7
“Corelli, get your ass in here.” Captain Dolchik’s raspy voice filled the cramped TA office with unusual urgency.
Corelli looked up from the report of the attack on Lester Baker and stared at Dolchik, whose obese form filled the doorway to his office. For a moment Corelli let himself hate the man; not because he was crude and loud but because Corelli suspected the captain was giving him the runaround about Penny Comstock and the others. Just because Dolchik acted like a Keystone Kop didn’t mean he was one. Maybe he was one of the “big boys” that Dr. Geary had mentioned. Why not? It wasn’t totally preposterous. After all, it was his file that had started Frank on his own investigation.
“Corelli!” Dolchik took two or three threatening steps forward. “Did you hear me? Or are your big brains clogging up your ears?”
Corelli slid the Baker report into his briefcase, then pushed back from his desk, ready to take on his bellicose boss. Reading the attack report had given him a jolt, had touched that sixth sense of his that inexorably was leading him through the maze of disappearances toward a clear answer. He didn’t know what the reporting officers made of the subway-yard attack, but as far as Frank was concerned, it was no different from the others-Comstock, Slade…Lisa Hill-except in one way: Lester Baker was still alive to talk about it.
As Corelli entered the captain’s office, Dolchik assumed his favorite position behind the litter-strewn desk-fat fingers folded over the quivering bulge of his stomach, leaning back precariously in his chair, an insincere smile carved onto his pudgy features. That smile grew with each step Corelli took, and by the time they faced one another, Dolchik was grinning like a maniac.
“Have a seat, Detective,” he offered grandly, indicating one of the torn naugahyde chairs usually reserved for dignitaries. Corelli remained standing. “Have it your own way. You always were an arrogant sonofabitch.” The smile slipped away. “Now, tell me, Detective Corelli, exactly what you’ve been up to for the past two days.”
“What is it you want to know in particular, Captain?”
“Simple: I want to know what you’ve done to help your fellow officers since last Monday-Labor Day, if my memory serves me well.”
“You’ve seen the duty roster,” Corelli hedged.
Dolchik’s fingers untwined like snakes unknotting themselves in a basket. He spread them out over his corpulent thighs. “I’ve also seen cartoons where cows jump over the moon, but I don’t really believe cows can fly. Now, tell me what the fuck you think you’re up to. For two days no one has seen you for more than ten minutes here and there. Even Quinn is beginning to wonder if his pal Frank Corelli is really a figment of his imagination.”
“I’ve been on a work-related investigation,” he said evenly, ignoring the crack about Quinn, who wouldn’t give Dolchik the time of day, let alone betray Corelli.
“Work-related investigation? It must have slipped my notice. Tell me about it,” Dolchik said sarcastically.
“I’ve been tracking a series of unusual occurrences, Captain,” Corelli said with as much respect as he could muster. “And it’s taken more time than I expected.”
“Exactly what “unusual occurrences’ do you mean, Detective?” The smile suddenly reappeared. “If you don’t mind me prying.”
“Not at all.” Frank now slipped into the chair opposite his overstaffed inquisitor. “I’m talking about the very same disappearances you’ve kept so carefully hidden these past months. The attacks late at night on subway passengers you pretend aren’t happening.”
Dolchik’s face hardened instantly. His jowls fluttered to rigid attention as his teeth snapped together. For a moment he silently appraised Corelli before speaking. “Is it possible, Frank, that your job is getting the best of you? Maybe you’re working too hard?” He got up and ambled to the open office door and shut it.
“I’m not working hard enough. Not when people are getting hurt in the subway because someone wants to pretend these things aren’t happening.”
“Am I really supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“You tell me, Captain.”
“No, Detective Corelli, you tell me!”
“I’m talking about the fact that eight days ago a woman named Penny Comstock walked into the Fifty-third Street IND and vanished; I’m talking about a little girl named Lisa Hill who was snatched from a subway platform on Labor Day; I’m talking about the death of Ted Slade, one “of the Dogs of Hell, whose body was carved up like last year’s Thanksgiving turkey; and I’m talking about Lester Baker, and God knows how many others.” Corelli’s anger propelled him through the list of names with machine-gun rapidity.
“Baker? Who’s Lester Baker?” Dolchik’s question was almost inaudible.
“The latest victim. He’s ‘El Bee,’ the subway graffiti king. He’s at Columbia Presbyterian in shock.”
Dolchik’s face paled. “I didn’t know.”
“Baker was attacked last night by a guard dog in a yard while he was spraying some of the cars. The reporting officer said the dog was already crazed before he encountered Baker. Something had gotten under its skin and it attacked without the handler’s command. What do you make of that?”
Dolchik shook his head. He stared at Corelli for a moment, and when he spoke, he’d regained his composure. “What’s the connection between this and the other names…whoever they were?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out; that’s my investigation. And I don’t intend to let you or anyone else fuck me up,” Corelli answered hotly.
“That sounds like an ultimatum, Frank. I don’t like that.” He searched for a fresh cigar, but couldn’t find one. “You’re really pushing me, you know that? You’ve already stepped on the wrong “toes by questioning Geary…” he began to say, but thought better of it. “Why the hell should I let you go off on this wild-goose chase while the other men get the shit jobs? You wanna explain that one tome?”
Corelli got up slowly, digesting the fact that Dolchik already knew he’d visited New York Mercy Hospital and had talked to the pathologist. But as he walked directly to the file cabinet to Dolchik’s left he didn’t betray his surprise that his movements had been charted already; he had other things to do right now. With one swift movement he stooped down and tried to open the bottom drawer that contained the missing-persons file. The drawer was locked.
