he did.

Three more officers came running from the opposite side of the street, passing in front of us to sprint to the building. They each wore the hostage squad uniform, a short black bomber jacket with a bright red logo emblazoned across the back:TALK TO ME. They were followed at a more leisurely pace by a uniformed boss, a beefy guy with a captain’s shield pinned above a stack of ribbons and medals.

“Hey, Chapman, whaddaya think? You’re at some goddamn drive-in movie with your date? Get your ass out of the car and make yourself useful. Send the bimbo for a cup of coffee.”

The captain slammed his fist down on the hood of the car, yelling across the top of it to a lieutenant standing closer to the building. “Hey, Bannerman. You know Chapman here? Homicide? Throw him in the mix.”

Mike opened the car door to protest. “I’ve been rejected for hostage work more times than you’ve gotten laid. I’m no good-”

“Forget negotiating. The kid’s got a gun in there. Who the hell knows which way this thing is gonna turn. Last month out in Queens the team wound up with a homicide/suicide. All the smooth talk in the world didn’t help. Perp shot his captive in the head, then opened his mouth and plugged himself. We’re taking every bit of backup we can get at this point. Act like a cop, not a prima donna. Yo, Bannerman, put this guy to work.”

Then the captain leaned his elbow on the rim of the window. “You, sweetheart, why don’t you grab a gypsy cab and go wait for Detective On-the-Job at home, snug under the covers?”

“Captain Ekersly, I’d like you to meet Alexandra Cooper. Assistant district attorney, New York County, in charge of-”

“Sex. Nice to meet you. Raymond Ekersly. You do good work, my guys tell me. I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, up here holding hands with this cowboy when I got better things for him to do, but I suggest you get out of our way, okay? See you in court.”

“I can just stay here while-”

“Vito. See that radio car with two auxiliaries sitting in it, up the block? Walk the DA up there and tell them to take her wherever she wants to go.” Ekersly turned back to me. “Your place or his, sweetheart?”

“Coop’s indicted people for less than that, Cap. She’s not your sweetheart. She’s nobody’s sweetheart, okay?”

“I can’t catch a break either way. Get to work, guys. I give up. East Side. Seventieth Street.” I opened the door and stepped out of the car as the captain walked toward the projects.

“Your office at nine? You and Clem?” Mike asked.

“Sure. You know I won’t be able to sleep.” I hesitated before going on. “You want to come by when-when this is over, for a drink?”

“Always the optimist. Who knows when it’ll be over? I’ll really be ready to sack it in if this ends peacefully. Don’t worry, I’ll call you with the results. Have a nightcap on me.”

I waved him off and followed Vito to the neighborhood auxiliary car, where two civilians who liked to dress up and play cop were keeping the street safe.

Six months ago, I thought as I settled myself into the backseat, Mike would have been on my doorstep the moment this crisis passed, to assuage my concern and distract me from my thoughts about the role I had played in igniting it. Now he had someone he wanted to be with at home. At moments like this I would have to learn to adjust emotionally to that new arrangement.

I barely spoke on the ride downtown to my apartment, wondering what Angel had said or done to cause Ralphie to flip out on her. Maybe she had taunted him with the fact that she was sleeping with him only to get back at Felix, or maybe he had become enraged when she disclosed that his girlfriend had been unfaithful. Mercer had to strike exactly the right chord to connect with the kid, or there was likely to be a homicide on my conscience.

When the driver reached the red light at the corner of Seventy-first Street and Second Avenue, he pulled over in front of an all-night deli. “You mind if we stop a minute and get some coffee, ma’am?”

“Tell you what. I need some, too. Could be a long night. I’ll buy a dozen containers and some food to take back to the crew at the scene if you guys don’t mind waiting ten minutes.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

I filled the cardboard cups while the counterman sliced and wrapped an assortment of sandwiches, which I carried out to the car. “Help yourselves and spread the rest around. Thanks for the lift.”

“You okay?”

I pointed to the driveway exit that led away from my building entrance, two-thirds of the way up the block. “That’s home. I’ve been cooped up inside all day. The night air feels good for a change.”

I went back in the deli to pour myself a cup of coffee and pay the tab. As I sipped on the hot brew, my friend Renee walked in to use the small ATM in the back of the store.

“What a nice surprise,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I asked David if he’d seen you lately. He can tell by how early you take in your newspaper that you’ve been keeping terrible hours. I’m just getting some cash for the morning. Got a minute?”

Renee and her fiancé, David Mitchell, lived in an apartment on the same hallway as mine.

“Sure. Zac outside?”

“Yeah. Have any strength left for a short walk with me? I got stuck with the late shift.”

