Where was the cop’s partner? Mace wondered. A newbie like this oughta have backup.
He glanced down. The sidewalk was one big puddle. Bad enough that his brand-new Air Jordans were soaked. No way was he sending his bag for a swim.
“Listen, why don’t you check my ID? Then you’ll see I’m not the guy you’re looking for, and we can both get on with our business.”
The rookie eyed him skeptically. “W-What kind of business do you have in this area?”
“A friend’s expecting me at the Beresford for a pre-parade dinner party. It’s for some of us riding one of the floats.”
“Wise guy, huh? You expect me to believe you got friends at that building and a role in the parade?” The cop’s stammer disappeared when he got sarcastic.
“I run No Bull Pit,” Mace explained. “It’s a dog rescue organization based in Harlem—and we just found ourselves a corporate sponsor. Ace CyberDog.”
The rookie looked at him like he’d sprouted two heads.
“You know, the security company,” Mace added. “They’re also a parade sponsor—got their very own float—and my friend, their CEO, lives at the Beresford. Ask the doorman. He knows me.”
“I’m giving you a direct order to drop that bag.” The rookie’s gun wobbled.
What the f— Mace stopped himself. Not just because he knew he’d better not be stupid. Because he imagined Céline, in that black thing she wore, chiding: You expect to kiss me with that mouth?
Mace kept his hands clearly visible. But he didn’t drop the bag. “Send somebody to check out my story. I’m legit.”
Suddenly the rookie had backup. The other cop was a Hispanic man in his thirties with a shaved head and a take-no-shit expression. “Look, asshole, we’re not asking again. You’re surrounded by cops, and every one of us is pissed off about what just happened. So how ’bout you drop that bag and stick your hands high in the air?”
So much for Mace’s stupid idea that a seasoned cop would be more reasonable.
He put his hands up. But he didn’t drop the mesh bag. It stayed where it was, slung over his shoulder. “I don’t know what happened or who you’re looking for, but I ain’t your guy. Let me prove that. Check my ID.”
Now two nine-millimeter service pistols were trained on Mace. The second was a Glock 19.
“See that bulge?” the new cop told the rookie. “How the left side of his jacket hangs a little heavier than the right? Means he’s carrying a weapon.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m askin’ you to check my ID. You’re gonna find my FBI license and carry permit.” Then Mace couldn’t help himself. He spread his hands wider. “See, we got more in common than you think.”
“DON’T MOVE! We’re looking for a shooter who matches your exact description.”
“You mean I got a twin I don’t know about?” Mace forced a big friendly smile. Not because he felt like it, but because he knew it made him look a bit goofy. Less threatening. Maybe humor was the wrong move, but it was all Mace had in his playbook.
He kept his hands wide, up in the air. “Look, I didn’t shoot anybody. You hear me?”
“You hear me. I don’t care who you are; you’re disobeying a direct order from an NYPD officer. Keep those hands in the air and drop that bag NOW!” The cop—Mace nicknamed him Baldie—definitely had attitude.
Mace racked his brain for a way to defuse the situation. “Can we call a truce here? I repeat, I am not the guy you’re looking for.”
Neither cop moved. The rookie tightened his grip on the Sig.
Baldie took Mace down without even a split-second warning. His baton caught Mace right in the knees. It was all he could do to keep the gym bag from falling.
He grunted. Felt pavement as a boot kicked him hard, then anchored his head to the ground. He could smell oil and damp and something like vomit.
The bag landed just shy of the puddle.
A hit to his ribs—and his Glock dislodged, scuttling six feet to the left.
Why wouldn’t these guys think? Guys with guns needed cool heads. That’s what kept them on the city’s payroll and off the front page of the New York Post. Besides, he was keeping his cool—even though nothing would feel better right now than smacking his own fist right into the freckled rookie’s baby-faced chin.
“Lay flat on the ground!” Baldie shouted.
One. He was better than this.
“Don’t move a muscle.”