“Looking for something special?” Dolchik’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“The file you’ve kept on the very same disappearances I’ve been talking about, Captain.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Dolchik lied.
“I made a copy of it,” Corelli revealed. It was important now-now that Geary’s name had come up-that Dolchik believe he knew everything there was to know about the missing persons. “So don’t try to bullshit me.”
Dolchik made an aborted lunge across the desk, but Corelli avoided him.
Corelli sat back down and lit a cigarette. “Now, shall we talk, or do we play some more pussyfoot?”
“I’ll have your badge for this, Corelli,” Dolchik sputtered. “Breaking into my office, invading my private files-”
“They aren’t private, goddammit, they’re the property of everyone in this city who’s ever ridden the subway.” Frank slammed his fist down on the desk.
“Jesus, a goddamned knight on a white charger, a one-man savior of the subway.” Dolchik sadly shook his head.
“What’s your stake in this, Stan?” Corelli asked to keep the subject alive.
“I have no stake in anything!”
“You’ve been keeping a file on these disappearances. That means something.”
“I keep files on a lot of things,” Dolchik countered. “Look for yourself. You seem to know where everything in my office is.”.For a second the muscles along his jaw fluttered with suppressed rage.
“I suppose I deserve that,” Corelli said with mock humility, “but this goes far beyond my feelings about you, or vice versa. The fact is, there has been a string of disappearances going back well over a year, and you’ve been monitoring them all.”
“This is bullshit, Corelli.” Dolchik pushed his chair back as if the interview were over.
“Sit down, fat-ass,” Frank hissed, momentarily losing control of himself.
“I’ll have your badge for this,” Dolchik threatened, but he resumed his place nevertheless. “I’ve seen punks like you come and go. You’re a dime a dozen, turning the subway into your own private Coliseum so you can do battle with the age-old forces of evil. Well, this is the twentieth century and you’re doing nothing more than interfering with things that are none of your business.” He snatched the remains of a dead cigar from an ashtray, lit it, and blew the filthy smoke directly into Corelli’s face.
“Either answer me straight about the file or I take my photostats of your report-along with a report of my own-to the mayor, then to every newspaper editor in town.”
Dolchik paled at the suggestion. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s the connection? What links them all together?”
“I don’t know if there is one.” Dolchik shrugged. “Honest, Frank, I’ve kept the file, not knowing if it meant anything or not. You know how it is: it’s a big city, too big. Even the government is out of control. How often do you put two and two together and actually get four?”
“Once is enough,” Frank countered. “And it looks to me like that file is that once.”
“So I put some random reports together. Hell, Frank, you know this office gets more shit dropping into it than the hole in an outhouse. Some of it gets filed, most of it gets thrown away. The missing-persons reports happened to get filed.”
“And stashed away in a locked file cabinet?”
“It wasn’t locked until yesterday; you know that.” Dolchik shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. Jesus, you ain’t gonna leave me any secrets, are you?” He squashed the smoldering butt into an ashtray and pulled himself from his chair, exhaling loudly with the exaggerated exertion. A second later he opened the file drawer and reached deep into it and produced a pint bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch. “With the fucking lushes around here, this little baby wouldn’t stand a chance if it weren’t locked up. Want a hit?”
“No, thanks.” Dolchik was lying through his teeth about the file.
“Guess I’ll pass, too, then.” He returned the bottle and found his place again. “Does that explain the locked drawer good enough for you?”
“It’s an explanation.” Corelli tried to remember if there’d been a bottle in the drawer when he’d opened it. Dammit, he couldn’t remember. The Scotch was a good excuse-too good. Either Dolchik was telling the truth or he was turning out to be one cagey sonofabitch. The first explanation was highly unlikely-and the second scared the shit out of Corelli.
“You know, Frank, you are the most suspicious cop I’ve ever seen. What possible reason would I have for hiding those reports? If I’d hidden them.”
“Maybe you’d begun to see something in the pattern of disappearances that scared you.”
Dolchik laughed too loudly, too brashly. “Scared me? If I don’t get scared every day watching the hoodlums who make this subway their home, how’s a bunch of reports gonna do it?” He choked on the laugh, cleared his throat, then dropped the congenial facade. “Besides, a missing-persons report like the one on that Comstock dame don’t mean shit. Who’s to say she really disappeared? I’ve never cross-checked with the NYPD to see if they stayed disappeared upstairs,” he scoffed, using verbal shorthand for the world of the city outside the subway. “And you can’t trust the word of token-booth clerks. Most of them can’t count beyond ten, anyway. And they’re usually the ones who report these quote missing persons unquote.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Corelli agreed in his most polished and obsequious voice. Dolchik was busting his ass to put him off the scent; it might be better to let him believe he’d done just that. “Maybe I’ve been letting my imagination run away with me.”
“Glad to see you’ve come around to my way of thinking,” Dolchik said cheerfully. “It’s about time we began to see eye to eye on some things, Frank.” He plucked a fresh cigar from his top drawer, bit off the end, and lit up. “We’ve got enough trouble down in this hellhole without fighting among ourselves, what say?”
“The frustration’s just got to me. I’ve been acting like a real asshole, I guess.”
“Forget it,” the captain said magnanimously. “We’re all entitled to our share of mistakes.”
“I just thought I might be onto something. You know how it is,” Corelli said meekly.
“Hell, the next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the creepers are coming to get us.” Dolchik cackled with laughter.
