“I know,” Delaney sighed. “Remain on station. Assist Assault-Homicide. Guards on the kid and Valenter until we can get statements.”
“Understood. Searcher One out.”
“Any word from the Bridge?” Delaney asked the radio operator.
“No, sir. Traffic backing up.”
“Captain Delaney, the three cars from Special Operations are outside.”
“Good, Hold them. Blankenship, come into the study with me.
They went in; Delaney closed all the doors. He searched a moment, pulled from the bookshelves a folded road map of New York City and one of New York State. He spread the city map out on his desk, snapped on the table lamp. The two men bent over the desk. Delaney jabbed his finger at East End Avenue.
“He started here,” he said. “Went north and made a left onto Eighty-sixth Street. That’s what I figure. Went right past Bulldog Three who still had their thumbs up their asses. Oh hell, maybe I’m being too hard on them.”
“We heard a second series of shots and shouts when we alerted Bulldog Three,” Blankenship reminded him.
“Yes. Maybe they got some off. Anyway, Danny Boy headed west.”
“To the George Washington Bridge?”
“Yes,” the Captain said, and paused. If Blankenship wanted to ask any questions about why Delaney had sent blocking cars to the Bridge, now would be the time to ask them. But the detective had too much sense for that, and was silent.
“So now he’s at Central Park,” Delaney went on, his blunt finger tracing the path on the map. “I figure he turned south for Traverse Three and crossed to the west side at Eighty-sixth, went over to Broadway, and turned north. Bulldog Three said he was heading north. He probably turned left onto Ninety-sixth to get on the West Side Drive.”
“He could have continued north and got on the Drive farther up. Or taken Broadway or Riverside Drive all the way to the Bridge.”
“Oh shit,” Captain Delaney said disgustedly, “he could have done a million things.”
Like all cops, he was dogged by the unpredictable. Chance hung like a black cloud that soured his waking hours and defiled his dreams. Every cop lived with it: the meek, humble prisoner who suddenly pulls a knife, a shotgun blast that answers a knock on a door during a routine search, a rifle shot from a rooftop. The unexpected. The only way to beat it was to live by percentages, trust in luck, and-if you needed it-pray.
“We have a basic choice,” Delaney said dully, and Blankenship was intelligent to note the Captain had said, “We have…” not “I have…” He was getting sucked in. This man, the detective reflected, didn’t miss a trick. “We can send out a five-state alarm, then sit here on our keisters and wait for someone else to take him, or we can go get him and clean up our own shit.”
“Where do you think he’s heading, Captain?”
“Chilton,” Delaney said promptly. “It’s a little town in Orange County. Not ten miles from the river. Let me show you.”
He opened the map of New York State, spread it over the back of the club chair, tilted the lampshade to spread more light.
“There it is,” he pointed out, “just south of Mountainville, west of the Military Academy. See that little patch of green? It’s Chilton State Park. Blank goes up there to climb. He’s a mountain climber.” He closed his eyes a moment, trying to remember details of that marked map he had found in Danny Boy’s car a million years ago. Once again Blankenship was silent and asked no questions. Delaney opened his eyes, stared at the detective. “Across the George Washington Bridge,” he recited, delighted with his memory. “Into New Jersey. Onto Four. Then onto Seventeen. Over into New York near Mahwah and Suffern. Then onto the Thruway, and turn off on Thirty-two to Mountainville. Then south to Chilton. The Park’s a few miles out of town.”
“New Jersey?” Blankenship cried. “Jesus Christ, Captain, maybe we better alert them.”
Delaney shook his head. “No use. The Bridge was blocked before he got there. He couldn’t possibly have beat that block. No way, city traffic being what it is. No, he by-passed the Bridge. If he hadn’t he’d have been spotted by now. But he’s still heading for Chilton. I’ve got to believe that. How can he get across the river north of the George Washington Bridge?” They bent over the state map again. Blankenship’s unexpectedly elegant forefinger traced a course.
“He gets on the Henry Hudson Parkway, say at Ninety-sixth. Okay, Captain?”
“Sure.”
“He gets up to the George Washington Bridge, but maybe he sees the block.”
“Or the traffic backing up because of the search.”
“Or the traffic. So he sticks on the Henry Hudson Parkway, going north. My God, he can’t be far along right now. He may be across this bridge here and into Spuyten Duyvil. Or maybe he’s in Yonkers, still heading north.”
“What’s the next crossing?”
“The Tappan Zee Bridge. Here. Tarrytown to South Nyack.”
“What if we closed that off?”
“And he kept going north, trying to get across? Bear Mountain Bridge is next. He’s still south of Chilton.”
“And if we blocked the Bear Mountain Bridge?”
“Then he’s got to go up to the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. Now he’s north of Chilton.”
Delaney took a deep breath, put his hands on his waist. He began to pace about the study.
“We could block every goddamned bridge up to Albany,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to Blankenship. “Keep him on the east side of the river. What the hell for? I want him to go to his hole. He’s heading for Chilton. He feels safe there. He’s alone there. If we block him, he’ll just keep running, and God only knows what he’ll do.”
Blankenship said, almost timidly, “There’s always the possibility he might have made it across the George Washington Bridge, sir. Shouldn’t we alert Jersey? Just in case.”
“The hell with them.”
“And the FBI?”
“Fuck ’em.”
“And the New York State cops?”
“Those shitheads? With their sombreros. You think I’m going to let those apple-knockers waltz in and grab the headlines? Fat chance! This boy is mine. You got your pad?”
“Yes, sir. Right here.”
“Take some notes. No…wait a minute.”
Captain Delaney strode to the door of the radio room, yanked it open. There were more men; the recalls were coming in. Delaney pointed at the first man he saw. “You. Come here.”
“Me, sir?”
The Captain grabbed him by the arm, pulled him inside the study, slammed the door behind him.
“What’s your name?”
“Javis, John J. Detective second grade.”
“Detective Javis, I am about to give orders to Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship. I want you to do nothing but listen and, in case of a Departmental hearing, testify honestly as to what you heard.”
Javis’ face went white.
“It’s not necessary, sir,” Blankenship said.
Delaney gave him a particularly sweet smile. “I know it isn’t,” he said softly. “But I’m cutting corners. If it works, fine. If not, it’s my ass. It’s been in a sling before. All right, let’s go. Take notes on this. You listen carefully, Javis.
“Do all this through Communications. To New Jersey State Police, to the FBI, to New York State Police, a fugitive alert on Danny Boy. Complete description of him and car. Photos to follow. Apprehend and hold for questioning. Exercise extreme caution. Wanted for multiple homicide. Armed and dangerous. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
