The Green And The Gray

20

Powell was in the squad room, his phone pressed to his ear, when Fierenzo arrived. "About time," he said, waving Fierenzo to his own chair across their paper-strewn desk. "Smith is on four. You want to talk to him?"

"Absolutely," Fierenzo said, dropping into his chair and punching the extension as he scooped up the phone. "Fierenzo. You still on the Whittiers?"

"For what it's worth," Smith's voice came. "They've spent the last hour and a half walking around the Upper East Side, checking out every cross-street and driveway."

Searching for Melantha? "Are you on foot?" Fierenzo asked.

"Not yet," Smith said. "I've been trying to stay with my car in case they suddenly decide to grab a taxi."

"Is there any particular pattern to their search?" Powell asked.

"Just that they're focusing entirely on the streets," Smith said. "No apartments or shops, just the streets."

"Looking for something parked," Fierenzo murmured. "Did they go into their friends' place before they started their walking tour?"

"Yes, but they didn't stay long," Smith said. "Right after they came out they went back to the courtyard. The wife went to the south end and looked at several of the trees, while the husband went and talked for a minute to the landscapers who'd come by to fix the gash on that tree."

Fierenzo looked sharply across the desk at Powell. "There was a Parks truck there last night picking up the branch."

Powell nodded. "That was my thought, too," he said. "I've checked, and they say no one was out last night."

"So someone borrowed one of their trucks?"

"One of their trucks is missing," Powell confirmed. "I've got an alert out to watch for it."

Fierenzo scowled. "So in other words, someone just waltzed out from under our noses with something they didn't want us to find."

"Yeah, but what?" Powell objected. "CSU had already been all over that area. They wouldn't have let anyone take the branch otherwise."

"Unless the men in the truck asked them nicely," Fierenzo said. "Like the super at the Whittiers'

building."

"Right," Powell said slowly. "But Umberto freely admitted what he'd done when Smith and Hill questioned him. As far as I know, no one in CSU has come forward to announce they let someone walk off with evidence."

"Has anyone asked them?"

Powell's forehead wrinkled. "Well... no, probably not."

"Maybe somebody should," Fierenzo said. "Smith, you didn't happen to bring a camera with you, did you?"

"Actually, I did," Smith said. "I've got a telephoto lens, too."

"Good," Fierenzo said. "If they talk to anyone, get a picture of it. And call me right away if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," Smith said.

"Talk to you later," Fierenzo said, and hung up. "What's happening with our Mr. Green?" he asked Powell.

"He and Carstairs finished a while ago," Powell said, picking up a file folder and sliding it across the desk. "Here's what they came up with."

Fierenzo opened the folder and spread the papers in front of him. There were four drawings, each giving a front or a side view of one of the suspects, all of them far more detailed and refined than the vague sketches Carstairs was usually forced to turn out. Green apparently had an excellent memory for detail. "Like pre-Matthew Brady mug shots," he commented.

"Pre-who?"

"Civil War photographer," Fierenzo explained. "Very famous."

Powell made a face. "Let me guess. American history unit?"

"Very good," Fierenzo complimented him. "Nineteenth-century, to be specific."

"Yeah, whatever," Powell said. "Just try to go easy on that stuff around the others this time, will you? They were starting to call me Professor during that English lit unit last year."

Fierenzo shrugged. "Wait till you have a kid or two asking for help with their homework," he warned. "That stuff just sinks straight into your brain, whether you want it to or not. Anyway, that was Greek classics and mythology, not English lit. The English lit unit doesn't come until spring."

"I can hardly wait," Powell murmured.

"Me, too," Fierenzo said, picking up the two front-view drawings for a closer look. One of the subjects was definitely a young, probably preteen boy. The other was a man in probably his midfifties, with a wide face and weight and height estimates consistent with a short, wide body type. The boy's face was thinner, but Fierenzo could see the same squat build starting to appear in his own numbers.

And there was something else about him, too. Something Fierenzo couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Where is Green now?" he asked, looking up again.

"In the lounge," Powell said, gesturing back over his shoulder.

"Not alone, I hope."

Powell shook his head. "I've got Wong and Abramson tag-teaming him."

"Good," Fierenzo said. "Has anyone tried to get in to see him?"

