Anton Strout - Deader Still

“Not without handing us Cyrus,” Connor said. “With the art show shut down, we would have figured out most of what you’ve told us once we went through all the evidence. All you’ve done so far is save us some time. I hardly think that’s grounds for transfer.”

Faisal looked pained.

“Well, there was one thing Cyrus had been talking about,” Faisal offered, “but I can’t promise you it will lead to anything. Either way, I want your word that you’ll attempt to get me transferred. My word may be sketchy, but I know you do-gooders. You keep to what you say.”

“Help us out,” I said. The idea that there might be something out there larger than this Para-lyzed madness filled me with a sense of dread. “I promise we’ll do what we can.”

“I’d also like to be clear on something here,” he said, “because I do have a reputation to uphold. I’m only telling you this because if Cyrus does what I think he’s going to do, it’ll be even worse for business. While we share the same cause, we do not share the same ideology. I’m a pragmatist. I understand that for every little cause, there is an effect. But Cyrus? He’s an idealist. He’d rather get caught up in the doing of things, the means of it, to get to an end. I’ve never agreed with it, but people like him can prove quite useful in their own way. There was a time when he could be reigned in, controlled, but he’s just kept marching forward, reckless with his ideology, fucking up everything I worked so hard to put in motion.” Faisal cleared his throat. “You see, boys, timing . . . is everything. All these grandiose displays will be too much exposure too soon, and instead of winning people to our cause, we’ll be condemned. He’s so driven that he wants the world to know about us now, by any means necessary. I can only imagine he’s feeling a bit desperate right now, and desperate men are not to be trusted.”

“Then tell us what he’s going to do,” I said.

Faisal cocked his head and looked at me.

“How do you feel about reality television?”

“Do you ever get the feeling Faisal was bullshitting us about Cyrus going off the deep end, even by cultist standards?” I asked. Twenty-four hours later, Connor and I stood outside the big white tent that covered the entirety of Bryant Park just behind the main branch of the New York Public Library. He was still dressed in his usual trench coat, but I was busy tugging at the lengthy coat of my tuxedo, making sure it concealed my bat.

“You mean are we really supposed to believe that Cyrus is planning a very public attack during Fashion Week?” Connor asked back.

I nodded.

“Well,” he continued, “it does mix together a lot of what we know of him—his madness, his greed, his artistic desires for taking their message public with as much damage as possible . . .”

“I can’t really imagine anything going down here during Fashion Week,” I said. “Other than some best- and worst-dressed lists.”

“Sounds like a perfect place to get some notice, kid,” Connor said. He grabbed my arms and brushed them down. “Stop fidgeting. It’s fine. Think about what’s going on here tonight. Every year the park gets converted into the home of all the biggest fashion releases for the year. The surrounding streets are mobbed with people dressed in outfits more valuable than your apartment.”

“And there will be cameras everywhere,” I added.

Connor nodded. “Besides, why would Faisal Bane be lying at this point, aside from being a filthy lying cultist? He’s got too much to gain by being honest with us. You saw how sick he looked at sea. He desperately wants to be on land. He knows that if he’s bullshitting us, we’ll pull the plug on them moving him to the mainland facility. Right now, it’s a win-win situation for him if he’s honest. I only wish he knew exactly what kind of spectacle Cyrus is going to try to pull here.”

We had brought the entire situation to the attention of Inspectre Quimbley. He and as many people available from every other department had been gathered to surround the nexus of activity in front of us. No matter what went down, we were prepared. At least, I hoped we were prepared.

“You ready?” I heard from behind me, and I turned around. Jane was standing there and she looked gorgeous. I was used to her hair being up in a ponytail, but tonight it cascaded over her shoulders in delicious blond waves. Her long black dress sparkled like crazy and was slit up one leg. I stood there speechless.

Jane mimed bending to scoop something up. She held her hand out to me like she was holding something.

“I believe this jaw belongs to you,” she said.

I grabbed it and pretended to shove it back into place.

“Don’t mess your tie up,” she said. She reached over and pushed my arms out of the way as she straightened it. I smiled as I watched her concentrating on getting it just right.

Connor coughed beside us and the two of us snapped out of our moment.

“Are you two ready for prom?”

Jane thwapped him on the arm with her handbag. “Don’t hate.”

“Now listen. There’re going to be television cameras and photographers everywhere in there, so we need to keep this low-key,” Connor said. “You two call at the slightest hint of something funny going on in there, alright?”

Jane and I nodded.

“Yes, Dad,” we said in unison.

Connor sighed, then shook his head. “I can’t believe the fate of the Big Apple lies in the hands of the world’s cutest and most nauseating couple. You’d better get going. If you need me, I’ll be along the south side of the tent outside with the rest of the White Stripes.”

I motioned for Jane to give me a moment alone with Connor. After kissing me on the cheek, she stepped out of earshot.

“You sure you don’t want to come inside instead of Jane?” I asked. “I’m sure no one in New York would bat an eye at two men walking into a runway show together. It is Fashion Week, after all.”

Connor shook his head.

“After all the juvenile jealous crap you’ve put her through to alleviate your own guilt over working with Mina? I think you two need the on-the-job bonding time more than you and I do.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a pal.”

I walked over to Jane and took her arm on mine.

“Hey, kid,” Connor called out behind us. We turned. His face was deadpan. “Try not to die on any of the gowns, okay?”

“Will do,” I said.

“That goes for both of you,” he shouted as we crossed the street and left him behind.

The line to get in snailed along forever, but it gave us time to locate mayoral office liaison David Davidson in the crowd. Camera flashes were going off left and right. I waved him over to us.

“Nice to see you under more pleasant circumstances,” he said, flashing that winning smile of his. His tuxedo was impeccable, but then again, he always was.

I thought back. The last time I had seen David Davidson was over the body of late Dr. Kolb in Central Park.

“Well, more pleasant for now,” I said, shaking his hand. “You remember Jane?”

Davidson took Jane’s hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “Of course I do,” he said. “Charmed. May I say you look lovely tonight?”

“Thank you,” Jane said with a toothy smile. “And, yes, you may.”

Davidson reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a handful of identical envelopes. He thumbed through them. “Mr. . . . Canderous, there you are . . . annnnd . . . Ms. Clayton-Forrester.”

He held them out and I took both of them.

“I just want you to know,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “tickets to this were harder to arrange than setting up a visit for the president to the United Nations.”