Except tomorrow was the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, long the province of the NYPD alone. They would not welcome involvement smacking of interference. Especially not from the FBI.
She squared her shoulders and walked over to the officer.
“Excuse me, Captain—I’m Special Agent Eve Rossi.”
He glanced at her badge and ID before eyeing her suspiciously. “Captain McDonnell. What do you want?”
Mace was on his feet, ready to go. She shot him a warning glance. Don’t screw this up.
He sat back on the bench.
“I’ve come for Julius Mason. He’s with me,” she said.
“He’s staying right here. I haven’t questioned him yet.” Irritation sparked in McDonnell’s voice.
“If you need a statement, I’ll be sure he provides one. But he’s not the man you’re looking for.”
“It’s our jurisdiction. He stays. I question him.”
“Not this time. He’s FBI.” Eve kept her tone reasonable. Conveying with her words and her tone: This isn’t personal. Nothing to do with me or you. It’s just business.
McDonnell cackled like she’d just said something funny. “Maybe you got your paperwork mixed up, Special Agent. ’Cause I’ve got this guy’s rap sheet right here.” He tapped on his clipboard. “Almost didn’t have enough paper in the mobile fax for this baby. It’s at least two miles long.”
Eve nodded. This one couldn’t really be explained. Not to someone without a top security clearance.
Her team of ex-convicts was unique. Unusual.
What was she supposed to say to this beat cop with no imagination?
That Julius Mason was part of a team that was the brainchild of the FBI, dreamed up shortly after the First World War? A secret unit that was created after the model of Eugène Vidocq—one of France’s most notorious late-eighteenth-century criminals, who had been convinced to use his considerable talents working for the police, not against them?
That now the FBI’s Vidocq team brought together a group of ex-cons—men and women with extraordinary talents—who could solve crimes using methods that ordinary agents never could?
That they had joined the good guys based on a choice that wasn’t much of a choice: put their skills to work for the government—or do hard time in jail?
Right. McDonnell was just the type to sign off on that.
Once upon a time, Eve had felt completely unsuited to lead her team of ex-cons and barely reformed thugs. She’d believed she had absolutely nothing in common with them.
Then they’d worked a handful of cases together, and she’d figured it out: She wasn’t suited for anything else. They were extraordinarily talented, unpredictable, and strangely loyal. They were also her responsibility.
McDonnell’s face twisted into a grimace. “You aren’t joking, are you?”
“I’m not.”
He poked his clipboard. “I’ve got cops testifying he was on the street. Just blocks away from the hit.”
“Did you ask him what he was doing?”
He ignored her question. “He’s the right height and the right weight. He’s wearing the right clothes. He was carrying a gun.”
“He was in the area on official FBI business. And I have his license to carry right here.” She pulled the paperwork out of her bag.
McDonnell’s face contorted with a tic, and his cheeks went from flushed to bright red. “You don’t have the authority to take him—”
She cut him off. “With all due respect, Captain, I assure you that I do.”
His clipboard flew into the air. Eve didn’t know if he’d launched it intentionally or simply let it slip from his waving arms. She didn’t really care.
Mace caught it like it was a pass. “Please tell me we’re done with this bull—”
She froze him mid-sentence with another look. Returned the clipboard to McDonnell. “I’ll sign whatever you need,” she said calmly. “I take full responsibility.”
“You want to take Julius Mason out of here? Fine. But I need to protect myself. Before you can do it, I want my boss’s authorization. The commissioner’s right over there.”
Henry’s favor.
Eve saw him immediately. He had just entered the museum and was hunched over a cellphone, conferring with one of his deputies. Donovan’s figure still gave her a sense of his immense physical size—as well as the extent of the stress he must be under. She had remembered that he was a tall man—but when she’d last seen him, almost a year ago, he had been at least forty pounds heavier. It had been a tough year; his department had been embroiled in a series of ugly cases. Numerous cases of excessive force. Too many unarmed suspects shot by cops.
And was there something else? Yes…he was widowed now. She’d read an article blaming the NYPD’s recent issues on his own personal losses. The media could be cruel.
But he would recover. He was young for the job—mid-fifties—and he was a climber. Every time she had seen him, she had noticed his confidence, ambition, and charm. A combination of traits that, frankly, she had never trusted. Ambition and confidence often led to bad choices. Too much charm covered up mistakes.
The commissioner turned and Eve caught sight of his face, still faintly streaked with red paint. She noted his rage and desperation—and also the way the officer next to him cringed when the commissioner spoke.
“Yeah,” McDonnell repeated. “I won’t let your man go without an okay from the top cop himself.”
Chapter 12
American Museum of Natural History
“Commissioner Donovan?” Eve asked, splashing into his path just as he exited the museum. She got a whiff of the chemical stink coming from his hair and face—from the paint that he’d yet to wash off.
He barely acknowledged her with a half-nod. Then he paused and stared at her like he could almost place her—but not quite.
He had a once-busted nose that had healed slightly crooked. Eve found herself thinking that—along with the paint—it created a welcome anomaly to his pretty-boy look. If anything, it made him more interesting.