David, a psychiatrist, and Renee, a therapist, had a handsome weimaraner named Prozac. I liked to think I was her surrogate mother. She had often comforted me when I needed some affection and a cold nose in the middle of a difficult night.

I went out to the sidewalk and knelt to greet the friendly dog, unlooping her leash from the top of the parking meter where Renee had tied her.

When Renee came out, I hooked my arm in hers and we set off to square the block, up to Seventy-second Street and around to Third Avenue.

“What are you doing with coffee at this hour of the night?”

“I’m so wired, I’ll never sleep.” I gave her an abbreviated version of the hostage situation, as she tried to offer reassurance and get my mind off the subject.

“How’s Jake?”

I laughed. “I think it would be less stressful to talk about Felix and Angel at this point. Jake’s traveling.”

“Again? I was hoping to make a date for you to have dinner with us next week.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

Zac stopped and sniffed at a wrought-iron gate in front of a brownstone. “You can have me, if that works. I’m not certain what day he’s coming back.”

I started forward but Zac stood her ground. “C’mon, baby. Time to go to sleep.”

The smart, lean animal lowered her head and growled softly. Renee and I turned to look behind us and saw nothing unusual.

“Let’s go, Zac. Nobody there.” I took two steps but the dog strained against her leash. Renee took control of the leather strap and we walked on to Third Avenue. After we turned the corner and got halfway down the block, I glanced back over my shoulder. No one was there, but I thought I saw the shadow of a figure tucked back in the opening of a storefront.

Zac found a fire hydrant to her liking and did what she was supposed to do. While she did, the light from the streetlamp found the shadow lurking behind us and stretched its length out into the asphalt street. It seemed to be ten feet tall.

“Okay, girl, home we go.” I tried to speed up the process but the dog was stubborn.

“She’s really unhappy about something,” Renee said.

I broke into a jog and the hot coffee slurped over the side of the cup, stinging my hand as it dripped onto my skin. I threw the container to the ground as I saw the figure step out of the dark recess and onto the sidewalk behind us.

“Run, Renee. Just pull Zac and run, will you?”

The dog growled again and resisted Renee’s urging. She must have seen the frightened look on my face and sternly commanded the animal to move. Despite Zac’s vocalizing, I knew she was far too gentle a dog to attack, and Renee would have hurt herself before ever putting the sweet-natured weimaraner in harm’s way. I blocked Renee’s back with my body to give her a chance to get going, and tried to make out the face of the person on the sidewalk as I backed up.

Renee ran as the dog began to bark loudly, heading around the last corner to the short downhill slope of Seventy-first Street. “The garage. Go into the garage,” I shouted at her. “Tell Jorge to call 911.”

I moved sideways, like a crab racing across hot sand, looking back and forth between Renee and our pursuer.

Several cars streamed by on the avenue, oblivious to my fear. By the time I stopped to flag one down, the stalker would have gained on me.

Stalker. Stalker. Shirley Denzig? The dark night and fluorescent streetlights were playing their usual tricks with each other. Was the tall figure wearing a long-billed baseball cap a man, a stranger out for a late-night walk? Or was it the short, squat body of Denzig, elongated by an optical illusion in the dim glare of a city night?

Now he or she was running with us, slower than we were, but steadily in our direction. And now, as I stood at the mouth of the sloping ramp that led down to our building’s garage entrance, I was shaded by the overhang, and the approaching figure came clearly into view under the bright streetlight.

Shirley Denzig. No question about it. The psychotic young woman had focused her attention on me again and waited for me outside my building tonight, just as the detectives were trying to close in on her after news of her latest scam at the Waldorf-Astoria.

Renee was inside the garage. She had disappeared from my range of vision, and Zac’s barks echoed in the hollow space of the enormous underground parking facility beneath my apartment.

I speeded my pace. Denzig’s short legs and extra weight kept her well behind me. I looked back again, anxious to know whether she was still carrying the gun she had stolen from her father’s home.

When I ran down the garage ramp I could see the attendant standing to the side, his hand on the control button that would lower the heavy metal grating behind me once I was inside.

“Hit it now, Jorge,” I yelled to him. “Close the door!”

I sprinted the last six yards and ducked beneath the electrically controlled jaws of the security device as it ground to a close, and rolled onto the oil-stained floor of the garage.

Shirley Denzig landed against the structure with all her weight. Dull thuds resounded on our side as she kicked against the metal.

Jorge helped me to my feet and I ran to his office, grabbing the phone from Renee’s hand to explain to the 911 operator what to tell the cops.

Within minutes, we could hear the sound of the approaching sirens. Denzig’s frenzied banging had stopped. She had disappeared into the night.