“Are they looting the store?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, and listened to something on the radio. Another officer was down, and one of the shooters had been killed by the rival gang. It was a mad scene of heavily armed police officers, riot troops, SWAT teams, and emergency vehicles. As the officer turned to say something to a colleague, Spencer slipped quietly down the street, staying close to the buildings. She just wanted to see what was happening at the store, and if anyone was climbing through the shattered windows, or stealing what was in them. But there was no sign of entering near the windows, as she huddled in a doorway, watching the action. The gunfire had slowed down to an occasional shot, and the entire area had been sealed off to keep people out. There was no one on the street except police, and presumably gang members hiding in doorways and behind cars, taking aim at each other and the police.
Spencer had been there for half an hour without moving when a cluster of armed men in motley clothes carrying a variety of weapons ran toward the store and started to climb through the windows. She didn’t know if their intention was to loot the store or to take refuge from the police shooting at them. Several men ran through the open windows and disappeared into the store as Spencer moved closer to the scene, although she knew there was nothing she could do to stop them, if the police couldn’t do it with gunfire. All she could think of was the damage they would do, so soon after the fire. It silenced forever the argument that the neighborhood was safe. There was no way she could claim that now, with rival gangs in the drug trade shooting at each other, and police crouching behind cars, taking cover, and shooting at them. Helicopters were hovering overhead. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and that the store was being invaded by gangs. She could only imagine the kind of damage they were going to do by the time it was over. There were tears rolling down her cheeks and she didn’t even know she was crying.
Her cell phone rang while she watched, just far enough away to be out of danger. All the action was closer to the store.
It was Beau. “Are you watching this horror on TV?” he asked her.
“No . . . yes . . .” She didn’t want him to know that she was there. She was too frightened to move now. More men ran into the store. The police shot one of them and he lay sprawled in one of the windows, writhing in pain, until two more officers dragged him out of the window and paramedics took him away.
“Oh my God, this is crazy,” Beau said, terrified by what he was seeing on the screen.
“I’ll call you back,” she said to Beau, and hung up. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Marcy called her too and she didn’t answer. The store was now the scene of an ongoing shootout, as several more of the gang members ran through the windows into the store and began shooting each other as the two gangs collided again. And the store was an ideal place for the bad guys and the police to play hide-and-seek.
Mike was watching it, mesmerized at home. He picked up his cell phone and called Spencer’s number. She didn’t want to talk to him either but answered anyway. She could hardly think, she was so shocked by what was happening.
“Are you watching this?” She heard Mike’s voice and nodded, struggling to find her voice. She was terrified by what she was seeing and hearing.
“Yes, I am,” she said softly, never taking her eyes off the men rushing in and out of the store windows. And she saw two of them shatter two more windows, for easy entry. The others had been shot out by gunfire earlier. And then Mike realized something. The sounds he heard coming through her cell phone were different from the more muted ones he heard on TV, where the prevailing sound in the background was sirens. On Spencer’s phone he kept hearing the staccato of gunshots that didn’t sound distant at all.
“Where are you?” he asked her.
“Here. I’m watching the store. The bad guys keep running through the windows into the store, and now they’re shooting each other, and the police are shooting them.”
“Oh my God, you’re down there?” Somehow, he had known she would be, which was why he had called her, to make sure she was okay. “Where are you?” he asked again.
“A little less than half a block from the store. I’m in a doorway. No one can see me, I’m okay.”
“Spencer, get out of there, go home. There’s nothing you can do. They won’t let you go inside anyway, even when the shooting’s over. It’s a crime scene.”
“It’s my store. I want to go in when the shooting stops.”
“They won’t let you. Get out of there.” All it would take was one stray bullet to kill her. “Go back down the street you came. I’ll pick you up in a cab.” His voice was strong and firm.
“I’m not leaving,” she said stubbornly.
Mike was shouting at her then, and Zack came back from his bedroom in his wheelchair to see what was happening.
“Spencer, get out of there! Can you get into the building you’re in front of?” She tried the door handle.
“No, it’s locked. I’m safe where I am. I’ll call you later,” she said, and hung up and continued watching the carnage happening in front of her. Twenty minutes later, the gunfire had stopped, and a full SWAT team entered the building. There was no further gunfire, and minutes later they radioed other police and SWAT teams to enter. Only one man was led out alive, covered in blood. The others inside were all dead. They had shot each other. It was said to be the bloodiest gang war in New York in years, over a recent delivery of heroin that had come in by ship from South America.
As the police came out of the store again, through the windows, and the bodies were brought out on gurneys through the front door, with the alarms still sounding, Spencer came out of the doorway where she had been concealed for nearly an hour and approached the shattered windows of the store. Two police officers barred her way immediately, as she looked up at them with a determined expression.
“Get behind the barrier,” one of them shouted at her. They still weren’t a hundred percent certain that there weren’t additional shooters hiding somewhere inside.
“This is my store,” she said, and didn’t move an inch. “I want to go in and see how bad the damage is.”
“We’re still bringing the bodies out,” one of the officers told her, and she stood her ground next to him.
“Then I’ll wait.” The two officers looked at her, and one of them asked for her ID. She handed it to them, and her business card, and they nodded.
“You still have to wait. You can’t go in yet.” She nodded and took a step back so she wouldn’t get in their way, but didn’t leave.
Half an hour later all the bodies were out. There was blood on what was left of the displays in the windows, including a beige alpaca and sable blanket draped over an antique Louis XV chair. The blanket was priced at $100,000 and was splattered with blood. All the window displays had been destroyed, all the mannequins knocked down. Spencer cautiously approached the building, and while a cluster of NYPD police were talking to each other, she hopped up to one of the windows and walked inside. No one saw her go in. She bumped her arm against a shard of glass hanging from one of the window frames and paid no attention to it as she slipped inside. There was blood everywhere on the floors. Displays had been knocked over, vitrines had been shattered by gunfire, a wall of perfumes had been shot out and the perfumes were running down the wall. On the floor there was a bloodstained running shoe that had come off one of the bodies when they removed it. Police photographers were taking pictures of the scene and one of them looked up and saw her. They looked shocked to see each other.
“What are you doing here?” he called out to her, thinking she was there to steal something.
“I own the store.” She pulled her ID out of her pocket and handed it to him.