Fanatics (7 page)

4:46 P.M.

Flo Ott left the Smith family mansion on Montgomery Place.

The sky was darkening and it was starting to drizzle.

The contours of truth, to her constant assessor's mind, were barely beginning to take shape.

In an unmarked car, discreetly parked around the corner, detective Sergeant Frank Murphy sat waiting for her.

“Ballz Busta was a busy guy,” Frank said as they rode downtown. “Already Marty's found two more women. In Manhattan.”

Sergeant Marty Keane was the third-ranking member of their unit.

“Where's Cecil?” Flo said, preventing a killing still her first concern.

“He left his apartment building in one of our cars. He's back at his office. Waiting for the new DA. And us.”

“New DA already? God-awful timing.”

“Like we got control? The mayor's just announced it. Jimmy Padino, one of his city hall deputies, hooked the brass ring.”

“I've never met him. What's he done?”

“Cultural affairs, all harmless stuff. The arts-and-crafts department. He and the mayor are old college buddies from Georgetown. They say he's a drunk. And so they put him in culture. A natural fit, no risk of embarrassment there.”

“And what did we do to deserve him?”

“He's from Brooklyn. Lives on the other side of the park.”

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…”

8:30 A.M.

Homicide detective Lieutenant Florence Ott arrived downtown for the new Brooklyn district attorney Jimmy Padino's first press conference.

Frank Murphy took up his post with Cecil King at the senator-elect's family apartment on Eastern Parkway.

The detectives' double assignment was well under way. Impossible to say which job would be more demanding, keeping the senator-elect alive—discreetly—or finding Owen Smith/Ballz Busta's killer, a dilemma the press was panting to resolve.

The auditorium, where Jimmy Padino's DA debut with the media was scheduled, was too small for the pushing and shoving crowd that squeezed in. The room—noisy, airless, electric—stank of hyperstimulated bodies and rain-wet shoes.

Since the new district attorney had yet to make his entrance, Flo Ott approached the lectern alone. The media mob exploded, a raucous barrage of questions blasting Flo with ballistic intensity. Ballz Busta this and Ballz Busta that and, perhaps thankfully, not a mention of Cecil King or his freshly anointed successor, Jimmy Padino.

After fifteen years of investigating Brooklyn homicides, Flo was confronting her first media firestorm fueled by the morbid attractions of a celebrity corpse.

Mere threats on an untried new senator's life would be no competition for the fresh killing of such a glittering star in the show business firmament. A glamour murder—not unfulfilled threats—captured imaginations, sent circulations and Internet clicks soaring, Nielsen ratings skyrocketing into the entertainment stratosphere, and the ad money flooding in.

For a moment, the media mob's monomaniacal onslaught froze Flo's blood. Then she felt forced to shout, “Please, one at a time. District Attorney Padino will be right here.”

An agitated little man with a large mouth, Terence T. Dangler from the
New York Post,
pushed his way up front and center. “When was Ballz's body found? Was he on drugs? Is this a gangland killing? Who have you arrested?”

“We've arrested no one yet,” Flo said. “The victim's body is at the lab. We're waiting for a report from forensics.”

Her answer failed to satisfy the baying mob, and seemed instead to only pour gasoline on the media firestorm and provoke explosion.

“What's the motive?”

“Any suspects?”

“Was he armed?”

“You got a murder weapon?”

“Was he robbed?”

And into the heat of this inferno, DA Jimmy Padino entered. “Sorry I'm late. Now if you all calm down.” He pointed and grinned, that favorite meaningless gesture of politicians in front of cameras, and said, “Terence, my man, there you are. Great to see you. What's that you're saying? A little louder, Terry.”

“It's about time we got a district attorney we can talk to. Congratulations on your new appointment. So who you charging? What's your trial strategy?”

DA Padino turned to Flo. “Lieutenant, we got any suspects?”

Flo answered, deadpan, “I just told them. So far, none.”

This certainly didn't stop Terence Dangler. He pushed even harder. “Mr. District Attorney, you have any confidence in our police force? What exactly are they doing with this extraordinary case?”

“Terence,” the district attorney said, “I have full confidence in our police. So does the mayor. We all do. Lieutenant, can you give the media some more details, please?”

Flo ignored the sarcasm dripping from “some more” and spoke calmly. “The body of Ballz Busta, a.k.a. Owen Smith, was discovered around five-thirty yesterday morning. By a bond trader on her way to work. The victim's skull was crushed. No murder weapon has yet been found.”

The herd roared.

“Who's the trader? She a suspect?”

“What was Ballz wearing when he was killed? His gold cross or platinum? Was the cross stolen?”

“What does his family think?”

“You think one of his other women did it? A jealous lover?”

District Attorney Padino intervened. “Terence, what's your next question?”

“Where are the corpse photos? Do we get police pictures? Or do we have to rely on amateur shots from the neighbors?”

“Yo, Terry,” a voice from the rear shouted. “Sit down. You're not the only one who can make money on this murder.”

Again, the DA turned to Flo. “Lieutenant?”

And Flo said, “Out of consideration for the victim's family—”

The herd howled.

“Is his wife a suspect?”

“What about the other women?”

“When's the funeral?”

“You arresting someone?”

“You demanding the death penalty be reinstated?”

Turning almost jubilant, DA Padino seized his opportunity. “The death penalty. I'm glad you asked that question. Absolutely, the death penalty. We'll arrest, try, and sentence this killer. Don't anyone doubt it for a second. This is such a horrific killing, it shocks the conscience of the city and all its people. Capital punishment seems to me very much in order for Busta's murderer. The people will demand it and they're right to expect the full force of justice. God's justice. The governor and state legislature had better get their act together on this and reinstate capital punishment in New York. Mr. Busta was a cultural giant, world renowned, a close friend of the mayor's and a great New Yorker, a wonderful American. We are appalled and dismayed. We are distraught. But do have patience, please. And trust us. Please, trust us. We'll capture and convict the killer. And we ask all of you now to join us in our prayers for his family. Like all his millions of fans, we'll miss Ballz Busta. Brooklyn will miss him. I'm asking the mayor to declare an official day of mourning with city flags flown half-mast on all municipal buildings and in every park. I look forward to a memorial concert at Barclays Center and to uniting all the people of our great city…”

As the media circus concluded, the crowd immediately began pushing and shouting for the meager press handout, reporters emailed breathless dispatches, television crews wrapped up live coverage, their commentaries authoritative, inflamed, imaginative.

And under cover of this windy squall, Jimmy Padino, newly minted district attorney, and homicide detective Lieutenant Florence Ott slipped away from the press auditorium, each taking a separate route, unnoticed.