So he made the only decision he’d ever made when forced to deal with his child: He delegated. His first call was to his housekeeper, Jackie, asking her to do what she could from home. His second was to his sometimes-girlfriend Gwen, to convince her to follow up on-site. It was the sort of favor he hated owing Gwen. But she was the kind of woman who knew how to ask the right questions.
With the issue now handled, he allowed his eyes to wander the rotunda, searching for his deputy commissioner, George Kepler. He stopped when a glint of light caught his attention—the reflection of one of his captains’ badges. He squinted.
McDonnell!
A warrior type who lived for his uniform, yet lacked even a smattering of common sense. No understanding of the kind of pressures the department faced these days. He’d rounded up a group of five men—persons of interest in the immediate vicinity following the riot and shooting—who fit the general description of the guy who’d shot him. Donovan’s attention focused on one detainee: a large black man, dressed to play ball, who was sitting down—but filled with so much power and energy, he looked like a rocket ready to launch. Something seemed familiar about the man, though Commissioner Logan Donovan couldn’t place him.
Didn’t matter now. He had no time for reminiscences.
He also saw something else McDonnell was oblivious to: The place was crawling with media, at least a dozen news cameras trained on the activity inside the museum. It was only a matter of time before they decided the men being held were being held “too long.” Before they focused on this one’s black eye or that one’s cut lip—injuries that had been suffered God only knew where. But if the media got hold of it, then the public would whip itself into a frenzy.
Once that happened, then never mind the department: He would have a bad name. His detractors would point out how this practice was completely at odds with his vision of community policing. What he called the “protect our city” philosophy—something that, with his considerable charm and ample supply of political goodwill, he had shoved down the new mayor’s throat two months ago.
Some leaders threw their weight around like sumo wrestlers, but not Donovan. His approach was more subtle—and far more effective.
He started walking toward where George Kepler was in the middle of a meeting.
An earnest medical tech with a crooked nose—one that looked like it had been broken a half-dozen times—trailed after Donovan. “Commissioner, you don’t seem to realize what a lucky escape you’ve had. Just another couple inches and—”
Ignoring him, Donovan spoke to the two young cops he passed. “Everything under control? Do something about those news cameras, will you?”
Startled, they immediately acknowledged him with a salute—a reminder that he was still in full dress uniform—which was followed by a thumbs-up.
Another issue resolved.
Donovan passed a ruddy-faced officer. “Your new baby letting you get any sleep, Mike?” The commissioner made it a point to remember the little stuff—the birthdays and weddings and high school graduations that marked his officers’ lives. It made them feel that he valued them. Then their allegiance was his.
Mike winced. Too loud, Donovan told himself.
“Yeah, he’s doing great.” The heavy bags under Mike’s eyes said otherwise. “You okay, Commissioner?”
“Right as rain.”
This time, two other heads turned to see what was the matter. Still too loud.
The med tech continued to trail him. “You brush it off like it’s nothing, but that injury of yours is serious.”
Donovan didn’t bother to acknowledge him. The medic was badgering him, thanks to the city’s legal team. A bunch of bureaucratic worrywarts who operated from a position of fear, constantly terrified that the department was about to get sued.
“People have died after getting shot by paint guns,” the tech persisted. “You were hit by a pellet traveling three hundred feet per second, two hundred miles an hour.”
“Hey, Billy—you did some great work with the advance team this morning,” Donovan roared to a carrot-topped rookie.
The young man reacted with a jump. Then a deep blush. “Thanks, Chief.”
The med tech stayed right on his heels. “This wasn’t just a publicity stunt at your expense—”
“It was an assault,” Donovan roared. “Not just on me, but on the honor of every man and woman who wears this uniform!”
The med tech cringed. “The fact that you’re shouting is another sign that you’ve suffered a serious injury. You’re fortunate your eardrum didn’t rupture—but you’ve got hearing loss and a concussion.”
Not to mention this damned incessant ringing, Donovan thought.