Corelli smiled at the idea, too. The creepers were subway legend. There were many stories of the wild band of misfits and monsters who haunted the tracks and tunnels of the subway late at night. But so far no one had ever caught one, or even seen one and been able to prove it. No, the creepers were fantasy concocted to while away the long hours underground doing a thankless job. And until the myth was proved real, there was no point discussing them seriously at all.
Dolchik walked to the office door. The interview was over. He waited for Corelli to join him, but he remained where he was, his back to the door. “One more thing, Captain; I need a couple of days…”
“Sure, take them. Get away for a while, shake off the grime of the subway.” Dolchik sounded almost relieved at the thought of having Corelli out from under his feet “But just take a couple of days-today and tomorrow. Saturday morning I want you here full-time. No more shit No more disappearances. No more nothing. You got that?”
“It’s ringing clear as a bell.” Corelli got up lazily and sauntered to the door. “You’re all right, Dolchik.”
“That and a token will get you a ride on the subway,” he said uneasily. “Now, get the fuck out of here, and for Christ’s sake, don’t tell the other guys what a pussy I’ve been with you or they’ll all be in here telling me they’ve seen ghosts they want to investigate.”
Five minutes later Dolchik watched Corelli chat with a couple of the men, go to his desk to get his wallet and briefcase, then leave. Dolchik waited five minutes more before picking up the phone, just to be sure he wouldn’t be interrupted. He dialed and waited. Calling this number was familiar, almost routine. The enormity of the task he and the others were about to embark on no longer scared him. And liaising between the underworld of the subway and the glittering heights of the most exclusive and clandestine government circles no longer intimidated him. Stan Dolchik was task-force commander for this operation, and as such, that made him one helluva special guy.
“It’s Dolchik…” He lowered his voice when the phone was answered. “I gave him the bottle-of-Scotch bullshit, but I don’t think he bought it.” He took a long, deep breath. “It looks like we’re in trouble. Something’s got to be done about Frank Corelli-fast.”
Corelli made up a list of things to do before the afternoon was over. He had the uneasy feeling that time was running out Not the two days Dolchik had allotted him, but the leeway that someone else-the unknown quantity, the “big boys”-controlled. He’d called Dr. Geary at New York Mercy to ask a few more questions (and to drop Dolchik’s name) and was told that the doctor was gone for the day. It was possible, of course, but Frank suspected he’d never be able to reach the good doctor again. New York Mercy was a big hospital, with big defenses to protect its own-if need be.
In fact, New York Mercy Hospital itself seemed to be taking on an ominous importance in the case. The TA report on Lester Baker stated that he’d been admitted to Columbia Presbyterian on 168th Street. Yet, when Corelli visited there not more than an hour after leaving Dolchik, the nurse on duty said Baker had been dismissed, sent home. Corelli questioned her, and finally, after a few threats of official reprisals, she’d admitted that Baker had been transferred, not dismissed. Transferred to New York Mercy.
A blaring car horn snapped Corelli back to reality. He nodded good-naturedly at the red-faced driver of the car he’d almost hit, then stepped on the gas. Minutes later, after swerving in and out of traffic, he was in front of New York Mercy Hospital on upper Fifth Avenue. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and was surprised to see how firmly his jaw was set. Well, what did he expect, after all? A week ago he’d been just another transit cop slogging through the sewer of the subway system, dealing with the crime and the mundane pettiness of the riders. But today he was up to his neck in something he just couldn’t pinpoint. Something was going on around him, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that the cover-up surrounding it was very well-orchestrated. The missing persons. The kidnapping of Lisa Hill. Ted Slade’s death. The attack on Lester Baker. And Dolchik’s threats. They were all tied together, but what the hell did it all mean?
Talking personally to Lester Baker should clear up a few things. Thank God he was still alive. The clerk at the hospital information desk was a woman in her late forties. She was pinch-faced, bespectacled, and wore her shock of yellow hair-the color of banana skins-in a tight bun. As Corelli approached, she examined his handsome face, then surreptitiously slid her glasses from her nose; they fell to her ample bosom, bounced once, then rested in place.
“May I help you?” Her voice was surprisingly deep and rich.
“A friend of mine is a patient here and I’ve forgotten his room number.”
“Happens all the time,” she said cheerfully. “If you’ll just give me the name…”
“Baker. Lester Baker.”
“I’ll check.” She rescued her glasses and slapped them into place, then nipped through the card catalog. A minute later she was still looking.
“Trouble?” Corelli asked helpfully. Either she was a real dunce or she was stalling for time.
“I can’t seem to find the name.” The confidence in her voice was lost.
“It’s Baker. B-a-k-e-r.” Something was wrong. She was obviously stalling, trying to decide what to do next. A slight flush had risen in her cheeks.
“I don’t see the name Lester Baker,” she repeated nervously. “But if you’ll wait, I’ll check the master file…in the office.” The flush had washed over her neck and cheeks. She looked a little frightened, too.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Corelli said. He quickly scanned the lobby for the exits. The only security guards looked bored and listless; there’d be no problem getting by them-if he had to get out in a hurry.
“I’ll be right back, so don’t go away,” she chirped. “Oh, one more thing: may I please have your name?”
“Why?”
“Well, if I find your Mr. Baker…I’m sure he’d want to know you’re here.” Her voice faltered and broke.
“Sure.” Corelli smiled widely. “It’s Duck. Donald Duck.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened, and she blushed deeper. Without another word she turned and headed toward the back office. The minute her back was turned, Frank walked quickly to the front door and left.
