Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  He tracked down my storage closet. He seemed hell-bent on disrupting my plan.

  So why do I feel exactly like the cop bastards I detest? The bad seeds who think the rules don’t apply to them?

  I can’t deal in the abstract.

  I don’t want to listen to bureaucrats talk about the general good.

  My job is to put a face on the problem. To make the story personal.

  Otherwise? Nobody cares.

  PART FIVE

  * * *

  THE PARADE

  Fourth Thursday of November

  9:00 a.m. to 12 noon

  Chapter 66

  Inside the Frozen Zone, Security Tent

  Bad news comes in threes.

  No matter that it wasn’t rational. Too often Eve found that it was true.

  First: Her forensic tech, Jan, had confirmed the presence of a chemical substance in the Central Park storage shed that García had discovered.

  Eve had requested an immediate briefing with the NYPD, FBI, and Homeland Security.

  Second: Haddox and Eli claimed to have found troubling evidence of an alleged wrongdoing—and subsequent cover-up—by the commissioner.

  They, too, wanted an immediate briefing. It would have to wait.

  Because third: Word had just reached her from the Saint Luke’s emergency room. Frank García had died of his stab wound, approximately twenty-four minutes after reaching the hospital.

  The long, thin blade had slipped in so easily that he told first responders that he never even felt it. It had entered beneath his ribs, piercing his heart and left lung.

  The instant she heard, her mind went completely blank and her stomach twisted into a painful knot. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. It was as if her entire body had stopped working.

  She sat on the steps of the Museum of Natural History, brought her knees to her chin, and hugged herself. Trying to breathe. Trying to think. Praying that she wouldn’t be ill.

  When she trusted herself to walk, she got up and made her way inside. Found the restroom. She ran a towel under cold water and then pressed it over her face. She stared at herself in the mirror. She was a mess. She washed her face one more time and ran her fingers through tangled curls.

  Her brain could not focus, refusing to believe. Her lethal former Army Ranger—the one with eyes in the back of his head—gone?

  Impossible. If anybody could take care of himself, it was García—who had seemed almost invincible, armed with his lucky red socks and bandana, his absolute self-confidence, his uncanny ability to sense danger.

  She forced herself to return to the incident area. To pull up the surveillance from one of the computers.

  The film quality was poor—and the view of García, just prior to his stabbing, was obscured by the hordes of tourists. Too many fathers with small children on their shoulders.

  She focused on each grainy pixel, freezing the frame and zooming in. The process created something resembling a Seurat. Hundreds of small, distinct dots that, viewed up close, didn’t form a pattern at all.

  She moved her chair back. One foot. Then two feet. Finally, three.

  From that perspective, a clearer image of the man following García took form.

  Dark coat. Fedora. Taller than García—so maybe five-foot-eleven? He never looked at the camera, but his gait was resolute.

  Why hadn’t García known he had a tail? she thought angrily.

  But that was only her grief talking. She knew the answer already: the crowds.

  Her finger pressed a button and allowed the remaining video to play. She watched as García was shoved by the man in the fedora—then gave chase, slowing only when the puncture to his lung made movement difficult, then impossible.

  She swallowed her pain, forcing herself to observe the aftermath—and to ensure there was no additional footage capturing the man in the fedora.

  She had lost a colleague. A man she respected. A friend.

  A boy had lost his father.

  All on her watch.

  Eve picked up her phone, dialed Haddox and Eli. “Tell me,” she said. “Who exactly are we dealing with?”

  Chapter 67

  The Security Tent

  Inside the Incident Tent, Henry Ma was livid. “Just what kind of a three-ring circus is this? In theory, you’re helping find the commissioner’s daughter. Instead, one of your own team winds up dead. If I didn’t think it was too ridiculous even for your crew, I would be highly suspicious that you had something to do with a hated cop killer taking a field trip to today’s parade.”

  Eve bested his anger with an intensity that surprised her. “I will not have this discussion. Not now. Not when we just lost one of our own. Not when you don’t know the first thing about the real situation on the ground.”