Two. Mace looked left. People were gathered, watching. Scared. One guy had his smartphone up, filming.
Three. He kept his cool. There were plenty of witnesses.
“The last thing you guys need is more bad publicity,” he pointed out. “Just check my ID.”
Baldie cursed under his breath. His boot pressed harder on Mace’s back. The cop was royally pissed off, but he nodded to Babyface.
The rookie leaned down. His breath stank of onions, and Mace tried not to flinch.
He felt his jacket open wide. His right inside jacket pocket unzipped. Soft, fleshy fingers found his keys. His MetroCard. His cellphone. Finally, his wallet and ID.
Babyface pulled it out. Squinted. “You think he’s legit?”
“Radio it in,” Baldie ordered.
Mace kept his eyes on the ground. Watched raindrops puddle next to his face. Waited. Three minutes, he figured. He knew he was in the system. Once Babyface confirmed Mace was the real deal, he’d be on his way. He’d miss the appetizers, but a three-minute shower and change of clothes and he’d be sitting down by the main course.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
Taking way too long.
“Holy crap! You gotta listen to this!” Babyface passed the radio to Baldie.
Definitely not good. Mace tried to stay relaxed, keep it casual.
He stared at the ground so hard that its details fixed themselves in his mind.
Four minutes.
Then the cops made a decision.
“Assholes like you’ll try anything, huh? Convenient that you forgot to tell us how you’ve got a rap sheet a mile long.” Baldie’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he slapped a pair of cuffs on Mace’s wrists.
“You ain’t no FBI or parade VIP,” the rookie jeered. “You ain’t got special connections. According to our desk sergeant, you’re just a wheeler and dealer who got fifteen to twenty at Rikers.”
“Don’t know where you came up with that,” Mace insisted. “My background’s sealed. Part of my security clearance.”
A funny noise came from his bag. It put both cops on edge again. Babyface radioed in a second call—this time for backup.
Mace thought: What’s the going rate for wrongful-arrest lawsuits these days?
Now the bag emitted a high-pitched tone. First, soft and slow. Then more insistent and agitated.
“What the hell’s in there?” Baldie demanded.
Babyface unzipped it with his right hand. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. A small head with beige fur, floppy ears, and a big white patch on his nose poked out of the bag.
The cop’s jaw actually dropped.
“He’s a rescue puppy,” Mace explained. “He’s supposed to ride the Ace CyberDog float tomorrow and get auctioned off for charity at Herald Square. I named him Melo, after my favorite Knicks player.”
No response. Mace guessed these dudes weren’t Knicks fans.
The puppy wriggled his way out of the bag. Scampered over to Mace. Licked his chin. “The mother was tossed out of a car on the West Side Highway,” Mace added. “Got hit. She didn’t make it—but her unborn litter did.”
The senior cop didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you just love people?” Mace said, bitter.
Baldie stared at the puppy like it was radioactive.
At that point, Mace knew: It was going to be a long night. Because he’d seen cops with that look before.
He glanced down at the puppy, which was now crawling gleefully onto his sh
oulders. “You took my cellphone, right? There’s a number in there for Rossi. Special Agent Eve Rossi. Will you just call her, let her explain everything?”
Then Mace went quiet. It wasn’t going to help the situation to say more.
“Make the call,” Baldie commanded Babyface. “ ’Cause I don’t want to deal with the damn dog.”
A minute passed. Then two.
The puppy nibbled at Mace’s fingers and the rain fell.
Suddenly the dog was yanked up in the air.
Mace was hauled onto his feet. Cold metal handcuffs pinched his wrists, and pain shot through his left shoulder. Baldie looked him square in the eye, grim-faced. “Looks like we’re going to get to know each other real well tonight. ’Cause your lady don’t pick up.”
Chapter 5
American Museum of Natural History
The block of Central Park West in front of the American Museum of Natural History was now swarming with cops. Their show of overwhelming force had come late—but it had come strong.
