Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  Hot and cold water pipes ran above him—painted by color according to where they went in the building. There were water heaters for each wing of the building. Three different oil tanks for the heating system. Huge ventilation shafts.

  He crouched forward; the ceiling down here was low for his six-seven frame.

  Came to the wall where the electrical and gas supply area was housed.

  He shone his Maglite on the main panel. Found where it connected to the emergency generator supply.

  It didn’t look exactly like he expected. He was going to have to improvise.

  —

  García waited impatiently. Burke, behind him, retched again.

  He heard the sound of feet on the floor above him.

  Six minutes and the whole system would be live.

  He would be totally screwed.

  “MACE!” he whispered urgently.

  —

  Mace hated making a choice. He hated not being sure.

  He made his best guess.

  It was the wrong one.

  García was cursing on the other end of the line.

  Mace shut off the volume.

  —

  Three minutes to go. The cameras would be up. Full security back in place.

  Their chances of getting Burke out? Gone.

  García started calculating his odds for getting out via brute force, once the guards came.

  They weren’t good.

  He got his knife at the ready all the same.

  —

  Mace thought about Thomas Edison. How he hadn’t failed seven hundred times. Instead, he’d discovered seven hundred ways not to make a lightbulb.

  That had inspired him, learning to play ball. Practicing free throws, day after day. Working to get better.

  He tried again.

  This time, it was good. It was like when the ball leaves your fingers and you just know: It’s going to swish right through the net.

  —

  The emergency generator made a great cough, and then simply died. All the lights, cameras, and consoles went out instantly—except for a handful of small items on battery backup.

  The quiet was replaced by shouts and the sounds of people running.

  The door swung open. García breathed a sigh of relief—and pushed Burke through fast.

  Cold air rushed in from outside—and García started feeling good.

  Mace had come through.

  There was one more hurdle. A couple guards and a stairwell were between him and the loading dock level.

  The guards—two Asian men—could have been twins. They were the same height and build, with similar features. Neither was more than six feet tall, but they were lean, muscular, and deadly serious. They stood at the top of the stairs, shoulder to shoulder.

  García went six paces toward them and stopped. Burke remained behind. Hands still cuffed behind his back. Vomit all over his jumpsuit.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” demanded the man on the right.

  “None of your business,” García said.

  The other man shook his head. “Wrong answer.”

  García took another two steps forward. Balled his fists.

  The man on the right lifted his leg for a kick; García grabbed him at the ankle and slammed his fist into the groin. Then he tossed the sentry down the stairs like a rag doll. He lay there in a giant, awkward heap.

  García took the next three steps forward with a no-nonsense attitude.

  The guard on the left snapped to attention. He glared at García and reached inside his jacket for his weapon. Instead of slowing, García took the remaining distance between them in one leap. He head-butted the guy right in the stomach, like a human battering ram. García sent him hurtling down the stairs like a misshapen bowling ball. He landed on top of his partner, his left leg turned at an ugly angle.

  It was the element of surprise—of doing the unexpected—that always seemed to work in García’s favor. He was smaller than his opponents, and they never expected him to have too much fight in him. Pure grit and expert training—fueled by pent-up rage, and coupled with an exquisite sense of timing—meant otherwise.

  “You coming?” García called down. Without waiting for Burke to respond, he ascended the stairs, adjusted his shirt, clipped his Randall #1 knife to his belt, and opened the metal door that the sentries had blocked.

  García waited as Burke stumbled toward him, all left feet. Because now that Burke’s stomach was empty, that little white pill was going to make him sleepy and disoriented.

  That was also part of the plan. This guy was bait for their fishing experiment—but no one wanted the worm to talk.

  García hustled Burke inside.

  “Taking your sweet time today, Frankie?”

  “Don’t call me that.” García took the Con Ed uniform that Mace offered. Gave him the keys he’d taken from the interview room guard so he could unlock Burke’s cuffs.

  “Get dressed, asshole,” Mace informed Burke, handing him an identical uniform.

  The lights were going to come back on in one minute, fifty-five seconds. And three Con Ed guys were about to leave the building.

  Chapter 60

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  Eli felt a tap on his shoulder. Looked up from his computer screen, blinking. Haddox was standing behind him. Bach, Eve’s German shepherd, trotted into the room, turned around three times, then settled down at Haddox’s feet.

  Eli groaned. “Now I’ve seen everything. Women fall all over themselves to be with you, and even the dog picks you over all that food in the kitchen.”

  Haddox took the chair beside him with an easy shrug. Put down a cup of coffee. “For you. Light, sweet, and only halfway full—so you don’t spill.”

  “Always inspiring confidence.”

  “Eve said you needed help.”

  “I was looking into the financial part of Logan Donovan’s life,” Eli explained, “while you were learning the rest of it. Did you find anything to indicate whether Logan—or Jill—was having an affair?”

  Mock surprise. “Trouble in paradise? That wounds the romantic in me.”

  “Want some free advice? The romantic in you ought to be warned: It ain’t gonna work out.”

  “What’s not going to work out?” Haddox eyed Eli skeptically.