Powell frowned. "Not that I know of. Who are we expecting?"

"Anyone who doesn't want these getting out," Fierenzo told him, collecting the drawings back into the folder and standing up. "I have to drop something off at the lab, then I'll go talk to him."

"You want me there?"

"No need," Fierenzo said casually. In actual fact, he definitely did not want his partner sitting in on this one. "I'd rather you tackle CSU about the branch, and then see if you can chase down that missing Parks truck."

He smiled tightly. "Call it pride, but I'd rather we find it before the Whittiers do."

They'd covered probably twenty blocks when something deep inside Caroline finally gave up. "This isn't going to work," she said with a sigh, gazing at the miles of traffic swirling through the streets like a swarm of determined bees. "The truck isn't here. And if it isn't here, neither is Melantha."

"I wish I could disagree with you," Roger admitted. "I guess I was wrong about them dropping the truck nearby."

"But how could they keep her in the branch?" Caroline objected.

"They didn't have to," Roger said, sounding disgusted with himself. "All they needed to do was drive a couple of blocks, get Melantha out of the branch and into the cab, and then go anywhere they wanted. Stolen or not, who's going to stop and question a Parks truck?"

"But how would they get her out?"

"I don't know," he said. "But remember what Fierenzo said about the Grays on our balcony trying to cut down our trees with their—what did Velovsky call them? Hammerguns? Maybe they thought Melantha was in there and were trying to draw her out."

"Yes," Caroline said, shivering at the thought. Would shooting at the tree feel like someone hitting her body? "And of course, if it was Greens who took her, they could probably just reach in and pull her out."

"Which means we need a new strategy," Roger said, looking at his watch. "And personally, I don't think well on an empty stomach."

Caroline suddenly realized how vacant her own stomach felt. Preoccupied with her hopes and fears, she hadn't even noticed. "We missed lunch again, didn't we?"

"Yep," he said. "Let's find a restaurant and discuss it over dinner."

"You don't need a restaurant," a man's voice said from behind them.

Caroline spun around, nearly twisting her ankle in the process. A young couple was standing there, both of them dark-haired and olive-skinned. "I'm sorry," the man apologized quickly, lifting his hands with his palms outward. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"How long have you been following us?" Roger demanded.

"Only a block or two," the man assured them. "And we weren't following you so much as we were trying to catch up."

"Well, now you have," Roger said warily. "What do you want?"

"To invite you to our homestead for dinner," the man said. "My name is Vasilis; this is my wife, Iolanthe."

"Greens, I presume?" Roger asked.

"Of course," Vasilis said, as if it should have been obvious. "We live over in Carl Shurz Park, just a couple of blocks from here."

"Convenient," Roger growled. "And what comes after dinner?"

Vasilis's forehead wrinkled. "I don't understand."

"Thumbscrews?" Roger suggested. "Hypnosis? Because we're still not going to tell you where Melantha is."

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Vasilis protested. "Just dinner and conversation, and you can leave whenever you want."

"We're told you haven't been shown a very good side of our people," Iolanthe added, sounding a little embarrassed. "That's why we were asked to invite you. We were hoping to remedy that."

Roger leaned his head over to Caroline's. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.

For a moment she studied the couple, trying to get a feel for them. "At least this time we're being asked," she said. "I don't see why not."

"Wonderful," Vasilis said briskly, gesturing behind him. "Then this way, please."

They turned around and headed back east. "So what are you two?" Roger asked, looking them up and down. "Pastsingers? Warriors?"

"I'm a Laborer at one of our restaurants," Vasilis told him. "Iolanthe's a Manipulator, though right now she mostly stays home to help with our group's child-rearing."

"You have your own restaurants?" Roger asked. "I sort of assumed you'd keep more to yourselves."

"We have to earn a living like anyone else," Vasilis said. "Apartments and food cost money, even when you spread the costs out the way we do. Fortunately, Green cooking is close enough to Greek for us to safely bill ourselves as Mediterranean or southern European."

"Do you have children of your own?" Caroline asked.

"Yes, we have three," Iolanthe said, a note of pride in her voice. "Xylia, thirteen; Phyllida, eleven; and Yannis, seven. Xylia's visiting one of her friends in Central Park tonight, but you'll get to meet the others."

