The Red Queen Dies (2 page)

On the wall, Jacoby's jaw was noticeably clinched.

“As I was about to say, Mr. Redfield, before we began this back-and-forth, the DePloy surveillance system has been effective both in reducing crime and solving the crimes that have occurred. That is the end of this discussion.”

“You mean ‘Shut up or I'm out of here'?”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am now going to finish the official statement regarding funding. I will only respond to questions on that subject.…”

Chief Egan said, “Not one of your better performances, Wayne. You let him rattle you.” He walked over and sat down at the head of the table. “Her Royal Highness, the mayor, was not pleased when she called me last night.”

On the wall, the anchorwoman took over.

“Detective Jacoby then completed his statement about the proposals before the Common Council. When a reporter tried to return to the allegation made by crime beat threader Clarence Redfield that a serial killer is at work in Albany, Detective Jacoby ended the press conference and left the podium. Mr. Redfield himself declined to respond to questions from reporters about the source of his information. We'll have more for you on this story as details become available.

“In another matter before the Common Council, a proposed emergency expansion of the existing no masks or face-covering ordinance to include Halloween night. The new ordinance would apply to everyone over eight years of age. The recent outbreak of crimes involving juveniles…”

*   *   *

“Now, they're even trying to take away Halloween,” Angus McCabe said from his place at the kitchen table. “Well? Any truth to it? Do we have ourselves a serial killer on the loose?”

McCabe put her empty juice glass on the shelf inside the dishwasher. “Since when do you consider Clarence Redfield a reliable source, Pop?”

“He ain't. But I've spent more than half my life grilling official mouthpieces, and the way Jacoby was squirming—”

“Jacoby can't stand Redfield. You know that.” McCabe snagged her thermo jacket from the back of her chair and bent to kiss his forehead. “And you're retired now, remember?”

“I may be retired, but I'm not dead yet. What's going on?”

“Got to run, Pop. Have a good day.”

“Have a good day nothing.” He rose to follow her into the hall. “Hank McCabe, you tell me what's—”

“Can't discuss it. I'll pick us up some dinner on the way home. Chinese okay?”

He scowled at her, his eyes the same electric blue they had always been, the bristling brows gone gray.

“No, Chinese ain't okay. I'm tired of Chinese. I'll cook dinner tonight. I've got all day to twiddle my thumbs. What else do I have to do but make dinner?”

“I thought you might intend to work on your book. You do have that deadline coming up in a couple of months.”

“Book, hell. There ain't no book. I'm giving the advance back.”

“If that's what you want to do,” McCabe said. “On the other hand, you could just sit down and write the book.”

“You try writing a damn book, Ms. Detective.”

“Not my area of expertise. But you've done it a few times before. Even won an award or two.”

“This one's different. Nobody would read it even if I wrote it. And don't ‘If that's what you want to do' me. We were talking about this serial killer that Redfield claims—”

“Sorry, Pop, I really do have to go. I want to get in a few minutes early this morning.”

“Why? What are you—”

She closed the door on his demand that she get herself back there and tell him what was going on.

Striding to her car, McCabe tried to ignore the whiff of smoke that she could taste in the back of her throat and the sticky air, which made her want to step back into the shower.

The heat was due to break tonight. That would clear the air.

And Pop would pull himself out of his funk. He always did.

Of course, the other times, he'd had an office to go to … and no restrictions on his alcohol consumption.

*   *   *

“I have every confidence in your ability to get what we need, Mike boy.”

“Right.” Baxter flashed his best cocky grin. “You know you can count on me.”

His caller nodded. “I know I can.” He pointed his finger at Baxter. “Watch your back out there, you hear me?”

He disconnected, his image fading from the screen.

Baxter closed his ORB and leaned back on his cream leather sofa. He stretched his arms over his head, fingers clasped. His gaze fell on the framed photograph on his desk. Himself in dress blues. Graduation day from the Academy.

Baxter grunted, then laughed. “You should have seen this one coming, Mike boy.”

