Fever Dream Read online

  Brian Fletcher laughed shortly, as did Biegler. The campaign manager looked at him.

  “I’m on the payroll, Lieutenant. I have to laugh at his jokes. What’s your excuse?”

  Biegler reddened, and glanced over at Sinclair, as though for moral support. Apparently, the DA wasn’t in a giving mood. He retook his seat behind the desk and gestured at me.

  “Now that you and Detective Lowrey are here, we can get down to business. But make it fast. I have to give a speech on the North Side in less than an hour.”

  Lowrey and I found chairs and sat. As we did, Fletcher began scooping up some papers from the desk.

  “You want me to step outside, Lee? Since this is police business?”

  “Hell, stay if you want. Besides, don’t you have this room bugged, anyway?”

  The two men shared a knowing smile, excluding the rest of us in the room. They had that easy banter, the cool familiarity, of the select. The entitled. The best and the brightest, in Halberstam’s famous words.

  “Now, then.” Sinclair massaged his knuckles. “Before we begin, let me get everyone’s jurisdictional concerns out of the way. I think you’ll be happy to hear, Lieutenant, that the Assistant Chief is going to run interference for us with Neal Alcott.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “FBI.” Biegler’s tone was flat. “Bank jobs are federal crimes. Though usually they leave us alone, unless we ask for assistance.”

  “But not this time,” Sinclair said. “Not with a hostage situation that led to multiple casualties. Luckily, Alcott’s a desk jockey who’d rather brown-nose his way to a promotion than get his fingernails dirty. As long as we keep him in the loop, we’ll probably get to run this investigation ourselves.”

  “Until the manhunt goes nationwide,” Polk pointed out. “Then it’s the Bureau’s ballgame.”

  “All the more reason to get on top of this fast.” Sinclair turned to Biegler. “So, Lieutenant, what the hell happened out there today? What do we know?”

  “Not much, at this early stage.” Biegler consulted some files he’d opened on his lap.

  “Here’re the broad strokes: according to the statement given to Detective Lowrey and Dr. Rinaldi by Treva Williams, two masked men entered the First Allegheny Bank at approximately noon. To be more precise, one masked man entered and immediately shot out the video cameras. Then his partner came in.”

  He spoke to Polk without looking up from his files.

  “Sergeant? Any word from the lab on the video?”

  Polk stirred. “I just talked to them. They’ve looked at the tape, and it bears out the Williams girl’s story. I haven’t seen it myself yet, but it apparently shows the first guy entering the bank, taking out a big gun—we figure it’s the .357 Magnum we recovered from the scene—and shooting the surveillance cameras, one at a time. That’s all we have that’s usable on the tape. After that point…well…nothin’. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Sinclair repeated. Then he turned to me. “Which is why you’re here, Dan.”

  “I was wondering about that myself.”

  “According to Detective Lowrey, it was you who managed to get Treva Williams to talk about what happened. From what I understand, she was in quite a state.”

  “Suffering from shock, yes. But without knowing anything about her personal history, or previous experiences of trauma, I can’t say for sure how deeply all this has impacted her. I can say she was barely keeping it together. Sometimes lucid, but more often dissociative. I’ll need to do a complete eval. Including mental status exam. Perhaps some projective tests.”

  Sinclair’s voice was clipped. “All very interesting. The point is, can we trust her story? Her account of what happened?”

  “Hard to say. I think so.”

  “Even though she said she dreamed it all?” He made no effort to hide his skepticism.

  “Believing it had just been a bad dream enabled her to describe it. Gave her the illusion of distance. Protected her.”

  “And you went along with it?”

  “Seemed like the right call at the time.”

  I could tell Sinclair enjoyed looking unconvinced. He glanced meaningfully at Fletcher, and then Biegler.

  “I was there, sir,” Lowrey spoke up suddenly. “I think she was telling the truth. And what little info we have from the scene seems to back up her story.”

  Sinclair took a long breath, then turned to Polk.

  “What do you think, Sergeant?”

  Polk squared his shoulders. “I never disagree with my partner, sir. Bad for the team.”

  “I see.”

