The Ambitious City (23 page)

“What happened next?”

“Nothin’ happened. She came back in the room ten minutes later, her face almost purple, tore the paper out of my hands and went out again. A few minutes later the bell rang to end the period, and we all walked out. We never saw Georg again—ever.”

“So what’s your point?” MacNeice asked.

“My point is … well, two things. The slasher”—he waved a hand dismissively at the whiteboards—“has a manifesto, a mission. Point two, he’s got a dick thing, even if he ain’t using it—at least not yet.”

Aziz just shook her head. Finally she said, “It’s profound, Montile, and I will keep it in mind.”

“You make that shit up?” Vertesi asked.

“My man, you can’t make that shit up!”

Vertesi’s desk phone rang and he picked it up. He listened to it for a moment, then cupped the phone and said, “Sir, I’ve got Mark Penniman on the line. He’s going over to Old Soldiers and wants an idea of what questions you need answers for.”

MacNeice took the handset. “Hello, Sergeant.”

Penniman said, “I’m about a half-mile from Old Soldiers and I need some instructions about what I’m looking for.”

“Sergeant, this isn’t your fight. We’ll contact the local—”

“With respect sir, this
is
my fight. And Gary’d expect my ass to be on the ground where the action is, whether that’s in Afghanistan or Tonawanda. Kindly tell me what I’m looking for.”

MacNeice turned and stared at the whiteboard while he considered. “What I say now, Mark, is off the record.”

“Understood.”

“We think we’ve discovered the connection between Gary, Old Soldiers and the project on our waterfront. Four bodies were dug
up recently around here that bear the marks of a specialist—we think Sergeant Hughes.”

“Go on.”

“You say Gary wasn’t a biker and we believe you. But he spent time in Old Soldiers, and there are both veterans and bikers there. What we need to know is, are they organized, and if so, do they hire themselves out for security? Did they suffer some losses recently, and about two years ago? But I have no idea how you would go about asking these things without arousing suspicion.”

“Understood, sir. Anything else?”

“I wouldn’t advise mentioning Sergeant Hughes by name, or your connection to him. The Canadian club we believe they ran into is Damned Two Deuces—D2D MC.”

“D2D, roger that. Okay, I’m pulling into the parking lot. I can see what you mean. There are”—there was static on the line for a moment—“eighteen Harleys.”

“Were you ever a biker?”

“No, sir. I built a scooter out of a lawn mower when I was in high school, but that’s the closest.”

“Be careful, Sergeant—”

“Sir, if there are vets there, we were all trained by the same boss. I’ll be okay.”

The line went dead and MacNeice hung up.

“Shouldn’t we be calling in the local police or state troopers?” Aziz asked. “The last thing Sue-Ellen needs is a dead brother.”

“Trust me, that boy can take care of himself,” Williams said.

“I’m sure that’s what both of them thought about Gary,” she said.

“He’s fresh out of combat; Gary wasn’t. I think if a cockroach sneezes in Old Soldiers, he’ll hear it.”

“Probably say ‘Gesundheit,’ ” Vertesi added, smirking a little at his colleagues.

“Well, my two macho men, I hope you’re right,” Aziz said.

No one had the machismo to point out to Aziz that she was about to do the equivalent of walking into Old Soldiers—live and in front of the media.

MacNeice checked his watch and said to her, “Five minutes until we leave, twelve before it begins.”

If Aziz was intimidated by standing on a platform in front of television and still cameras—the clacking storm of the latter drowning out Wallace’s introduction—it didn’t show. When she spoke, every word and breath she took was recorded. At one point she raised a hand to push a strand of black hair away from her eye, and the racket sounded like June bugs. Surprised by the suddenness of it, she hesitated, then continued, her voice never wavering.

She spoke for roughly four minutes, presenting her clinical assessment of the slasher, then paused and asked for questions. Responding to reporters from news sources she’d never heard of, Aziz answered every question professionally and with ease. If she felt the weight of responsibility clawing at her gut—Mayor Bob Maybank was standing so rigidly behind her that MacNeice thought he might pass out—her poise never faltered.

Only one question, from a reporter in the front row, appeared to faze her: “Are you concerned that your being a female Muslim police officer and criminologist might make you a target for this man?”