“You’ll recover faster—and avoid serious complications—if you rest.”
Donovan spun to face down the med tech, staring at the man’s mangled nose until the smaller man flinched. “Consider your job done. Go file your report; you’ve examined me and I’m fine. Now, I need to speak with my team.”
“Please, Commissioner. Medical evaluations are important work. Sit down—”
“Medical evaluations are important. That’s why when the mayor’s cutbacks hit last summer, I fought for every single med tech to keep his job. Including you.”
The folder slid from the tech’s fingers, spilling papers onto the floor. His hands shook as he bent to gather them.
Donovan allowed himself to smile, knowing he’d scored a victory. “Now, sit and down aren’t in my vocabulary—and my deputy’s waiting.” He made sure his smile stayed there as he turned, crossed the steps, and joined the briefing.
George, his second-in-command, was wrapping up the story of what had gone wrong. He had laid out every unexpected turn in the road, highlighting each sharp curve, every blind spot, all the screw-ups. “A handful of the protesters were legitimate. The others are under arrest—or will be, once we scour the video footage we have.”
“We were outmaneuvered and outnumbered,” Donovan added. “This riot could’ve spun out of control, like we’ve seen elsewhere. Baltimore. Ferguson. Chicago. It’s to your credit that you stopped the violence. Because of you, tomorrow’s parade will go on.”
A cop to the left of the commissioner gestured angrily with hands that were heavily callused—and red from the cold. “Yeah, but I get tired of seeing fires burn and bullets fly and good cops hurt. Because of the media and these damn protesters, every single one of us is a target. Like our job ain’t hard enough without people blaming us for everything wrong in our society.”
Donovan merely stood, nodding. He meant it to be a signal: His guys had his permission to vent, if that’s what they needed. Sometimes the pressures of the job needed a release—even if it meant the official briefing ran off course.
A stocky lieutenant with short cropped hair—dyed a brilliant yellow—cleared her throat. “I’m from a family of cops. My dad was part of the layoffs back in ’85. He and the others planned to march across the Brooklyn Bridge in protest. And you know what happened? The same guys he’d worked with, side by side over the years, showed up and chased ’em off. My dad was a good cop—and he wasn’t allowed to protest. Makes me sick that scum like this can.”
“Times have changed, Lieutenant. Plus, this was no legitimate protest. This was a mob. A flash mob.” Donovan planted his hands in his coat pockets. God, if only the awful ringing in his ears would stop!
His deputy glanced at him sheepishly. “You doing okay, Chief?”
Donovan stared impassively back into George’s pearl-gray eyes, determined to show nothing. George Kepler was a stand-up cop, and no one could ever complain that George didn’t pull his weight. But he was nakedly ambitious, always alert for any sign of weakness. One of those guys always bucking for the next big opportunity—and in a way that was too obvious and greedy.
“I feel fine. But I sure could use a shower.” Donovan grinned. “You make a damn fine-lookin’ redhead!” someone yelled out. That drew a laugh from the officers.
Donovan nodded with good humor. “We need to review our strategy for this parade. Make sure it’s sufficient to handle what’s coming our way. Not just ordinary protesters. And not just those threats targeting parade-goers and participants, though we’re monitoring chatter from terrorists and always concerned about lone wolves and celebrity stalkers.”
“How many threats are we looking at, Chief?” another voice shouted.
“If you can believe it, less than last year. But we’re up to one-thirty-nine and counting. Eight are highly credible, and our Critical Response Unit is split into two teams, both foreign and domestic, closely monitoring them,” Donovan replied. “But right now I want to talk to you about the most important one: the one targeting us. We’ve received six anonymous phone calls in the last twelve hours warning us that someone intends to hurt cops at the parade. The first call warned of a man who wanted to shoot some cops. Subsequent calls warned of machete attacks and chemicals—again, directed at police officers, not the public at large. In light of Queens and Ottawa, Philadelphia and Texas and the attack on me today, we have to take it seriously.”