  “I’ve been bingeing on old Hollywood movies lately. I watched Casablanca last week, and I thought of you.”

  “I can see why. Me. Bogart. Massive sex appeal.”

  “Yeah, but the point is: Doesn’t matter that Ingrid Bergman’s character had the best sex of her life with Bogart. She still picked the sensible guy. Women are like that.”

  “Eve would be bored stiff with a sensible guy.” Haddox pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one up. “But no worries, mate. I’m not looking to get pinned down.”

  Eli coughed, waved the smoke out of his face. Then told him about the credit cards and the lingerie. About how Allie’s cosigned card seemed to be the depository of all the Donovan family secrets. “I can’t figure out the rest of it,” Eli said. “Guess that’s more your expertise. But I did find something else that’s really interesting: Allie’s Web habits.”

  “Yeah, her entire cache had been deleted,” Haddox said. “I’m running the software that will bring it back from the digital grave.”

  “Well,” Eli explained, “I tried a different approach. She used her credit card to join some online research forums. Like this one.”

  Eli flipped to a new screen. Showed Haddox the WebJusticeForUs.org site. “It’s filled with your standard mix of wackadoodles, crime scene voyeurs, and amateur sleuths. They compare notes, try to solve various crimes.”

  “I think I know where this is going. Anything on Logan Donovan?”

  “There’s a whole treasure trove of files on police brutality and Commissioner Donovan,” Eli admitted. “And there’s a handful of bad allegations in those threads, sure. But that’s not what’
s interesting.”

  “Go on.” Haddox was drawing on his smoke, but Eli could tell that he had his complete attention.

  “There’s a whole thread on Jill Donovan. A lot of people think her death was suspicious.”

  “Yeah, I looked into it for Eve. But Jill had cancer. Nothing suspicious about that.” Haddox flicked a few ashes onto an empty plate—one that had earlier contained Eli’s sandwich, a turkey on rye with brown mustard.

  “Might want to rethink that one. There’s more to the story. Want to take a look?”

  Haddox took a final puff. Then extinguished his smoke without even a trace of regret. Within moments, in spite of the bandage, his fingers were dancing across the keyboard, moving fast.

  Eli watched, hopeful. He wanted answers to his questions. He was starting to believe they were relevant to whether they’d see Allie again—or not.

  “Have you told Eve any of this?” Haddox asked.

  “Not yet. Just the broad strokes. I wanted to have something more solid before I went too deep.”

  Haddox didn’t look up from his screen. “Eve’s problem is: She knows most people are full of shite, but she believes she can read their body language, use her skills to see through it all. Protect herself from their influence. Meanwhile, seems to me that the commissioner’s playing her big-time.”

  “I never thought we’d agree on anything,” Eli said. “So how do we stop it?”

  “We can’t. She’s smart but stubborn—which means that she has to see it for herself.”

  “Some damning data would certainly help.”

  “I aim to please,” Haddox said, switching his screen. “What I trust is computers. The commissioner’s a lying git or worse, but his digital fingerprints won’t deceive. See, if you look at the world according to bits and bytes, you’ll see there’s a wealth of information out there that’s pretty easy to understand.”

  Minutes passed. Eli watched Haddox follow the digital trail. Then his fingers suddenly stopped.

  “Looks like we’ve stumbled onto Pandora’s box,” Haddox said with an easy grin. “What do you say we open it?”

  WJXZ REPORTS

  This just in! Gwen Allensen here at WJXZ reporting breaking news this Thanksgiving morning.

  We’re mere hours away from watching the Macy’s parade floats begin their journey toward Herald Square, but we’re receiving reports that suspected cop killer Gregg Burke has escaped from the holding cell where he was awaiting charges on the execution-style murder of two NYPD police officers.

  Burke is believed to have targeted them simply because they were wearing a uniform—all part of the anti-police tensions that have spread nationwide following the deaths of unarmed African American men at the hands of police officers.

  To repeat, we have reports of a prison escape.

  Suspected cop killer Gregg Burke is considered to be extremely dangerous, and members of law enforcement will be on high alert until he is recaptured.

  Chapter 61

  Columbus Circle

  Traffic was pure gridlock as they neared the parade route.

  “You get out by the hospital—Mount Sinai on Tenth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street,” Mace instructed García. “I’ll ditch the van.”

  Their plan was to head to a destination that wasn’t the real destination. One that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. And most important, one that was still a few blocks from the chaos that now surrounded Columbus Circle.

  They had changed clothes again. Worked to disguise the guy they’d be using as bait. He’d been painted in the media as Public Enemy Number One, his face plastered all over the Internet. But Mace was pretty sure nobody would pay attention to him in the soiled clothes of a homeless man.

  Besides, he already smelled the part.

  —

  Donovan dialed out, then waited for acknowledgment on his secure line.

  He took in the organized chaos around him. Radios were crackling. Officers in full body armor were crouched eight feet away. In the periphery of his vision, he was aware of sharpshooters in position.

  “I need confirmation, Gamma Team.”

  “Roger that.” In the background, he heard the Gamma Team leader speaking to his unit.