The cameras clacked to a crescendo as they zoomed in for Aziz’s answer. It was, of course, the very heart of the matter, and the question she’d hoped someone would put to her. She let the question sink in for a moment, focusing the media horde’s attention like a professional. “No,” she said, “I am not concerned.”

The follow-up question came fast. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not a woman alone on a stair, a path or the beach.

I’m an armed detective, surrounded by my police colleagues. Thank you.”

She took a step back and the Deputy Chief introduced the mayor, who spoke about the fine work of the force and of DS MacNeice’s leadership on both investigations. MacNeice’s announcement of a connection between the bodies discovered at the biker retreat in Cayuga and those found in the bay generated no follow-up questions from the media, who all still seemed focused on Aziz and the slasher.

It wasn’t till they were leaving City Hall by the back door that Aziz’s whole body seemed to sag.

“Keep breathing, keep walking. You’ve achieved exactly what you were going for, and maybe better. The black suit was perfect for the occasion.”

“Well, that’s good, because it was all I had to wear. I packed so fast I wasn’t thinking!”

As they settled into the Chevy for the drive out to Braithwaite Demography, MacNeice said, “Now the hard part begins—waiting.”

T
HE FIRST THING
that struck Mark Penniman was the smell of stale smoke. Most of the world had been sanitized, its smokers banished to the shadows outside bars and restaurants or forced to huddle night and day under the canopies of office towers and bus stations. Everywhere, it seemed, but Iraq, Afghanistan and Tonawanda’s Old Soldiers roadhouse. The years of spilt beer and lit and dead cigarettes was such an assault on the nostrils that it forced him to stop inside the doors. Penniman adjusted to the darkness as the music rolled over him—Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” He walked down the short hallway, past the cigarette and chewing tobacco vending machines and the “Be All You Can Be,”
Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, Saving Private Ryan, Band of Brothers, The Hurt Locker
and
Restrepo
posters. The visual cacophony of the images forced Penniman to look away, down at the worn and stained red runner. Every combat soldier he knew who had thought beyond how cool it was to fire weapons and vaporize ragheads knew how
contradictory all that was, and how the further from the dust and boredom, the terrible suddenness of killing and hoping you won’t get killed, the better it all looked. And yet he and Gary had been redeployed—happily—so many times he’d almost forgotten. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that they, and those others who survived and went back again, loved it—loved war. Until they didn’t anymore. And he wanted to keep it as simple as that—Gary stopped loving it, but he still did.

Penniman took a deep breath and slowly, silently exhaled, the way he did before pressing the trigger. Then he stepped through a doorway edged in the Old Glory bunting to survey the room.

The bar was on the left. Three men sitting at the far end looked over their beer and cigarettes at him. The bartender, who’d been speaking with them, glanced his way before turning back to his friends. Whatever he said made all three laugh; Penniman assumed it was at his expense. In the far corner were two pinball machines and a shoot-’em-up video game with a toy M
-16
, its sound bursts adding a bizarre staccato to Fogerty’s raspy vocal. Along the windows opposite the bar was a long table with benches on both sides. The curtains were made of dark brown camo canvas that allowed in only a horizontal sliver of light from the Old Soldiers neon sign. Blue smoke drifted above six big men; like distracted cattle their heads turned to check him out while their bodies remained hunched over large glasses of beer. They were dressed in black T-shirts, leather vests and black jeans.
Traded one uniform for another
, Penniman thought.

The door to the washroom swung open and a tall, lanky young man walked out. He had a limp, not pronounced, favouring his left foot. The young man nodded his way and took his place at a pinball machine.

So we’ve got ten men but eighteen motorcycles outside. Where were the others?
Penniman scanned the back wall of the bar and
saw a door marked
PRIVATE
next to the washroom. A slice of light defined the bottom of the door—they were inside. He made his way to the bar and studied the display above the bottles of bourbon, whisky and vodka. A long, narrow and faded battalion photograph, Second World War by the looks of it, hung slightly off level. Bookending the photo were two M1 Garand rifles, their straps grimy with dust. Above them, more bunting that looked as if it would fall apart if someone tried to clean it, but there appeared to be no risk of that. To the right, a large box frame contained service patches, and beyond it were more framed photos, presumably of the great battles in Europe and the Pacific.

