The Green And The Gray

19

Jonah was plowing his way through his fourth sandwich when Fierenzo's cell phone finally rang.

Scooping it off the table, he popped it open. "Fierenzo."

"It's Jon," Powell's voice came back. "I've got good news, bad news, and weird news. Which do you want first?"

"I believe it's traditional to start at the bottom," Fierenzo said, getting up and crossing to the kitchen door. Preoccupied with his meal, Jonah didn't even look up as Fierenzo let the door swing shut behind him. "Let's hear the bad news."

"The Whittiers have learned not to take cabs to their actual destination," Powell said. "Smith and I canvassed the whole area around 14th and Fifth, and none of the shopkeepers remember seeing them."

"Not a huge surprise," Fierenzo said, walking to the far end of the living room where he could look out the windows. The city always seemed so clean and cheerful and crime-free from up here.

"I suppose not," Powell conceded. "The good news is that Smith then picked up a report of an incident that happened an hour ago down at Waverly Place and West 11th Street. On a hunch I showed the Whittiers' photos around the area, and we got lucky: a coffee shop manager at the corner of Greenwich and Bank Street remembered them walking around his corner between a pair of short, wide guys."

Fierenzo frowned. Short wide guys. Like the man sitting in his kitchen eating up all his bread and lunchmeat? "Turning the corner which direction?"

"From Greenwich onto Bank," Powell said. "Quiet neighborhood back that way, especially on a Saturday."

"He's sure it was them?"

"I'm sure it was them," Powell said. "Because a few minutes later an ambulance driver waiting at St.

Vincent Hospital saw them come tearing out again onto Greenwich, this time minus their escort."

"Really," Fierenzo said, frowning as he tried to visualize the street layout down there. "So they left Greenwich, went down Bank, turned again at either Waverly Place or West 4th, then came back up to Greenwich again?"

"It was Waverly," Powell told him. "According to the driver, they met up with two other guys and all got into a cab together."

"Not their original escort?"

"The driver described this pair as tall and thin," Powell said. "Unfortunately, he didn't get the medallion number."

"It's still a start," Fierenzo told him. "The cab companies are going to love us today."

"That's okay—I'm used to being loved," Powell assured him. "You ready for the weird news now?"

Fierenzo frowned. "I assumed that was the weird news."

"Not even close," Powell assured him. "The reason we came down here in the first place was that there was some kind of altercation on Waverly Place—which is how we know that's where the Whittiers turned—involving a man and a car that was apparently trying to run him down. A witness crossing the street a block away said he saw the man shooting at the car, and that the car was bouncing around as the bullets or whatever slammed into it."

" 'Or whatever'?"

"Patience, partner," Powell said. "Let me give it to you in order. Just before the car reached the pedestrian, he managed to jump out of the way. The car kept going; the intended vic then turned around and he commenced shooting at the back end of the car."

"What did the vic look like?"

"Shortish and built like a wrestler," Powell said with a note of satisfaction. "I'd bet money that he was one of the two men the coffee guy saw hustling the Whittiers around the corner. No idea what happened to the other one."

"How do we know he wasn't the driver?" Fierenzo asked.

There was a faint snort from the phone. "Because the driver was a kid."

"A kid?"

"Yep," Powell said. "Like I said, the car kept going down Waverly after it passed the intended vic.

Our witness saw it coming toward him and ducked around the nearest building so he wouldn't get creamed when it ran into the cross-traffic at Seventh. He heard the car brake to a halt, and a few seconds later a kid ten to fifteen years old went charging around the corner. He reached Greenwich Avenue, and that was the last the witness saw of him."

"I don't suppose he got a good look at the kid's face."

"Better than that," Powell said. "He saw both the kid's and the intended vic's faces. He's also an amateur photographer with an eye for features, and would be happy to describe both of them to a police artist. I've already sent him back to the precinct."

"We should have more citizens like this," Fierenzo said.

"Sign me up for a dozen," Powell agreed. "Anyway, after the kid disappeared our good citizen looked down Waverly again and saw the vic running back toward Bank Street. This weird enough for you yet?"

"Why?" Fierenzo asked suspiciously. "Is there more?"

"There is indeed," Powell said. "Because now we get to the 'whatever' part you asked about a minute ago. Like I said, the car had been battered pretty good; but it hadn't been shot, like the witness assumed. It was more like it had been worked over by a bunch of guys with sledgehammers. Lots of dents, not a single bullet hole."