While Corelli talked with the receptionist, six floors above them in a private room in the geriatric wing of the hospital, Lester Baker lay in bed, drifting lazily between consciousness and sleep. Fifteen minutes earlier he’d received an injection for pain. The nurse complained he wasn’t due for more medication, but Lester was a good actor. In the end, she gave him a hefty dose of Demerol and made him promise not to give her away. The pain from his wounds wasn’t so bad, he reflected, and the drug sure felt good. And it was legal…and free!
Lester’s private room was quiet and warm. With the Venetian bunds turned against the early-afternoon sun, he felt like a caterpillar dozing in the safety of his tent high in the trees. In the hall outside his room, muted voice and call bells punctuated his languor with a syncopated irregularity. Lester had seen the policeman watching him from the empty room adjacent to his, but he didn’t care. After what he’d told them last night, he was a star witness. The cop was just to protect him from those things. That made sense-as much sense as anything had since the attack started.
Sure they were protecting him from those monsters. What other reason? Why else was he locked away from everyone alone, without being told where he was or how long he’d have to stay? Shit, spray-painting subways wasn’t so bad a crime he had to be treated like a prisoner of war. No, it was all because of those things. Through the Demerol haze, Lester’s mind spiraled backward to last night. He fought to drag himself back into the present, but it was no good. The familiar terrifying images of all his friends being slaughtered took over and skimmed over the surface of his consciousness.
What he saw last night had happened! He’d told the cops, told them everything. They said they didn’t believe him. But who would? Who would believe the story of some drugged-out black kid who talked of monsters killing his pals? Lester wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t been there. But someone had. Why else was he shackled to this hospital bed with a police guard outside? Why else was he told he couldn’t have visitors or make any calls? They believed him, all right. And they were keeping him prisoner because of it.
As his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, Lester thought to himself: Jes’ let ’em try to keep my friends away. I already put in a word with the right person. I’ll have visitors soon. I’ll tell ’em what happened last night. I’ll tell ’em.
An hour later the door opened and an orderly carrying a tray with a basin of soapy water, a washcloth, and towels stepped gingerly into Lester’s room. He put his equipment on a wheeled table near the door, then pulled it over to the bed. He then roused the sleeping patient.
“Hey, man, rise and shine.” The orderly peered closer, and when Lester’s eyes began to flutter open, he asked, “You awake enough to talk, or what?”
Lester’s eyes flew open now. The horrible dreams had just begun, and for a second the orderly’s face hovering so close might have been that of any one of his friends-except that they were all dead.
“Time to get washed up, my man,” the orderly said with unnatural good cheer.
“Willie?” Lester refocused his eyes, thinking the dope the nurse had given him was some fine stuff. “Willie Hoyte?”
“None other than. I got your message.” Willie’s eyes darted quickly to the door. “We got to talk soft, man. There’s one big muthafucker of a cop outside.”
“The place is crawling with them,” Lester said lazily. “So Bimbo got through to you.” Washington “Bimbo” Calhoun was an orderly in the emergency room. He’d been on duty when Lester was secretly transferred from Columbia Presbyterian. Although the two men had known each other since childhood, they had gone their separate Ways-Bimbo to work, Lester to play. Still, blood and heritage were thicker than water, and when Bimbo saw his old pal in the hands of the police, he wanted to know why. It didn’t take long to discover that Lester Baker was one special patient-he was locked away on the geriatrics floor with a twenty-four-hour guard, his name didn’t appear on the official patient list, and the floor staff and receptionist had been told to report anyone who inquired after him. No matter what they called it, Bimbo knew Lester was being held prisoner. He’d gotten in to see him, then passed along the message to Willie. He also provided Willie with one of his extra uniforms and an identification tag to get him past the security.
“Bimbo said you was in trouble.” Willie dipped the washcloth in the soapy water, then wrung it out.
“What you aimin’ to do with that washrag, Willie?”
“I’m here to wash you up, El Bee. What else?” Lester started to protest, but Willie silenced him. “Shit, man, you’re in a heap o’ trouble and I may be the only one to get you out. So if I gotta wash you to make it look good, you’d better smile and say ‘thank you.’” He untied Lester’s “johnny” top, slipped it off, and began to wash his chest. “Now, what’s up?”
“They’s all dead, Willie. All my boys-Ronny, Jackson, Roy, and Sammy.” He squeezed his eyes shut and tears seeped through and rolled down his cheeks. “I saw them all die, one by one. Those things got them.” His voice rose in a quivering vibrato.
“Keep your voice down. Want that pig in here?” Willie warned. “Now, tell me everything.”
Lester’s obvious fear had prepared Willie for the worst, but he wasn’t prepared for the devastating story that followed. While he carefully worked, keeping a close watch on the door, Willie listened, wondering if El Bee’s brain hadn’t finally turned to Swiss cheese with all the marijuana and coke he’d pumped into it over the years; it should have gone a long time ago. But Willie quickly discarded the idea. Drug dreams come and go, but hell, even an acid flashback was never this severe. Lester Baker was clearly scared as hell. Willie recognized real fear when he saw it, everyone from uptown did. But a story about monsters?
Willie didn’t get much chance to pursue this thought further, for the cop walked in and shouted, “What’s going on in here?”
“Jes’ finishin’ up, sir,” Willie said meekly.
