Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

“I’ve filled Commissioner Carroll in on the concerns you voiced to me at the hospital last night,” he said. I nodded. Carroll was watching me closely. He waved away Leavitt’s offer of coffee. Leavitt had brought a file folder with him. He opened it and pulled out the top sheet of paper. “It goes without saying that none of this leaves this room.”

He placed a plain sheet of white paper next to my plate. A short letter was typed on it. No date. No address.

Mayor Leavitt,

You don’t want to see your lambs slaughtered, do you? For a million dollars you can save your city from horrible pain. Take this seriously. I will hurt the city and the people you love. Trust me, it will be bloody. I hate you so much. You are filth and dirt. If you believe me, wear a red tie to the theater on Wednesday night. If you don’t believe me, live with the results. Enjoy the show.

Your Nightmare

I looked up. “When did you receive this?”

“A little over two weeks ago. Tuesday the eighth.”

“And ‘the show.’ I’m guessing that’s Miss Gilpin’s show?”

“It was opening that Thursday.”

“Was it a known fact that you’d planned to attend the opening? Was it publicized?”

Leavitt shrugged. “It certainly wasn’t being treated as a secret.”

“Is this the original?”

He shook his head. “It’s a copy.”

I looked at Carroll. “Forensics?”

Leavitt answered for him. “Like we told you yesterday, we’re keeping this contained.”

“Maybe you are,” I said. “But I think your Mr. Nightmare has some different ideas.”

“So it would seem. We’re proceeding with caution,” the mayor said. “Which is where you come in.”

“Oh? And where do I come in? I was under the impression after last night that I was already out.”

Carroll spoke up. “We’ll explain.”

I looked at the letter again. “Okay, then, the hundred-dollar question. Or, I guess, the million-dollar question.”

Leavitt nodded. “I wore a red tie.”

I cocked an eyebrow at Carroll. The commissioner looked as if he might have entertained a few apelike creatures of his own overnight. His skin sagged and his eyes held none of their usual crisp alertness. “Of course we weighed it,” he said. “You don’t like to hand over a psychological victory just like that.”

“But you also don’t want to be stupid, right?”

“Exactly. Right off the bat, the prick got us into a lose-lose.”

“Score one for Mr. Nightmare.”

“He chose the right goddamn name,” Leavitt muttered.

“So he could have been anywhere,” I said. “He could have had a ticket and been seated near you. He could have been outside the theater when you arrived. Or up on the roof of a building with a pair of binoculars. Anywhere. For all you know, he might even be someone in the show. Or someone working for the theater.”

“I do not like being jerked around by this creep,” Leavitt said emphatically.

“And you’re convinced that it wasn’t Diaz who sent the note?”

Carroll answered, “We know there were at least two people involved, Diaz and whoever left the bomb at Barrymore’s. It seems likely that’s the same person who phoned the mayor to gloat yesterday after the parade shooting.”

“Maybe the shooting was unrelated,” I said. “Maybe the guy who wrote this letter saw a chance to piggyback on the parade shooting. Maybe the bomb in the coat-check room was all he was planning from the beginning.”

Leavitt looked to Carroll. “We’ve considered that,” the commissioner said. “But I’ve got a gut feeling on this one. We’re feeding the ‘two unrelated incidents’ story to the media, but I’m sure as hell not buying it. I smell a real nut job here, Fritz. Make that a pair of them. We got one. We got Diaz.”

“Correction,” I said. “You had Diaz. You had a man who could have told you something about what was going on, except that someone blew his brains out. Before we go any further, I want to know what that’s all about.” I turned to the mayor. “I need to know.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves here,” Leavitt said.

I picked up the creamer. “That’s okay with me. We can get back to you and your red tie in a minute. I need to hear what happened to Diaz and why.”

“He had a second gun,” Tommy Carroll said.

The creamer froze in midair. “He had a second what ?”

“A pistol. Strapped to his ankle. A Tomcat.”

“The arresting officer missed a weapon ? Tommy, don’t ask me to believe that.”

“Do you hear me bragging about it? You don’t get more fundamental than a basic pat-down. But what can I tell you? Cox retrieved Diaz’s Beretta, then shoved him into his cruiser. He just wanted him out of there. He missed the other gun.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy, a six-year-old with a month of television under his belt knows you pat down a suspect.”

“So maybe I should start enlisting goddamn six-year-olds. I just told you, I’m not happy about it.”

“Let’s hear about the head shot.”

The mayor and the police commissioner shared another look. I couldn’t read the look. Might have been nothing. Might have been something. Either way, I was ready. My bullshit meter was primed and humming.

Carroll shifted in his chair. “After I cut you loose at the Municipal Building, Cox and I went back up to get Diaz.”

I stopped him right there. “Tell me again why it is that your boys brought Diaz and me to the Municipal Building instead of a precinct house. From where I sit, that don’t smell good.”

“Control. We didn’t know who or what we were dealing with yet. Or how many were involved. For all we knew, there were snipers stationed at all the precinct houses, waiting for us to bring their man in. It was a diversionary tactic that reverted the timing of things back into our control.”

“But you had no reason at that point to think it was anything but a lone gunman.”

“Wrong. You’re forgetting, we already had two possible shooters in custody. Diaz wasn’t the only one running around waving a pistol. We didn’t know what we had. We took the precaution.”

The “precaution” of avoiding taking dangerous suspects directly to a police station. The needles on my bullshit meter were dancing wildly.

Carroll continued, “When Cox and I got up to where Diaz had been secured, Diaz pulled his weapon.”

“The Tomcat.”

“Exactly.”

“The Tomcat that Cox had failed to detect.”

“Correct.”

The needle continued to flick. “I assume he was still cuffed.”

Carroll nodded. “He was cuffed.”

“I saw him being cuffed at the fountain. At least Cox got that part right.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Fritz. Cox’s partner had just been gunned down by this punk. You might want to cut the man a little slack.”

“I saw Cox cuff Diaz behind his back,” I said. “That must have been a hell of a thing, for Diaz to contort himself all over the place to get the gun out. How exactly did that work, Tommy? He somehow got the gun out with his arms cuffed behind his back, and then what? Was he turned away from you and Cox when you came in? Was he aiming over his shoulder?”

“He was cuffed to the table.”

“Oh. The table. So you uncuffed him, then cuffed him again, this time to the table.”

“Right.”

“One hand?”

“Correct.”

“Other hand free?”

“Correct.”

“Free to pull out his pistol when you and Cox are coming in the door. My goodness, it’s almost his lucky day.”

“Lucky days don’t end up at the morgue,” Carroll said. The mayor grunted his agreement.