Fierenzo frowned. "Like the hammer marks we saw on the Whittiers' balcony door?"

"That was the first thing I thought of, too," Powell agreed. "They seem to be the same kind of impact marks, only more so."

"Maybe you'd better tow it in and have CSU look at it."

"Already in the works," Powell said. "The owner's listed as a Halfdan Gray from Queens. That ring any bells?"

"The Whittiers mentioned someone named Halfdan," Fierenzo said, frowning. "Does he have a son with a penchant for joyriding?"

"I don't know—we haven't been able to contact him yet," Powell said. "Of course, it could also be that the kid was no relation and simply boosted a convenient car. One more thing. Our witness claimed he didn't hear any shots; but when I pressed him, he did remember hearing something like a bass guitar string being plucked. Does that one ring any bells?"

Fierenzo rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. "The cops at last night's Yorkville fiasco."

"Bingo," Powell said. "A violin or rubber-band sound, one of them said, just before they heard the tree limb come down. I'm starting to see some very interesting connections here."

"Does look that way, doesn't it?" Fierenzo agreed, keeping his voice neutral. Powell was right: it meshed very nicely with everything else they knew.

So why were his cop's instincts screaming like a Met soprano going for a high C? "You say you've sent the witness to the station?"

"Yeah, about ten minutes ago. Why?"

"Do me a favor," Fierenzo said slowly. "As soon as CSU gets there to deal with the car, you get yourself back to the office and keep him there."

"Sure," Powell said. "For how long?"

"Until I can talk to him," Fierenzo said. "There are a couple things I have to do first."

"Not a problem," Powell assured him. "I've gotten people lost in there without even trying. Just try to make it today, okay?"

"I will," Fierenzo said. "And get Smith tracking the Whittiers' latest cab."

"Right," Powell said. "Don't you want to know the witness's name?"

Fierenzo frowned. "Do I?"

"I think so," Powell said, sounding grimly amused. "He's a Mr. Oreste Green."

"Oreste Green?"

"That's right," Powell said. "Granted, Green's a common enough name. But it's still an interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

"If it's a coincidence, I'm a frog," Fierenzo growled. "I hope you didn't mention that his name sounded familiar."

"Don't worry, I played it cool," Powell assured him. "So I'll hang onto him until you get here?"

"Right," Fierenzo said. "And hang onto whatever sketches Carstairs comes up with, too."

"Got it," Powell said. "See you later."

Fierenzo keyed off the phone and slid it back into his pocket. Leaning his shoulder against the wall beside the window, he scowled out at the city below.

Green. Caroline Whittier had talked about Greens and Grays last night, suggesting they might be at least some of the thousands of New Yorkers Cyril had been threatening in his phone message. Up to now he'd been tentatively assuming that the Green reference was to the left-wing environmentalist political party, with Melantha's last name being just a coincidence, and the Grays being some kind of slang reference he wasn't familiar with.

But now an Oreste Green had popped up into the case, along with a Halfdan Gray. Could the references be to names, after all?

He looked over at the kitchen door. Jonah had never given him a last name, he realized suddenly.

Jonah Gray, perhaps?

Whether it was or not, it was definitely time to ask the man some questions. Detaching himself from the wall, he retraced his steps across the living room to the kitchen.

He was just reaching out a hand to push open the door when he heard a quiet voice coming from beyond it.

He froze in place, listening hard. Just one voice, which implied Jonah was talking on the phone.

Hooking his fingertips into the louvers, Fierenzo carefully pulled the door open an inch.

"—course not," Jonah was saying, his tone managing to sounding indignant and hurt at the same time. "I'm just wondering what in blazes I'm doing here."

There was a brief pause. "Because it's a waste of time, that's why," he went on. "No one's going to bring Melantha here."

Fierenzo felt a tingle on the back of his neck. Melantha. He was talking about the missing girl.

But who was he talking to?

"Because it would be stupid," Jonah said. "If they want her under Warrior protection, they put her in Central. If they just want her hidden, they pick any one of the five gazillion trees lining the streets."

Carefully, using the sound of Jonah's voice as cover, Fierenzo eased the door open a few more inches.

To find himself faced with an extraordinary sight. Jonah was still at the table, his back to Fierenzo, half a sandwich temporarily abandoned on his plate. But he wasn't talking on the kitchen phone, as Fierenzo had assumed. Instead, he was sitting with both hands up along the sides of his head, palms pressing against his cheeks and middle fingers poking into his ears in a classic hear-no-evil posture.

