She and Caldoza moved behind NYPD and fellow FBI agents – two from the New York field office – through the building lobby, up the stairs, to the sixth floor. The penthouse. The bomb squad checked the door for wiring. Shannon’s skin tingled in the cloying heat. Heavy breathing filled the stairwell. One of the bomb squad guys said, “We’re good,” then SWAT rammed in the door.
SWAT first, guns out, followed by the bomb squad, still assessing for potential threats. Shannon and the rest of them had to wait.
The agent next to her introduced himself as Glenn Morshower.
“Shannon Ames.”
“I know.” Morshower looked at Luis. “And you’re Caldoza.”
They shook. Everyone was quiet after that, guns out, waiting. The bomb squad came back. “Clear.” There was a collective exhalation of relief, followed by fresh tension: where were the Priests?
She pulled out her phone and called up the link. The video had jumped to sixty thousand likes in the last ten minutes.
Law enforcement spread out through the couple’s posh home. It was impossible to discern the Priests’ location from the video. While others were scrambling to source the livestream, Shannon’s job was to search their residence for any clue to where they might be.
Wherever it was, Shannon was sure it would be the same place where the Media Killer had put Monica Forbes on camera. Where he’d taken her and probably Eva Diaz, too, washing them of evidence before they served their function. But this was Manhattan, so she could be wrong; they could be nearer.
She moved slowly through the place with Caldoza close by.
The first level of the loft featured five large windows overlooking Wooster Street. An enormous living room had two L-shaped couches situated opposite each other, inlaid shelving against one wall. Shannon quickly browsed the titles before moving onto a large framed black-and-white photo of New York City.
“Where is that?” Shannon asked.
Caldoza stared for a minute. “Not sure.”
“Hell’s Kitchen,” someone said.
Behind Shannon was an NYPD officer in uniform. Older man, graying around the temples. He looked from the photo to her, then dipped his head toward his shoulder as he pressed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie anchored there. “Sergeant Bristol we got a photo of Hell’s Kitchen in the Priest’s apartment. Looks like Eleventh Avenue to me, could be the corner of Dewitt Park.”
The radio crackled. “Copy that, Fuchs.”
They moved on.
Part of the couple’s draw as influencers was their big public relocation from LA to New York. People had been tuning in every day to see how they’d been adjusting to the move, what new restaurants, gyms, and friends were acquired. What amazing parties were they attending this weekend? And the latest excitement – the Priests were going to try for a baby. She’d seen an Instagram photo gallery of the couple shopping for a crib. One image had garnered over two million likes. She’d then read an article that disclosed how the maker of that crib had offered the Priests a hundred thousand dollars to buy it.
So how did they fit in with the other murders? They weren’t journalists. Were the parameters broader than they thought? If people who led sensational or profligate lives were targets, most of the modern world was at risk.
The problem was, the FBI’s prime suspect for anti-media activity was in a coma. The second suspect was in custody. Anyone else associated with Blackout was under intense scrutiny.
Upstairs, the master suite accessed an expansive terrace. The sliding glass door was open a crack. “Is this how he got in?” Caldoza mused, moving ahead of her. Outside, warm breezes, the scent of fresh bread from a neighboring restaurant, blue and gold views of Lower Manhattan as the sky dimmed and the lights came on. A third level was all outdoors, more of the terrace, complete with a giant grill for cooking beneath a canopy festooned with lights.
“Living the dream,” Caldoza said.
Shannon kept watch on the video. They weren’t living it now. Faces red, glistening with sweat and tears.
“Goddammit,” Shannon said, her own emotion bursting through. “Where are they? We can’t just sit here and watch this happen!”
Seventy-five thousand likes.
“How did he manage this? I’ve just had a look at their Wikipedia page, and James Priest is in good shape. He’s thirty-one years old, a hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle. Works out five days a week. And both at the same time? She’s no slouch either. She’s done an Ironman competition, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know,” Caldoza said.
Thinking about the black-and-white picture from downstairs, Shannon ran limping back down through the penthouse loft. She went through closets and drawers. She searched the pile of mail in the corner bedroom turned into a home office. Nothing with a Hell’s Kitchen address. And anyway, it didn’t matter – they were at his place, not one of their own. She was sure of it. Somehow he’d captured them. She very much doubted he’d come into the home. Crime scene would dust for prints and go through everything, but that wasn’t how it had happened. He’d gotten to them out on the street somewhere.
She searched for phones. For an appointment book. A calendar. Anything with an itinerary. But this was the modern world – everything online and in the cloud. The expensive Google Pixelbook on the desk rejected her few password attempts. No phones in sight. She left the room, frustrated, angry, then tried the kitchen anyway. Just a hunch.
She found it.
On the massive, stainless steel refrigerator, a simple dry-erase board sectioned into the seven days of the week. Today, Tuesday: Mindy’s!! @ PlayerOne.
“Here!” Shannon called. “Kitchen!”
Agent Morshower arrived first. “What do we got?”
“Need to find out what that means. That’s where they were. He got to them between here and there.”
