Fanatics (2 page)

7:04 A.M.

The mayor of New York City grinned.

Winked.

Rolled his eyes.

Patted his four guests on the back as they entered his office.

And before they sat down, he awarded each a two-fisted handshake and a singsong personal greeting.

“Glad to see you, Cecil. And again, my heartfelt congratulations…Senator.”

And: “Commissioner, why so glum? C'mon, smile.”

And: “Welcome, Lieutenant, long time no see.”

Then for his final grin: “Sergeant, how you doin'—looks like you're losing weight.”

Homicide detective Lieutenant Florence Ott knew the mayor of New York often rationed with assiduous thrift his frat-boy charm and neon smiles of Times Square intensity, the two-handed grip and back pats. He reserved all of his full-fire charm offensive for four-figures-and-up donors, and for the president of the United States, for Hollywood celebs, for luminary newshounds from more-favored media like the
New York Post,
and of course for any television station no matter how small, including foreign crews. This mayor's motto had to be “
Never say no”
to appearing on TV, or for a chance to grab some sex on the side, M or F or both simultaneously, or so the many rumors had it.

Detective Lieutenant Flo Ott wasn't returning the mayor's smile as she was well aware neither she nor her colleague, homicide detective Sergeant Frank Murphy, fit comfortably into a mayoral preference category.

A smile from the mayor only meant trouble for them.

But one of the mayor's morning visitors returned a toothy, glow-in-the-dark marquee grin. And Flo would concede that Brooklyn District Attorney Cecil King had a great deal to beam about, recently elected the first African American senator from New York, trouncing hizzonah da mare—59 percent to 41 percent—in an upset victory that shocked the city, suburbs, and upstate, almost as much as the Knicks winning all their games last month after many losing seasons.

Waiting for the mayor to explain exactly why he called this morning's meeting, Senator-elect Cecil King couldn't stop grinning or, as the
New York Post
might have said, gloating.

The police commissioner, a Queens County Golden Gloves champion at age nineteen, sat rubbing his long-ago broken nose, his expression permanently pugilistic.

Homicide detective Sergeant Frank Murphy blew his nose.

And homicide detective Lieutenant Flo Ott tapped her right foot impatiently. Seven in the morning was the mayor's favorite hour for calling emergency meetings, at which homicide detectives were a distinct rarity. She was hoping for breakfast but wasn't surprised to find only coffee on offer, a help-yourself, cafeteria-style steel urn in the corner. Cardboard cups, powdered milk, packets of Sweet'N Low.

That the mayor already had his breakfast came as no surprise, not after a recent Page Six gossip column in the
New York Post
informed New Yorkers that…

His Honor, a no-nonsense, highly disciplined manager, tucks into his daily steak-and-eggs breakfast—mustard rubbed sirloin rare, fertilized eggs lightly scrambled—at six a.m. sharp in the Gracie Mansion dining room…scouring his morning newspapers at the table and finishing his reading with his personal advance copy of this newspaper…saving for last, he tells us, his favorite Page Six and your humble reporter's column, a spirit booster for his speed-of-light limo ride downtown, a siren celebration, rooftop red light spinning, a soul-stirring sight all the way down the East River Drive straight to city hall…

The sort of less-than-imperfect commentary aimed at the half million or so readers whom the
Post
each day aimed to make as happy as if they'd seen a murder themselves.

This morning, Flo noted, the mayor was displaying his more magnanimous and resilient qualities. Next to the coffee urn, pretzels were also on offer, leftovers from a five boroughs spelling bee awards ceremony the afternoon before.

Senator-elect Cecil King, bouncy and benign, rose and filled coffee cups for the others. Flo enjoyed this small dig of
noblesse oblige
at the mayor's expense. She harbored little respect for the city hall chief and only admiration for the district attorney, an indefatigable prosecutor who was, by any politician's lights, an honest guy, the second African American to hold the office of Brooklyn DA. The best in the office, since all those years ago DA Liz Holtzman had her senate race sabotaged by a near-dead senator who insisted on running one miserable last time and, with his final breath and on a third-party ticket, split the Jewish vote to ensure Liz Holtzman's defeat, even though the dying man himself had absolutely no chance of reelection.

A young assistant district attorney at the time and recent Fordham Law grad, Flo quit the DA's office for the police force and criminal investigations, hoping for a politics-free career in law enforcement.

After the holidays, Cecil King was leaving Brooklyn for Washington, and the mayor would be certain to appoint a lickspittle loyalist to fill in as Brooklyn DA until the next election.

Settling into her chair in the mayor's office, facing a less-than-joyous future, Flo felt depressed. No matter how dark the prospect of a new boss in the Brooklyn prosecutor's office, it paled as the meeting's purpose—so far unclear, unstated, unexpected—was gradually clarified.