  The roar of the crowds mingled with the roaring sound in his ears.

  “Commissioner? We’re on red alert. Your instructions are in place. No threat’s getting past us today.”

  Donovan exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  —

  Seventeen minutes until deadline.

  Mace had ditched the van and caught up with García.

  “Stay here with fish bait. If we’re gonna be on him like white on rice, we’ve got to find a spot where he doesn’t stick out,” García told Mace. “Like maybe over there. I’ll check it out first.” He indicated where a street vendor was set up on the Fifty-eighth Street side of the Time Warner Center. I LOVE NEW YORK T-shirts and a vast array of hats and keychains were on display. Swag for the tourists.

  “Nah. We’re coming with you.”

  García scowled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “That’s debatable, Frankie, but you sure as hell need me,” Mace said.

  They passed vendors selling newspapers, gum, and candy as they muscled Burke—who continued to weave and wobble—past a flustered couple in their thirties, attempting to wrangle their brood of four into a single-file line.

  “I’m hungry. Need something to eat,” Burke muttered.

  Several faces turned in disapproval.

  “I’m starving.” Burke lurched toward a man with a baby in his arms.

  Everyone thought Burke was a falling-down drunk with mental issues. In other words, he was playing his part to a T. Even if he didn’t know it himself.

  “I’m going to take a six-hour shower when this is all over.” García didn’t bother to hide his disgust.

  Chapter 62

  Surrounding Columbus Circle

  Deadline hour.

  Windy with light fog. So much fog that every image on the parade route more than twenty-five feet away was blurred by gray mist.

  Eve looked around her. The crowds were packed in. On the east side of Central Park West, every seat on the bleachers was filled. On the west side, crowds congregated ten rows deep.

  On the building rooftops, snipers were in position.

  A grandfather in a sweatsuit ambled along, doing his best to keep up with the rest of his family—but falling behind. His two grandsons and their mother, on a mission to find the perfect viewing spot, never looked back.

  From several blocks uptown, she could hear the blaring brass of a high school marching band making its way down Central Park West. The tune was “Let’s Have a Parade”—in honor of the phrase that had signaled the start of every Macy’s parade since 1924.

  Eve hurried to position herself between the metal bleachers and the park entrance on West Fifty-ninth.

  She and her team were in position. If the area around Columbus Circle was a giant clock, then she was in charge of observing activity in the twelve-to-three quadrant. Donovan had insisted on watching three to six. Mace was handling six to nine. And García—in charge of their fish bait—was watching the nine-to-twelve quadrant.

  They weren’t going to let this guy get the jump on them again.

  The music from the band grew louder.

  The surrounding crowds closed together, even tighter, in anticipation. Cellphones still chirped and radios crackled as the uniforms around the Frozen Zone maintained a tight perimeter. But the crowd itself grew largely quiet, staring in anticipation. A lone kid’s voice rang out—When will we see the music, Mommy?

  Eve was aware of her own breath—and of the commissioner’s slow, steady breaths, audible in her earpiece. Everyone was trying to keep their nerves in check.

  Through the crowds she saw García, standing behind Burke.

  Mace on alert at seven o’clock.

  Donovan, watching, at five o’clock.

&nb
sp; By tradition, Tom Turkey was first in line. The red-and-green top of his hat was barely shy of the low-hanging clouds. Then the marching band passed by—a flurry of noise and color. Music, of course. Clapping and cheering from the crowds.

  Behind them, Elmo and Cookie Monster danced on the Sesame Street float. A group of kids behind them sang: Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street? The crowd listened and clapped and whistled with pleasure.

  Eve moved slightly, taking the one-o’clock position.

  García dragged the near-comatose Burke to eleven o’clock.

  Mace continued on alert at seven o’clock.

  Donovan, watching, moved to four o’clock.

  Next up was a fan favorite: Snoopy. He bobbed and weaved in the wind and fog, but his handlers kept him low to the ground. A team of Macy’s employees smiled and waved.

  Eve tensed. It was the right time. She was alert for any signal.

  Nothing.

  Another marching band passed by, this time playing “All You Need Is Love.”

  Another float—the Marion-Carole Showboat, with its paddlewheel and smokestacks, filled with smiling, dancing performers.

  Still nothing.

  They all stayed in position. Eight minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

  Still nothing but floats and balloons and marching bands.

  There was no Allie. No kidnapper. Just like in the garbage can graveyard, the guy hadn’t shown himself. Except in this case, the team was still holding the prize.

  Whatever the kidnapper was truly after, Burke didn’t appear to be it.

  She pulled out the flip phone she’d used to reach him earlier. Tried the number again.

  It rang incessantly.

  No answer. Just another abandoned phone.

  Eve radioed her team. “Abort. Go to Plan B.”

  —

  Hearing that, Donovan’s heart sank. He felt his sanity begin to fragment; it was hard to keep hold of his reason.

  He cursed his own helplessness.

  He cursed himself.

  Most of all, he cursed the man who’d taken his daughter—and vowed that, whatever it took, he would not let this bastard destroy him.