something.”
Burke said, “I’ll see that they don’t.”
Flynn nodded. “Stay close, Lieutenant, I’ll be wanting you later.” He turned and mounted the steps slowly, then disappeared around the corner of the right-hand staircase.
Burke stared up at the kneeling man with the Thompson, and the man jerked the barrel in a motion of dismissal. Burke took his hands off the brass gate and stepped down the stairs and out of the line of sight of the staircase. He wiped his sweaty palms across his topcoat and lit a cigarette as he walked to the corridor opening.
He was glad he wouldn’t have to deal again with the man named Brian Flynn, or with the personality of Finn MacCumail, and he felt sorry for Bert Schroeder, who did.
Captain Bert Schroeder stood with his foot on the rim of the fountain in Grand Army Plaza, smoking a short, fat cigar. A light sleet fell on his broad shoulders and soaked into his expensive topcoat. Schroeder watched the crowd slowly trailing away through the lamplit streets around him. Some semblance of order had been restored, but he doubted if he would be able to pick up his daughter and make it to his family party.
The unit he had been marching with, County Tyrone, his mother’s ancestral county, had dispersed and drifted off, and he stood alone now, waiting, fairly certain of the instinct that told him he would be called. He looked at his watch, then made his way to a patrol car parked on Fifth Avenue and looked in the window. “Any news yet?”
The patrolman looked up. “No, sir. Radio’s still out.”
Bert Schroeder felt a sense of anger at the undignified way the parade had ended but wasn’t sure yet toward whom to direct it.
The patrolman added, “I think the crowd is thin enough for me to drive you someplace if you want.”
Schroeder considered, then said, “No.” He tapped a paging device on his belt. “This thing should still be able to receive a signal. But hang around in case I want you.”
Schroeder’s pager sounded, and he felt his heart pound in a conditioned response. He threw down his cigar and shut off the device.
The driver in the patrol car called out, “Somebody grabbed somebody, Captain. You’re on.”
Schroeder started to speak and found that his mouth was dry. “Yeah, I’m on.”
“Give you a lift?”
“What! No … I have to … to call …” He tried to steady the pounding in his chest. He turned and looked up at the brightly lit Plaza Hotel on the far side of the square, then ran toward it. As he ran, a dozen possible scenarios flashed throughhis mind the way they always did when the call came—
He bounded up the steps of the Plaza, ran through the crowded lobby, then down a staircase to the line of wall phones outside Trader Vic’s. A large crowd was massed around the phones, and Schroeder pushed through and grabbed a receiver from a man’s hand. “Police business! Move back!”
He dialed a special operator number and gave her a number in Police Plaza. He waited a long time for a ring, and while he waited he lit another cigar and paced around to the extent of the phone cord.
He felt like an actor waiting for the curtain, apprehensive over his rehearsed lines, panicky that the ad libs would be disastrous. His heart was beating out of control now, and his mouth went dry as his palms became wet. He hated this. He wanted to be somewhere else. He loved it. He felt alive.
The phone rang at the other end, and the duty sergeant answered. Schroeder said calmly, “What’s up, Dennis?”
Schroeder listened in silence for a full minute, then said in a barely audible voice, “I’ll be at the rectory in ten minutes.”
He hung up and, after steadying himself against the wall, pushed away from the phones and mounted the steps to the lobby, his body sagging, his face blank. Then his body straightened, his eyes came alive, and his breathing returned to normal. He walked confidently out the front doors and stepped into the police car that had followed him.
The driver said, “Bad, Captain?”
“They’re all bad. Saint Pat’s rectory on Madison. Step on it.”
CHAPTER 24
Monsignor Downes’s adjoining offices were filling rapidly with people. Burke stood by the window of the outer office sipping a cup of coffee. Mayor Kline and Governor Doyle came in looking very pale, followed by their aides. Burke recognized other faces as they appeared at the door, somewhat hesitantly, as though they were entering a funeral parlor. In fact, he thought, as people streamed in and exchanged subdued greetings the atmosphere became more wakelike, except that everyone still wore topcoats and green carnations—and there were no bereaved to pay condolences to, though he noticed that Monsignor Downes came close to filling that role.
Burke looked down into Madison Avenue. Streetlights illuminated the hundreds of police who, in the falling sleet, were clearing an area around the rectory. Police cars and limousines pulled up to the curb discharging police commanders and civilian officials. Lines were being brought in by the telephone company, and field phone wire was being strung by police to compensate for the lost radio communication. The machine was moving slowly, deliberately. Traffic was rolling; civilization, such as it was in New York, had survived another day.
“Hello, Pat.”
Burke spun around. “Langley. Jesus, it’s good to see someone who doesn’t have much more rank than I do.”
Langley smiled. “You making the coffee and emptying the ashtrays?”
“Have you been filled in?”
“Briefly. What a fucking mess.” He looked around the Monsignor’s office. “It looks like
“That’s not likely. He died of a heart attack.”
“Christ. Nobody told me that. You mean that dipshit Rourke is in charge?”
“As soon as he gets here.”
“He’s right behind me. We put the chopper down in the courtyard of the Palace Hotel. Christ, you should have seen what it looked like from the air.”
“Yeah. I think I would rather have seen it from the air.” Burke lit a cigarette. “Are we in trouble?”
“We won’t be invited to the Medal Day ceremonies this June.”
“For sure.” Burke tapped his ash on the windowsill. “But we’re still in the game.”
“You, maybe. You got a horse shot out from under you. I didn’t have a horse shot out from under me. Any horses around?”
“I have some information from Jack Ferguson we can use when we’re on the carpet.” He took Langley’s arm and drew him closer. “Finn MacCumail’s real name is Brian Flynn. He’s Maureen Malone’s ex-lover.”
“Ah,” said Langley, “ex-lover. This is getting interesting.”
Burke went on. “Flynn’s lieutenant is John Hickey.”
“Hickey’s dead,” said Langley. “Died a few years ago…. There was a funeral … in Jersey.”
“Some men find it more convenient to hold their funeral before their demise.”
“Maybe Ferguson was wrong.”
“He saw John Hickey in Saint Pat’s today. He doesn’t make mistakes.”
“We’ll have the grave dug up.” Langley felt chilled and moved away from the window. “I’ll get a court order.”
Burke shrugged. “You find a sober judge in Jersey tonight, and I’ll dig it up myself. Anyway, Hickey’s file is on the way, and Louise is checking out Brian Flynn.”