“You’re doing one hell of a lot of talking. I can hear your voices through the door.” He stepped forward and looked from Willie to Lester, then back to Willie. The cop looked like the kind of guy who would beat the shit out of you first and ask questions later. He stood well over six feet tall and had to weigh 225 if he weighed an ounce. Unlike the standard paunch-bellied, slovenly New York policeman, this guy was solid muscle, tensed, ready to spring. His eyes looked perpetually skeptical and mean. “Just exactly what are you talking about?”
“Who are you? My mother?” Lester asked insolently. “This dude and I are just strikin’ up an acquaintance. That ain’t so strange, seein’ how he’s washin’ my privates.”
The cop blushed at the answer and averted his eyes from the bed. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll save your smart-ass answers.” He stationed himself inside by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. “I want you, boy, out of here…now!” he spit at Willie.
Willie felt a cold rush of fear slither up his spine, cross his shoulders, and race down each arm. If the cop got too nosy, the shit would really hit the fan. Impersonating an orderly wasn’t so bad, but talking to a prisoner the cops wanted out of the way was. He quickly dried Lester, pulled the table away from the bed, collected the tray, and sailed out of the room past the cop.
Halfway to freedom, the cop called to Willie. “You! Stay right there. I want to talk to you.”
Willie froze. The hospital whites and Bimbo’s name tag were a good cover, but the wallet in his pocket said he was Willie Hoyte. Why the fuck did he bring the wallet? How could he have been so dumb? If the cop searched him, the jig was up.
The cop loomed up over Willie, planting his feet widely apart, his hands on his hips, while the fingers of his right hand played a soft tattoo on the worn leather of his holster. “Now, you want to tell me exactly what you and your friend were talking about?”
“I-” Willie began, but he never finished.
“Jesus, help me!” Lester screamed from his room. “Oh, my God, no!” The half-closed door obstructed the cop’s view of Lester, and for one fleeting second he hesitated, unsure whether to grab Willie or to run back into the hospital room. Lester screamed again, and the cop darted into the other room.
Willie heaved the soapy tray onto a nearby chair, where it tilted wildly, then clattered to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Willie pulled the door open and ran out into the corridor. At the far end, at the nurses’ station, a lone nurse bent over a chart, writing a medication report. Willie slowed down and walked away from the station, hoping his fast exit hadn’t caught her attention. The nurse did look up momentarily, but then she returned to her work.
He had no idea where the corridor led, but as long as it was away from that cop, it was okay. At best, Lester’s diversionary screams gave him only a minute’s head start. He stayed close to the wall, eyes down, until he reached the end of the corridor, where he turned right. He passed through double doors into another corridor that was dotted with elderly patients. Some were in wheelchairs; others walked along at a snail’s pace, supported by metal walkers. Yet others sat motionless, staring off into space. Willie tensed as he saw he was approaching another nurses’ station, this one populated by several nurses and a black security guard.
“Afternoon,” Willie said cheerfully as he strolled past the station toward a red exit sign halfway down the hall.
“You working here?” a gray-haired nurse inquired after looking him up and down with obvious distaste.
“No, ma’am. I’m working down in Pediatrics.” The moment he said it Willie wished he’d kept his mouth shut Saying too much always got him in trouble.
“Then you’re going the wrong way. Pediatrics is in the north wing.” The nurse shook her head and turned to the guard. “Pediatrics doesn’t use a staff orderly, do they, Lem?”
“You’ve got a point there,” the guard agreed. He now looked suspiciously at Willie, who still continued to walk away from them despite the nurse’s imprecations. “Come over here a second, will you, boy?” The guard pulled himself up straight and squared his shoulders.
At that precise moment the cop who guarded Lester rounded the corner, saw Willie, and shouted, “Stop that motherfucker!”
If the suddenness of the outburst hadn’t stunned the group at the nurses’ station, the epithet did. They all-security guard included-stared at the red-faced cop barreling down the corridor like a maniac escaped from the locked ward. “Grab that cocksucker!” the cop yelled in desperation.
By the time the security guard snapped to and started down the hall, Willie was through the exit door, leaping down stairs three at a time. His only chance was to make it to the main floor, then back out to the street before anyone had a chance to contact the hospital’s main security force. He needed to stop and catch his breath; his heart pounded in against his chest and the blood rushed to his head, flashing against his eyes in spurts of white and red. He needed to stop, but the sounds of clattering footsteps behind him kept him running.
On the ground floor Willie pushed against the steel door that led into the main lobby. It was locked! He leaned full against it, shoving with his shoulder-the door stood fast. The sounds of the cops grew closer, and with one final desperate push Willie ran against the door. It sprang open into the busy hallway and knocked over a dietitian carrying a food tray. At the same time, it set off an alarm that rang ferociously down the corridor.
Willie spun into the hallway from the force of his run, nearly tripped, but quickly righted himself and ran full-out toward the exit out onto Fifth Avenue. Once outside, he halted on the sidewalk, temporarily blinded by the sun. Which way should he go? The cops were sure to be converging on the hospital from all directions. Only Central Park across the street seemed a safe escape. He’d run through the park and exit on the West Side. Then he’d decide what to do about Lester.
As he stepped into the street, a car screeched to a halt in front of him and the driver leaned out. “Going somewhere, Mr. Hoyte?”
Willie’s throat constricted so tightly he choked. He peered into the car, his eyes wide with fright. He expected a cop. He expected to be hauled off to jail, then to disappear like Lester Baker because he, too, now knew too much. He expected all that, but what he found was Frank Corelli sitting as impassively as the Cheshire cat in Alice’s nightmare.
