Fanatics Read Free

above everything else.
Every
thing else. Which is why, Cecil, which is why…”
    Which is why Cecil King’s face was losing color, his
latte
-brown complexion giving way to a bilious morning-after-the-night-before green, the color of nausea, the color of hangovers and snakebites and paralyzing fears.
    The mayor took a deep breath and pushed forward to the heart of the matter. “The Secret Service is overextended, Cecil. Homeland Security got it up to their eyeballs, and Congress still hasn’t passed the Homeland budget. And the FBI, yes, I know they’ve got an investigatory mandate in this area, still they’re seriously shorthanded. Of course, the Pentagon would never get involved in domestic threats to civilians, even assassination threats, no matter how serious. And these threats on your life, Cecil, they’re getting damn serious, we all realize that. We take them as seriously as you do. Which is why, Cecil, which is why…”
    Which is why…
a second shoe raised, poised to drop.
    “…the president is so regretful. But his hands are tied, you got to understand that. Whereas ours, Cecil, our hands…our best hands…are all right here in this room.”
    The mayor smiled, his fraternity-prexy, Hollywood-celeb, TV lights–brightest display of self-satisfaction.
    Senator-elect Cecil King looked about to vomit on the mayor’s shoes, maybe toss a cup of coffee in the mayor’s face, or perhaps give in to both impulses before stalking out of city hall and into his new life as the nation’s latest target of calls for patriotic assassinations, his life now denied federal protection before he took office on January first.
    “The feds,” the mayor explained, “simply can’t afford it, Cecil, bottom line. But we can, at least as far as we’re able to. Which is why, Cecil…”
    Which is why…
a third shoe? The three-legged mayor was a virtuoso of suspense.
    “…which is why the commissioner and I are assigning the city’s best homicide experts…Lieutenant Ott and Sergeant Murphy here…to protect your life. To prevent a killing, not solve a killing ’cause there ain’t gonna be one. I’m convinced. Never on our watch. You’re in great hands here, Cecil. Congratulations.”
    Cecil King coughed before he spoke, a harsh sound, as if trying to bring up phlegm. His voice barely rose above a whisper. “I’m at a loss for words, Mayor. Thank you.” He let his face reveal all that went unspoken, a pained spectrum flashing anguish, disappointment, anger.
    The senator-elect turned to Flo Ott and Frank Murphy, his eyes shattered prisms. “I commend myself to your good hands.” He managed a weak smile, which was more than the two detectives could produce. Neither was able to muster so much as a thank-you.
    And neither saw any need to ask for further information. They received this announcement—the first assignment in their careers protecting the life of a Very Important Person—with less than enthusiasm.
    Nor were they especially flattered, knowing the senator-elect—their good man, the DA, the intrepid prosecutor who gave meaning to the best years of their careers in homicide investigations—was being thrown to the wolves by the president of the United States.
    And for understandable cause, at least from the president’s point of view. Cecil King ran in foursquare opposition to the president, casting the mayor as the president’s poodle, a flip-flop pol once a Democrat, then a Republican, now an independent, a punching bag surrogate long viewed, after years of riotous nonstop fiascos, as the worst mayor in New York history, a title confronting a great deal of tough competition. Cecil King hung the presidential gofer millstone around the mayor’s neck. The charge sheet of irrefutable calamities was long enough to indict, by proxy, the hapless, helpless mayor a dozen times over.
    Flo Ott sipped the city hall coffee, a stale and bitter brew. She was struggling with a meds-resistant autumn cold. Her eyes ached