Cemetery Dance (30 page)

D'Agosta unholstered his radio, tuned it. "This is Lieutenant D'Agosta. Wake up, people, get your asses in gear! The protest is not authorized to approach the Ville."

But the crowd continued to move — like the tide, not quickly, but inexorably — down the road. And now Esteban, a look of alarm on his face, belatedly joined the moving crowd, pushing his way through, trying to get to the front.

"Confront the murderers!"

"If they reach the Ville," D'Agosta shouted into the radio, "the shit's really going to hit the fan. There'll be violence!"

There was a burst of talk on the radio as the diminished knot of police belatedly tried to equip their riot gear, to move into position and stop the crowd. D'Agosta could see that they were too few and too late — they had been caught completely off guard. A hundred or a hundred thousand, it didn't matter — he could see blood in these people's eyes. Esteban's speech had roused them in a way nothing else could have. The group was streaming past the baseball diamonds onto the Ville road, moving faster now, blocking any possibility of police cruisers getting ahead of the march.

"Vincent, follow me." Pendergast set off at a swift pace, cutting across the baseball diamonds toward the trees. D'Agosta immediately saw his plan — to take a shortcut through the woods and get ahead of the mob moving down the road.

"Pity that someone took down the gate to the Ville … eh, Vincent?"

"Don't give me shit, Pendergast — not now." D'Agosta could hear, at some distance, the chanting of the group, the shouting and yelling as they marched down the road.

Within moments they emerged onto the road a little ahead of the crowd. The chain–link fence was to their left, the gate still down. The crowd was moving at a rapid clip, the front ranks almost jogging, Plock leading the way. Esteban was nowhere to be seen. The crowd control cops had fallen far behind and there was no way to get ahead of the mob in a squad car. The press, on the other hand, were keeping up nicely, half a dozen running alongside with handheld video cameras, accompanied by still photographers and print journalists. This disaster was going to be all over the news that night.

"Looks like it's up to us," D'Agosta said. He took a deep breath, then stepped into the road and pulled out his shield, Pendergast beside him.

He turned to face the crowd, led by Plock. It was unnerving, like staring down a herd of charging bulls. "Folks!" he said in his loudest voice. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta, NYPD! You are not authorized to proceed!"

The crowd kept coming. "To the Ville!"

"Mr. Plock, don't do this! It's illegal and, believe me, you will be arrested!"

"Evict them!"

"Get the hell out of the way!"

"Step past me and you're under arrest!" He grabbed Plock and, though the man put up no resistance, the gesture was hopeless. The rest came like the tide, sweeping toward him, and he couldn't arrest a hundred people single–handedly.

"Stand your ground," Pendergast said beside him.

D'Agosta gritted his teeth.

As if by magic, Esteban appeared beside them. "My friends!" he cried, stepping out to face the approaching crowd. "My fellow sympathizers!"

At this, the advancing front faltered, slowed.

"To the Ville!"

In a surprise move, Esteban turned and embraced Plock, then turned to face the crowd again, holding up his hands. "No! My friends, your bravery touches me deeply — deeply! But I beg you: do not proceed!" He suddenly dropped his voice, speaking privately to Plock. "Rich, I need your help. This is premature — you know it is."

Plock looked at Esteban, frowning. Seeing this apparent disagreement between the leaders, the front line of marchers began to falter.

"Thank you for your big hearts!" Esteban cried out again to the crowd. "Thank you! But please — listen to me. There is a time and place for everything. Rich and I agree: now is not the time and place to confront the Ville! Do you understand? We've made our point, we've demonstrated our resolve. We've shown the public face of our just anger! We've shamed the bureaucrats and put the politicians on notice! We've done what we came to do! But no violence. Please, no violence!"

Plock remained silent, his face darkening.

"We came to stop the killings, not to talk!" shouted a voice.