Without a moment’s hesitation Willie leaped into the car and pulled the door closed. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, Corelli!”
“Seems I’m in the habit of saving your ass, Willie.” Corelli pulled away from the curb just as the cop and hospital security guard ran out onto the pavement. “Now, maybe you can start returning the favors.”
Twenty minutes later they were silently seated over coffee at one of the many Greek-owned coffee shops that speckle the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Corelli’s patience was about at an end. He was willing to allow Willie all the time he needed to explain why he’d flown out of the hospital like a cannon shot, but it was getting late and Willie was being evasive.
“Want to tell me about it, Willie?” Frank finally probed after ordering a third cup of coffee.
“Tell you about what, man?”
“Tell me why the hell you’re dressed like young Dr. Kildare. And tell me why you left the hospital like the KKK was on your heels.”
“Bug off, Corelli!” Willie replied sarcastically.
Corelli slammed his hand down on the tabletop, jarring the coffee cups and knocking over a napkin holder. Several other patrons, disturbed by the sound, looked up anxiously; then they turned away, pretending nothing had happened; they didn’t want to get involved.
“It looks to me like you’re in one hell of a mess, Willie. You’re wearing someone else’s uniform-Washington Calhoun, if I read correctly-and you’re in trouble with the law.”
“You don’t know no such thing.”
“Save the bullshit for your puppy dogs from hell. I’m a cop. I can smell it when someone’s in trouble, and you stink of it! Now, do you want to discuss it here in this nice, friendly atmosphere, or do I take you back to the hospital and find out just what’s up?”
Willie thought a moment, then relented. “Okay, okay. You proved your point, man. You’re one big tough cop.” He sipped his coffee, trying to ignore his grudging admiration for Corelli. He didn’t treat Willie or his boys like scum, the way so many TA cops did. Corelli was willing to level with him. “I had to get into the hospital to see El Bee,” he finally admitted, waiting for the policeman to ask just what that name meant.
“Did you see Lester?” Corelli, of course, knew Baker’s nickname, had even met him a couple of times. But what got his ass was: just how the hell did Hoyte know where Baker was, when it had taken him all morning to find out? Of course, Washington Calhoun, the orderly. “Well, did you see him?” Willie reluctantly nodded. “And…?”
“They got Lester tied down in bed. He’s so doped up he don’t hardly know where he is. He got the word to Bimbo”-he pointed to the name tag on his shirt-”that he wanted to see me. El Bee and me go way back to Lenox Avenue.”
“He’s tied up?”
Willie nodded. “They got him shackled down at the wrists and ankles like when they’re afraid someone is going to try to hurt hisself.”
“Or get away,” Corelli mused.
“And there’s a cop sitting outside in another room.”
“He’s not in the hall where he can be seen?”
“No, sir. They’s an empty room right next door. You got to get by this big mick to see El Bee.”
“And you just waltzed past him, pretending to be an orderly?”
“I sure did,” Willie replied proudly. “That cop was as dumb as a donkey’s asshole.”
Corelli had struck gold! If the NYPD had Baker confined to solitary at New York Mercy Hospital with an armed guard, that could only mean that he knew something, had seen something-something connected with all the other subway troubles. The TA report was innocuous enough about what had happened: Baker had been apprehended in the car yard after being attacked by one of the guard dogs, and was taken to Columbia Presbyterian. It also mentioned that he’d been hysterical when caught, and Corelli had at first overlooked that point-who wouldn’t be hysterical after being attacked by a German shepherd? Now that particular piece of information seemed more ominous.
Corelli was starting to see that it was Lester Baker who held the key to this puzzle at the moment. He’d sensed it from the start, from the moment he’d read the report. Frank had seen too many routine reports in his time not to be suspicious. It wasn’t so much what the report had said as what it didn’t say. For one thing, guard dogs didn’t just attack without provocation; something had angered or frightened the beast enough to cause it to bite Baker; for another, the mental state of the apprehended is rarely mentioned-unless “hysterical” meant raving mad. And what, in the subway yard, could drive a guard dog into a vicious frenzy and cause Lester Baker nearly to lose his mind?
“What did your friend El Bee have to say for himself?” Corelli asked nonchalantly.
“Nothing much,” Willie answered, just as blasé. Corelli stared at him a moment, then finished his coffee, called for the check, and dug into his pocket for his wallet When he pushed his chair back as if to leave, Willie finally reacted. “What you doing?” he asked suspiciously.
“We’re getting out of here. I’m taking you back across town to New York Mercy.” “Now, hold on, Corelli-”
“You hold on, mister. I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but count me out. You want to act like a prick, go ahead. But you’re going to have to do it with the men in blue. I’ve had it.”
“You take me back there, and I’m going to disappear like Lester did. There’s some bad shit going down at that hospital that someone don’t want nobody to know about.”
“Then for Christ’s sake, tell me what happened.” Frank settled back in the chair and waited.
Willie started talking slowly, keeping his eyes riveted on the coffee cup in front of him. He now wished he’d never had that call from Bimbo Calhoun, never gone to see El Bee. Willie was wishing that he were far away in a safe place where nothing could harm him. But the old feelings of insecurity tumbled back. He fought desperately to fend them off, but lost. It was like when his father went to prison. Willie’s world fell down around him and left him feeling like he was standing at the top of a flagpole on one foot.
By the time he finished retelling Lester’s story, his voice was trembling with emotion. By El Bee’s bed Willie had forced himself to remain calm while the tale of horror was revealed. But telling Corelli proved too much for him, and the pure, raw emotion spilled forth. Willie reached for his coffee and spilled it over the table because his hands were shaking so badly.
