The Red Queen Dies Read online

  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.

  She stepped to the side, about to order him to raise his arm behind his back so that she could slip on the first handcuff.

  “You got him!” Mike Baxter said, running up. He was sweating, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement. “That was great.”

  “Cuff him,” McCabe said, trying not to let Baxter see that she was breathing hard.

  She was thirty-four to Baxter’s twenty-nine, and, yes, she had outrun him. But she should be in better shape than this. Today’s air-quality reading was no excuse.

&nbs
p; Baxter snapped the cuffs into place and McCabe retracted her bola.

  Baxter hauled the perp to his feet.

  “Hey, man, this is police brutality, you hear me?” the perp said. “I’m gonna sue both of you.”

  “That all you got to say?” Baxter said.

  “Say? You’re supposed to read me my rights, man.”

  “You got it, man,” Baxter said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you…” He recited the words with the controlled irony of a cop who had been saying them for several decades. But he looked like a college kid. That was why he had been recruited from patrol to work undercover vice. But word was that he had wanted out of that and played a commendably discrete game of departmental politics, involving his godfather, the assistant chief, to get reassigned.

  Sirens screeching, two police cruisers pulled into the alley.

  Baxter grinned at McCabe. “Great way to start the day, huh, partner?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, scraping her shoe on the edge of a mildewed cardboard box.

  She hoped he realized that the likelihood that this was the guy they were looking for was about zilch.

  2

  Outside the station house, two uniforms were hauling a drunk hooker out of the back of their cruiser. Hands cuffed behind her, purple wig askew, the hooker kicked one of the uniforms in the shin with her pointed-toe stiletto. Her momentum sent her sprawling.

  The perp McCabe and Baxter were bringing in laughed. “Bitch down on her—”

  “Shut up,” McCabe said.

  The perp glanced at her and closed his mouth.

  The uniform who’d been kicked dragged the hooker up from the ground by the handcuffs. The hooker’s colorful complaints filled the air.

  Baxter greeted the two detectives coming out of the station house. “Hey, guys, what’ve you got?”

  “Two thugs in an alley,” Sean Pettigrew said. “The vic’s at St. Pete’s.”

  “Looked like a professional job from the cam,” Walter Yin, his partner, said.

  Yin squinted up at the sun, then at the gray fedora in his hand.

  “New hat?” McCabe asked.

  “Casey bought it for me,” Yin said, referring to his wife. “She said my old one was too dirty to clean and too hot to wear anyway.”

  “That one’s nice,” Baxter said.

  “Very nice,” McCabe agreed.

  “It’s made of some kind of new material,” Yin said. He stared at the hat, squinted again at the sun.

  He put the hat on his head and tugged at it to give it a tilt. “Let’s move, Sean.”

  Pettigrew, his own head hatless, waved his hand in farewell. “Off to the war, fellow gumshoes. Crime’s breaking out all over this fine day.”

  Baxter and McCabe headed into the station house with their perp.

  “If the weather report’s right,” Sid Wallace, the desk sergeant, was saying to a uniform, “a big storm’s supposed to come through tonight. That’ll clear the streets. But then tomorrow, we got a full moon. The loony tunes are going to be out—” He broke off when he saw McCabe. “Hey, McCabe, you got a visitor. That old lady from the droogie boys’ case. I put her in Interview A.”

  “Thanks, Sarge,” She glanced at Baxter. “Mike, can you handle—”

  “Got it under control,” he said. “I’ll make sure our guest here gets checked into our best accommodations.”

  “I’m still going to sue,” the perp said.

  “Go for it,” Baxter told him

  “Wait for me to start questioning him,” McCabe said.

  He nodded, but McCabe didn’t want to leave him on his own too long. Baxter was eager to prove himself.

  She opened the door of Interview Room A. The room had no windows. Someone had turned on scenery. Clear, sparkling morning sunlight dappled a meadow of wildflowers. Birds chirped and butterflies fluttered. McCabe touched the console, replacing the dewy meadow with white walls and silencing the sound effects.

  She smiled at the woman. “I can do without a spring meadow this morning. Seems a little silly when you walk out of the building and it’s already eighty-five degrees, with the air smelling of smoke from north of the border.”

  Mrs. Givens, who had been sitting rigid, her face blank, nodded. “Scenery’s pretty to look at. But sometimes it can wear on your nerves.”

  McCabe sat down across from her. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me. I had to make a stop on the way to the station.”

  Mrs. Givens was in her late seventies. Bifocals that were not a retro statement perched on her nose. “It wasn’t like you knew I was coming by. I just decided I’d better come on down here.”