“We have a man in custody,” George added. “He may or may not be the source of the calls.”
“And the calls could be pranks,” Donovan said. “But they’re reason to be especially alert at all times and back each other up. Be mindful that anything, regardless of how insignificant it appears to be, may be a setup. Rely on your training—and trust your instincts.” He focused on the men and women watching him. All looked cold and tired and a little apprehensive. “Before we get down to business, a lot of you look hungry—and I certainly work better on a full stomach. Michaels, why don’t you order coffee and pizza for all? Let’s everybody take fifteen. Then we’ll reconvene inside; I’m going to commandeer a room.”
George trailed him to the main entrance, then opened the door before Donovan could reach it.
“We have one more issue to discuss,” George said hesitantly, like a man walking on eggshells.
Donovan pushed through the door without slowing. George wanted to grill Donovan about his every ache and pain—and Donovan had no patience for it. Like he wasn’t man enough to do his job, despite it all.
“Can you give me half an hour? There’s something I’ve got to do.” He kept his voice smooth, though he could sense his temper rising.
There was so much work to be done. He had to be an example to his colleagues—but he especially had to protect his officers on their patch. Territory that, for the next twenty hours or so, was a two-and-a-half-mile route running from the American Museum of Natural History to Macy’s on Herald Square.
A staccato of heels striking the stone floor sounded behind him, signaling Gwen’s arrival. “Excuse us,” he said to George—ignoring his deputy’s frown, which sagged the corners of his face with the weight of his worry.
Donovan pulled Gwen aside, thinking again what a singular woman she was—tough and professional, with made-for-TV looks. He would never depend on any woman for his happiness. Still, he acknowledged that Gwen had been the one who made him laugh, who allowed him to dream, who held him together in the days after Jill’s death. Somehow, she had even weathered his home situation with grace. At his age, dating someone necessarily involved his kid—and Allie was not a Gwen fan. His daughter had yet to regard his girlfriend with anything other than a thousand-watt death stare.
Once they were alone, Gwen raised a hand to her mouth, as though she was afraid to say the words that needed to be said. “I looked for Allie, like you asked,” she blurted out. “Asked around. But I can’t find her, Logan. Not anywhere.”
He stopped walking. Looked at her, wanting something more. Some additional fact or detail that would transform her words into different ones. Ones he expected to hear.
“Someone must have seen her,” he insisted stubbornly.
Gwen shook her head. “No one I can find.”
“Did you contact Jackie? Check with my driver?”
“I did. Jackie’s still heard nothing. And Sam’s already off for the holiday; he hasn’t seen Allie since he drove her home from school yesterday.”
“What about texts? Emails?”
“Nothing.” There was no emotion in Gwen’s eyes.
He knew she cared, of course. But she was like him: She recognized a teenage girl’s stunt for what it was. You couldn’t panic or overreact where Allie was involved. You had to keep a cool head.
Even as you cursed the fact that she made you waste your valuable time.
He pulled out his own cellphone. Dialed Allie’s number.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then four. Five. Six.
At seven, his emotion flared from annoyance to full-blown anger.
He’d just been targeted tonight by violent protesters—the kind who saw him as a symbol of everything that was wrong with the NYPD. Who blamed him whenever a rookie shot an unarmed man. Or when a couple bad cops who believed they were above the law mistreated a suspect in custody.
He needed to rehabilitate his department’s image—while simultaneously ensuring the security of thousands of spectators and performers at tomorrow’s parade, not to mention his own officers. Didn’t he have enough to deal with?
This wasn’t the first time Allie had run off. The fact was: She was a handful. His wife, Jill, at least, had known how to handle Allie’s drama. He never had—and Jill’s passing had only complicated the tricky teenage issues. If Allie had been a boy, he’d have taken her to ballgames and they’d have watched ESPN together. They’d have talked about the Knicks’ new point guard or the Jets’ starting lineup. He would have known how to show tough love when there was a problem, how to say man up, how to ignore his own guilt and grief.