"You'll meet a few of the others in our homestead, too," Vasilis said. "Most of them are working or otherwise out tonight, though."

"How many of you are there?" Roger asked.

"In our homestead, six families," Vasilis said. "Mostly couples with young children, like us."

"We came here five months ago from Washington Square," Iolanthe added quietly. "The Grays were moving into the neighborhood, and we were worried about our safety."

"But we can't retreat forever," Vasilis said, his voice dark. "Somewhere, we're going to have to draw a line in the dirt and make our stand."

They arrived at a modest apartment house on the edge of Shurz Park, and Vasilis led the way inside and up the stairs to one of the corner apartments. A young boy was standing at the door with an air of expectation. "This is our youngest, Yannis," Iolanthe said, and once again Caroline could sense the almost-words as the two adults communicated silently with their son. "He'll be performing the ancient pass-warder ritual tonight."

There was another almost-word, and the boy straightened up. "Who comes to this homestead?" he asked, his voice proud and strong.

"The master of the homestead and his wife," Vasilis answered.

"And who comes alongside you?"

"Honored guests of the Greens," Vasilis said, holding his right hand out, palm upward, toward Caroline.

"Take it with your right hand," Iolanthe murmured in her ear. Hesitantly, shooting a glance at Roger, she complied.

"And does the mistress of the homestead concur?" Yannis asked, looking at his mother.

"I do," Iolanthe said, taking Roger's right hand in hers.

"Then you may enter," Yannis intoned. Bowing from the waist, he stepped to the side, turning the doorknob and pushing open the door. The aroma of cooking food wafted out as he did so, an aroma rich in lamb and vegetables that made Caroline's empty stomach growl. Still holding her hand, Vasilis stepped past the boy into the apartment, Iolanthe and Roger following.

"I guess we should have warned you about that," Vasilis said, letting go of Caroline's hand. "The holding of knife-hands is supposed to guarantee that no one is readying a weapon as they pass. I hope you weren't offended."

"Not at all," Roger assured him. "It's not much different from our own custom of shaking hands."

"Normally, it would be a Warrior who would challenge guests that way," Iolanthe said. "Since our group doesn't include any Warriors, Yannis asked if he could do it."

"I thought your roles were rigidly enforced," Caroline said.

"They are," Iolanthe agreed. "But Yannis isn't old enough for the testing, so we don't yet know what his Gift is. Until we do, it's permissible for him to play at any role he wishes."

"The loopholes of a modern society," Vasilis said, grinning at Roger. "As a paralegal, I'm sure you can appreciate that."

"All too well," Roger conceded. "It's certainly a lot friendlier than the reception I got at Aleksander's place yesterday."

"You weren't an invited guest then," Iolanthe reminded him.

"Speaking of whom," Vasilis added, his eyes flicking over Caroline's shoulder, "here's our other guest for the evening."

Caroline turned to see a tall Green with an age-lined face and short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair step into the living room through an open doorway. "Roger and Caroline," Vasilis said, gesturing toward him, "may I present one of the leaders of our people. This is Persuader Aleksander."

"Good evening," Aleksander said, his voice calm and cultured and resonant, his eyes glittering as he looked back and forth between them. "I'm so very pleased you could join us."

"Did you get any pictures of this couple?" Fierenzo asked into his phone.

"About half a dozen," Smith said. "You want me to stay with them?"

"Definitely," Fierenzo said. "I want to know how long they stay in there, and whether they come out alone, with this first couple, or with someone else."

"Got it," Smith said. "Talk to you later."

Punching off his phone, Fierenzo pushed open the door beside him and stepped back into the lab.

"Secret conference all done?" the short redhead in the lab coat asked blandly, straightening up from her microscope.

"Just trying to give you a little room to work," Fierenzo told her in the same tone as he returned the phone to his pocket. "Anything?"

"Well, it's definitely blood," she said. "Whether it's human or not—" She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why not?" Fierenzo asked. "Can't you do a DNA or something?"

"Sure," she said. "I can also do glucose levels, tox screens, and about a hundred different tests for various genetic diseases. But you asked for something fast and cheap. Are we changing our instructions?"