First, two busloads of protesters had been arrested and carted downtown. The overturned police car had been towed. The injured had been whisked away by ambulance.
Mounds of trash had been swept from the sidewalks and streets. The museum closed its doors early.
This was NYPD territory now.
And Mace was stuck in the middle of it.
He was not under arrest, but he had been detained as a person of interest. That meant he’d ended up in the main rotunda of the museum, sitting on a hard wooden bench next to four ugly-looking dudes. Men who, anybody with eyes in their head could see, looked absolutely nothing like him. At least, not if you really looked at them, beyond their basic stats.
Sure, they were each about 230 pounds. Between six-five and six-eight tall. Some shade of black. And wearing some kind of athletic gear.
But beyond that? Absolutely nothing in common.
Which wasn’t doing a thing to shut up the guy to Mace’s left, who reeked of body odor and was intent on making conversation.
“Wrong place, wrong time, wrong color skin.” B.O. Dude pulled a squashed pimento-cheese sandwich out of his jacket pocket. A few BBQ potato-chip crumbs clung to the bread. Mace wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything less appealing.
“Want half?”
“Nah. Eating shit like that ruins my game.” Mace wished the guy would shut up.
“You sound like my girlfriend. She’s always doin’ yoga and pushing healthy crap. Quinoa. Faro. No beer or pizza or cheeseburgers—any of which I’d kill for right now.” He wheezed like the ex-smoker he probably was before taking a huge bite of pimento.
Mace couldn’t watch. It really must be a man’s world, if a dude like that had a girlfriend.
Meanwhile, the drunk guy on B.O. Dude’s other side was arguing with himself, playing with four different skull rings on his left hand. He twisted them back and forth, back and forth, until the ring on his pinkie flew off and scuttled across the floor. He scampered away, giving it chase.
Despite the fact that there was a news team just across the rotunda, a battle-weary cop couldn’t resist giving him a knee, hard to his chest. It stopped him in his tracks. Then he fell, spinning twice on the slick stone floor, just like a breakdancer—before yukking up part of his lunch, all over his blue-checkered shirt.
Five feet behind the vomiter, another guy was clearly a druggie suffering from withdrawal. His body had contorted into a strange dance that had no rhythm. His head jerked; his arms swayed; his legs twitched. Miraculously, he did not fall off the bench.
Mace whistled under his breath. This was a new low. He wanted to scream and curse just like his crazy companions. Even if he knew that would just make a bad situation worse.
Where the hell is Eve?
Shifting position slightly, he felt the ache in his ribs where he’d been kicked. He was going to have a bruise.
Mace stared up. Took in the Predator and his Prey. The Barosaurus was reared up and angry, about to fight and protect her young from an attacking Allosaurus.
Sort of like the two cops guarding Mace and his new companions. Both were about as irate as the Barosaurus. Then Mace considered them more carefully and saw that was where any comparison ended.
The older cop had hunched shoulders, a beer gut busting out of his shirt, and hard seen-it-all eyes. He was beaten down—maybe by the job, or problems at home, or a combination of both.
His young partner was a black officer who was trying too hard, hoping a clean shave and a pair of spit-shined shoes would help him move up in the ranks.
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was a game strategy Mace ought to have tried himself at some point during the last twenty-some years.
Mace stared at the black officer. Decided to take a chance. The cop had already delivered Mace’s rescue puppy to Céline for safekeeping—a small sign that he actually might care. “Hey, Officer!”
No response.
Mace tried again, a little louder. “Excuse me, Officer!”
This time the man’s head snapped toward Mace before he stuttered forward, like he’d been holding on to something so tight, it was hard to let go.
“Help a brother out, man. How much longer is this going to take?” Mace asked.
A shrug. “Can’t really say.”
“What’s goin’ on over there?” Mace indicated an area on the opposite side of the rotunda, where a tent was erected and a team of medical personnel clustered.
The cop didn’t respond.
