The Vaults - By Toby Ball Page 0,120
He hadn’t even thought about it. It had seemed too abstract until now.
Van Vossen leaned forward, his crimson smoking jacket gapping to reveal his sweat-drenched shirt. “You have the most complete knowledge of anyone living. The files. Not even I know as much as you.”
Puskis nodded, feeling weary.
Van Vossen went on. “There is value to what we know, you and I. There is. Information does not need to conform to patterns or rules or formulae to be of vital importance.”
Was this true? Puskis nodded again, mostly to placate Van Vossen.
“It is crucial that this information not be lost. If it is lost, what was the point of my life or yours?”
And this was the crux of Van Vossen’s madness, Puskis realized. What was the point of his life?
Puskis stared into the fire. Van Vossen stood up from his chair mumbling something about returning shortly and wandered out of the room.
Hours later, Puskis watched the last embers of the fire slowly extinguish. Van Vossen had not returned, as Puskis had felt sure he would not. Puskis felt too weary to move. And where would he go? Eventually, the fire exhausted its fuel and Puskis sat alone. In the dark.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
Black smoke plumed from the burning cars, adding to the confusion on the street. An area had been cordoned off around the mayor’s car. Frings stood off to the side with the Chief and the officer from the steps, who held a handkerchief over his face to filter the air.
The Chief was grim, but calm. He took off his hat and rubbed his hand through his thinning hair.
“O’Donnell here tells me you know who it was.”
“That’s right, Chief. One of them was definitely Otto Samuelson.” Frings dragged off a Lucky.
The Chief raised an eyebrow with interest. “Otto Samuelson? Surely he’s in the pen.”
Frings smiled despite himself. The Chief was a lot of things, Frings knew, but he was not a clever bullshitter. He was clearly not in the know about the Navajo Project.
Frings said, “He’s not. You’ll find out more about that. You’ll be surprised by the other name I’m going to give you, too. Blood Whiskers McAdam.”
“Whiskers?” The Chief shook his head. “He’s out, too?”
“Never was in, actually. But they were the two. I’m sure about Samuelson and almost about McAdam. You need to put out a search for them.”
“I guess I’d best. You going to fill me in, Frank? Or would it ruin your story?”
“Chief, I’d be happy to give you the rumble.” They made plans to meet at Headquarters at midnight, giving the Chief time to settle things at the site and begin the search for Samuelson and McAdam. But he would still hear from Frings before the early addition of the Gazette alerted the rest of the City.
The Chief offered Frings his hand and they shook. “Thanks, Frank. I owe you one.” The look in the Chief’s eyes, Frings thought, was telling. There was resolve, knowing the work ahead of him in tracking down the mayor’s killers; but mostly a sense of incredible relief.
As Frings walked past the confusion and smoke and flame, he wondered if he was too cynical for fearing what would fill the void that Henry left.
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
Frings sat in the back of a cab, watching out the window as the hack navigated through Capitol Heights, avoiding Buchanan Avenue, where he had heard there was an accident. It was the thirteenth day since the death of Red Henry, and the City still seemed in shock. Not from grief, necessarily, but from the sudden demise of a personality who had seemed almost superhuman to many. Red Henry’s absence had never been contemplated, and now, suddenly, it was a reality.
Frings watched as people shuffled home from work or hurried to make a night shift. It was a little past eight in the evening, the City harsh under the streetlamps. Frings hoped this wouldn’t take long. Nora was at the Provençal Restaurant across from the opera house, with her trumpet soloist, Arthur Hall, and his wife, Lillian. Pilar Rossi was singing Verdi that night and he wanted to be back for the opening curtain at nine. Nora and Pilar had met in Paris several years ago and had formed a bond as prima donnas of their separate genres. Tonight Nora and Frings had box seats. It meant a lot to Nora, and it meant a lot to him because it meant a lot to her.
This was not the feeling he would have