Reliquary

“You’ll need some ex-TA cops down there,” D’Agosta said. “They’ve done rousting details; they’ll know what to expect.”

“I disagree,” Waxie said immediately. “Those moles are dangerous. A group of them almost killed us just a couple of days ago. We want real cops.”

“Real cops,” D’Agosta repeated. In a louder tone he added, “Then at least take Sergeant Hayward.”

“Forget it,” Waxie said. “She’ll just be in the way.”

“Just shows how much you know,” D’Agosta snapped. “The most valuable resource you had, Waxie, and you never bothered to tap her potential. She knows more than anyone about the underground homeless. You hear me? More than anyone. Believe me, you’ll need her expertise on a roust of this size.”

Horlocker sighed. “Masters, make sure to include this Sergeant Hayward on the field trip. Waxie, contact what’s his name?—Duffy?—at the Water Authority. I want those valves opened at midnight.” He looked around. “We’d better move this down to Police Plaza. Professor Frock, we could use your assistance.”

Margo watched as Frock, despite himself, beamed with pleasure at feeling useful. “Thank you for that. But I think I’ll go home and rest first, if I may. This business has quite exhausted me.” He smiled at Horlocker, winked at Margo, and rolled out the door.

Margo watched him go. Nobody else will ever have any idea how much effort it cost him to admit he was wrong, she thought.

D’Agosta began following Horlocker and Waxie into the corridor. Then he stopped and turned back to Margo. “Thoughts?” he asked.

Margo shook her head, bringing herself back. “I don’t know. I understand there’s no time to waste. But I can’t help remembering what happened when…” She hesitated. “I just wish Pendergast was here,” she said at last.

The phone rang, and she moved to answer it. “Margo Green here.” She listened for a long moment, then hung up.

“You’d better go on ahead,” she said to D’Agosta. “That was my lab assistant. She wants me downstairs right away.”

= 41 =

SMITHBACK PUSHED aside one man in a seersucker suit and dug his elbow into another, trying to force his way through the thickening mob. He’d badly underestimated just how long it would take him to get here; the crowd was jammed solidly for almost three blocks’ worth of Fifth Avenue real estate, and more were arriving every minute. Already, he’d missed Wisher’s opening speech in front of the cathedral. Now he wanted to reach the first candlelight vigil before the crowd began moving again.

“Watch it, asshole,” a young man brayed loudly, removing a silver hip flask from his lips just long enough to speak.

“Go suck on a long bond,” Smithback retorted over his shoulder as he straggled forward. He could hear policemen now begi

“Hey! Smithback!” Turning, the journalist made out Clarence Kozinsky, a Post reporter on the Wall Street beat. “Can you believe this? Word spread like lightning.”

“Guess my article did the trick,” Smithback said proudly.

Kozinsky shook his head. “Hate to disappoint you, pal, but your article only hit the streets half an hour ago. They didn’t want to take the chance of alerting the cops too early. Word got passed in late afternoon over the services. You know, brokers’ wires, the NYSE network, Quotron, LEXIS, all the rest. Seems the boys downtown have really taken to this whole Wisher thing. They think she’s the answer to all their white-bread problems.” He snickered. “It’s not just about crime anymore. Don’t ask me how it happened. But the talk in all the bars is that she’s got twice the balls the Mayor has. They think she’s go

Smithback looked around. “I didn’t know there were so many financial types in the whole world, let alone Manhattan.”

Kozinsky snickered again. “Everybody assumes that Wall Street types are all retro-yuppie drones in boring suits with two point five children, a house in the suburbs, and treadmill, cookie-cutter existences. Nobody remembers the place has a whole sleazy underbelly, too. You got your mere exchange floor ru

Ahead, between the rows of heads, Smithback made out Mrs. Wisher. Saying a hasty good-bye to Kozinsky, he pushed his way forward. Mrs. Wisher was standing in the stately shadow of Bergdorf Goodman, flanked by a Catholic priest, an Episcopalian minister, and a rabbi, in front of a three-foot pile of fresh flowers and cards. An effete-looking, long-haired young man wearing a pinstripe suit and thick violet socks stood mournfully to one side. Smithback recognized the hangdog face as that of the Viscount Adair, Pamela Wisher’s boyfriend. Mrs. Wisher looked spare and dignified, her light hair pulled severely back and her face without makeup. As he switched on his tape recorder and thrust it forward, Smithback couldn’t help thinking that she was a born leader.

Mrs. Wisher stood silently, head bowed, for a long moment. Then she turned toward the assembled crowd, adjusting a wireless microphone. She cleared her throat dramatically.

“Citizens of New York!” she cried. As a hush fell over the crowd, Smithback looked around, startled by the clarity and volume of her voice. He made out several people scattered strategically through the crowd, holding portable speakers on metal poles. Despite the spontaneous look of the march, Mrs. Wisher and her people had clearly thought things out in great detail.

When the silence was complete, she resumed in a quieter voice. “We are here to remember Mary A

Between her sentences, Smithback could hear the police bullhorns more clearly now, ordering the crowd to disperse. Mounted police had arrived only to find the crowd too heavy for them to move in safely, and their horses pranced at the fringes in frustration. Smithback knew that Mrs. Wisher had deliberately not sought a parade permit this time in order to cause maximum surprise and consternation at City Hall. Like Kozinsky had said, a

“It’s been a long time,” Mrs. Wisher was saying, “a very long time since a child could walk in New York City without fear. But now, even adults are afraid. We’re afraid to walk the streets, to stroll through the park… to ride the subway.”

An angry murmur rose at this reference to the recent massacre. Smithback added his own voice to the crowd’s, knowing that Mrs. Wisher had probably never hung from a strap in her life.

“Tonight!” she cried suddenly, eyes glittering as she surveyed the crowd. “Tonight we will change all that. And we will start by taking back Central Park. At midnight we will stand, unafraid, on the Great Lawn!”

A roar rose from the crowd, growing in intensity until the pressure of it seemed almost to constrict Smithback’s chest. He turned off his cassette recorder and stuffed it into his pocket; it couldn’t handle the noise, and besides, he wouldn’t need any help remembering this event. He knew that, by now, other journalists would have arrived in force, national as well as local. But he, Smithback, was the only journalist with exclusive access to Anette Wisher, the only reporter provided with details of the march. Not long before, a special afternoon edition of the Post had begun appearing on newsstands. It included an insert that displayed maps of the march and listed all the stopping points at which the murder victims would be memorialized. Smithback felt a flush of pride. He could see that many people in the crowd had a copy of the insert in their hands. Kozinski didn’t know everything. He, Smithback, had helped spread the word far and wide. Newsstand sales would no doubt go through the roof, and it was the best kind of circulation—not just working class types, but a good smattering of affluent, influential people who normally read the Times. Let that dweeb Harriman explain this particular phenomenon to his fossilized, dung-encrusted editor.