“I got a response from the president,” the mayor began. “And of course he's very understanding, Cecil, totally sympathetic, completely on your side…”

…on your side.

The smile disappeared from Cecil King's face. If ever there was a kiss of doom, it was having this president
on your side,
a gift as promising as finding a cobra stoked on crystal meth curled up under your pillow.

“The president-elect signals her support, too, Cecil.”

More poison…

Cecil King's face grew as long as death.

“But the current president is president until next January twentieth. And of course as we all know, he places security above everything else.
Every
thing else. Which is why, Cecil, which is why…”

Which is why Cecil King's face was losing color, his
latte
-brown complexion giving way to a bilious morning-after-the-night-before green, the color of nausea, the color of hangovers and snakebites and paralyzing fears.

The mayor took a deep breath and pushed forward to the heart of the matter. “The Secret Service is overextended, Cecil. Homeland Security got it up to their eyeballs, and Congress still hasn't passed the Homeland budget. And the FBI, yes, I know they've got an investigatory mandate in this area, still they're seriously shorthanded. Of course, the Pentagon would never get involved in domestic threats to civilians, even assassination threats, no matter how serious. And these threats on your life, Cecil, they're getting damn serious, we all realize that. We take them as seriously as you do. Which is why, Cecil, which is why…”

Which is why…
a second shoe raised, poised to drop.

“…the president is so regretful. But his hands are tied, you got to understand that. Whereas ours, Cecil, our hands…our best hands…are all right here in this room.”

The mayor smiled, his fraternity-prexy, Hollywood-celeb, TV lights–brightest display of self-satisfaction.

Senator-elect Cecil King looked about to vomit on the mayor's shoes, maybe toss a cup of coffee in the mayor's face, or perhaps give in to both impulses before stalking out of city hall and into his new life as the nation's latest target of calls for patriotic assassinations, his life now denied federal protection before he took office on January first.

“The feds,” the mayor explained, “simply can't afford it, Cecil, bottom line. But we can, at least as far as we're able to. Which is why, Cecil…”

Which is why…
a third shoe? The three-legged mayor was a virtuoso of suspense.

“…which is why the commissioner and I are assigning the city's best homicide experts…Lieutenant Ott and Sergeant Murphy here…to protect your life. To prevent a killing, not solve a killing 'cause there ain't gonna be one. I'm convinced. Never on our watch. You're in great hands here, Cecil. Congratulations.”

Cecil King coughed before he spoke, a harsh sound, as if trying to bring up phlegm. His voice barely rose above a whisper. “I'm at a loss for words, Mayor. Thank you.” He let his face reveal all that went unspoken, a pained spectrum flashing anguish, disappointment, anger.

The senator-elect turned to Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, his eyes shattered prisms. “I commend myself to your good hands.” He managed a weak smile, which was more than the two detectives could produce. Neither was able to muster so much as a thank-you.

And neither saw any need to ask for further information. They received this announcement—the first assignment in their careers protecting the life of a Very Important Person—with less than enthusiasm.

Nor were they especially flattered, knowing the senator-elect—their good man, the DA, the intrepid prosecutor who gave meaning to the best years of their careers in homicide investigations—was being thrown to the wolves by the president of the United States.

And for understandable cause, at least from the president's point of view. Cecil King ran in foursquare opposition to the president, casting the mayor as the president's poodle, a flip-flop pol once a Democrat, then a Republican, now an independent, a punching bag surrogate long viewed, after years of riotous nonstop fiascos, as the worst mayor in New York history, a title confronting a great deal of tough competition. Cecil King hung the presidential gofer millstone around the mayor's neck. The charge sheet of irrefutable calamities was long enough to indict, by proxy, the hapless, helpless mayor a dozen times over.

Flo Ott sipped the city hall coffee, a stale and bitter brew. She was struggling with a meds-resistant autumn cold. Her eyes ached and her tongue felt as dry and rough as sandpaper. The mayor waited for her reply.

She said, “To start with, please, Mr. Mayor, no public announcements. If we're responsible for Cecil King's life, we don't want it public. The less potential assassins know, the better. Let them imagine an army protecting the senator. We won't disabuse them. No leaks from our side.”

“Absolutely no leaks from my ship,” the mayor said. “Guaranteed. You have my solemn word.”

Which word, if prior performance was any indicator, Flo suspected to be worth about zero cents.

“What about manpower?” she said. “Budget?”

“Budget.” The mayor's face fell like a failed soufflé. “It's tight, Lieutenant, tighter than a clam's ass. Commissioner, do what you can.”