Mace inwardly groaned. “Look, I get it,” he said. “Something’s happened and witnesses ID’d a man about my height, weight, and skin color. Wearing my kind of clothes. But it wasn’t me. I need outta here now.”
The officer shook his head and shuffled farther away from Mace.
The pimento sandwich guy elbowed Mace to get his attention. “Where you been? Under a rock?”
“I mind my own business.”
The other man grinned. “Bad idea if you ask me. There was a mega-protest here earlier. Shots fired—rumor says the top cop got hit bad. Right in the head. Didn’t make it.”
“So they rounded up the usual suspects. Meaning us. Suspected cop killers.”
“That’s why this place is locked down like Fort Knox.”
Damn. No way was he getting out of here tonight unless Eve worked miracles.
From the medical tent, Mace heard raised voices. Several people were shouting at once—but one voice was louder than them all. “I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME.”
Mace listened closely—and caught snatches of the conversation. You need to cooperate with us. It’s for your own good. In shock.
“DAMN IF I’M COOPERATING WITH YOUR RIDICULOUS DEMANDS. YOU BASTARDS BETTER STOP PUTTING OBSTACLES IN MY WAY.”
The shouting man was no longer lying down. He was no longer surrounded by medical personnel—even if he looked as though he ought to be. His face was streaked with red—as were his shirt and pants—and his hair was sticky with it.
He paced by the main door to the museum, feet a dozen inches apart, hands waving wildly.
Mace stared, incredulous.
He was no more than eight feet away from a ghost. The same ghost he’d just been told had been killed.
Except this ghost was flesh and blood and moving like a force of nature.
New York City Police Commissioner Logan Donovan.
VIDOCQ FILE #A30652
Current status: ACTIVE
Julius Mason
Nickname: Mace
Age: 43
Race/Ethnicity: African American
Height: 6'7"
Weight: 230 lbs.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Prominent features: Three-inch scar by left ear
Current Address: 1889 Lexington Avenue (East Harlem).
Criminal Record: Multiple felony convictions—conspiracy to import and traffic illegal contraband. Sentence: fifteen to twenty-five years.
Expertise: Clandestine
movement of goods across borders. Specialized knowledge of smuggling networks for weapons, narcotics, and exotic wildlife.
Education: Attended Bronx Regional High School (Hunts Point, South Bronx).
Personal
Family: Mother, Dolores. Father, unknown. Brother, Marcus, deceased (gang violence); brother, Duane, deceased (drive-by shooting). Pit bulls—Romeo, Ace, and Danger.
Spouse/Significant Other: Currently involved with Céline Bonnot.
Religion: Baptist.
Interests: Regular player, pickup hoops. Founded No Bull Pit, dedicated to helping rescue pit bulls from dog-fighting rings.
Other: Abandoned longtime gang, the Bloods, when they became involved in dog-fighting.
Profile
Strengths: Loves nothing more than the thrill of a close game—and winning it.
Weaknesses: Doesn’t play well with others. A loose cannon with no respect for authority. Operates by his own rules, preferring instinct vs. planning. Soft spot is love for animals.
Notes: His good-natured personality predominates over his intimidating physique. Wants to train his rescue dogs for the FBI K-9 program.
*Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. For internal use only.
Chapter 6
American Museum of Natural History
Lights were flashing and cops were cursing—but one sound in particular kept Commissioner Logan Donovan perpetually distracted: the incessant ringing in his ears. It obscured the well-meaning questions of his colleagues, asking if he was okay.
It echoed when he tried Allie’s cellphone, to no avail. He tried her four times in quick succession, annoyed that she was being irresponsible. How many times had he told her that having a cellphone at her age was a privilege, not a right?
With a situation on the ground that demanded his best skills—both tactical and political—Donovan had no time for his daughter’s disappearing stunt. When Jill was alive, she would have checked with every friend and teacher, shaking down trees and defusing the drama. But he had a city to run—not to mention a police department under threat and millions of tourists to keep safe during one of the year’s most high-profile events.
Whistleblower Page 4