"If I had seen any, don't you think I would have reported it?" Jonah asked patiently. "What do you

—? Fine. You want a traffic report? I'll give you a traffic report."

He exhaled an annoyed sigh. "Okay. Vehicular traffic's pretty much the same as it has been all day, maybe picking up a little on Canal in the past hour. Not many pedestrians, what with the rain and all.... No, Bergan, I'm not being insubordinate. Trust me; if I was, I'd be doing a lot better job....

Because I'm being wasted here, that's why. I already explained they're not going to put her in some little pocket park. They're certainly not going to put her in a pocket park down here, with Torvald's crowd between them and Central. You want me to be of some actual use, send me to Riverside or Washington. Even Gramercy's a better bet than this place."

He paused again. Fierenzo peered closely at his hands, trying to figure out which of them held a radio or phone. But he couldn't see anything in either one.

"Yes, and I'm sorry," Jonah said. "But I have to sleep sometime.... Yeah. Don't worry—I'll call you the minute they show up.... Sure."

He lowered his right hand away from his head—his empty right hand, Fierenzo saw now—leaving the left still pressed against his cheek. The right hand's little finger twitched once—

"Okay, he's off," Jonah went on, his voice suddenly ominous. "You want to tell me where you were about ten this morning?... Come on, Jordan—this is me you're talking to.... Oh, terrific. Let me tell you something kiddo: that was Bergan himself at the third corner of this little conversation, and he's spitting granite right now.... Look, forget the Greens for a minute and concentrate on what Bergan and Ingvar are going to do if they ever find out that was you. And consider yourself lucky that some cop didn't see you climbing into that car."

A second tingle ran up Fierenzo's back Climbing into that car...?

"Yes, I understand," Jonah went on, his tone marginally more sympathetic. "But I really don't think there's anything to worry about. Even if Halfdan had gotten hold of them, there really isn't anything useful they can tell him. Same goes for the Greens.... Yes, even the Persuaders. Just quit with the impromptu heroics before someone catches you, okay?... No, I should be fine for awhile—I'm getting some food, and that's mostly what I needed. You just stay put and keep feeding me updates.

And start with the traffic report next time, okay? Especially the pedestrians. That's what Halfdan's looking for, and it's a hard topic to vamp on.... Good. And stay there this time."

He sighed. "I know," he said. "Don't worry, we'll find her. Look, I have to go. Watch yourself."

Carefully, Fierenzo eased the door shut. He ran a ten count, then stepped on the loose floorboard by the wall and gave it a nice loud squeak. Pushing open the door, he strode nonchalantly into the kitchen. "Sorry about that," he apologized, circling the table. "Business. How you holding up?"

Jonah was munching away at his sandwich again as if nothing had happened. "Finally starting to get filled up, I think," he said. "A nap's starting to sound better and better, though."

"Well, you should have plenty of time for one," Fierenzo said, watching the other's face closely. "I have to get back to the Two-Four. Someone nearly got run over near Washington Square a couple of hours ago, and I need to check it out."

"Really," Jonah said. He was trying hard to keep his voice casual, but Fierenzo could hear the sudden underlying tension. "Anyone hurt?"

"I don't think so, but the details are kind of confused," Fierenzo said. "That's why I want to talk to the witness personally."

Jonah's face had gone very still. "Witness?"

"Somebody named Green," Fierenzo said offhandedly, getting up from his chair. "My partner is taking him in to describe the driver for a police artist."

"That should be useful," Jonah murmured.

"It can make or break a case," Fierenzo agreed, pulling on his coat. "Don't open the door or answer the phone—the machine can take any calls. If you get hungry again, help yourself to anything in the fridge. I'll be back soon." He smiled encouragingly as he pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. He was still smiling as he let the door swing shut.

The smile evaporated, and for a moment he glowered at the closed door. Jonah knew about the incident, all right—his voice and posture had shown that as clearly as if he'd held up a poster. And Fierenzo would bet money that his friend Jordan had been the kid behind the wheel.

How Jonah knew what Jordan had done still begged for an explanation. But even if the details were still foggy, one thing was crystal clear. A case that had started as a simple apartment break-in had escalated to kidnapping, assault, and possibly attempted murder. It was a trend Fierenzo didn't care for at all.

