Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

Commissioner Carroll repeated the bare bones of what the mayor had said. He wanted to assure everybody that the crisis was already over. He offered his condolences to the families of the dead and wounded, got in a plug for the professionalism and efficiency of the New York City Police Department and suggested to people that they include an addendum to their normal Thanksgiving Day prayers. As he turned from the podium, Greene brought the cone of papers to his mouth and shouted out, “Commissioner! Why can’t you give us an update on the gunman’s condition? Can you tell us if he was acting alone? There’ve been reports of two gunmen. Can you comment? Is there anyone else out there we should know about?”

Carroll started to turn back to the microphones. As he did, he spotted me. He darkened, then leaned forward to speak directly into the microphones. “You know what we know.”

Greene called out again: “Is it true that the officer who was shot is one of the men involved in the Bad Apple scandal?”

Carroll paused, then turned abruptly away. As he started into the building, a young woman holding a cell phone to her ear approached him. He stopped and said something to her. Harshly. She folded the cell phone immediately and bobbed her head obediently as the commissioner continued to unload on her. It was a short harangue. Carroll concluded it and continued into the building, Mayor Leavitt and Philip Byron close on his heels. I saw the young woman scanning the faces of those of us at the barricade.

“I’ve got to go get the turkey into the oven,” I said to Greene. I reached down and tapped his cone of papers. “By the way, nice technology.”

I left the reporter and made my way to the far end of the barricade. The young woman Carroll had dressed down spotted me and made her way over.

“Mr. Malone?”

“You’re Stacy.”

“Follow me, please.” She spun on her heels and gave me a very pleasant target to follow up the stairs. She paused at the door. “Are you carrying?”

She was all of twenty-five. Stretching, maybe twenty-six. Shoulder-length blond hair. Cute as a chipmunk. Serious as an anvil. Vassar. Bryn Mawr. One of those types of places. Dressed like a sexy librarian.

I asked her, “Who taught you to talk that way?”

No smiles from Stacy. “Are you?”

I patted myself down. “I’m not.”

She waved off the security man standing at the door. I followed her inside. “Commissioner Carroll wants to see you right away,” she said as we crossed the lobby. “I’m taking you to his mobile office. He might be a few minutes.”

“Which is it?” I asked. “Right away or a few minutes?”

She stopped and did an about-face. If I hadn’t had good brakes, I’d have bowled her over. Her expression was tragically intense. All that prettiness, wasted.

“We’re in a crisis here, Mr. Malone. I hope you can appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

I looked into her cornflower-blue eyes and recalled the bullet from the Beretta sailing over my head as I tumbled to the steps at the Bethesda Fountain, not yet two hours ago. Then I recalled Tommy Carroll unloading a few barrels of his own into the young woman.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re all on jangly nerves right now. Just take me where you need to take me. I’m sure you’re in for a long enough day as it is.”

Her expression couldn’t seem to locate a pleasant position. A tiny display of red flared up on her smooth cheeks, then vanished. “People are dead.”

I nodded. “I know they are.”

“We lost one of our own.”

“McNally.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

Very efficient recap. I had nothing more to add. I kept my yap shut as Stacy led me to a second-floor office.

“Would you like anything? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be good.”

I took a seat in the small mobile office. This was where the police commissioner worked when he was in City Hall, as opposed to down the block at police headquarters. I was familiar with the place from my father’s tenure. The office was small and not richly appointed-a large desk, a black telephone, a television set on a rolling metal cart, a couple of chairs. The window looked out onto the side of the building that faced Brooklyn. The view included an open area near the subway entrance. That past spring a local sculptor had installed several absurdly oversize picnic tables where people could sit and have lunch on nice afternoons. The idea of the giant tables was that adults could reexperience the sensation of being a youngster, the table hitting them near the chin, their legs dangling well above the ground. On first hearing about these tables, Margo had dragged me downtown to sit at one of them and share a sandwich and chips. It didn’t make me feel like a kid again. It made me feel like a foolish adult.

Tommy Carroll came through the office door like a train going into a tunnel. Had my chair been in his way, I’d have ended up on the floor. He came around the side of his desk and threw himself into the large leather chair. It squeaked its complaint as he swiveled it around to face me. His gaze traveled over my shoulder. “What?”

It was Stacy. She had appeared at the door holding my cup of coffee. “Mr. Malone asked for some coffee.”

“Well, give it to him and get out.” She handed me the paper cup. I tried to hand her a smile, but she wasn’t accepting gifts. “Door,” Carroll said gruffly as she exited.

It closed with a delicate click.

The commissioner balled his hands together on the desk. “I’m supposed to be in Tortola.”

I wasn’t sure what I had expected him to say, but “I’m supposed to be in Tortola” would have been way down on the list.

“Nice place, Tortola,” I said. “I went down there a couple of years ago. Very good snorkeling. I went nuts for the parrot fish.”

Tommy Carroll picked up a remote and switched on the television. A grim-faced blond woman with helplessly blue eyes was holding a microphone to her chin. Kelly Cole. Ubiquitous Kelly. Channel 4.

“According to Mayor Leavitt, the gunman has been-”

Carroll muted the sound. He frowned. “What were you and Greene talking about just now?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s a wiseass. That question about McNally? A good cop is killed defending the people of this city, and this pipsqueak reporter thinks he can get smug on me.”

“That’s his job,” I said.

“To smear the New York City Police Department?”

“Seems to me the cops over in the Ninety-fifth have been doing a fine job of that all on their own.”

Carroll scowled. “I thought I told you to stay at the Three Roses until we were finished up here.”

I pulled the twenty out of my pocket and placed it on the desk. “Sorry, Tommy. The place was making me feel like I needed to take a shower.”

“We’ve got a real problem going on here, Fritz.”

“As they say in the old country, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ ”

“The mayor and I are counting on you to cooperate.”

“Cooperate with what?”

Carroll unballed his hands and leaned back in the chair. He gazed out the window over his left shoulder. It occurred to me that those picnic tables near the subway entrance were probably a decent fit for the commissioner. He looked out the window a few seconds, then let out a gravelly sigh and turned back to me. “The shooter has been identified as Roberto Diaz. Born in Puerto Rico. American citizen. Lived in Brooklyn. Divorced. Last worked for a company called Delivery on Demand. It’s a messenger service.”

“I see.”

“He left a month ago. Quit.”

“Okay.”

Carroll leveled me with a look. “You didn’t shoot him.”

“I didn’t what ?”

“You didn’t shoot him, Fritz. Just start getting that notion into your head. You’re not leaving this office until it’s there.”