“Put him on, Peep,” I said.
That’s when somebody else tried to walk into the small bathroom, and opened the door so hard it crashed into my back. I fumbled for my flying phone and managed to save it from the urinal by sheer luck.
“Ocupado, you moron,” I yelled, kick-slamming the door closed behind me.
What a day, I thought. Then – day? What the hell was I saying? What a lifetime.
Chapter 17
The next priority on my list was to start comparing descriptions of the suspects in the different incidents. The problem was, I had only the one that Beth Peters had given me. That kind of information from the 21 Club hadn’t gotten to me yet. I’d learned from Lavery that the street search and canvass of local doormen around the Polo store had produced nothing. And we were still waiting for a coherent statement from the men’s shop clerk whose coworker had been gunned down.
I decided it was time for some coaxing.
His name was Patrick Cardone. He was being cared for by EMTs in an ambulance that was still outside, double-parked on Madison Avenue. As I walked up to it, I saw him through the open rear door, sitting on a stretcher and crying.
I didn’t like intruding on people who’d just experienced a tragedy, but it had to be done, and doing it was my job. I tried to handle it as gently as I knew how.
I waited until he was between sobbing spells, then tapped on the door of the ambulance, at the same time giving the paramedics the high sign that I was taking over.
“Hi, Patrick? My name’s Mike,” I said, flashing my badge as I climbed in and quietly closed the door behind me. “I can only imagine how awful you’re feeling. You went through a terrible, traumatic experience, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. But I need your help – me, and all the other people in this city. Do you feel up to talking for a minute?”
The clerk wiped his tearful face with his hands, too distraught to pay attention to the box of tissues beside him.
“Here,” I said, setting the box on his knees. He gave me a grateful look.
“Tell me about Kyle,” I said. “Was he a friend?”
“Oh, yes,” Cardone said emphatically, dabbing at his eyes. “We used to ride in to work together on Saturday mornings, and when he picked me up at my place in Brooklyn Heights, he’d have a coffee for me. You know how many kind people like him there are in this city? I’ll tell you – exactly zero. And that… that bastard in the Mets jersey just shot him. Just came in and shot him and? -”
“Whoa, wait,” I said. “The man who shot him was wearing what?”
“An orange Mets jersey. ‘Wright,’ it said across the back, and these atrocious basketball shorts and a… a green Jets cap.”
“This is very important,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“One thing I know, it’s clothes,” Cardone said, with a trace of wounded dignity. “His were ridiculous. Like a comic advertisement for the Sports Authority.”
So we had men wearing completely different outfits. Well, the incident in the subway and the Polo shooting had taken place hours apart. It was conceivable that it was the same guy, and he’d changed clothes. Or were there two psychos? A tag team? Maybe there was a terrorist angle after all. As Mary Catherine liked to say, Shite.
“What else did you notice?” I said. “His hair color, all that?”
“He had big sunglasses, and the cap was pulled low. His hair was darkish, and he was white, fairly tall. Everything else about him was a haze. Except his clothes, of course. And the gun he put to my head. It was square and silver.”
White, darkish hair, fairly tall – that jibed with the subway suspect.
“Did he say anything?” I asked.
Patrick Cardone closed his eyes as he nodded.
“He said, ‘You are the witness to history, I envy you.’?”
That unsettling sensation came back again – that we were dealing with a maniac, and maybe a smart one.
I stood up to go, and patted Cardone’s back.
“You did great, Patrick. I’m not kidding – the best possible way to help your buddy Kyle. We’re going to catch this guy, okay? I’m going to leave my card right here next to you. If you think of anything else, you call me, I don’t care what time it is.”
I thanked him again and hopped down into the street, already opening my cell phone.
“Chief, I just got a description of the Polo shooter,” I said when McGinnis answered. “Same physical type as the subway guy, but he was wearing an orange Mets jersey.”
“An orange what?” McGinnis fumed. “I just heard from the Twenty-one Club scene, and they’re saying that the shooter was dressed like a bike messenger and actually left on a ten-speed. But otherwise, he looked like the subway guy, too.”
“It gets worse, Chief,” I said. “He spoke to one of the other clerks here, and told him that he was a quote ‘witness to history’ unquote.”
“Christ on a cross! Okay, I’ll put all that out over the wire. You triple-check the details there, then get down to the clambake at Twenty-one and see if you can make any sense of it.”
Now we were getting into the realm of nightmare, I thought.
Part Two. Puke By The Gallon
Chapter 18
In the small, blessedly quiet foyer outside the Bennett apartment, Mary Catherine picked up the day’s mail, and then paused for a moment. What a nice little space, she thought, lingering before the framed architectural drawings, the antique light fixture, the tarnished copper umbrella stand, the next-door neighbors, the Underhills, had arranged a cornucopia of golden leaves, baby pumpkins, and squash on the mail table.
But the pleasant tour ended all too soon as she came back to the Bennett apartment. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and opened the door.
Sound slammed into her like a collapsed wall as she stepped inside. In the living room, Trent and Ricky were still loudly squabbling over PlayStation rights. Not to be outdone, Chrissy and Fiona had become locked in a DVD death match at their bedroom computer. The old, overworked washing machine accompanied the yells, thundering from the kitchen as if a full rehearsal of the musical Stomp was under way.
Mary Catherine jumped back as a small, yowling, vomit-colored object streaked between her feet. She stared at it, refusing to believe her eyes. But it was true.
Somebody had just thrown up on Socky, the cat.
Amid all the clamor, she could hardly hear the phone ringing. Her first thought was to let the machine pick it up. The last thing she needed was another hassle. But then she decided, The heck with it. Things couldn’t get worse. She stepped over to the wall phone and lifted it off the hook.
“Bennett residence,” she half screamed.
The caller was a woman who spoke in a clipped, no-nonsense tone. “This is Sister Sheilah from Holy Name.”
Oh, Lord, Mary Catherine thought – the kids’ principal. This was not going to be good news. Well, it served her right for taunting fate.
The din seemed, if anything, to be getting even louder. She glanced around, trying to think of a quick way to quiet it. Then inspiration hit.
“Yes, Sister. This is Mary Catherine, the children’s au pair. Could you hold on one second?”
She calmly set down the phone, got the stepladder out of the pantry, and climbed up to the electrical box on the wall beside the door. As she unscrewed each of the four fuses, the noise abruptly stopped – the TV, the computer game, the washing machine, and finally, the voices.
Mary Catherine picked up the phone again and said, “Sorry, Sister. I’ve a bit of a mutiny on my hands here. What can I do for you?”
She closed her eyes as the principal curtly informed her that Shawna and Brian, half of the Bennett faction that Mary Catherine had managed to get out the door this morning, had “become ill.” They were in the school nurse’s office and had to be picked up immediately.