Fourteen officers were injured restoring order. Four people died from burns, 22 others were treated for burn-related injuries. Seventeen people, including four kids, were trampled to death.
The media taped all of it for broadcast. The morning news shows labeled Central Park West in the mid-90s a “Manhattan War Zone.” Mallory thought that for once they got it right.
Fire Department investigators found evidence that three rooms had been torched, all with homemade, modified Molotov cocktails: liquor bottles filled with gas. Two were rigged with rags and cigarettes serving as timing mechanisms; these set off the fire alarms. The other had been set ablaze after a window overlooking Central Park West had been duct taped, then smashed. It was believed that this was the room from which the Molotov cocktails were thrown.
Tizzie ran information to Mallory and Gunner, eventually confirming that Officer Dedalus was in serious but stable condition; the adulterers were identified as Mrs. Joyce Mangan of Passaic County, New Jersey, and Jack Bazaar of Rockland County, New York. He was an executive at Cooper-Pierce Research, some kind of investment company with offices in the 40s. She was older than the young stud; Tizzie said the squad was researching what their connection was “besides being hump buddies.”
Periodically they’d cross paths with Danvers, who was also covering the entire hotel as C.O. of the investigation. Conferring only demonstrated that none of their efforts led them closer to their guy.
Meanwhile, the media was swarming, lined up outside the hotel, taping, conducting interviews with irate hotel guests, scared employees, breaking into regular broadcasts all day, reporting any glimpse of the investigation, each update blasting the efforts of the NYPD.
Additional hours were spent struggling through a staggering pile of paperwork, more than made sense, more than they could ever possibly use, and yet only about half of what would officially be required. They were so blown out by the time Danvers made them go home, Mallory and Gunner stood numb in the garage for long minutes before they could remember where their car was parked.
It was almost 7 p.m. by the time he pulled into his driveway and became Dad again.
He kissed Gina gently before the impact of Max running into his legs jarred them apart. He reached down and hugged the boy to him. “Hey, Maxie.”
Gina held his gaze. “I was worried. The news said….”
“They exaggerate everything,” he lied, hugging her. “Where’s Kieran?”
“He’s playing some video baseball game. Max wanted no part of that.”
Max had plans that centered on a red and black ball designed to look like a lady bug. “Dad, I kick it and you chase it and I run and you get me.”
Exhausted as he was, how could he refuse a plan like that? “You think you can take me?”
“Sorry, but you’re losing, Dad!”
Gina laughed, moved toward the open front door. Even ajar it was ugly. “Good luck, hon. I’ll go put dinner on.”
With glee in his eyes, Max kicked the lady bug ball with all the power in his tiny legs. Mallory let it get past him just for the giggle he would earn from his favorite wisenheimer. He gave slow chase, then bobbled the ball theatrically. Max’s laughter touched everything around them as he ran all over the yard, haphazard and carefree, softening the day like a rainbow after a vicious storm.
Mallory finally bent to scoop up the ball. Something flashed by the corner of his eye, on the other side of the lawn. No way Max was that fast. He looked toward the blur.
It was a bulldog. None of the neighbors had one, as far as Mallory knew. And this ugly little thing was bounding straight for Max. That pug face, those small, sharp, exposed bottom teeth, filled Mallory with a sudden dread.
Max turned his gloriously smiling face around to check Dad’s progress. The gruesome bulldog rushed right into his line of sight. Max screamed, the terror in his voice ripping right through Mallory’s heart. Crying freely now, the boy ran toward the stoop. He bellowed, unaware of what he was saying. “GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”
Gina rushed out, shaken by his shouts, confused. Mallory grabbed Max, threw their son right at her. Max hit Gina square in the chest, sending them both back into the house, the rickety storm door slamming in front of them.
Mallory whipped around, the dog already almost on him. He leaned down, a stupid move if the dog decided to lunge, and growled incoherent rage, his hand reaching for his gun. The bulldog turned, fled back across the lawn. It stopped at the edge of Mallory’s property, looked back directly at him, cocked its ugly head to one side, and took a dump right on the lawn. Then the dog seemed to nod up with his chin, just once, before trotting away.
Mallory stumbled to the curb, stared up the street, searching. No trace of the dog at all. “Hon, what was that about? Max was terrified.” Gina touched his arm.
“Tired,” Mallory murmured. “Overreacted. Misread the situation.”
“You never misread situations, Frank. What did you see that got you shouting at a dog and throwing your own son at me?”
Gina waited, then shook her head and sighed. “I hate it when you do this.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Frank, please don’t do this. I saw the news. That hotel turned into Hell on Earth, there’s no way you can downplay it.” She moved into his line of sight, forced her husband to make eye contact with her. “Did you catch that guy?”
“We’re working on it, hon. Don’t worry.”
“And the dog?”
“He was charging Max, teeth bared. Honey, I’ve never seen that thing before and it was charging Maxie. I need more of a reason? Max was terrified.”
She whispered. “When you screamed at it, so were you.”
“I overreacted,” Mallory forced a smile at her.
Gina stared at him for a long time. “Frank, you’ve got less than two years before you can retire; you don’t need this.”
“You don’t understand—”
She stepped away from him. “I’m trying to, honey, I’m really trying to understand. All I do know is, we have Max inside upset, and you’re out here staring down the street. I find you in your car at three in the morning, working a case. When you’re playing catch with Kieran, I can tell your mind is wandering. You don’t come home from work, I see on the news that you’re in a war zone. Then you do get here, and goofing around with Max turns into some kind of crisis. You sounded terrified. I’m worried. You’ve never been like this before; never let work invade our home like this. It’s not healthy for you, Frank; it’s not good for the kids, for us. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
She turned to her husband.
He was staring down the road.