Fever Dream
Fever Dream
A Daniel Rinaldi Mystery
Dennis Palumbo
www.DennisPalumbo.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Palumbo
First Edition 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2011926973
ISBN: 9781590589571 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781590589595 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781615953271 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Again, for Lynne and Daniel
—with love
The author would like to thank the following people for their continued help and support:
Ken Atchity, who first got the ball rolling;
Annette Rogers, my editor at Poisoned Pen Press, whose guidance once again enhanced and improved my novel;
Robert Rosenwald and Barbara Peters, founders of Poisoned Pen Press, for both their editorial acumen and pragmatic wisdom;
Jessica Tribble, associate publisher, whose diligence, resourcefulness and patience undoubtably sets some kind of industry standard;
Nan Beams and Marilyn Pizzo, also at Poisoned Pen, for their enthusiasm and attention to detail;
My long-suffering friends and colleagues, too numerous to mention, but with special appreciation to Hoyt Hilsman, Bobby Moresco, Richard Stayton, Rick Setlowe, Bob Masello, Garry Shandling, Jim Denova, Michael Harbadin, Claudia Sloan, Dave Congalton, Charlotte Alexander, Mark Evanier, Bob Corn-Revere, Lolita Sapriel, Mark Baker, Mark Schorr, Bill Shick, Fred Golan, Dick Lochte, Al Abramson, Rich Simon, Bill O’Hanlon and Sandy Tolan;
And, as before, Dr. Robert Stolorow, for his profound and seminal insights on the nature of trauma.
“Ideologies separate us.
Dreams and anguish bring us together.”
—Eugene Ionesco
Treva Williams, the only hostage to be released, sat on the curb beyond the cordoned-off area, wrapped in an EMT blanket. Shivering, teeth chattering, though the afternoon temperature had topped 100 for the third straight day.
She looked up at me with dull, disbelieving eyes.
“They shot him.” Voice strained, a whisper. She was dissociating. Half out of her body. In shock.
“
Who
got shot?” It was Detective Eleanor Lowrey, standing beside me. The implacable heat had raised beads of sweat on her smooth black skin, though her violet eyes maintained their focus. “How many were there?”
“They shot Bobby. Bobby Marks.”
“The assistant manager?” Lowrey consulted a Xeroxed page tucked in her notebook. The cops had just gotten a list of all on-site employees at this branch from the bank’s home office in Harrisburg.
A long way from where we were now. Downtown, the corner of Liberty and Grant. Normally a busy intersection in the business district. The cacophony of traffic horns blaring, harried pedestrians shouting into cell phones, street vendors hawking Italian ices as relief against the blistering heat. The Brownian motion of urban life.
But not today. With the streets blocked off, traffic halted, sidewalks emptied, there was only the crackling tension of a city block under siege. The smell of sweat, the buzz of adrenaline, the pall of fear.
I looked down and saw that Treva had buried her chin in the folds of the thick blanket.
“They shot Bobby in the head,” she said again, her words muffled. “Blood everywhere. Blood and—”
She paused, touched her forehead with trembling fingers. Looked at the bits of scarlet and grey dotting her fingertips. Blood and specks of brain matter. Bobby’s.
Treva convulsed then, doubled over under the blanket. Colorless bile splattered the pavement at our feet. Eleanor Lowrey gasped and took a step back.
“It’s okay,” I said to her. She nodded.
Lowrey was a good cop, one of the best I’d ever seen. A rare combination of steely competence and empathy. But right now, her awareness of Treva’s emotional state was in conflict with her urgent need for information about what was happening inside that bank. Other lives were at stake.
I turned my attention back to Treva. Put my hand on her shoulder, felt it trembling under the coarse blanket. Her auburn hair, tangled and drenched with sweat, curtained her face.
“I’m right here, Treva. The police, too. You’re safe. You’re not in the bank now. You’re far away from those men.”
It took a supreme effort, but she finally straightened again. Looked up with blinking, vacant eyes first at Eleanor Lowrey, then at me. Then at the uniformed men and women positioned beyond us, behind a semicircle of black-and-whites, lights flashing. Weapons pointed from every conceivable angle at the First Allegheny Bank building.
Standard containment of a robbery-in-progress. With hostages.
My own eyes riveted on her pale, stricken face, I heard the sounds of frenzied activity taking place behind my back. The angry shouts ringing down the chain of command. SWAT teams in Kevlar jackets taking position. News vans choking the streets beyond the perimeter, reporters and camera operators scrambling. Overhead, the persistent clattering of the police choppers, and, just beyond, those of two rival TV news channels. The controlled chaos of a full-scale police action.
Treva barely registered any of it. She drifted in and out of conscious awareness of her surroundings, including Lowrey and me. Perhaps even of what had just happened to her.
“Tell us about Bobby Marks,” Lowrey was saying, not unkindly. She squatted on the pavement to put her face at eye-level with Treva’s.
“I told you, they shot him. They said don’t move and he moved, and then they shot him in the head. Right there, in front of me.”
She swallowed air, gulping it like a fish pulled from the sea. Her eyes shone, wet with grief.
Treva looked with sudden curiosity at her stained fingers. “He’s
on
me, isn’t he? That’s Bobby on me.”
Lowrey leaned closer and tried again. “How many men, Treva? Can you tell us? How many guns?”
I glanced over at Eleanor and shook my head. She sighed, rolled the kinks out of her neck, and sat back on her haunches. Giving Treva some space.
Moving deliberately, I sat next to Treva on the curb, shoulders touching. Letting her know I was there. Anchoring us in the here-and-now. Keeping her in the present.
The heat shimmered off the cracked, sun-bleached pavement. This section of Liberty Avenue was without trees, without shade. The air hung thick and unmoving as a shroud.