More law enforcement gathered around, and people were putting the word out. Less than a minute later, the same NYPD cop, Fuchs, shared the information: “Player One is a club on Houston and Spring. That’s right in the neighborhood.”
The other FBI agent came into the kitchen with a small three-ring binder with a floral-printed cover. “Address book,” the agent said. “Mindy is Melinda Scanlon, looks like a friend of the Priests – just had a quick look at her, and it’s her birthday today.”
Shannon asked, “Maybe a dinner? Birthday dinner?”
“Player One doesn’t even open until nine p.m.,” Fuchs answered.
“Maybe they rented it out,” Shannon suggested. “Let’s go.”
More running. Player One was only three blocks away. She didn’t know where her cane was. At Prego’s? She kept checking the phone.
Ninety thousand likes.
Something changed.
The camera jostled a bit and then stilled, like it had been set down.
Shannon yelled, “Why aren’t we getting the source of this video?”
People watched her. People everywhere out in the streets of SoHo as night came on. Cars and trucks rushing past. Music drifting from a third-floor window, a hip-hop song with heavy bass. Shannon looked around. Where was Caldoza?
She couldn’t get her bearings. She stumbled into an alley, hoping to shut out some of the noise and commotion as she stared at her phone.
There!
It’s him. That’s him.
On the video, the killer showed himself: his hand, his arm, the edge of his shoulder. He faced toward the Priests, who were really squirming now, like they knew things were about to get even worse. Evelyn Priest whipped her head back and forth, her hair wet and sticking to her face. James screamed behind the duct tape wrapped around his head. The duct tape was coming apart a little bit, opening at a seam between layers, as if losing adhesion in the heat.
The killer then moved toward James. White, like Olivia Jackson had said. Medium build. He had a hood up over his head. Dark gray hoodie. But she’d seen his bare hand and would have to later analyze the video. Maybe a weddi
ng ring? Any scars or tattoos?
The killer blocked the view of James Priest as he attempted to reaffix the loose tape. But James was really kicking, bucking with his whole body. The killer had to keep edging away, then darting back to finish the job. It wasn’t working.
“Aaaahhhhhhh!!!”
The killer stepped out of frame, out of sight, and James wailed, his tongue poking free.
“Come on …” Shannon said. Some part of her realized she was on her knees, that she’d been saying “come on, come on,” over and over now, rooting for the Priests, rooting for them to somehow get free, because she was here, and she was so helpless, and she couldn’t save them …
“Shannon!”
Caldoza spotted her and came into the alley. Other people were gathering at the mouth of the alley, unsure, looking in. Some, though, were turning to their own phones. How far had it spread? How many people were watching?
Ninety-one thousand likes. Going faster than ever. Jumping by the hundreds per second.
We are doing this, she thought dismally. People are doing this. People are killing them.
The Priests continued to thrash and struggle. James howled through the tape covering his mouth. Evelyn, surely terrified to move, to lose her balance, tried to see her husband, tried to look sideways at him.
Ninety-five thousand likes.
“Here we go,” a voice said. For a split second, Shannon thought it was Caldoza, or someone on the street, but that was just her mind resisting the reality.
The killer had said it.
The likes approached a hundred thousand, hit it, went past it.
Shannon held a breath. Without thinking, she reached out for Caldoza. He grabbed her at the same time and they locked hands.
“All right!” The killer disappeared from view again, but his voice was loud and clear, like he was just beside the camera. “All right,” he repeated. “And there you have it, folks.”
Shannon tried to concentrate. Who did he sound like? Definitely middle-aged. That gruff edge to his voice – a smoker?
“There you have it,” he said again, and raised his voice some more as he asked, “What do you two think of that? Huh? Your own fans. Your own people. Turning on you. Killing you.”
James Priest stared with wide eyes. His face was red with fear. But also anger, Shannon thought. His lips pushed through layers of duct tape. “Fuck you,” he growled. Beside him, Evelyn shut her eyes tight and sobbed.
“God,” Shannon said quietly. She felt utterly helpless. Trapped here, unable to get to the Priests, unable to stop this. It was happening right in front of her, yet somewhere she couldn’t reach.
“Fuck me?” the killer muttered. “I’m not the one. I’m not the one doing this. You have your fans to thank. Your public. Unable to tell what’s real or what’s fake. Or maybe just not caring either way. Because that’s what’s going on – it’s all entertainment now. No consequences.” He paused. “Well, okay then.”
On screen, the killer walked to Evelyn Priest and kicked out her stool first. She dropped and immediately started to buck and thrash.
Shannon cried out as Caldoza held her tight. James screamed, too, a blare of guttural pain barely recognizable as human. He tried to strike the killer with his foot when he came close but only succeeded in losing his own balance.
Shannon covered her mouth as James toppled. Hot tears filled her eyes. For an agonizing few seconds, he managed to keep one foot on the stool as he tried to maneuver his way back to standing.
But then the killer flashed through the scene and knocked the stool completely out of the way.
James Priest swung. Eyes bulging in terror, his body spasmed like a fish on the wharf. Beside him, Evelyn Priest’s movements were already slowing, her own eyes glassing over as she gradually suffocated.