“Hey, take it easy,” Corelli soothed as he mopped up the mess with a handful of napkins. “You’ll be all right.”
“Sure’s hell I will,” Hoyte replied defiantly.
“It’s all right to be upset. You’ve been through hell in the last couple of hours.”
Willie clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Maybe where you come from it’s cool to bawl like a baby, but where I come from, anyone sees tears and you’re dead.”
“I come from Brooklyn, and the last guy who laughed because I was man enough to show how I felt is now wearing his face on the back of his head.”
“You something else, Corelli.” Willie laughed.
“You’re doing okay yourself, Mr. Hoyte,” he said easily. His flattery wasn’t entirely without purpose; Willie now knew as much as Lester Baker, and that made him valuable-and dangerous. “El Bee said he was with friends when he was attacked? Are you sure of that?” The report hadn’t mentioned anyone else being present.
“He was with four guys. He say they all dead now.”
“Then what happened to their bodies?” Willie started at the word “bodies,” and Corelli immediately regretted being so blunt. “I know it’s tough for you to talk about this, but it’s important.”
“He never got to tell me everything. That cop busted in on us.”
“Well, you’ve done fine, Willie. Just fine,” Frank said sincerely. The fact was there were still things to know, but he’d have to hear them from Lester Baker himself. But that wasn’t going to be easy. He’d been taken to New York Mercy Hospital and was being kept doped up in maximum security. All because he’d been attacked and his men had been killed. By what? Something monstrous. Something too horrible to talk about. Somebody didn’t want him to talk. Somebody didn’t want the story of the things in the subway to get out. Somebody with enough pull in this city to erase the trail that led from Lenox Avenue to the morgue. Somebody who would go to any lengths to keep this quiet.
Any lengths. Corelli wondered just how far they would go when the chips were down. It was important that he know, for he was the one person in New York who had traced the pattern from the subway to New York Mercy. And that made him a threat! And, goddammit, he’d already bragged to Dolchik about tipping off the newspapers if necessary. And he’d blown his cover with the pathologist, Dr. Tom Geary… and with the nurse at Columbia Presbyterian… and with the receptionist at New York Mercy. If he weren’t careful, Frank Corelli would not only help put the noose around his own neck but also help spring the trapdoor!
But right now there were other things to do than worry about his own safety. “Go home and keep your mouth shut, Willie. Give back the uniform and tell Bimbo that as far as he’s concerned he never saw Lester Baker and that he never saw you. And for God’s sake don’t tell anyone the story El Bee told you.”
Willie shook his head angrily. “Man, these things live in the subway and it’s my sworn duty as a Dog of Hell to protect people riding down there.”
“Your duty is to do what I say, Willie.”
“You ain’t the boss, man.”
“I’ve got a straight line to the boss. You and your Dogs of Hell have been pretty lucky so far, whether you know it or not. You’ve been clever pulling the press in to keep a high profile, but let me tell you something, man,” Corelli leaned forward to emphasize his impending threat. “Anytime the TA gets the notion to shut you down, it will, legally or otherwise. And if you think I’m bullshitting, you’re dreaming. If I hear one story from anyone about monsters living in the subway, you’ll be fucked so fast you won’t even know your ass was up in the air! Have I made myself clear?”
Willie didn’t reply.
“I repeat: Have I made myself clear, Mr. Hoyte?”
“You sure have, you bastard,” Willie spit out.
Corelli relaxed. The threat had worked. “Glad to see the old Willie Hoyte back once again. Now that we’ve got the intimidation out of the way, I’m going to need your help.” Willie’s eyes brightened at the thought. “I want you and your boys to listen to what people are saying in the subway; watch the tunnels, too, particularly late at night, and report anything unusual to me. We’ve got to find out where these things come from.”
“You mean I’m getting a piece of the action?”
“All you want, but you’ve got to keep it quiet. If you don’t, like you said, you might end up like Baker-tied down in a hospital room with a guard-or like Ted Slade.”
Willie’s eyes blazed with hate at the thought of his buddy and what had happened to him. “No way they gonna get Willie Hoyte that easily. I’ll give the muthafuckers a run for their money.”
Corelli smiled at Willie’s loyalty to his men and to his own ideals. If only there were more Willie Hoytes in New York, the city might not be such a bad place to live. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll drop you home.”
Fifteen minutes later Willie jumped out of the car in front of his apartment building. “You know, Corelli, for a cop-a white cop-you ain’t such a bad dude.” He slammed the door and walked away.
Corelli put the car in gear and headed back downtown. He had a plan. But it wouldn’t work unless he had help. And there was only one place he could go. He just hoped Louise was at home. She didn’t know it yet, but she was about to become the most important person in unraveling this whole mess. Like it or not, Louise Hill was about to put herself in grave danger.
Corelli pressed the doorbell and waited. He should have called Louise, but he was afraid she’d hear the worry in his voice. He had a better chance of getting her help by talking to her in person. The door opened and Louise stood there, amazed by his presence.
“Hi there,” Corelli said easily. Her trim body was hidden under a paint-covered smock, but he stared anyway.
“This is a surprise,” she said.
“I’m full of surprises,” he joked.
Her eyes twinkled mischievously and her mouth puckered into an exasperated pout. “Why is it that that doesn’t amaze me, Frank?” She brushed her hair off her forehead, leaving a vague trail of magenta paint in its place. “Come in, I can use the break.”
