The Vaults - By Toby Ball Page 0,114
shows, which were under way. The streets, he noted with disgust, were littered with garbage. He kicked an empty can at a stray cat and watched it jump and then cower, hissing, in a doorway.
Smith strolled to the door of Feral’s apartment building, found the right key on his crowded key chain, and eased his way in. The mayor made sure that all of his triggermen had access to each other’s flats or houses, thinking that this lack of security would encourage obedience. This was true to a certain extent in Smith’s case. He certainly didn’t relish the thought of that little freak Feral creeping around his place. On the other hand, Smith was confident that he could take care of himself, no matter the circumstance.
He took the stairs to Feral’s floor and listened at his door, trying to ascertain what was going on inside. Hearing nothing, he unlocked the door and slipped into Feral’s flat.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
The ASU station was in turmoil that had Poole’s escorts glancing nervously at the sergeant. Gray-suited officers were leaving the building in pairs and fours, while others bustled around the station, faces grim. The two officers led Poole through this confusion, one on each arm with the sergeant walking point.
The sergeant stopped a young officer and asked, “Where’s Martens?”
“Don’t know, sir. But I bet he’s either on the street or headed that way.” Poole watched drops of sweat roll down the kid’s temples.
The sergeant asked, “What’s the rumble?”
“You don’t know? Word came down straight from the mayor. We need to bring in that union gink Dotel and that woman. The mayor wants them tonight. However we can get them. Everyone’s on it,” the kid said, eyes wide. “Everyone.”
Poole felt the blood drain from his face. He sagged a little and his escorts tightened their grips to hold him up. He fought back a torrent of panicked thoughts, trying to focus, think clearly. He needed to address this step-by-step. The first thing was to get out of the station as fast as possible. Without thinking, he pulled against his handcuffs. But they were too strong, of course.
The sergeant motioned for his officers to follow him as he walked farther into the station. He asked a couple of other officers about Martens before someone pointed toward an open door off the squad room. The sergeant led Poole through the door into an interrogation room, where three men sat around a metal table in a haze of cigarette smoke. One, a small man with a receding forehead and a weak chin, was doing the talking. He stopped as Poole followed the sergeant into the suddenly cramped room. The small man turned, glaring, to face the two newcomers. Poole noticed the military mustache.
“What the hell is this?” the small man said with undisguised annoyance. The two officers stayed outside. The room was too crowded as it was.
“Ethan Poole,” the sergeant said significantly.
“Why is he here?”
“He claims that someone is out to assassinate the mayor tonight.”
The little man, who Poole assumed was Martens, looked thoughtful for a moment. “Poole, yes. The name . . . we were looking for you . . .” His voice trailed off, then he found himself again with a start. He barked, “There’s not time for this tonight.” He ground the lit end of his cigarette into the table.
“The mayor . . . ,” the sergeant said.
Martens turned to Poole. “What is this? Someone is trying to kill the mayor tonight? Who? Who’s trying to kill him? For God’s sake, how do you know?”
Poole had been thinking about which answer to this question would be most likely to get him back on the street as fast as possible. Nothing better than the truth had presented itself. “Whiskers McAdam.”
Martens coughed out a laugh. “Whiskers McAdam? He won’t see the outside of a cell for another twenty years. My God. What do you take us for?”
Poole shrugged. He had to play this out a little further; make it look as if he were really trying to convince them. “It’s what I’ve heard. People say they’ve seen him on the street.”
Martens regarded Poole as he might have a dumb and intransigent child. “I don’t know what your angle is on this, Poole, but it’s a bunch of horseshit.” Martens turned to the sergeant, waiting.
“I should lock him up?” the sergeant suggested.
“Christ.” Martens was reddening. “Are you suggesting that you spend tonight at your desk typing up a report that you brought Poole in because he claimed that