He rubbed his hand across his mouth, whistled. “Well hell.”

Baxter reached for his ORB again. He pulled up a file and began to update his notes.

When he was done, he grabbed his thermo jacket and headed for the door.

His mind on other things, he left the apartment on cooldown and the lights on in the bathroom, but the condo's environmental system had gone into energy-saver mode by the time he reached the lobby.

In the garage, Baxter paused for his usual morning ritual, admiring the burgundy sheen of his vintage 1967 Mustang convertible. Then he got into his three-year-old hybrid and headed in to work.

*   *   *

McCabe was stuck in traffic on Central Avenue, waiting for an opening to maneuver around a florist van.

In Albany, double parking had always been considered a civic right. With more traffic each year and the narrow lanes that had been carved out for Zip cars and tri-bikes, Central Avenue in the morning was like it must have been when Albany was a terminus for slaughterhouses, with cattle driven along Central Avenue Turnpike. Stop, start, nose, and try not to trample one another as they moved toward their destinations.

McCabe tilted her head from side to side and shrugged her shoulders. What she needed, yearned for, was a long run. Even with geosimulators, five miles on a machine was never as good as running outside.

McCabe's attention was caught by a flash of color. On the sidewalk in front of Los Amigos, a young black woman in a patchwork summer skirt laughed as an older man, suave and mustachioed, swirled her in a samba move. Still laughing, she disengaged herself and scooped up her straw handbag from the sidewalk. Hand over his heart, the man called out to his impromptu dance partner. Giggling, she went on her way.

Stopped by the traffic light at the intersection, McCabe lowered her window enough to hear the music coming from the open doorway of the restaurant. Before it was Mexican, the place had been Caribbean, and before that, Indian. The owners of the hair salon on one side and the discount store on the other had complained about this latest example of ethnic succession. Loud music, spicy smells—in other words, the threat posed by “Mexs” moving into this block as they had others. Some legal, some American citizens, some neither, arriving in Albany in greater numbers during the years when the convention center was going up. Now the resentment was more vocal, the sense of being in competition greater. Even the imagined threat of an interplanetary invasion hadn't changed that dynamic. Earthlings still distrusted other earthlings. They defended what they thought of as their turf.

Since the UFO, old episodes of Rod Serling's
Twilight Zone
had become a cult favorite with teen “space zombies.” According to Pop, the zombies weren't the only ones who should be watching the series. He claimed that in the event of another close encounter, Rod Serling had left instructions. Rule number one: Even if the spacecraft looks flashy, check to make sure it isn't a balloon from a Thanksgiving Day parade. Rule number two: Even if the lights do start going on and off, don't turn on your neighbors, assuming they must be the aliens. Rule number three: Even if the “visitors” introduce themselves and seem friendly, ask for additional information about how they plan “to serve” mankind before hopping on their spaceship.

Meanwhile, daily life continued on Central Avenue, where Zoe James, the black female owner of the beauty shop, refused to patronize the Mexican restaurant next door.

At least she and Sung Chang, the Korean-American owner of the discount store, had stopped calling the cops every time the music and dancing overflowed onto the sidewalk. Of course, the
JANET CORTEZ PARA PRESIDENTE
sign now on proud display in Los Amigos's front window might set them off again. Both James and Chang had signs supporting the current vice president, who was male, black (biracial, actually), and likely to be the Democratic nominee.

But according to Pop, the candidate they all needed to be worried about, should be scared to death of, actually, was Howard Miller, that smiling “man of the people.” Howard Miller, who was as smooth as the churned butter from that family-owned farm he boasted about having grown up on.

McCabe stared hard at the traffic light that was supposed to adjust for traffic flow and right now was doing nothing at all. She decided to give it another thirty seconds before she reported a problem.

Howard Miller.

They hadn't looked at that kind of hate crime because they had two white female victims. But the murder weapon … What if one of Miller's crazy followers …

Horns blared.

McCabe was reaching for her ORB when the traffic light flickered and went from red to green.