  “Eve, this is too public a stage to screw up.” Henry gestured to the spectators outside the tent. “All I see is you cutting corners. Shattering rules. Doing everything your way.”

  “You came to me, begged me to get involved—knowing full well what Vidocq is and what we do. We’ve just received hard evidence that the kidnapping targeting the commissioner personally may be linked to a broader plot against the NYPD and the parade. You need to let me do my job.”

  “I will NOT have my authority questioned.”

  “Nor will I.” Donovan entered the tent. “This is my incident room and my investigation. The lives on the line are those of my officers and my child—and I will not be sidelined by the likes of you.”

  Henry shot him an angry stare. “I’d advise you to calm down. The FBI can take over here at a moment’s notice.”

  “Get out of here!” Donovan thundered, enraged. “The man who has my daughter just went from kidnapper to killer.”

  Around Eve, detectives gathered, transfixed by the clash of egos. They were members of the interagency support team—a mix of investigators from the NYPD, Homeland Security, and FBI.

  “Not when there’s so much at stake—and you’re screwing it up, Logan,” Henry retorted. “This is post-9/11. You have a world of interagency resources at your disposal. Yet you and Eve have run a bare-bones operation. Kept the rest of us in the dark.”

  “Because I had no choice,” Donovan countered. “My officers and I were needed on city business.”

  “Everybody has a choice.”

  Henry and the commissioner stood, glowering at each other. Eve stepped between them. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “You just wanted to be in control.” Henry never took his eyes off Logan’s.

  “Why don’t we debate the question of control after some maniac has taken your daughter and threatened the men and women who work for you?” Logan retorted.

  “Remember what’s important here,” Eve reminded them. “Allie is still missing.”

  Henry took a step back.

  “Her kidnapper poses a serious threat to the parade itself,” she continued.

  Donovan took a step back.

  The tension eased.

  “Henry’s right on one point, however,” Eve told Logan. “Commissioner, we need to put more resources into this. They no longer take away from parade security. This threat involves parade security.”

  Henry Ma gave Eve a final, incredulous look of warning. “I’m trusting you to handle Commissioner Donovan. Fix this mess now.” He stepped out of the tent.

  Logan Donovan cursed. “I’ve never liked that bastard.”

  Eve shot him an icy stare. “Honestly? Makes two of us. Now, are you going to arrange for more officers? Or should I?”

  Yet she was thinking about the evidence Haddox had uncovered on the commissioner: the affairs. The irregularities surrounding his wife’s death. Jackie.

  Don’t treat him differently, she reminded herself. She couldn’t risk losing the illusion of trust she’d built with him.

  Donovan was staring out the opening of the tent, into the chaos of music and noise and wall-to-wall spectators.

  A small boy, trying to kee
p up with his older siblings, had fallen down and skinned his elbow.

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you were wearing your coat like I told you to,” his grandmother said tartly.

  His mother offered sympathy and Band-Aids. “Joey, I have one last Yoda Band-Aid left. Remember, last time Yoda made the hurt go away fast.”

  Donovan was looking at the family, but he didn’t seem to register their domestic drama—except as it related to his own. “I should’ve managed everything better. Allie should have been kept safe. She was my responsibility.”

  It was an unguarded moment. Eve saw his face reflect raw emotions that he didn’t bother to hide. Anger. Disappointment. But most of all—shame.

  She had to take advantage of that. “My team’s uncovered some questions about your wife’s death.”

  “She had cancer,” Logan said roughly.

  “You had a number of affairs. Including Jackie—who’s still living in your house, caring for your child.” Eve kept a straight poker face and an even tone, knowing her emotions had no place in this discussion. She had to be as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing the weather forecast or car trouble—not murder.

  He kicked over the chair between them and took a step toward Eve. His blue eyes blazed at her. “Are you going to ask the damn question? Or is it more your style to trick me with a blank ream of paper?”

  “Maybe I don’t trust you to give me the full story.” She refused to back down. “Omissions can be lies, especially when the information matters.”

  He was inches away from her. She lifted her chin defiantly.