  Sinclair looked as though he wanted to say more, but hesitated. What would be the point? Even though he saw the facetious gleam in Polk’s eye, he understood the serious meaning behind it. He knew enough not to try to divide two cops who’d been partnered as long as Polk and Lowrey. Whatever conflicts they’d have in private, they would never express them in public. Or on the record.

  At a loss, Sinclair turned back to Biegler. “Okay, Lieutenant. Where were we? The first gunman enters the bank and takes out the cameras. Then what?”

  “Then he’s joined by a second guy, who enters the same way, through the front door. He’s also masked and carrying a gun. Now this was confirmed by both Treva Williams and George Vickers, the security guard.”

  “Vickers is the only other survivor, right?” Sinclair clasped his hands behind his head, levered back in his chair. “How many victims, total?”

  “You mean, the bank employees? Three.”

  Biegler flipped through some pages in his files. “We haven’t officially ID’d everybody. The M.E. just got the bodies. But we have a list of names from the bank’s home office in Harrisburg. Plus personnel files.”

  Sinclair clucked his tongue impatiently.

  Biegler blinked a couple times and continued. “First dead employee is Tina Unswari. Parents emigrated here from New Dehli before she was born. Twenty-six, unmarried. Lived with her sister in an apartment in Greentree. Graduated from Duquesne University.”

  Tina Unswari. The first victim I’d seen when I entered the bank. The image of her body in death was still with me. I found myself involuntarily closing my eyes, unmindful of the others in the room, as though that would erase the picture. It didn’t.

  “Next we have Phyllis Hopper,” Biegler droned on. “Married, two kids. Senior bank associate. Kinda like the head teller, I guess. Then there’s Robert Marks. Called ‘Bobby,’ according to Treva Williams. He was the assistant bank manager.”

  “So where was the manager?” Lowrey asked, sitting forward in her chair. “The one in charge?”

  “Home, apparently. Called in sick with a bad cold. Guy named James Franconi. One of my people spoke to him on the phone. Told him to make himself available for questioning later today.”

  Biegler glanced up from his files and targeted Polk. “You make sure somebody talks to that guy tonight, okay? Given that this could be an inside job, it’s pretty damn convenient. I mean, Franconi coming down with a cold the day the bank gets hit.”

  Polk grunted his assent, making a big show of jotting down a note in his little pad.

  Meanwhile, Sinclair motioned to his campaign manager.

  “Get the names and addresses of the victims’ next of kin. I want flowers sent, and I think we should plan some kind of public memorial. For all three of them. I’ll make some remarks.”

  Fletcher nodded gravely. “Good idea.”

  “But I don’t want it to look like we’re exploiting this tragedy for political gain,” Sinclair said.

  “Best way to do that,” I said, “is not to exploit it for political gain.”

  Sinclair gave me an indulgent smile. Nobody else seemed to do much of anything just then. Including breathe.

  “Not that you asked my opinion,” I added.

  Sinclair took a thoughtful pause. “You know, as district attorney, I genuinely believe it’s part of the job to express my condolences, on behalf of the cit
y, to the victims’ families. If you think anything other than that, Dan, it’s you who’s guilty of cynicism.”

  “Nicely done. Makes it hard to believe you’ve been dodging debates with your opponent.”

  Fletcher bristled. “Not true. Lee will debate John Garrity any time, any place. We just have to agree on the terms. Hell, his handlers have been totally unreasonable since discussions began. Not that I blame them. Not with their guy. I mean, talk about charismatically-challenged. The guy’s a fucking tree stump.”

  Sinclair raised a hand. “Cool it, Brian. This isn’t a strategy session. Besides, Dan and I go ’way back. We’re used to taking harmless little shots at each other. Right, Danny?”

  “If you say so. Lee.”

  Then we just stared at each other, like two rival kids in a schoolyard, until I felt pretty foolish. I could tell that Sinclair did, too. Luckily, Biegler’s mounting anxiety rescued both of us.

  “Want me to go on, Mr. Sinclair? I mean, I know your time is limited.”

  “Indeed it is. Thank you, Lieutenant. Shall we continue?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sinclair brought his hands forward, clasped them on the blotter. “Now, do we have any idea what actually happened during the robbery attempt?”