“My name is Special Agent Eve Rossi. We’ve met once before, briefly.” She held out her hand—a gesture that he ignored, brushing past her.
Not completely out of rudeness, Eve decided. He was obviously preoccupied. “I need to speak with you, Commissioner. It’s important.”
“Sorry, I’m busy right now.” He kept moving. The paint in his hair started running again, mingling with the rain. He pushed it away from his forehead, creating a shower of red.
“I only need thirty seconds.” She flashed her badge. “As I said, Special Agent Rossi. FBI. You’re holding a member of my team without cause. Your captain insists on your personal authorization before letting him go.”
“My captain’s not in a position to insist I do anything. Now, I’ve got work to do.”
“He’s your captain, not mine. I just want the man you’re holding.” She shoved McDonnell’s clipboard with the paperwork in front of him. “Won’t take you more than a minute.”
He brushed it aside, then turned to face her. “Guess you didn’t hear me the first time. Elvis has left the building. Now get out of my way.”
He was very nearly shouting. Fully agitated, moving his hands from his hips to his shirt pockets. “Are you all right?” Eve demanded.
“Debatable, but none of your concern. Goodbye, Ms. Rossi.”
Ms., not Agent or Special Agent. Annoyance surged through her.
He was obviously used to giving orders, always getting his way. She thought of what Henry had told her—and decided to shake his confidence. “Guess this is why your friends are talking. Worried that you’re distracted and unfit for duty.”
That got his attention. He glared at her. “My friends know the truth—not to mention how to mind their own business. Unlike you.” There was not even a trace of the charm Logan Donovan was famous for. He was ice cold and ruthlessly determined. “I don’t do paperwork. Even if I had the time.”
> “I came to get my man out—and that’s what I intend to do.” Eve didn’t like being disrespected by men who believed they owned the world.
“Listen, lady—you need help, call Saint Jude or something. Now get out of my way.”
“Saint Jude? You make it sound like a lost cause, Commissioner,” she said quietly. “Of course, if you’re not interested, maybe one of those news crews will be.”
He turned—and she watched as recognition washed over him. “I remember you,” he said, his voice husky. “From the crisis at Saint Patrick’s. You picked apart the hostage taker’s motives, tunneled deep inside that bastard’s mind.” He was now seeing her for the first time—and his eyes locked onto her own. “I liked that about you.”
There was no sarcasm in his tone, but Eve knew better than to assume he was being sincere. Still, his eyes had just sparked alive, like a firefly on a dark summer night.
He studied her face with an intensity that surprised her. “I saw your team in action at the Cathedral. You were fast and nimble. You cut through the red tape, ignored the bullshit.”
“Exactly what I’m trying to do now, Commissioner.” She offered the clipboard again, like a peace offering.
“You’re just the one to help me! You can find my missing daughter. She disappeared this afternoon.”
“Sign my man out and I’ll give you some free advice about your daughter.”
“I don’t want your advice. I want you to find her.”
“Because you think she ran off.”
“Not anymore. And I need help. You have to understand: I have a city to protect, not to mention thousands of police officers who are the target of a specific threat during this parade.”
“It would make sense if she ran off. Maybe she saw you get shot. Maybe she got mad when she noticed the bright pink lipstick on the left side of your mouth. Right now, it blends with the red paint, but it must’ve stood out earlier. You’re a grown man, and I’m sure you’re lonely now that your wife is gone, but possibly your daughter’s not ready to see you with another woman.” Eve kept her last point short and businesslike.
He stepped away from her. “What the hell?”
“I’m good at figuring things out about people.” She continued to hold the clipboard. Waited.
He shook his head. “It’s settled. You’re the perfect person to find my daughter.” He reached for the paperwork, scrawled his signature hastily.
“You have almost thirty-five thousand NYPD officers at your disposal.”
“Thirty-five thousand NYPD officers with jobs to do. I want you to do this job for me. Together with your man inside, who’s now free to help you.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m sorry we got off to a bad start,” he apologized. “It’s been a helluva day.”
She took the paperwork back, saying nothing. The commissioner had just decided that he wanted something, and his instinctive behavior had defaulted to charm. She knew it was in his nature to flatter—the better to win friends and stymie his enemies.
“I understand, of course,” she said. “But—”
“Please do this for me. For my daughter. Her name is Allie. She’s thirteen. She was last seen in the chaos after I was shot.”
That was the moment she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. They were a deep blue and filled with something that impressed Eve in spite of herself: a mix of empathy and sadness. The kind that came from having seen the frailty and flaws of too many people. From having survived failure and loss. From having lived. And the only other man she’d ever known to register such depth of understanding was her stepfather, Zev.
“You must already have officers searching,” she managed to say. “Interviewing eyewitnesses. Screening video. Calling her friends.”
“I want it done outside the department. Nothing can jeopardize my focus—or that of my people—on tomorrow’s parade. That has to be my priority.” He balled his hands into fists. “I’m no Superman. Right now, I can’t be both a father to Allie and the police commissioner this city needs. If I focus on Allie, I risk giving in to worry and panic—and being no good to anyone. The only choice I can make is to do what nobody except me can do: Protect this city. Which is why you have to help me.”
