Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.
"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.
"One moment."
"The coast is clear," he insisted.
"The light's out."
"There's no one there."
"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."
"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.
"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."
"That's not our job."
"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."
At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.
"Are you able to kick in the lock?"
"Sure."
"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."
Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.
"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."
There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.
"How about putting down what you've got there?"
"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.
"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.
"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.
"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.
The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.
"You beat up the mayor!"
Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.
"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."
The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.
"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"
"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."
"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.
Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.
Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.
The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.
The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.
Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.
It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.
The witness
Mason Stone still had a few questions left before he left the building.
The doorman ushered him into his tiny flat, next to the boiler room.
"I know why you're here."
"If you do, you'll save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, looking around. She needed to get rid of that headache.
"It's because of what happened to Mrs Perkins. Just like all the others," the small, scrawny man gave him a stern, exhausted look. To him, they were all jackals now, ready to pounce on the few remains