  “Now that we’re both here, what can I do for you, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Givens pushed at her glasses. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

  McCabe reached across the conference table to touch her hand. “What is it, Mrs. Givens? Has something happened?”

  The woman glanced down at McCabe’s pale brown hand covering her darker one. “Honey, how’d you hurt yourself like that?”

  The scratch from the fence was red and jagged. “I was chasing someone,” McCabe said. She drew back her hand, covering the gesture by reaching for her ORB.

  Mrs. Givens said, “Well, I guess if you like your job.…”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I think it’s important work. But let’s talk about why you came in. Do you have questions about the call you received from the DA’s office?”

  “No, I understand what they want me to do. That’s why I needed to come in and tell you in person.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I feel real bad about this. But there’s no point in me meeting with that assistant district attorney. No point at all, because I can’t testify.”

  “Has someone threatened you? If someone has, we can provide protection for you and—”

  “No, it ain’t that. I can’t testify because I don’t remember that night like it happened.”

  McCabe sighed inwardly, afraid she knew what was coming. “How can you not remember, ma’am? It was only a couple of weeks ago. You made a statement at the time.”

  “I know I did. But since then…” The woman pushed up her glasses. “I’m going to tell you the way it is, Detective McCabe, because I appreciate how you handle yourself with people in the community.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Givens. Now, why can’t you testify?”

  “It’s like I said. I can’t testify because I don’t remember about that night. I can still see some of it if I think about it real hard, but it’s like I’m not there.”

  “Like you’re not there?”

  Mrs. Givens cleared her throat.

  “What do you mean it’s like you’re not there?” McCabe said again.

  “I … my niece, she’s studying to be a medical technician. She told me about this stuff you could take.…” Mrs. Givens’s gaze held McCabe’s. “You know about it, don’t you? About the stuff that they been using with the soldiers who get hurt fighting in the war? They call it ‘lullaby.’”

  “I know about it. Lullaby is the street name for the version that’s available on the black market. It’s an illegal drug.”

  “I know you can’t buy it in no store. But I couldn’t eat, and I couldn’t sleep. I was about crazy with what I was seeing in my head.”

  “I know your memories of what happened must have been upsetting, Mrs. Givens. But, ma’am, you—”

  “My niece said you didn’t need me to testify. She said you had them boys right there on your cameras. One of them got his mask yanked down when they was fighting with that other boy. And you got their DNA, don’t you?”

  “That’s true, Mrs. Givens. But you are our most important witness. Your testimony about the attack—”

  “I told you I can’t do that now. My niece said there won’t no reason for me to keep on suffering. ‘Being traumatized,’ she called it.”

  “So your niece got you some lullaby?”


  “No, she didn’t. She just told me about it. Then somebody else gave me the name of somebody who could get me some. But I ain’t going to say who.”

  “Did your niece tell you that this drug can be dangerous? That the black-market version is sometimes laced with—”

  “I got it from somebody who guaranteed his batch was okay. He said he knew the man who made it.”

  “The effects of the drug don’t always last, especially when it isn’t taken within the first few hours after the event. You may start to have flashbacks again, nightmares that are worse than—”

  “Then I’ll take some more.”

  “You don’t want to do that, Mrs. Givens. You don’t want to get addicted to a drug that messes with your mind.”

  “My niece will make sure I’m okay.”

  “Your niece isn’t a doctor. If you’re having problems, you should see a doctor and get help with—”

  “I’m not having problems no more. My niece told me that the drug would work better than talking to somebody, and she was right. I ain’t had one bad dream since I took it. I’m sleeping fine now. Don’t dream at all. But I feel bad about not being able to testify, and I wanted to come in and explain.”

  The door of the interview room slammed back against the wall. Jack Dole, all six four of him, loomed in the doorway.

  “Lieutenant Dole,” McCabe said. “Did you need something, sir?”

  Dole glared at her witness. “That’s nice of you to come in to explain. You want to explain to the family of that kid who got himself killed helping you? You want to explain how you couldn’t testify and those little savages who bashed his head in and stomped on his dead body ended up back out on the street?”

  Mrs. Givens blinked at him. “My niece said I … I don’t—”

  “You don’t what, lady? Explain it to me.”

  A tear trickled down the woman’s cheek, making a trail beneath her glasses. “I was having dreams. Awful dreams. And you ain’t got no call to speak to me like that. I know you got what you need. I can’t be no help to you.”

  McCabe scraped her chair across the floor and stood up. “Lieutenant Dole? Sir, the DA’s office may be able to make its case without Mrs. Givens’s testimony. We have the forensics—”