Eve noted the set of his jaw and the flash in his eye. She knew she was witnessing the side of him that charged the hill no matter the obstacle. That never took no for an answer. The side of him that had made him a leader—but earned him no small number of enemies along the way. That strength, too, reminded her of Zev. “You believe she’s been kidnapped. Have you received a ransom call?”
“No. I’ve got proof of life. And—a virtual ticking clock.” He fished a phone out of his pocket. It had a pink case with purple hearts and a jagged scratch across the front. “It doesn’t really look like my daughter. I mean, it does—but…you know.”
Eve studied the photo of the frightened, wet girl that was the lock screen.
Took in the message. How far will you go to save her?
Took in the timer above the girl’s head: 17 hours, 48 minutes, 23 seconds.
She did the mental math quickly. “Your ticking clock: It’s a countdown to the parade’s finish.”
“I’ve sworn to protect the millions of people who are coming to the parade; I’m obligated to protect my fellow officers. This is my professional duty. Will you help with my personal duty—and protect just the one?”
The dark blue eyes challenged her.
Damn him—but he was right. She couldn’t say no when a girl’s life was at risk.
Besides, she had dealt with plenty of powerhouse types over the years. She would do her job, find the child—and make sure Commissioner Logan Donovan kept his distance.
Chapter 13
Gramercy Park District
The rain that had been teeming all day soaked the city. Corey Haddox stood outside Durty Nelly’s, cupped his hands over his lighter—waited ’til it sparked—and lit up a Marlboro Red. He thought for the umpteenth time how ridiculous it was that the city smoking ban applied to the kind of Irish watering hole that billed itself as a shebeen. His mouthwatering dinner was going to go cold. All because he so desperately needed this smoke.
He’d spent the first half of the day recovering from the mother of all hangovers, trying to deaden the darts of agony that shot through his head. First he’d tried plenty of Tylenol and water. Now he’d moved on to cigarettes, booze, and what passed in his life for a home-cooked meal.
He examined the bandage on his left thumb. It had been expertly applied—but he only vaguely remembered the injury beneath it. Just like he didn’t quite remember the woman he’d suffered it for.
Her name is…Janie? No. Jennifer? Not quite.
Jenna. She’d been at a bar in the East Village with some bloke who claimed to be her boyfriend. Haddox hadn’t particularly wanted to get involved. He believed in the principles of keep your nose clean and mind your own business. But Jenna looked barely of legal age. And a lass that young didn’t deserve to be mistreated.
It was always some version of the same old story. Same plot. Same characters. An utterly predictable ending.
Time to get out of here, he decided. But not ’til he enjoyed the hot meal waiting for him inside.
His phone buzzed three times before he answered it. The caller ID was blocked—but only a couple people had the number to this cell line. It was a burner that he’d purchased only thirty-six hours ago at an electronics shop in the Twelfth Arrondissement, shortly before hopping back on a plane to New York. His motto was “one and done.” Every day or two, depending on usage, he recycled his throwaway phone with a temporary, anonymous number. It was a way of life for drug dealers, mobsters, and anyone who resisted having their movements tracked by Big Brother. Which more or less described Corey Haddox to a T.
He calculated the odds and decided that his caller must be Eve. So he hesitated only a split second before answering, “Knew you’d miss me, luv.”
“Welcome back,” she replied
lightly, “but I’m not your luv. As much as I appreciate your great work on Falcon. I gather all his French associates are now in custody as well?”
“Together with about twenty million dollars’ worth of art treasures.” Haddox blew a puff of smoke; it floated above his eyes.
“I know I said after this case wrapped, you’d have a free pass—but something’s come up.”
“Something always comes up.”
“In the mood to visit the natural history museum?”
“Nope. Don’t care for old bones.”
“This one involves a missing kid, a tampered iPhone, and a parade. I need your help.”
“Then say it like you mean it, luv. Because nobody can track down people like me.” Haddox knew he sounded arrogant, but it was true. Sometimes he found out people’s secrets by using his considerable charm; other times he used his technological skills and hacked into their private lives. He was the expert when it came to gathering information.
Her silence was meant to be neutral, but he could tell she was struggling to overcome her exasperation. He heard a sigh, then a reluctant “Nobody can track down people like you.”
“That’s why you can’t live without me.”
“Haddox,” she warned.
He shrugged. “Had to try. So one more case.”
“One more case.”
“That’s it.”
“Unless you want more.”
“Isn’t it you who doesn’t want more? Which I still don’t get. We’re good together. Pretty feckin’ amazing, in fact. And when something happens that’s great, usually people want to repeat it.”
“We’ve had this conversation before.”
“And we’ll keep having it until I understand it.” Haddox took a long, final draw on his smoke—and then ground it under his heel and pushed open the door to the pub. “Imagine you’ve had a glass of wine that’s just brilliant. I’m saying it’s so good it will blow your mind. The waiter asks if you’d like another glass. Most people would say yes.”
Whistleblower Page 8