The commissioner stroked his twisted nose and nodded, his eyes expressionless, chin pugnacious, commitment unspecified.

And Flo's suspicions were confirmed. Thrown to the wolves. She and Frank Murphy and Senator-elect Cecil King were entirely on their own.

7:43 A.M.

Riding back to Brooklyn Police HQ, homicide detective Lieutenant Flo Ott needed no further explanations.

She dreaded the next eight weeks.

Cecil King had exactly that much time left in Brooklyn before he was sworn in as New York State's next junior senator. Another two months before the United States Capitol Police would assume responsibility for his life at a date well after the announced deadline for Cecil King's targeted demise, touted only three days before by a crackpot outfit new that year to the American television news cycle, the Aryan-American Committee for Defense of Homeland, Family & the Sanctity of Motherhood. Motto: “
Faith & Freedom
.”

“The traitor Cecil King will die before Christmas. We have our quiver full of arrows…”

…die before Christmas.

The threat, the promise, the sworn oath was making headlines in papers and magazines across the country, now a 24/7 story on the television news, a topic on radio shout shows, where the hotheads sounded more pro than con when debating the issue of selective patriotic assassination…“It's the death penalty and every traitor deserves it. A patriot's duty.”

The Double-A Defense Committee, as the wannabe patriots quickly came to be known, was taken seriously, at least in some quarters, and as well they might be, whoever they were, having already assassinated a gay congressman and a lesbian Episcopal bishop, as well as killing gynecologists working for Planned Parenthood, three professors of evolutionary biology, one each at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and the president of the American Civil Liberties Union. All since the previous Christmas.

All murders announced in advance.

All unprevented, though preventable.

And all the perps still unknown.

…
die before Christmas.
Who exactly, Flo and many others asked, was the Aryan-American Committee for Defense of Homeland, Family & the Sanctity of Motherhood? Though well within the homeland, the Double-A Committee's victims received protection no more effective than they would have enjoyed in Iraq or Afghanistan or any other war zone.

For Flo Ott, however distasteful she may have found the mayor's role as presidential toady and messenger boy, keeping Cecil King alive loomed as a far larger anxiety, as much a personal challenge as it was a professional duty she would never think of refusing.

Frank Murphy saw the assignment similarly.

Together, to stop an assassination, they'd bring almost thirty-five years of combined experience investigating homicides
after
the fact. The difficulty was that neither of them ever had to solve in advance a publicly announced, targeted assassination, political or otherwise. Murders, in their long experience, were committed either for commercial reasons—narcotics, failure to repay usurious loans, eliminating a crime competitor, robbery—or simply for neurotic satisfaction, often in family disputes or during sex crimes or, far too often, for the furious drink-driven, drug-driven hell of it.

At first thought, the Double-A, to Flo's mind, most closely resembled murderers who killed for the furious hell of it, except Double-A killers were permanently intoxicated not by drink or drugs, but by delusions. Unshakable believers in their own self-deceiving dogmas. Armed with information, money, and expertise, they could plan, publicize, and execute at will.

Double-A Committee assassinations, as Flo saw it, were like all terrorist acts of violence, cruelties committed by people feeling intense humiliation, most often delusional, warped individuals suffering perceived impotency, for whom killing was a reassuring proof that somehow they counted, whether they were killers who were simply psychotic garden-variety wackos like John Lennon's assassin, Ronald Reagan's failed murderer—or ruthlessly fanatical men and women possessed by all-embracing coherent if grandiose visions, ignorant of doubts afflicting those unable to blind themselves to reality.

And why not?
So little discouraged killers like them. They could announce their victims in advance and count on applause from at least some quarters, and they were guaranteed attention. Possessed by dreams that justified sacrifice—the sacrifice of others—they were so far driven to murder with impunity for the Double-A Committee. They called themselves “a quiver full of arrows.” And God—they claimed—was their legitimate authority, ordering them to commit justified killings. And they were good at killing; they had either military training or a great deal of criminal expertise. They didn't live in the same area as their victims, as they struck almost anywhere, which made them less likely to be thwarted by local law enforcement intelligence. By evading justice so far, and in spite of their YouTube videos, they existed in the shadows almost like ghosts, impossible to build a concrete picture of them as individuals despite the particularities of their victims. For Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, this was a kind of killer they hadn't encountered before in Brooklyn. The best hit men, the ones who got away—and a third of New York homicides went permanently unsolved—were so adept that the death of their victims raised little or no suspicion of any specific killer and more often seemed to be simply the result of natural causes. The most successful killers didn't broadcast themselves, much less publicly announce their targets in advance.

The traitor Cecil King will die before Christmas…

The target judged.

His sentence passed.

A timeline set.

Only the killing field remained to be discovered.