Gridiron

'The doors are not jammed solid,' he said grimly. Curtis bent down to collect the fragment off the carpet and then held it out on his palm for everyone to see. It was a shard of ice. 'They're frozen solid.'

'Shit,' breathed Levine.

'I hate to say it, gentleman,' said Curtis, 'but anyone on the other side of these doors is almost certainly dead already.'

'Those poor guys,' said Arnon. 'Jesus, what a way to get it.'

Ellery stood up and took a deep, unsteady breath. 'I don't feel so good,' he said.

'Is that it?' said Levine. 'We're just giving up?'

Curtis shrugged. 'I'm open to suggestions.'

'There must be something we can do. Mitch?'

'It's like the man said, Tony. They're probably dead already.'

Levine kicked the door in frustration and let out a whole stream of curses.

'Take it easy,' said Mitch.

'There are four, maybe five, people dead in this fucking place and you're telling me to take it easy? Don't you get it, Mitch? We're history, man. No one's going to get out of here. That shit Grabel's going to take us out one by one.'

Curtis took Levine firmly by the shoulders and forced him back hard against the wall.

'You'd better start dealing with this,' he said. 'I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit.' Releasing Levine from his powerful grip, he smiled and added, 'There's no point in upsetting the ladies.'

'Don't worry about them,' said Arnon. 'They've got the balls for anything — even if they did belong to someone else first. Take it from me, Sergeant, they're fireproof.'

'Would you excuse me, please?' Ellery said weakly. 'I have to go to the bathroom.'

Mitch caught him by the arm. 'Are you OK, Willis? You look kind of pale.'

'I don't feel so good,' admitted Ellery.

The three men watched Ellery walk up the corridor to the boardroom.

'Dave's right,' sneered Levine. 'Ellery and Birnbaum are the only ladies who'll get upset around here.'

'You think he'll be all right?' Curtis asked Mitch, ignoring Levine.

'He was fond of Kay, that's all.'

'We were all fond of her,' said Arnon.

'Could be he's a little dehydrated,' said Curtis. 'We'd better make sure he drinks something.'

They returned to the boardroom and shook their heads silently when the others asked about the three men in the elevator.

'So it's serious,' Marty observed dryly. 'Well, at least we won't starve or die of thirst. I've prepared a list of our supplies, although I fail to see why I was given such a menial task. I am the senior partner here, you know, Mitch? By rights it ought to be me who's in charge.'

'You want to take over?' said Curtis. 'Hey, be my guest. This isn't an ego thing with me, I don't have a burning desire to inflict my will on other people. If you think you can get us out of here, go right ahead, I won't stand in your way.'

'I didn't say that. I was just pointing out that the normal hierarchy seems somehow to have become inverted.'

'Well, that's what happens in a crisis, Marty,' quipped Arnon. 'The old class structures no longer mean anything. Survival is often based on the possession of certain practical skills. Like being an engineer. Having an intimate knowledge of the terrain. That kind of thing.'

'Are you suggesting I don't know anything about this building, David?

Exactly what do you think a senior partner does on a job like this?'

'Well, you know something, Marty? I've been asking myself that very question for months now. I'd love to hear the answer.'

'Well, really.' Birnbaum's indignation made him stand to attention, like a man making a plea before a court. 'Tell him Mitch. Tell him — '

Curtis cleared his throat loudly. 'Why don't you just read the list?' he said. 'You can argue about your job descriptions when we're out.'

Birnbaum frowned, then, sulkily, he started to list their supplies:

'Twelve two-litre bottles of sparkling mineral water, twenty-four bottles of Budweiser, twelve bottles of Miller Lite, six bottles of a rather indifferent California Chardonnay, eight bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice, eight packets of potato chips, six packets of dry-roasted peanuts, two cold poulets, a cold ham, a cold salmon, six French sticks, several pieces of cheese, fruit — there's plenty of fruit — six Hershey bars and four large Thermos flasks of coffee. The ice-box isn't working, but there's still running water.'

'Thanks a lot, Marty,' said Arnon. 'Nice work. You can go home now.'

Birnbaum coloured, thrust the list into Curtis's hands and marched back into the kitchen, followed by David Arnon's cruel laughter.

'Plenty of food, anyway,' Curtis said to Coleman.

'I could sure use a beer,' he replied.

'Me too,' said Jenny. 'I'm thirsty.'

'My stomach's rumbling like the San Andreas fault,' said Levine. 'Bob?

You want something from the kitchen?'

Bob Beech pushed himself away from the dumb terminal, stood up and went over to the window.

'Bob?' said Mitch. 'Is there something we need to know about?'

Appetites went on hold as Beech replied: 'I think we need to revise our expectations of rescue,' he said coolly. 'Radically.'

-###-

The time was almost nine o'clock.

'None of us is the kind of person who keeps regular hours, right?' said Bob Beech. 'Take me. Sometimes I work until midnight. A couple of times I haven't gone home at all. I'd say that's true of just about everyone in this room. Sergeant Curtis?'

'A cop works all kinds of hours,' he admitted with a shrug. 'Get to the point.'

'Does the name Roo Evans mean anything to you two gentlemen?'

Nathan Coleman looked at Curtis and nodded. 'The black kid from Watts,' he said. 'The drive-by.'

'We're investigating his murder,' said Curtis.

'Not any more, you're not,' said Beech.

'What's that supposed to mean?' said Coleman.

'You're both suspended on full pay and held for questioning at the 77th Street Station by your own internal affairs department on suspicion of being involved in Evans's murder. At least, that's what your Captain Mahoney believes.'

'What the hell are you talking about?' demanded Curtis.

'I'm afraid it's not me who's been doing the talking. Someone has tapped into your central dispatch computer over at City Hall. Done a pretty good job of it, too. If you don't believe me take a look on the terminal there. Nobody's expecting to see you back at your desks in Homicide for quite some time. Maybe never. As far as the rest of your brother officers are concerned, you're both personae non gratae. That's Latin for You're fucked.'

Curtis turned and stared blindly at the computer.

'Are you shitting me?' he said. 'Is this straight up?'

'Believe me, Sergeant, I wish I was.'

'But wouldn't someone from I.A. have to call Mahoney and tell him?' said Coleman. 'Wouldn't they?'

Curtis sighed. 'That used to be how it worked. But now the computer handles everything. It's supposed to guarantee objectivity, y'know? Make sure the criminals get a fair shake at us. That stupid bastard Mahoney will just sit there on his fat ass and accept what's written on the computer print-out like it came down from the Almighty himself. Probably even call my wife and tell her not to expect me home for a while.'

'Like I say,' nodded Beech, 'it gets better. Someone has also faxed the airline and cancelled the Richardsons' seats on that flight to London. Even cancelled your dinner reservation at Spago's, Tony. Thoughtful, huh?'

'Shit. I had to wait four weeks for that lousy reservation.'