Next to the door marked private was a giant poster of a Hummer in factory-finish camouflage under the headline
HUMVEE INVINCIBLE
. It almost made Penniman laugh out loud. The vehicles that arrived in country were quickly modified by those forced to depend on them. They welded extra metal panels—cannibalized from dead Hummers—to the sides and bottom in an often futile attempt to provide more protection. Going out on patrol, these overburdened vehicles looked more like
Mad Max
than General Motors. And when they hit an IED, it just meant they didn’t bounce as high.
What the hell were you doing here, Gary?

The bartender made his way slowly towards him. “What you drinkin’, bud?”

“Draught, thanks.”

The bartender’s meaty paw took hold of the eagle topping the draught handle as he glanced again at Penniman. “You just out or still in?”

“Still in.”

“What brings you here?”

“I was passin’ by and saw the sign. I thought I’d come in and see what old soldiers look like. These guys old soldiers?” He swivelled
on the stool and looked at the others. No one seemed interested in him anymore.

“Most, yeah. Call it truth in advertising.” He put down the glass in front of Penniman, its foam overflowing onto the bar in front of him.

“Thanks. All army?”

“All army all the time, brother. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Stationed?”

“Helmand province.”

“Tonawanda ain’t Helmand province.”

“I’m here for a funeral.”

The tall kid with the limp dodged around the scattered circular tables and wooden chairs and stepped up to the bar, nodding again to Penniman. He asked the bartender for bourbon.

“You ain’t got the freight, Weasel.”

“You know I’m good for it, Wayne. I get my cheque next week.”

“Shit, I do know that! You’ll get your ass in here on Tuesday and drop”—he turned, lifted up the cash register change tray and looked at a small stack of receipts—“two hundred and forty-five bucks.”

“You know I’m good for it. C’mon, stop bustin’ my balls.”

“I’ll cover him,” Penniman said. “Give him a bourbon.”

The bartender shrugged, snapped up a glass and turned away for the bottle, poured a shot and set the drink in front of the kid.

“Thanks, pal. I mean, Wayne knows I’m good for it, but thanks.”

“You a vet?”

“Yeah, been out now for … I think it’s like three and a half years.”

“Noticed you were limping.”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, nothin’ special. I took a round in the left foot. Lost four toes.”

“That’s a ticket home right there.”

“No shit. Looks weird, though.” The kid had knocked back his bourbon and was staring at his empty glass. “I definitely avoid the beach, heh-heh. I got one big toe, that’s all.”

“Why’d he call you Weasel?”

“Name’s Wenzel—it’s German. I dunno, it’s only here I’m called that.”

“So you don’t mind.”

“Naw, they don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Maybe.” Penniman emptied his glass. The bartender picked it up and held it in front of Penniman, his head cocked.

“Thanks, I’ll have another one.”

“Who you with?” the kid asked.

“With?”

“I can tell you’re still in.”

“Oh, right. Army, 2nd Division.”

“No shit? I mean, you fuckin’ with me?”

“Why would I do that, Wenzel?”

“I was with the 2nd Division in Iraq. That’s where this happened!” He looked down at his foot.

“Where in Iraq? When?”

Wenzel screwed up his face as if he was in pain. “I was hit on patrol near Fallujah, that’s it. Yeah. One minute I’m walking along, smiling at the kids, then, you know
—ffft, ffft, ffft
—and I’m on my ass in the road with my boot open and blood sprayin’ everywhere. It was summer over here, I remember. My mom sent me pictures from Virginia Beach; I had ’em on me.”

“You from Virginia Beach?”

“Naw, man, we’re from West Virginia. But she loved the beach … She died last year.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

The bartender was standing at the end of the bar, and he and the other three men were watching them now. Penniman kept it as
casual as he could, nursing his beer and looking at the mirror. He could see the bartender approaching, and downed the last of the second glass of draught.

“You got some business here?” the bartender said.

“Another beer, if that’s what you mean. Wenzel, you up for another bourbon?” Penniman said, looking at the young man.