Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [55]
Behind them, the heavy oak doors swung open again, discharging another elevator load of visitors onto the deck. Among the newcomers was a man in a fedora pulled low over his forehead. He walked with a limp, and his clean-shaven face was mottled with scarlet patches—burn marks of some kind.
As the reporters filed out of his office, Big Bill Flynn sat down behind a large oak desk, taking up a fountain pen like a man with important documents to sign, although in fact the only papers on his desk were newspapers. Two dark-suited assistants stood behind him, one on either side of his desk, hands behind their backs, feet apart.
Littlemore remained in his seat, toothpick protruding from his mouth, examining one of the handbills. “Isn’t that funny?” he asked of no one in particular, after the last newsman had left.
Flynn addressed one of his deputies: “What is this guy, deaf?”
“Hey, buddy, you deaf?” asked the deputy.
“‘Or it will be sure death for all of you,’” said Littlemore, quoting the hand-stamped message. “That’s what I call a threat, because it says something’s going to happen. But how about what already happened? I mean, if you were leaving behind a message after you blew up Wall Street, wouldn’t you say something about what you just pulled off? You know, maybe ominous, like ‘Today was just the beginning.’ Or throw in a little taunt, like maybe, ‘We took down Wall Street, next we’ll come for all streets.’ ”
The detective had sung the last words, to the tune of “Ring Around the Rosey.”
“Who the hell is this guy?” asked Flynn.
“Who the hell are you?” asked a deputy.
“Captain James Littlemore,” said Littlemore. “NYPD, Homicide. Commissioner Enright asked me to be the Department’s liaison officer with the Bureau. I’m supposed to offer you our services.”
“Oh yeah?” said Flynn. “Well, there ain’t going to be no liaison officer, because there ain’t going to be no liaisoning. Now get out of here, will you?”
The second of Flynn’s assistants leaned down and spoke softly into his superior’s ear.
“You don’t say,” said Flynn aloud. He leaned back in his chair. “So you’re the guy who turned up Fischer?”
“That’s right,” said Littlemore.
“Think you got something there, do you, Littleboy?”
“Could be,” said Littlemore.
“I’ll tell you what you got,” said Flynn. “A crackpot. You’ll be interviewing him inside an asylum.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Littlemore.
“I do,” replied Flynn. “He’s in one now.”
“Where?”
“You want him. You find out.”
“How do you know?” asked Littlemore.
“Let’s just say I got it out of the air,” said Flynn, his torso shaking again. His deputies seemed to consider this remark a witticism; they joined in his laughter.
“Well, I guess I got to congratulate you, Chief Flynn,” said Littlemore, returning to his scrutiny of the handbill, which he now held up in the light over his head. “Never seen a case this big broken so fast.”
“That’s why they pay us the big bucks,” said Flynn.
“Say, Chief,” said Littlemore, “did you see all those soldiers outside the Treasury Building? I wonder what they’re doing there.”
“They’re there because I ordered them there,” said Flynn. “Somebody’s got to protect United States property when the police department’s got its heads up its pants. Now scram.”
“Yes, sir,” said Littlemore. He stopped in front of the chalkboard map of lower Manhattan and scratched his head. “Those anarchists, I’ll tell you—how do you catch people who can do the impossible?” asked Littlemore.
“What’s impossible?” said Flynn.
“Well, they leave their horse and wagon on Wall Street at 11:54 and walk four minutes to the mailbox at Cedar and Broadway—that’s what you said, right? Mail gets picked up at 11:58.