Still, the incident had allowed him to dangle some interesting bait in front of his mysterious houseguest. If Jonah was obliging enough to take it, the 24th Precinct might soon be getting some interesting visitors.

He shook his head as he headed for the elevators. This was turning out to be one hell of a day off.

Roger had planned to take them on the same kind of convoluted route he'd used the previous evening after leaving Torvald's studio. But with the sun now well past the meridian, and Caroline's reminder that both the Greens and the Grays seemed to know pretty much everything about their movements anyway, he decided it wasn't worth the effort. They changed trains only twice, at Times Square and Grand Central, reached their final stop, and set off on the five-block walk to the Youngs' apartment.

The drizzle, which had stopped while they were talking to Nikolos, began again a block into the walk, and Roger bought another umbrella to replace the one they'd lost during the escape from Ingvar and his lunatic driver buddy.

They checked the apartment itself first in case Melantha had managed to find her way back. But she hadn't. Caroline insisted on leaving a short note with Roger's cell phone number, and then they headed back outside.

The park gate stood open, but the intermittent drizzle had apparently kept everyone away except for a couple of kids who seemed to be enjoying not having to share the playground equipment for once.

"So what's the plan?" Roger asked as they crossed to the courtyard and stopped by the damaged tree.

"I don't think getting up on one of the benches and shouting 'Melantha!' is going to cut it."

"I was actually thinking of... well, of listening to each of the trees," Caroline said, a bit hesitantly. "If I can hear Greens talking to each other when they're outside their trees, maybe I can hear them doing it from inside, too."

"Worth a try," Roger agreed. "And if there's nothing in the courtyard, we can try the park. She might have switched trees after... uh-oh."

"What?" Caroline asked, looking around.

"There," Roger said, pointing down the street at the pickup truck rolling toward them, RCS

Landscaping plastered prominently across the hood. "Looks like someone's here to deal with the tree."

"Is that a problem?" Caroline asked.

"Only if they see you talking to their patient," Roger said. "Better go start at the other end while I keep them occupied."

Caroline nodded and headed off across the bricks. Roger stepped to the curb as the pickup rolled to a stop. "That was fast," he commented as a man and woman got out and headed around toward the back of the truck. "It usually takes forever to get someone here when a tree gets damaged."

"The owner put a rush order on this one," the man said as they hauled a stepladder out of the truck.

"What happened, anyway?"

"You got me," Roger said, glancing at the other end of the courtyard. Caroline was leaning close to one of the trees, gazing intently at the bark. As he watched, she straightened up, glanced around, and moved off toward the next one in line. "There were a couple of screams, something that sounded like a gunshot, and then cops as far as the eye could see."

"Must have been some gunshot," the woman said, eyeing the tree as she collected a saw and spray can from the truck's toolbox. "What happened to the branch?"

Roger frowned. "You didn't already take it?"

"Of course not," the man said. "You think we'd have hauled away the branch and then made a second trip just to seal the gash?"

"Someone from the city probably took it," the woman added.

"Probably," Roger said, a bad taste in his mouth as he backed away. Too late, of course, he finally had it.

He intercepted Caroline on her way to her fourth tree. "Forget it," he said, taking her arm and steering her back toward the street. "She's gone."

"You know where she is?"

"I know where she was," he corrected grimly. "She was hiding in the broken tree branch."

Caroline inhaled sharply, her eyes darting back over his shoulder. "Oh, Roger," she breathed. "It's already gone!"

"Yeah, and it wasn't the landscapers who took it, either," he told her. "They thought it might have been the Parks Department, but you know as well as I do no one down there would have moved anywhere near this fast."

"They found her," Caroline said softly, her voice edged with despair. "Oh, Roger."

"Don't panic just yet," Roger cautioned. "It may not be as simple as it looks."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been trying to remember what the courtyard looked like this morning," he said. "I'm pretty sure the branch was already gone."

"Yes, I think you're right," she agreed slowly.

"So it was taken last night," he concluded. "Probably during all the confusion with the cops and CSU

people running around."

"She's probably already dead," Caroline murmured.

"No, I don't think so," Roger said firmly. "Remember, there were Greens and Grays all around the park last night. If whoever it was just wanted to kill her, he could have waited until the cops left and had the ceremony right then and there."

Caroline shivered. "Unless he wanted to kill her later, in private."