Fierenzo made a face; but there was no way he was going to get the lieutenant to pop for a whole battery of expensive tests and the personnel to run them. "No," he conceded. "So what can you tell me?"

"Like I said, it's blood," she said. "The sample you gave me was pretty minuscule, but there were definitely red cells in it. Where did you get it, anyway?"

"Off the wall of an alley near 101st and Broadway," Fierenzo told her. "What makes you think it's not human?"

"Mainly, because I can't get it to type," she said.

"Could it be something rare?" Fierenzo suggested. "AB negative or something?"

She shook her head. "The test should work with anything, and I can usually do it with even less than I've got here. A few days' exposure to the elements shouldn't have messed it up, either."

"Any guesses?"

She shrugged. "Could be animal blood," she said. "I can't tell without further tests; and I'm out of time for any more freebies. You get me an official request, and I'll put it in the stack with all the rest."

"Pass," Fierenzo said, heading for the door. "By the time you got to it, it'd probably be too late to do me any good anyway."

"So get me more personnel," she suggested.

He snorted. "You must be kidding. We get more people in the department and I'm taking them.

Thanks, Kath."

He left the lab and headed for the lounge, a creepy feeling shivering along the surface of his skin. So Jonah's blood wasn't human. It was a thought that had been trying to force its way into his mind ever since he'd found the injured man at the end of that vertical blood trail. But up to now he'd been reasonably successful at tap-dancing his way around it.

Now, the dance had come to an end.

So who were they? A lost Neanderthal colony? A vampire nest? An alien invasion?

Of more immediate concern, what should his response be to the situation? Alert the mayor? Call out the S.W.A.T. team?

He grimaced as he strode down the hallway. No. So far, no one seemed to be doing anything dangerous to the city or its inhabitants. True, a girl was missing, but he still had no proof that any crime had been committed.

So he would sit on this, and wait until such time as he could determine that such a threat did exist.

Sergeant Abramson was chatting with a young, dark-haired man when Fierenzo reached the lounge.

"You must be Oreste Green," Fierenzo said, nodding to him. "I'm Detective Fierenzo. We appreciate you giving up part of your Saturday to come here today."

"More of it than I'd expected," Green said pointedly as he stood up.

"I know, and I apologize," Fierenzo said, glancing at the other cops sitting around the lounge. "Let's go someplace where we can have more privacy," he suggested, backing toward the door.

"Why?" Green asked, making no move to follow. "I gave my statement, and I gave the descriptions to your artist. What more do you want?"

"I'd like to go over all of it with you," Fierenzo said.

"I did that with the other detective," Green said. "Don't you talk to each other?"

"Come on, fella, give me a break," Fierenzo said, lowering his voice. "His handwriting's lousy. I'll get a migraine if I have to get this from his report."

Green hissed between his teeth. "Fine," he said. "But make it fast."

The interrogation room was just down the hall. "Can I get you some coffee?" he asked as he ushered Green inside.

"No, thanks," the other said, his pace faltering as he looked at the bare walls and simple table and chairs. "The other place was cozier."

"But not as private," Fierenzo said, sitting down at the table and gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

"Ten minutes," Green warned, reluctantly sitting down.

"Ten minutes," Fierenzo agreed, pulling out the sketches and spreading them out across the table.

"Tell me what happened."

Green sighed. "I saw a car racing down Waverly Place toward a man—"

"This man?" Fierenzo interrupted, tapping the sketches of the adult.

"Right," Green said. "He was pointing some kind of gun at the car, but I never heard any shots. The driver had his hand out the window, and I think he was pointing something back."

"No gunshots from him, either?"

"Nothing that I heard," Green said. "The car missed the guy and kept going—"

"Missed him how?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how exactly did the man avoid the car?"

"He jumped between two of the parked cars along the curb," Green said. "The car kept going, coming toward where I was standing. I ducked around the side of the building, heard the car stop, then saw a kid come running out."

"This kid?" Fierenzo asked, indicating the other set of sketches.

"That's the one," Green said. "He ran to Greenwich Avenue and disappeared around the corner; and when I looked back down Waverly I saw the car sitting there with the other man running the other direction."

"I see," Fierenzo said, collecting the papers together again. "And why exactly did you help our artist make these sketches?"

