Gideon’s Sword

The cop nodded in understanding.

“Tony went to Italy, the Jubilee Year in 2000—and the pope blessed that medallion. Blessed it personally. I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but Saint Christopher’s the patron saint of travelers, and he being a cabbie and all — well, that medallion was the most precious thing he owned. That moment with the pope was the high point of his life.”

“I’m Catholic,” said the cop. “I know all about it.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you understand. I don’t know if you can do this or not, and I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble—​but it would mean so much to his widow if she could have that medallion back. To, you know, put in the casket and bury it with her husband. It would give her such comfort to be able to do that…” His voice cracked. “Excuse me,” he said, fumbling out a kerchief he had bought for that purpose, blowing his nose.

The officer shifted uncomfortably. “I understand what you’re saying. I feel for her and her kids, I really do. But here’s the thing.”

Gideon waited patiently.

“Here’s the thing,” the cop repeated uneasily, seeking a way to say it. “The wrecked car is evidence in a homicide investigation. It’s locked up right now, nobody can even get to it.”

“Locked up?”

“Yeah. Inside an evidence cage in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the warehouse.

“But surely someone could just go in there and get the medallion off the mirror? That’s not evidence.”

“I understand. I really do. But that taxicab’s totally locked up. It’s in a chain-link cage, with a chain-link roof over it and everything. And the warehouse itself is locked and alarmed. You’ve got to understand, chain of custody for evidence is crucial in a case like this. The cab is evidence: there are scratches on it, paint from the other vehicle, evidence of ramming. This is a major homicide case — seven people died in that accident and others were badly injured. And they’re still looking for the scumbag who did it. Nobody can get in there except authorized perso

Gideon’s face fell. “I see. That’s too bad, it would mean so much.” He looked up, brightening, as with a new idea. “Tony won’t be buried for a week or two, at least. Will it be locked up very long?”

“The way these things work, that cab will be locked up until the guys are caught, there’s a trial, maybe an appeal…It could be years. I wish it wasn’t like that.” The officer spread his hands. “Years.”

“What am I going to tell my sister? You say the warehouse is alarmed?”

“Alarmed and guarded, twenty-four seven. And even if you could get in there, as I said, the vehicle’s locked inside an evidence cage way in the back and not even the guard has a key.”

Gideon rubbed his chin. “Chain-link cage?”

“Yeah, sort of like those cages they use in Guantánamo.”

“The cage is also alarmed?”

“No.”

“How’s the warehouse alarmed?”

“Doors and windows.”

“Motion sensors? Lasers?”

“Nah, there’s a guard who makes his rounds every half hour in there. I think it’s just the doors and windows that have alarms.”

“Video cameras?”

“Yeah, they’re all over. The whole area’s covered.” He paused, his face becoming serious. “Don’t even think about it.”

Gideon shook his head. “You’re right. What the hell am I thinking?”

“Be patient. Eventually you’ll get that medallion back, and maybe by then you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the perp doing twenty-five to life at Rikers Island.”

“I hope they fry the bastard.”

The cop reached out and laid a hammy hand on Gideon’s. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Gideon nodded quickly, pressed the cop’s hand, and walked off. When he reached the end of the block, he turned and looked back. He could see, under the eaves of the warehouse’s corners, a cluster of surveillance cameras providing full coverage of the outdoor area. He counted them: twelve from this vantage point alone. There would be many more on the other side of the building and an equal number within.

He turned and pondered what he’d learned. The fact was, most of what people called security systems were pastiches, just a lot of expensive electronic shit slapped up willy-nilly with no thought to building a coordinated, comprehensive network. One of Gideon’s worst habits, which ruined his enjoyment of museum-going, was his propensity to figure out how many ways he could rip the museum off: wireless transmitters, vibration and motion sensors, noncontact IR detectors, ultrasound — it was all so obvious.

He shook his head with something almost like regret. There would be no challenge here at the police warehouse — none at all.

20

Three o’clock in the morning. Gideon Crew sauntered down Brown Place and crossed 132nd Street, weaving slightly, muttering to himself. He was wearing baggy jeans and a thin hoodie sporting a Cab Calloway silkscreen—​a nice touch, he thought—​which flopped over his face. The fake gut he had purchased at a theatrical supply store hung hot and heavy on his midriff, and it pressed heavily on the Colt Python snugged into his waistband against his skin.

He crossed the street, stumbled on the opposite curb, and continued down 132nd toward Pulaski Park, alongside the chain-link fence surrounding the police warehouse. The sodium lamps cast a bright urine glow everywhere, and the separate security floods around the warehouse added their own brilliant white to the mix. The gatehouse was empty, the gate shut and locked, the rolls of concertina wire at the top of the fence gleaming in the light.

Reaching the point where the fence made a turn toward an old set of railroad tracks across an overgrown and abandoned parking lot, now used for storage of old tractor-trailers, he staggered around the corner, searching here and there as if looking for a place to piss. There was no one in the area he could see, and he doubted anyone was watching, but he felt certain the surveillance cameras were recording his every move; they probably weren’t monitored in real time, but they surely would be scrutinized later.

Staggering alongside the fence, he unzipped his fly, took a steaming leak, then continued to the tracks. Turning again, now out of sight from the street, he suddenly crouched, reached into his pocket, and pulled a stocking down over his face. The bottom of the chain-link fence was anchored into a cement apron with bent pieces of rebar and could not be pulled up. Reaching under his baggy sweatshirt, he pulled out a pair of bolt cutters and cut the links along the bottom, then up one side beside a pole. Grasping the cut section of links, he bent them inward. In another moment he was inside. He pushed the flap of chain link back into place and looked around.

The warehouse had two huge doors in the front and back, into which had been set smaller doors. He scooted up to the back door and found, as expected, a numerical keypad with a small LED screen to set or turn off the alarm. No peephole or window — the door was blank metal.

Naturally, he didn’t know the code to turn off the alarm. But there was someone who did, inside; all he needed to do was summon him.

He knocked on the door and waited.

Silence.

He knocked again, louder. “Yo!” he called.

And now he could hear, inside, the sound of the guard moving toward the door.

“Who is it?” came the disembodied voice.

“Officers Halsey and Medina,” Gideon barked out in a loud, officious voice. “You okay? We got a silent alarm going at the precinct house.”

“Silent alarm? I don’t know anything about it.” Gideon waited as the guard pressed the password into the keypad on the other side. The numbers came up only as asterisks on the external LED screen.