  Biegler consulted his files again. “According to Treva Williams, it went down like this: the two perps have everybody on the floor, on their knees, hands on their heads. But this Marks guy drops his glasses, and when he goes to pick them up, the first guy shoots him. Head shot. Everybody panics. The two perps argue about it, and then the alarm goes off and…”

  “Who triggered the alarm?” Sinclair asked.

  “That’s not clear yet, sir. The Williams girl just said they all heard it go off, and this apparently spooks the second perp like crazy. He says ‘Fuck this, I’m outta here,’ or words to that effect, and runs out the back way, through the emergency exit door.”

  “Leaving just the one gunman,” Sinclair said. “The first one who came in.”

  “Yeah. Then…” Biegler swiveled in his seat to Polk. “What did the security guard report, Harry? We’ll need something to corroborate the Williams girl’s account.”

  A sidelong glance at me. “I mean, since she thinks it was all a dream or some shit…”

  Before I could think up an equally dismissive reply, Polk dutifully answered his boss.

  “Vickers didn’t offer much. He was in pretty bad shape himself. Arm shot all to hell.” He scowled. “And for a former cop, damned uncooperative. Says he plans to sue.”

  At this, Fletcher tilted his head up. “Sue? Who? The city? The department?”

  “We didn’t get into all the grubby details. But I’m tellin’ ya, the bastard smells money.”

  Sinclair waved his hand in frustration. “Let’s not get off the track, people. His statement, Sergeant?”

  Polk sniffed loudly. “According to Vickers, after the second perp runs outta the bank, the first one starts freakin’ out, waitin’ for his demands to be met…”

  “Yes, safe passage out of town. A plane at Pittsburgh International.” Sinclair smiled without humor. “These clowns all watch too much television.”

  “Anyway, we won’t know the play-by-play on this till we talk further with Vickers and the Williams girl, but somethin’ musta flipped the guy out. ’cause he just starts whackin’ the hostages. We all heard the shots comin’ from inside the bank. That’s when the assistant chief gave the order to move in.”

  “And I authorized appropriate use of force,” Sergeant Chester spoke for the first time. “We had SWAT on the ground, as well as a sniper on the roof of the building across the street. He saw the perp and took his shot.”

  Polk laughed. “Musta took a couple shots, ’cause his first one hit Vickers in the arm.”

  Chester’s eyes went small and black. “Fuck you, Polk. My guy did the job. He took out the prick through a goddam window, from a building across the street. Guy deserves a fuckin’ medal.”

  “And I’ll make sure he gets one,” Sinclair said, rising stiffly from his chair. He began fiddling with his tie. “Is that everything?”

  “Like I said, it’s all pretty sketchy.” Biegler tapped his closed files on his knees. “We have a meeting with Internal Affairs in half an hour. Then we talk to all our people who were on-scene. Uniforms. SWAT. Everybody. Especially the sniper.”

  Fletcher glanced up, brow furrowed. “Internal Affairs? Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t worry, Brian.” Sinclair picked a piece of lint from his jacket lapel. “Standard procedure with officer-involved shootings. Especially in a large-scale police action like this.”

  “Standard?” Fletcher sputtered angrily. “What’s standard about three dead hostages, a wounded security guard, and a Wild West shoot-out in midtown? Christ, we gotta get a handle on how to spin this—and fast. I mean, we’re right in the middle of a campaign. The potential blow-back from something like this could be crippling…”

  Sinclair spread his hands. “See, people? Brian is not only my campaign manager, he’s chief executive in charge of buzz-kill. If there’s a dark cloud anywhere on the horizon, he’ll see it.”

  “That’s my job, Lee. And I’m damned good at it. So, yeah, I see a dark cloud. A huge sucker. What I don’t see is any goddam silver lining.”

  By now, Biegler was looking at his shoes and Polk was pretending to be fascinated by something outside the window. I was beginning to wonder myself if the rest of us shouldn’t just excuse ourselves and let Sinclair and Fletcher confer in private.

  Sinclair seemed to sense my thoughts. He reached over and clapped a hand on his campaign manager’s shoulder.