Shannon set her phone on the filthy ground. Caldoza tried to comfort her, but she gently pushed him away. On all fours, she let her head hang and she closed her eyes.
27
Tuesday night, late
He strangled all of them.
It was roughly true. Baldacci’s head had been nearly taken off by an explosion, Spencer’s by a deep slashing cut, the Priests hung. The remaining two victims, Diaz and Forbes, were the most technically strangled, but it all nevertheless fit an oblique pattern: he went for the throat. These were brutal kills. As much as she saw the deaths working in concert to serve a greater plan, she saw anger. She saw rage.
Back at the Priests’ loft, Shannon had regained her composure and was thinking clearly: if the killer was making a point with the Priests – killed by their own fans, by the very system that had made them – that was in line with an ideologically driven killer. It could be someone from Blackout. And it echoed the indictments within the manifesto, yet broadened the scope to include people outside the news media. But this going for the throat, the manual strangulations and the hangings – something about that felt personal.
And the strap. The nylon straps used to hang the Priests – trace fibers found on Monica Forbes’s body – this was significant. Did it fit the MO of a highly exacting, even practical killer? Yes. But could it also have some other significance? She thought so, although why she couldn’t say. It itched in a place she couldn’t scratch.
She offered her theories and her questions to Tyler, who didn’t want to hear it and hung up abruptly with her, and she put away her phone and sat on the edge of the Priests’ king-sized bed. Their bedroom smelled of eucalyptus.
After a moment of sitting with her head in her hands, she got up and walked through the house. Crime scene technicians in white jumpsuits were dusting doorknobs and taking samples of toothbrushes for DNA.
She moved through the rooms silently.
There has to be something.
On the phone with Tyler just now, she’d implored him again to get into Todd Spencer’s computer. That they needed the personal and work data on all of the victims – what had been provided by their employers wasn’t enough. They had Monica Forbes’s personal materials through NYPD’s 90th, but they needed to look deeper into Diaz’s personal life. Something connected these six victims beyond the obvious. A reason each was chosen among a world of journalists and influencers.
“Right now,” Tyler had said, “the focus is on finding the Priests.”
She couldn’t argue that. While she roamed their penthouse apartment, forensic specialists continued to hunt the source of the livestream, while others studied the video for details, giveaways of its location in real physical space. She’d already seen it: that moment the killer had moved the camera, widening the shot, she’d seen those same walls in the background. Same as Monica Forbes.
Shannon found herself in the Priests’ lavish bathroom, the color of lemony sunshine, staring at the bathtub, thinking about water. About being cleansed. Eva Diaz and Monica Forbes, both scrubbed down.
The willpower such an act implied. It was pure methodology, strategy. Someone who understood forensic science, either from books or the internet or experience.
But the emotion, Shannon thought, that could be seen in the escalating severity of each crime. From Diaz quietly dumped in garbage bags, to Forbes’s death drawing the next victim, Baldacci, nearly decapitated, to the massive panic and bomb scare surrounding Spencer’s death, to this – the world participating in the murder of the Priests – each time the Media Killer struck, it was more heinous than the last. Why? Because he needed a bigger fix?
Or was it something else? Another reason why this related to something personal?
In the den, she gazed at the empty spot on the desk where the Priests’ laptop had once been, now taken into evidence. She looked through the one photo album she could find. Pictures of their wedding. People they knew. Friends. Family.
Just a tiny fraction of the millions who followed them online.
Her phone vibrated against her hip.
“Hello?” Shannon was back staring at the refrigerator, the note about the birthday party. The
Priests had rented out Player One and had planned to start decorating around seven p.m. They’d never shown.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end was nervous, quiet. Latino accent.
Shannon’s attention sharpened. “Hello, this is Special Agent Shannon Ames – who is this?”
“Um, yeah, okay. Um, this is Alfonso Mendoza.”
“Alfonso Mendoza …” She searched her memory. So many names and new faces over the past week. She was usually pretty good matching them up – she was sure she hadn’t met an Alfonso. Even if the name was familiar …
She said, “Okay – you work at Dylan Construction.”
“Yeah. Yes, ma’am.”
She shifted the phone to her other ear and walked out of the kitchen, back toward the terrace. “Thank you for calling, Alfonso. How can I help you?”
“I, ah … you talked to Selena Martinez a couple of days ago?”
“Yes, that’s right. I came by the office there. I wanted to look at the crime scene. The Eva Diaz crime scene.”
“Yeah. You left your card.”
“I did …” Shannon paused in the terrace doorway, the scents and sounds of the city riding the warm breeze. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”
“I talked to the cops, you know. Because I found her. I found the body.”
“Right. Yes.”
“And, ah … so I talked to them and told them everything. Well, I mean I told them almost everything. I don’t know why I was not, ah … Well, I just didn’t think about it back then. But I go out every morning, I get the trucks ready. That’s my job – get everything ready for the crews.”
She was quiet, letting him come to the point.
“And I, ah – you know, before any of that happened, I seen this car sitting there on the street.”
Into Darkness Page 17
