Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

“Bullshit you’re developing it,” I said. “You slapped up some scaffolding about a year ago on the outside, but inside you haven’t touched a thing. Just like with so many buildings you own. You buy them and then let them fester. Make the block as horrendous and unlivable as possible to drive down the values and drive everybody out, especially the rent control people.

“Then you rush in with your buddy—Gabe Chayefsky, is it?—and his private hedge fund equity money and scoop up the whole block at cut-rate prices. Too bad New York Magazine doesn’t do a Scumbag 100 edition or you would have made the cover.”

“You read too many blogs, Officer,” Max said, smiling easily, guilt erased now. His teeth were even and very white in his tan, exfoliated face.

“That’s idle speculation,” he continued. “Listen, I am aware there are some problems, and it’s true, we have been fined. But we’ve paid those fines, and we’re working in good faith to get square with all of it. You can ask Judy Quincy at the Department of City Planning or Alan Dawes’s office.

“You know Alan, the speaker of the City Council? Maybe not. I do, though. Perhaps your boss’s boss’s boss might. Anyway, all of our properties are secured. The criminal must have entered illegally. How am I to blame for that? I’m the victim of trespassing here, as far as I can tell.”

I stood there staring at him. I wasn’t getting through to this guy, and I knew I wasn’t going to. The fact that Doyle wasn’t dead was a miracle, but this guy could not care less. It made me mad.

After a moment, I glanced at the edge of the construction site’s open floor.

“You look like a smart guy, Max. Ivy League, am I right? Objects fall at nine point eight meters per second squared, right?” I said. “We’re what? Thirty-two floors up? That’s three hundred and twenty feet. In a mere ten seconds, you could be in Carnegie Hall. Imagine that, Max. And it wouldn’t even take any practice at all.”

“What?” he said, outraged.

“Clean ’em u

p. That’s what I’m here to tell you. Clean them the hell up or sell them. I don’t give a shit.”

“Or what?” he said, smiling again, almost amused.

“Or your next New York Magazine photo shoot is going to go overtime when they have to try to figure out how to shoot around your badly broken nose.”

“Are you kidding me? This is unreal. You really are threatening me, aren’t you?”

I leaned in until we were almost chest to chest.

“Look in my eyes. What do you think?”

“This is outrageous. You can’t do this. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is the Ghost of Your Ass-Kicking Yet to Come, Schlack. If you don’t get your company’s shit together,” I said, turning and walking back toward the elevator.

A horn sounded far below down between the metal grates as I pressed the elevator button. When I looked up, Schlack was suddenly beside me, his sneering, haughty look back. It seemed to be his natural resting expression.

“What are your name and badge number? I want them now,” Schlack said, squinting at me.

“Oh, my badge number. Sure,” I said, reaching into my pocket. I wrapped my fist around my shield and then held my closed fist up in front of his face.

“You’ll have to guess, Max. I’ll even give you a hint. The first number is a six. You know, the same percentage scumbags like you make in commission when you flip a slum house.”

Even I could hardly believe where I was taking this, how angry I was, how much I wanted to start trading punches with this guy. I usually didn’t go around threatening to kick people’s asses or throw them off buildings. Even punks like this one.

Was it all the stress I’d been under since coming back home? All my cases? The fact that Mary Catherine had left? Was I projecting all my troubles onto Max here, I wondered?

I couldn’t decide. Or care. Instead, I stood there and waited, staring at him.

“Guess you didn’t want it that bad, huh?” I said as the elevator finally arrived. “You didn’t even guess.”

CHAPTER 76

AFTER MY FAIRLY UNHINGED and completely fruitless freakout near Carnegie Hall, I drove back up to Harlem to check in with Robertson. He thought he might have found something connected to Naomi’s murder and he wanted to show me in person.

As I came through the squad office door, I watched as Noah immediately spun around in his cubicle. He knocked over one of the precarious stacks of printouts covering his desk as he frantically waved me over.

“I think I’ve found a lead on the cannibal angle, Mike,” he said as he brought up a website on his computer. “It’s beyond bizarre, but I really think this might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”