Green frowned. "I was just trying to be a good citizen."

"No, I don't think so," Fierenzo said, leaning back in his seat. "Good citizens in your situation generally make more of an effort to tell the truth."

"What are you talking about?" the other demanded cautiously. "I told you exactly what I saw."

Fierenzo shook his head. "Neither the man nor the boy would have just run away," he said mildly.

"At least, not at street level."

Green's face had suddenly gone very still. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean I know all about these folks," Fierenzo said, watching him closely. "They don't run alongside buildings. They climb them."

He had expected some kind of guilty reaction. To his mild surprise, Green merely settled back into his chair and leveled a hard stare at the detective. "So you're working for them."

"I'm working for New York City," Fierenzo corrected. "Why do all you people assume I'm working for the other side?"

"Because there are only two sides," Green bit out. "If you're not with us, you're against us."

"Whatever." Fierenzo tapped the stack of sketches. "You want to tell me now why you wanted these?"

"You're the clever one," Green countered. "You tell me."

"Okay," Fierenzo said agreeably. "These two are part of the group your people are gearing up to fight. You saw them playing Waverly Place Chicken, possibly over who was going to get first crack at the Whittiers. You do know who the Whittiers are, don't you?"

Green didn't answer, but the question had been rhetorical anyway. Fierenzo had already caught the reaction in the other's eyes at his mention of the Whittiers' name. "At any rate, you saw them, but didn't recognize them," he went on. "You could have gone back to your group and tried to describe them, but verbal descriptions to untrained people are always a little dicey. So when Detective Powell showed up, you decided to avail yourself of a police artist's services to get some actual pictures made. How am I doing?"

Green pursed his lips. "You can't keep me here, you know."

"I know," Fierenzo agreed. "Fortunately for you, I have no interest in doing so." He stood up and stepped to the door. "Thank you for your assistance; you're free to go. Have a nice day."

Green's forehead creased uncertainly. "If you're not going to hold me, why did you keep me here all afternoon?"

"Mostly, to make sure we were both on the same page," Fierenzo told him. "And also to make sure you knew where I stood on this; namely, for life, liberty, and peaceful streets. I hope your people won't get in my way on that."

Green snorted. "You'd better hope instead that you don't get in our way."

Fierenzo lifted his eyebrows. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely a statement of fact." Almost leisurely, the other unfolded himself from his chair and got to his feet. "What about my pictures?"

"I'll hold onto them for now," Fierenzo said. "If your friends want to see them, they're welcome to come down here and discuss it."

"I'll tell them that," Green said, circling the table. "I can find my own way out."

"I'm sure you can," Fierenzo said, stepping out of his way. "The officer down the hall will make sure you don't get lost. Good-bye, Mr. Green."

Silently, Green pulled the door open and left the room, leaving it ajar behind him. Fierenzo watched long enough to make sure the duty cop down the hall was escorting him to the exit, then returned to his chair and sat down. Swiveling the sketches around to face him, he spread them out again.

There had been something about the boy's picture that had been nagging at him earlier. Now, having given his subconscious time to mull it over, it practically leaped off the paper at him.

The boy was a younger version of his new houseguest Jonah. Brothers, most likely, or at least close cousins.

He leaned back in his chair, scowling. Yet another puzzle piece that didn't seem to connect with any of the others in his collection. This kid was almost certainly the Jordan that Jonah had been talking to back in his kitchen, the Jordan who was apparently sitting somewhere near Canal Street collecting traffic reports.

Only from the way the rest of the conversation had gone, he had the feeling that it was actually Jonah, not Jordan, who was supposed to be on spotter duty out there.

But what it was all ultimately about, he still didn't have a clue.

With a sigh, he gathered the sketches back into a pile. He might not know what was going on, but he would bet dollars to donuts that Jonah did. Actually, from the way the other had been behaving earlier, he'd rather expected him to have shown up here already. Apparently, he'd decided catching up on his sleep was a higher priority.

Which was fine with Fierenzo. He was going to have to spend the next couple of hours here anyway, trying to come up with something plausible to write about this case.

Once the paperwork was done, though, there was definitely going to be an earnest little conversation back at the apartment. Folding the sketches lengthwise, he slid them into his inside coat pocket and headed back to his desk.