"I can't see any reason for either side to do that," Roger said. Actually, there were a couple of possible reasons, but there was no point worrying Caroline any more than she already was. "So let's assume she's alive, and get busy and find her."

He felt his wife straighten up. "You're right," she said. "Any ideas?"

They had reached the northern edge of the park, and Roger turned them west. "We're assuming they took the branch out under the cops' noses," he said, working it out as he went. "They couldn't have just dragged it away—that would have been way too suspicious. So they must have had a truck."

"And it had to be something official," Caroline said, picking up the thread of his logic. "Either a Parks truck or some landscaper's."

"Right," Roger agreed. "And unless they had the unbelievable luck to already have access to such a vehicle, they would have had to steal something."

"And they couldn't risk taking the branch very far," Caroline mused. "The first red light, and Melantha would have been out of the branch and gone. So the truck and branch may still be nearby."

"That's my guess," Roger said. "I sure wouldn't have driven a stolen truck any farther than I had to.

They'd have stopped as soon as they could, gotten Melantha out and transferred to another vehicle, and taken off. And they wouldn't have done it near any other parks, since that's where the Greens are."

"The Grays, too," Caroline said. "Velovsky said they're mostly keeping an eye on the Greens."

"Right," Roger said. That last part hadn't yet occurred to him. "So they would have ditched the truck somewhere away from parks."

"That still leaves a lot of ground to cover," Caroline said, her enthusiasm fading a bit.

"I know, but right now it's all we've got," Roger said. "There's still a chance she managed to escape before they could get her out, and if so she may be in hiding near wherever we find the truck."

Caroline walked in silence for a minute. "Who do you think it was? A Green, or a Gray?"

Roger shook his head. "The Greens would probably be better at figuring out she was in the branch," he said. "The Grays seem more mechanically minded, which probably means they'd be better at hotwiring a truck."

"We also know it was a Gray who gave her to us," Caroline pointed out. "And only a Green could have turned her trassk into that gun he threatened us with," she added, her voice suddenly odd.

"You have something?"

"I was just thinking," she said. "The Gray who gave her to us couldn't have created that gun.

Obviously, it had to have been Melantha."

"Obviously," Roger agreed, wondering where she was going with this. "All that proves is that, down deep, she doesn't really want to die."

"Except that Greens don't just casually violate the decisions of their leaders like that," Caroline reminded him. "Especially when you've been told that your death is the only way for your people to survive." She shivered in the shifting breeze. "I hate this, Roger. All these people getting ready to restart a war that should have ended three-quarters of a century ago. And all of them trying to find a way to use Melantha to their advantage. We have to stop it."

"I'd love to," he said. "It is interesting, though, what Nikolos said about the universe's sense of irony.

Just look at who got picked to be dropped into the middle of this: me, who hates conflicts; and you, who automatically stands up for the underdog. Between us..."

He paused, an odd thought suddenly occurring to him. "Between us...?" Caroline prompted hesitantly.

"I never thought of it this way before," Roger said slowly. "But between us, we make a pretty good team."

"I've always thought so," Caroline said, slipping her hand into his. The hand was cold, but he could hear a new whisper of hope in her tone. "You think they're watching us?"

"What if they are?" Roger countered, trying to keep his voice light. "They probably know our life histories by now."

"I suppose," she said. "I just feel creepy with the thought of them looking over our shoulders."

"Yeah." Roger took a deep breath. "One other thing. If they did sneak off with Melantha when we think they did, then you and I going out to look for her after the cops left wouldn't have made any difference. There's no sense kicking yourself about that."

"I know," she said quietly. "I still can't help thinking we failed her."

"Caroline—"

"So we'll just have to make up for it," she said, her voice tight but brisk. "Let's start by finding that truck."

Still talking together, the Whittiers turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Setting his folded newspaper onto the seat beside him, NYPD Officer Jeff Smith turned the key in the ignition. He'd known that coming back this afternoon and staking out the neighborhood had been a long shot, especially after so many hours had passed. But he hadn't had anything particularly interesting planned for the day anyway, and sometimes long shots paid off.

This one just had.

Checking his mirrors, he pulled the car slowly away from the curb, steering with one hand as he punched the buttons of his cell phone with the other. "Powell," Powell's voice answered on the third ring.

"It's Smith, Detective," Smith said, smiling tightly as he turned in the direction the Whittiers had gone. "I've got them."