Instead, he was at a total loss. Allie liked books and taking photos. Things even most girls weren’t into. Most nights, she took herself to her room as soon as the dinner dishes were put away. Often he paused outside her door—always closed—and thought he heard crying.
It was possible that he was wrong. He certainly wanted to think so. His daughter ought to be stronger and smarter than that. “When I find her—”
Gwen cut him off. “Maybe it’s time to face another possibility, Donovan.” She put a hand on his arm. “You have more than your share of enemies. Your line of work attracts them.”
“You think I don’t know that? I was shot at today,” he snapped, throwing off her hand.
Gwen stiffened. “There are people who hate you. Personally, not just because you’re the top cop. Have you asked yourself whether they might have targeted you today? Whether to hurt you, they might have targeted Allie?”
Logan Donovan shook his head. It was a possibility that made sense to acknowledge but never give credence to. Sure, he had ghosts in his past. Yet he was a leader who refused to be rattled by the skeletons he’d locked in his closet. And a father who refused to let his child drag him into her prepubescent drama.
“Don’t worry about it, Gwen,” he said brusquely. “You did what you could, and I appreciate that. Go back to work. This isn’t your concern anymore.”
I’ll find someone else, he decided.
Chapter 7
American Museum of Natural History
Gwen Allensen was deeply worried. She’d known the commissioner for more than two years. Long enough to figure a thing or two out.
First, if Donovan had an issue, medical or otherwise, that might interfere with his job performance, he’d never admit it. The man believed in nothing more than his own invincibility.
Second, if Allie was truly in trouble, Donovan would be the last person to see it. The man had a view of his daughter that was one-dimensional and limited. From growing up with three sisters, Gwen knew it could be difficult, between worries about mean girls and peer pressure and social media. But Allie was different. She never prattled on about pop music or crushes or parties like Gwen and her sisters had. Allie acted more grown-up—and as much as Gwen complained that Allie was sas
sy, the truth was that behind the smart mouth was a hurt child. One who desperately missed her mother—and had no idea how to connect with her father.
That was why Gwen was worried to learn Allie didn’t pick up her cellphone. Or reply to Donovan’s texts.
She didn’t want the commissioner to know that she’d second-guessed him, so she sent her two assistants to question the vendors and other news reporters. They canvassed the helium suppliers and countless inflation workers in yellow Macy’s coats. She herself called around to area hospitals and checked their video feeds from the area.
Nothing.
So she approached Morris, one of the NYPD tech guys who’d helped her in the past. “There are cameras at the Beresford, its neighboring buildings, and on every corner of the museum,” the techie assured her. “We’ll review all footage.”
“And keep it on the QT. Don’t let the commissioner know,” Gwen warned.
The techie’s eyes widened in surprise.
“He’s not himself at the moment,” Gwen explained. She motioned across the room, where Donovan was talking too loudly. Waving his hands wildly.
Several officers were turned toward the commissioner, their faces dumbfounded.
“What’s wrong with him?” the techie asked Gwen.
Gwen turned back to face the techie. “Nothing he won’t fix, by sheer force of will. The real question is: What would you do if your thirteen-year-old child was missing?”
“I dunno. I’ve got two cats. They need food, a smattering of affection, and their twice-daily medication. It’s more than enough for me.”
“I’m not asking you to be a father. Just think like one.”
“Well, Allie had to have seen her father shot,” the techie hazarded. “She must’ve been upset, not thinking clearly. Maybe she’d go to a friend?”
“The commissioner doesn’t know her friends. Can’t name a single one.” Gwen shook her head. “It’s because Jill was sick for so long. The more her condition deteriorated, the fewer friends Allie asked over.”
“Well, if she’s like every other kid,” the techie said dryly, “she’s spending hours on that cellphone of hers; she must have been communicating with someone. We just have to figure out who.” That was the thought that sparked an idea. “If you have Allie’s number, I can locate her phone.”
Whistleblower Page 5