"And we are going to stop these killings!" Esteban said. "I ask you, what will confrontation accomplish? Don't kid yourselves, those people will meet us with violent resistance. They might be armed. Are you prepared? There are so few of us! My friends, the time is soon coming when these animal torturers will be evicted, these murderers of lambs and calves — not to mention journalists — will be scattered to the four winds! But not now — not yet!"

He paused. The sudden, listening silence was remarkable.

"My fellow creatures," Esteban continued, "you have demonstrated the courage of your convictions. Now we will turn around and march back to our gathering point. There we will talk, we will make speeches, and we will show the entire city what is happening here! We will bring justice — even to those who show none themselves!"

The crowd seemed to be waiting for Plock to affirm Esteban. At long last, Plock raised his hands in a slow, almost unwilling gesture. "Our point is made!" he said. "Let us go back — for now!"

The press crowded forward, the evening news cameras running, boomed mikes swinging about, but Esteban waved them off. D'Agosta watched amazed as — at Esteban's urging — the mob reversed direction, flowing back up the road, slowly subsiding into the same peaceable group as before, some even picking up signs that had been discarded along the way during their blitzkrieg toward the Ville. The transformation was shocking, almost awe inspiring. D'Agosta looked on with astonishment. Esteban had fired up the crowd and put it in motion — and then, at the last possible moment, he had thrown cold water on it.

"What's with this guy, Esteban?" he asked. "You think he chickened out at the last minute, got cold feet?"

"No," murmured Pendergast, his eyes fixed on Esteban's retreating back. "It is very curious," he said, almost to himself, "that our friend eats meat. Lamb, in point of fact."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 46

When D'Agosta showed up at Marty Wartek's office, the nervous little bureaucrat took one look at his angry demeanor and rolled out the red carpet: took his coat, escorted him to the sofa, fetched him a cup of tepid coffee.

Then he retreated behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked in his high, thin voice. "Are you comfortable?"

Actually, D'Agosta wasn't especially comfortable. He'd felt increasingly lousy since breakfast — flushed, achy — and wondered if he wasn't coming down with the flu or something. He tried not to think about how poorly Bertin was supposedly doing, or how the animal control officer, Pulchinski, had left work early the day before, complaining of chills and weakness. Their complaints weren't related to Charrière and his magic tricks … they couldn't be. But he wasn't here to talk about comfort.

"You know what happened at the march yesterday afternoon, right?"

"I read the papers."

In fact, D'Agosta spied copies of the News, Post, and West Sider on the deputy associate director's desk, poorly concealed beneath folders of official–looking paperwork. Clearly, the man had kept up on what was happening at the Ville.

"I was there. We came this close to a riot. And we're not talking a bunch of left–wing agitators, Mr. Wartek. These are regular law–abiding citizens."

"I had a call from the mayor's office," Wartek said, his voice even higher. "He, too, expressed his concern — in no uncertain terms — about the inflammatory situation in Inwood Hill Park."

D'Agosta felt slightly mollified. It seemed Wartek was finally getting with the program — or at least getting the message. The man's mouth was pursed more tightly than ever, and his razor–burned wattles quivered faintly. He looked exactly like someone who'd just been administered a Grade A reaming–out. "Well? What are you going to do about it?"

The administrator gave a small, bird–like nod and removed a piece of paper from his desk. "We've consulted with our lawyers, looked into past precedents, and discussed this issue at the highest levels of the housing authority. And we've determined that the right of adverse possession does not apply in this case, where the greater public good might be compromised. Our position is, ah, bolstered by the fact that the city is on record as having objected to this occupation of public land as far back as a hundred forty years ago."

D'Agosta relaxed deeper into the sofa. It seemed the call from the mayor had finally lit a fire. "I'm glad to hear it."

"There are no clear records as to exactly when that occupation began. As best we can tell, it was shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. That would put the city's initial objection well within the legal window."

"No problems, then? They're going to be evicted?" The man's legal circumlocutions had a slippery feel to them.

"Absolutely. And I haven't even mentioned to you our legal fall–back position: even if they had gained some sort of rights to the property, we could still acquire it by eminent domain. The commonweal must take priority over individual needs."