He slipped just far enough into the apartment to crowd them both in the vestibule. Almost before he knew what was happening, he’d begun to think of Louise as a beautiful woman once again, instead of the decoy he’d been thinking about all the way downtown. Damn, working with her was going to be harder than he’d imagined. Intellectually, he wanted to keep his distance from her; emotionally, he wanted to put his hands all over her. As a compromise he erased the telltale paint smudge from her forehead with his thumb. He proudly held it up for inspection.
“That’s next year’s hot color in artist’s makeup.” She blushed.
“And this is this year’s hot artist,” he complimented her, and before either of them knew what had happened, Frank pulled her into his arms and kissed her for a long time.
Louise pulled away and shook her head. She looked scared. “You shouldn’t have done that, Frank. I’m in a very dangerous emotional state today and I might just really fall apart on you.”
“Bad news?” He took her by the arm and guided her into the now familiar living room.
“The police called this morning. They have no clues as to Lisa’s whereabouts, but they promised to keep me posted.” She sat down and sighed. “I know what they really meant: Lisa’s gone for good. They’re not even trying to reassure me anymore. I guess they want me to face up to the fact that my baby’s gone… dead.” Louise took in a deep breath and settled back in the chair. “When I hung up, I ran into my studio without giving myself a minute to think. I’ve been working for the past few hours without daring to stop. Why, I’ve designed enough sheets and towels to get me through the next four spring seasons.” She tried to smile, but it crumbled on her lips.
“There still may be a chance,” Corelli said after a minute.
“Don’t say that, Frank. It’s not fair,” she burst out, “not when I’m just beginning to get used to the idea that Lisa is gone for good.”
Corelli sat next to her, and when she didn’t resist, he put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ve been doing my own investigating, looking in a direction the police haven’t explored,” he said softly. “And I think I’ve come up with some answers.”
“What could you possibly know that the police don’t?” “They’ve been looking in all the wrong places. Everyone-including you-believes Lisa was taken from the subway platform, upstairs, and onto the street.”
“And you don’t?” Corelli shook his head. “You think she’s… still in the subway?” The idea had never occurred to Louise; but now that it did, it terrified her. “But that’s impossible. I looked everywhere for her…even on the tracks.”
“Louise, you were hysterical,” Corelli quickly amended. “Of course you wouldn’t think of her in the tunnel-that’s why you ran upstairs. It was the natural thing to do. But, take it from me, there are plenty of places to hide underground along the tracks-workmen’s troughs along the walls, sidetracks, the crawl space under the lip of the platform…even deserted stations.”
Louise thought a moment, then shook her head; “But who knows the subway that well? To be able to hide Lisa while I was right there…?”
“Lots of people. There are even men and women… bums… who live down there. The TA doesn’t publicize the fact that it’s running an underground flophouse, but it’s true.”
“You think some bum grabbed Lisa?” “It’s possible. Someone saw the two of you. You were nicely dressed, maybe they thought they’d kidnap Lisa for blackmail.” It was more like the someone was something, but there was no need for Louise to know that right now.
“If it’s for blackmail, then why haven’t I heard anything?” Louise asked angrily. “Frank, this is beginning to sound like a fairy tale to me.” She pushed his arm aside and sat forward. “You come in here suggesting Lisa is still in the subway at the very time the cops tell me they don’t know where she is. Jesus, I’m torn up inside. They say there’s no hope, you say there is. Who the hell do I believe?” Her trembling mouth dissolved into a sob.
Corelli wanted to recapture her and put his arm around her, but he kept his distance. “I can appreciate how difficult this is for you, but you must trust me. And I’d like you to help me, too. Will you do that?” he asked earnestly. She thought a moment, assessing everything he’d said. “If it means getting Lisa back, I’ll do anything.” She smiled and coughed away the last of her sobs. “What can I do?”
“The cops are holding a black kid at New York Mercy who might know something.”
“About Lisa?” Louise asked incredulously. “In a way, yes.”
Louise shrugged, unable to make even the vaguest connection between her daughter and this unknown black. “What can I do?”
“I want you to go to the hospital, pretending to be a visitor to the wrong room, and see if he’s still there. I can’t afford to blow my cover any more than I already have,” he said sourly, remembering the blond receptionist.
Louise digested the request, then smiled sweetly. “Why is it, Detective Corelli, that I think you’re handing me a line of unadulterated bullshit?”
The question startled him. Once again he’d underestimated Louise Hill’s canny approach to life. He fumbled for an answer. “Because the situation sounds improbable and-”
“No,” she interrupted, “I’m used to the improbable happening these days, but I’m no dunce. Maybe you didn’t notice. Maybe you’re used to dealing only with dumb bimbos who’d follow your big blue eyes to the end of the earth.”
“You’ll have to trust me with this one, Louise. Remember, the only reason I’m here at all now is because I personally took the time to investigate Lisa’s disappearance…and stuck to it.” It was a low blow, but Corelli didn’t have time to soothe her wounded female ego. Whoever was keeping Lester Baker under wraps already knew someone had come to visit him-they’d probably already pinpointed it as Corelli. If Louise kept up this cat-and-mouse game, by the time she got to the hospital, it might already be too late.
“Okay, Corelli,” she responded contritely, “111 go. But I want you to know I don’t trust you. I still think you’re conning me.”
“That’s great,” he said, taking her by the hand. “You can tell me what a louse I am in the car.” And with that he pulled her from the couch, gave her a truly impertinent kiss, and barely gave her time to change her clothes before dragging her out of the apartment.