“I hope I can help you with this,” Jon told her.
“I hope you can, too,” she responded. “I really think the only way we can keep the Nazis from gaining power in the city is if we find and stop this killer before Dayfall. The vote is scheduled for the day after that, and there’s no way we’ll win if people ‘Fear the Day,’ like they’re being told to.”
“The Nazis” was the Mayor’s way of referring to a man named Gareth Render and his henchmen at Gotham Security—a private company that was poised to become the primary law enforcement authority in Manhattan, if the upcoming referendum passed in their boss’s favor. For various reasons, many of the cops in the MPD sympathized with the goals and philosophy of GS, and some were even on its payroll. Rialle King saw herself and her remaining supporters as the last bastion of light for the city, fighting an uphill battle against a conspiracy so broad that she was required to bring in someone new and unadulterated like Jon.
“I also hope you have a strong stomach,” the Mayor continued, “when you see what that sicko did at the office building. And I hope you’re as good as Versa said, ’cause this killer seems to be some kind of ghost who can walk through walls.”
“I might not be better than some of the people you have there,” Jon said, trying to keep her from expecting too much from him.
“Maybe not, but unlike them I actually do have you—at least you’re working for me. I don’t know about any of them anymore, except maybe for your new partner. Maybe. I don’t know exactly what to think about him.”
That had been the end of the conversation, the Mayor having been interrupted by another call.
Jon leaned forward in the helicopter to study the city more, now that they had reached its south end. The cluster of skyscrapers that had formerly filled the tip, including the tallest one that had replaced the Twin Towers, were now gone, victims of the River Rise. In an eerie twist of fate, the 9/11 Memorial had been prophetic as well as commemorative, because its inverse fountains conjured images of the buildings descending into a watery grave.
The not-quite-as-tall buildings that still stood just inside the Water Wall were mostly dark and silent, but the lights and activity increased considerably as they flew farther into the center of the city, where everyone was presumably safer from any encroaching flooding, and where most of the businesses and citizens had moved. In a few minutes, Jon could see Madison Square Park, heavily lit with the otherworldly light of the UV lamps that kept its trees and grass green and surrounded by buildings that had taken an exponential leap in value and importance because of their location in the very center of this new New York. He especially noticed the historic Flatiron Building, which gave this now-central district its name and was also where he would be working, because it was the new MPD headquarters, and for security’s sake, the Mayor’s office as well. Jon remembered reading about how the Flatiron District used to be a downscale satellite to the more prestigious offices and apartments of Lower Manhattan, but now as a result of the flagger it had become the core of the Big Apple.
As the helicopter passed farther north, Jon saw that regardless of how many buildings and businesses the city had lost from its edges, much of its interior was still thriving. The towering buildings of Midtown still shone with lights fueled by commercial interests like advertising and entertainment, and even though the tourist industry had definitely taken a big hit, the brightest blast of white still emanated from Times Square. Jon wondered how many people below him were working and how many were playing, because he had read that the uninterrupted darkness had upended the normal cycle of jobs during the day and parties at night. The New York night now lasted all twenty-four hours, so the “night life” did as well, giving new meaning to the label “the city that never sleeps.”
He also wondered what it was like in the almost total darkness beyond the North Wall of the city, which he had also read about and could just barely see on the other side of Midtown. The North Wall had been built across the south end of Central Park, and unlike the other stretches in the southern, eastern, and western parts of the city, it was not designed to keep the water out. There had indeed been flooding on the northern half of the island—the expensive real estate on the Upper East and West Sides had been almost entirely lost to it—but the wall there was primarily built to keep people out. There was great fear among the denizens of the southern half that vagrants from the north would invade their more protected and coveted neighborhoods, especially when many of the displaced started squatting in Central Park. And the city of New Manhattan didn’t really mind losing that big landmark, because it quickly lost its appeal when it became a veritable cemetery of dead grass and trees. There was no way anyone could supply enough UV lamps or artificial heat to keep a park that size alive.
4
The nearest helipad turned out to be a rather notorious one on the top of the MetLife Building above Grand Central Station. Jon had found out in his research about the city that it had been used for public transportation in the 1970s until a horrible accident closed it down. One of the rotor blades from a helicopter had broken off when the landing gear malfunctioned, causing the aircraft to turn sideways. Whirling out of control, the blade struck four people waiting on the rooftop, killing three of them instantly, then plunged over the skyscraper’s west parapet. After striking a window and breaking in two about halfway down the eight-hundred-foot gray tower, one piece continued down to Madison Avenue and killed another unsuspecting pedestrian.
This was one of the reasons, John had learned, why commercial helicopters hadn’t been allowed to land on any of the big buildings for many years now. It was also a reminder to him of how anything could happen in New York.
After a long elevator ride down and a walk of a couple blocks, Jon arrived at One Hundred Park Avenue, an older International Style office building with a facade of white brick piers separated by vertical stripes of glass and aluminum spandrels. It sat on an L-shaped plot, thirty-six stories facing Park Avenue and a smaller wing extending back on the Fortieth Street side. Above the base the main tower rose to a set-back top with an illuminated “100” shining just below the roof.
Jon met Frank Halladay in the lobby after milling with a growing crowd of reporters for about five minutes, because his new partner wasn’t considerate enough to come down ahead of time and wait for him to arrive. Halladay also wasn’t much for introductions; as soon as he found Jon and led him through the turnstiles, he dove right into details of the case.
“This is Exhibit A,” said the sandy-haired man, gesturing at the security measures. He was in his fifties and slightly out of shape, but tall enough at six foot two to still present an imposing figure, especially compared to Jon’s five-foot ten-inch frame. “State-of-the-art security and surveillance here and at the two freight entrances. Not so airtight inside the building, as you’ll see, but we can’t for the life of us figure out how he got in.”
This was obviously the reason for Mayor King’s reference to the killer as someone who could “walk through walls.”
“I’m wondering about the roof,” Halladay continued as they headed for the elevators. “Because it’d be so hard to sneak in from the ground, and there are no cameras up there. But there’s nowhere to land up there, either, as you found out. You had to walk from the MetLife Building, right?”
Jon said, “Yes” as an elevator arrived and they got in. The older man hit the button for the fourth floor and asked, “So how do you like the Big Apple? Is it true that you’ve never been here before?”