"The what?"

"Commonweal. The common good of the community."

"So what's the timetable?"

"Timetable?"

"Yeah. When are they out?"

Wartek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We've agreed to put the matter before our lawyers to draw up the legal case for eviction, on an expedited schedule."

"Which is?"

"With the legal preparation and research, then a trial, followed by an appeal — I can only assume these people will appeal — I would think we could have this case concluded within, perhaps, three years' time."

There was a long silence in the room. "Three years?"

"Maybe two if we fast–track it." Wartek smiled nervously.

D'Agosta rose. It was unbelievable. A joke. "Mr. Wartek, we don't have three weeks."

The little man shrugged. "Due process is due process. As I told the mayor, keeping the public order is the function of the police, not the housing authority. Taking away someone's home in New York City is a difficult and expensive legal process. As it should be."

D'Agosta could feel the anger throbbing in his temples, his muscles tensing. He made an effort to control his breathing. He was going to say You haven't heard the end of this, then decided against it — no point in making threats. Instead, he simply turned and walked out.

Wartek's voice echoed out into the hall as he exited the office. "Lieutenant, we're going to have a press conference tomorrow to announce our action against the Ville. Perhaps that will help calm things down."

"Somehow," D'Agosta growled, "I doubt it."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 47

Laura Hayward stood in the ladies' room on the thirty–second floor of One Police Plaza, examining herself in the mirror. A grave, intelligent face looked back. Her suit was immaculate. Not a strand of blue–black hair was out of place.

Except for the year she'd taken off to complete her master's at NYU, Hayward had been a police officer her entire career — first with the transit police, then NYPD. At thirty–seven, she was still the youngest captain — and only female captain — on the force. She knew that people talked about her behind her back. Some called her an ass kisser. Others said she'd risen so high, so quickly, precisely because she was a woman, a poster girl for the department's progressive stance. She'd long since ceased to care about such talk. The fact was, rank really didn't matter that much to her. She simply loved being on the job.

Glancing away from the mirror, she consulted her watch. Five minutes to twelve. Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her at noon.

She smiled. All too frequently, life was a bitch. But every now and then it had its moments. This promised to be one of them.

She exited the ladies' room and walked down the hall. While it was true she didn't care much about promotions, this was different. This task force the mayor was putting together was the real thing, not some bit of fluff cobbled together for the media. For years there had been too little trust, too little high–level cooperation between the commissioner's office and the mayor's. The task force, she'd been assured at the highest levels, would change that. It could mean a lot less bureaucracy, a chance to dramatically improve department efficiency. Sure, it would also mean a huge career boost — fast track to deputy inspector — but that wasn't important. What mattered was the opportunity to make a real difference.

She stepped through the double glass doors of the commissioner's suite and announced herself to the secretary. Almost immediately, an aide appeared and led the way back, past offices and conference rooms, to the commissioner's inner sanctum. Rocker was seated behind his large mahogany desk, signing memos. As always, he looked exhausted: the dark rings beneath his eyes were even more pronounced than usual.

"Hello, Laura," he said. "Have a seat."

Hayward took one of the chairs before the desk, surprised. A stickler for protocol and formality, Rocker almost never called anyone by his first name.

Rocker glanced over the desk at her. Something in his expression instantly put her on her guard.

"There's no easy way to say this," he began. "So I'll just tell you straight. I'm not appointing you to the task force."

For a moment, Hayward couldn't believe she had heard right. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. She swallowed painfully, took a deep breath.

"I —" she managed, then stopped. She felt confused, stunned, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"I'm very sorry," Rocker said. "I know how much you were looking forward to the opportunity."

Hayward took another deep breath. She felt a strange heat blooming through her limbs. Only now — when the job had so unexpectedly slipped from her grasp — did she realize how important it had been to her.

"Who are you appointing in my place?" she asked.

Rocker glanced away briefly before replying. He looked uncharacteristically abashed. "Sanchez."