More horns blared.

Three women, pushing metal shopping carts, had decided to make a last-minute dash across the busy intersection. White with a hint of a tan, clad in light-colored shorts and T-shirts, they were too clean to be homeless.

The women were almost to the other side when a bike messenger zipped around a double-parked produce truck.

The women darted out of his way. He skidded and went down hard. Sunlight sparkled on his blue helmet, but his work-tanned legs were bare and vulnerable.

One of the women looked back, peering over her designer sunglasses. She called out something. Maybe it was “Sorry about that.” Then she and her fellow scavenger hunters sprinted away in the direction of Washington Park, where Radio KZAC must be holding today's meet-up.

The taxi driver behind McCabe leaned on his horn. She waved for him to go around her.

She watched the bike messenger get up on wobbly legs. He looked down at his knee and grimaced. But the next moment, he was checking his bike. Then he grabbed for his leather satchel before a car could run over it. Hopping back on his bike, he pedaled off.

A car pulled away from the curb, opening up a spot a few feet away from Cambrini's Bakery. McCabe shot forward and did a quick parallel park.

She got out and headed toward the intertwined aromas of fresh-baked muffins and black coffee. Maybe the day wasn't going to be so bad after all.

The line wound back to the door, but it seemed to be moving fast. McCabe glanced at the old-fashioned chalkboard that always had the morning's “featured muffin.” Not in the mood for pumpkin, she found what she wanted on the menu and sent her order from her ORB to checkout before joining the queue.

“Good morning, sister. Is God blessing you this fine day?”

She turned toward the deep voice and beaming smile of the man in the black New York Yankees baseball cap and the white suit and white shirt, which contrasted with his chocolate brown skin.

“Good morning, Reverend Deke.”

“I said, sister, ‘Is God blessing you this fine day?'”

“Yes, thank you, He is,” McCabe said.

“I'm pleased to hear that.”

Reverend Deke went out the door carrying his steaming coffee cup. By high noon, he would be bringing “the message” to any of the office workers who decided to leave the climate-controlled Empire State Plaza complex to patronize the lunch wagons lined up along the street. Some of the workers would pause to listen as Reverend Deke broke into one of the spirituals that he had learned on his Georgia-born grandmother's knee.

McCabe watched him go, greeting the people he passed.

Ten minutes later, she was jammed in sideways at the counter by the window, munching on a lemon-blueberry-pecan muffin. Half a day's supply of antioxidants, and it even tasted like it was made with real sugar.

The police frequency on her ORB lit up. She touched the screen to see the message that Comm Center had sent out to patrol cars.

McCabe swallowed the last bite of her muffin and grabbed her iced coffee container from the counter.

Out of the sidewalk, she spoke into her transmitter. “Dispatch, Detective McCabe also responding to that call. En route.”

“Copy, McCabe. Will advise,” the dispatcher responded.

*   *   *

Mike Baxter picked up the same dispatch as he was pulling out of the fast-food drive-thru. He shoved his coffee cup into the holder and reached for his siren.

“Dispatch, Detective Baxter also responding.”

“Copy, Baxter. McCabe's headed that way, too.”

“Thought she would be. This could be our guy.”

“Happy hunting.”

*   *   *

McCabe pulled herself to the top of the fence and paused to look down into the alley. She jumped and landed on the other side, one foot slipping in dog shit. The man she was chasing darted a glance behind him and kept running.

In a half squat, McCabe drew her weapon and fired. Her bola wrapped around the man's legs. He sprawled forward, entangled in the cords, crashing into moldering cardboard boxes and other garbage.

McCabe ran toward him. He twisted onto his side, trying to sit up and free himself.

“Get these ropes off me, bitch!”

“Stay down,” she said, training the weapon, now set to stun, on the perp's scrawny torso. “Roll over on your belly.”

He looked up at her face, then at the gun. Either he was convinced she would use it or deterred by the minicam that was attached to the weapon and was recording their encounter. He sagged back to the ground and rolled over.