5:02 P.M.
The detectives entered the senator-elect’s office.
Cecil King smiled at them, but there was little trace of joy in his smile, only two rows of teeth slightly bared, and a scarcely concealed dislike of the man sitting next to him.
“This is Jimmy Padino,” Cecil King said. “My successor.”
Jimmy Padino smirked, nodded, gave a little wave but didn’t bother to stand up and shake hands. He’d reached his new post by clever career moves, more recently filling in for the mayor at cultural events, where there’d be few if any big-bucks contributors to the mayor’s campaigns but always overflow crowds of artsy-fartsy types—the book writers, not the check writers—chatterers, spongers, more than a few of them at home in the company of a boozer like Jimmy Padino. He was the sort who realized it was fatal to offend your superiors, refuse an order, miss a chance to wipe a bottom higher up, and who never really learned it could be just as disastrous to step on underlings, like police detectives who might one day discover an opportunity to pay you back for your thoughtless favors.
Cecil King raised his hands an inch or two and let them fall flat down on the table again. “Well, Jimmy, we don’t have to tell you how genuinely pleased we are that you’re taking over right from the get-go. You’re the luckiest man I know. We got that high-profile murder and it’ll need everything a DA can give. The victim was such a giant in the world of culture. Your world, not mine. So we’re delighted you’re our main man now. Me, I’m history.”
Cecil glanced at Flo and Frank, neither of whom appeared in the least bit delighted at this prospect.
The new DA looked quizzical. “A high-profile murder…”
“High as it gets,” Cecil said. “In Brooklyn anyway. Welcome home, Jimmy.”
“You mean Ballz Busta?” said Jimmy Padino.
“A.k.a. Owen Smith,” said Cecil.
“The rap guy.”
“Mister Music himself. Our modern Mozart, our own Brooklyn Beethoven is your first celebrity murder victim. I envy you, Jimmy, it’ll be a hell of a scalp on your belt when you convict his killer. You’ll be famous coast to coast. From now on, everybody but everybody will be watching Jimmy Padino. Real close. Sure as God made little green apples, they’ll make an HBO movie about you…after you nail the perp. But first there’s a district attorney’s press conference scheduled bright and early tomorrow morning. I was going to do it, but now it’s all yours, my friend.”
Jimmy Padino lost his smirk. “Who’ll brief me?”
“The officers in charge.” Cecil nodded at both homicide detectives.
They in turn eyed the new district attorney with stone-cold stares.
“They’re keeping me alive,” Cecil said.
An assignment for which Flo viewed the new DA in pretty much the same light as she did his patron, the mayor, as more obstacle than ally. Padino belonged in that dark closet full of people to be avoided whenever possible.
6:01 P.M.
The private dining room at the Montauk Club, a late-nineteenth-century members-only establishment, looked out over a panoramic vista of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Memorial Arch in Grand Army Plaza, the crowning glory of the northwest corner of Prospect Park, towering in the middle of a circle of steady traffic converging from three avenues.
But Senator-elect Cecil King, a club member, and his supper guests, Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, couldn’t enjoy the view or hear the traffic, seated as they were—by their own choice—in the corner farthest away from the windows.
A safe spot in its prime location, the Montauk Club was a ten-minute walk from Cecil’s family apartment on Eastern Parkway.
Twenty minutes from Flo’s house.
Twenty-two minutes from Ballz Busta’s cobblestone courtyard murder scene.
And a short stroll from the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.
“My jogging days are over,” Cecil said. “At least for a while. My dog’s not happy about this. But my kids think it’s cool having a cop at the door. Even if our neighbors are less than enthusiastic. As soon as we move to Washington, they’ll all be throwing a big party in our building. You can join them.”
He smiled at his guests and tucked into his crab Louis salad.
Flo was having the house Cobb salad and Frank went for the pumpkin-and-ricotta ravioli. “These are terrific” was gourmand Frank’s judgment. “Almost as good as Ann-Marie’s homemade.”
“Then they’re wonderful,” Flo said. “You’ve got to try his wife’s cooking, Senator, it’s Brooklyn’s best.”
“That’s saying something. I’d love to try, if I get the invite. But I promise at least one thing’s sure, no restaurants between now and New Year’s. Which has an upside, if I lose weight.” He patted a slight paunch and returned to his creamy crab Louis salad.
“Look at the Double-A track record,” Flo said. “They don’t always hit in enclosed public spaces. They prefer outdoors, when the target is on the way to or from a public place. They got the congressman in bed. The three professors were hit in their labs. Radio-controlled bombs within minutes of each other. Harvard, Yale, Princeton. And four grad students killed along with their professors, plus seven more injured.”
“That’s incredible coordination.” The senator-elect wiped a bit of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “What’s the likelihood of bombs again?”
“It’s always there,” Frank said. “But we’re sweeping every public place where you appear. Any private place is too much work from their side. Places like in here for instance. They can’t run the risk of trying to get inside.”
Cecil cast a glance around the Victorian-era club’s dining room. “And what about that congressman in his hotel bed? A bed is a pretty private place.”
“The Tabard Inn, where he got hit, is a funky little hotel. No elevators, no guards. The front door was locked, as it is every night, so the management says. But the shooter slipped in the back by the kitchen. That’s where the target’s room was, the cheapest room in the hotel near the kitchen. The congressman was a regular and he always took the same room. He’d bring his dates in there.”
“He was with someone?”
“No,” Frank said. “The guy had left, he was seen leaving out the back door, like all the other dates the victim brought in. And this guy was never found.”
“So far,” Flo said. “The Double-A has used a range of killing methods, but the long-range rifle, a scope, a silencer, this seems like their favorite combination. A long-range rifle is an outdoor weapon. That’s how they hit all the Planned Parenthood doctors and the president of the ACLU. She was walking out of NYU law school after a lecture, and they got her right in Washington Square on her way back to her apartment. And then they just disappeared. They don’t blow themselves up. They vanish. They’re well trained and probably educated.”
“Like that mad mathematician?” Cecil said. “The guy who sent bombs through the mail. He did it for years before he got caught. And I think he was a Harvard grad. Or maybe MIT.”
“They haven’t resorted to the mails yet. They’re well financed. They’ve got resources. And they must have some kind of base somewhere. Even if it’s virtual.”
Cecil pushed his plate away and shook his head.
“Haven’t they ever struck out?”
“If they have,” said Flo, “we don’t know about it.”
“Well, bottom line here is I can’t hide for two months. That’s unacceptable. I have to be in public, it’s my job. People have to see me. And I have to see them. Also, what if these threats are fake? A ploy just to tie me down, put me out of the game.”
“I understand that risk,” Flo said. “But it’s a high-stakes game, if the threats are real. And we’ve no reason to doubt them. All the Double-A hallmarks are there. Frank and I accepted this job, and Senator you’ll just have to put up with us.”
“So you’re sticking with me like white on rice, if you’ll pardon the expression.” Cecil grinned and called the server over to order a round of coffee. “Okay, you’ll both know everything I’m doing from now to New Year’s. Every last thing…”