  “Easy, Brian. Like it or not, I’m still the DA with a job to do. At least until November. Which means dealing with bad guys and the bad things they do.”

  Fletcher gave a bitter laugh. “Somehow I’m not seeing that silver lining yet.”

  “I do,” I said. The two men turned, surprised.

  I smiled. “If Lee plays this right, he and the cops come out smelling like roses. A bank robber is killing hostages, till he gets stopped in his tracks by a SWAT sniper. A young female teller and a wounded security guard are rescued. Order is restored. And Lee’s strong, take-no-prisoners approach to law enforcement has been vindicated. Meanwhile, what was City Councilman John Garrity doing during the crisis? Sitting somewhere nice and safe, uninvolved, watching it on the news like every other citizen.”

  I looked at Sinclair. “At least, that’s how I’d spin it. You were thinking something along those lines, right?”

  “More or less.” A thin smile. “Perhaps you’d like a position in my campaign…?”

  “Hell, Lee, I’m not sure I’m even gonna vote for you.”

  Sinclair’s laugh was almost genuine.

  But Brian Fletcher was unimpressed. “Let’s hope you’re right, Doc. But I’ve been around long enough to know only an idiot assumes how some unplanned event is gonna play out. Like, for example, what if this Vickers prick does decide to sue? Pending lawsuits during the final weeks of a campaign don’t do much for your poll numbers.”

  “The man’s got a point,” Sinclair admitted. He tugged on his jacket sleeves and came around from behind his desk. “We’ll just have to see how it rolls in the next couple days. Track the emails, voter contributions. The usual suspects. Meanwhile, Lieutenant, anything on the second gunman? The one who ran off when the alarm sounded?”

  Biegler shrugged. “Without an ID, it’s a stone-cold bitch. He had a mask on, too, remember. But I got a dozen uniforms canvassing a four-block area. Maybe somebody seen the guy running out of the rear of the bank. Or some guy jump in a car and take off in a hurry.”

  “Probably a dead end,” Polk said. “All the guy’d have to do is take off the mask, slip the gun in his pocket, and stroll casually down Liberty Avenue. Just another mook on his lunch hour, workin’ on his tan.”

  Lowrey spoke up suddenly. She’d been strangely quiet during the who
le conversation.

  “I think Harry’s right,” she said. “We’d have better luck working our informants. Picking up what we can from the street.”

  “Yeah.” Polk nodded. “Big-ass score like this, you get a lotta chatter. Even if it all goes south.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, Sergeant,” Biegler said. “Get whoever you need and get on that.” He handed his stack of files over to Polk. “And let’s get the new murder book started with these.”

  Polk looked doubtfully at the files. “If the second guy’s not already in the wind…”

  Sinclair clapped his hands together sharply.

  “People, we’re going to need a much more positive, proactive attitude on this thing. I want the second guy found. I want the dead gunman ID’d. And I want the department’s media hacks on all the local TV news channels this evening. Same upbeat sound-bite: An outbreak of violence in the heart of our city quickly brought to a halt, thanks to the courage and professionalism of our police department. Am I clear?”

  Biegler, Polk and Lowrey mumbled their assent. Chester just sat, face unreadable, his arms folded.

  Meanwhile, I noticed Fletcher flipping through the sheaf of papers still clutched in his arms. Somehow, a pen had made its way to his mouth, clenched between two rows of expensive white caps.

  Soon he found the paper he was looking for. He pulled the sheet from the stack, leaned over it on Sinclair’s desk, and started writing.

  “Lee,” he said, without looking up from his work, “I’m adding a few lines to your North Side speech. Similar to what you just suggested for broadcast tonight on the news. Great stuff. We still have a few minutes, enough time for you to get familiar with it.”

  “Good. I’ll read it in the car.”

  The rest of us silently parted to give Sinclair room to cross to the door.

  Pulling it open, he said, “Let’s get back in contact by phone in two hours. I’ll want a progress report, as well as a head’s-up on how IA’s planning to proceed. You never know with those tight-asses. Best way to keep control of this thing is to limit any unwanted surprises.”

  “Yeah,” Biegler agreed importantly.