  A Hallmark Christmas-themed float was passing by; Mariah Carey was on it, belting out “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

  Logan leaned into Eve, so close that his chest pressed against her own. Softly, he whispered, “I’m not a perfect man. I’m not a perfect father, and I certainly wasn’t a perfect husband. But I did not kill my wife.”

  He planted one hand on the support beam beside her. With the other, he reached for her arm—held it. The heat from his fingertips seared into her skin. “Last July, I went on vacation in Hawaii with my wife. We stayed on the island of Kauai. I came home. She didn’t.”

  “She died—and it wasn’t from cancer.”

  His face stiffened. “We were hiking the Na Pali Coast. Jill fell. It was an accident. I wasn’t a faithful husband to Jill—but I swear to God I had nothing to do with her death.”

  A twitch around his eye. One of the primary muscles that cannot be managed. Was it telling a different story?

  There are thousands of automatic human responses the mind cannot control, that give us away. As she herself knew only too well.

  “What did the medical examiner say?”

  “The medical examiner did not make a determination. I would not authorize an autopsy. Jill wouldn’t have wanted her body cut up.”

  “And Jackie?”

  “Jesus, I was trying to help the woman out. Allie, who’s picky, actually liked her—and with Jackie’s problems, God knows she wasn’t going to keep a job elsewhere.”

  “So you were doing Jackie a favor. You sure she sees it that way?”

  “She’s moved on.”

  “Guess we have nothing to worry about, then,” she said lightly. And raised her hands, pressed them against his chest, and pushed him away.

  —

  One hour, fifty-eight minutes until the parade’s end.

  Jan Brandt filed into the tent first. Mace, Eli, and Haddox followed—together with an assortment of interagency personnel to provide backup support. The briefing was scheduled to begin in seven minutes.

  Eve heard the crack of a can of soda opening and smelled the odor of coffee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich. Fortification for her team—who had been working nonstop throughout the night.

  She hadn’t eaten in hours. There was no food or sustenance that could distract her from García’s murder—and the threat of more murders to come unless they acted fast.

  “Looks like we’re losing, two–zip. Two tasks done. Presumably one still to go. And we still haven’t nailed this asshole,” Mace said, suddenly behind her.

  “Yeah, it’s like being two runs down in the bottom of the ninth,” Eli agreed. “We don’t have Allie. García’s gone. We have to go big or go home.”

  “What in the name of Saint Francis is wrong with the two of you?” Haddox shook his head. “García is dead, and you guys want to talk like it’s only a game?”

  Mace shrugged. “Nothing I hate more than hypocrites. And you’d all think I’d turned into one, big-time, if I pretended to be all broken up about García. He and I weren’t friends. We couldn’t stand each other.”

  “Geez, that’s cold,” Eli said.

  “Just the truth.”

  “I don’t care how much you guys disliked each other—or hated working with each other,” Eve interrupted. “We are a team—and García’s death diminishes us.”

  She turned and walked to the edge of the tent, desperate for air.

  Haddox, right behind, pulled a packet of Marlboros out of his pocket and glanced dismissively at the NO SMOKING sign someone had posted. He fixed Eve with soulful blue eyes as he lit up his cigarette. “You doing okay?”

  “Not exactly the Thanksgiving I expected,” she said ruefully. “You?”

  He took a deep drag off his fresh smoke. “There’s a lass I know. She’s not like anybody I’ve ever met. Has a thing about wanting new experiences. So I’d been planning to take her advice—and spend the holiday tasting the beef pho at the night markets of Hanoi or paragliding off Mont Blanc.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone you’d ever find in a place like this,” Eve said. “There’s nothing new about mourning a friend. Working a kidnapping case. Trying and failing to save a city from harm.”

  “She always surprises me, this lass.” Haddox twirled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. “Even makes me surprise myself. I like that about her.”

  A noisy cheer erupted from the throngs lining the street. The last of the floats and balloons, clowns and cheerleaders and marching bands from the staging area, were about to join the parade. The final flank was going to begin their two-and-a-half-mile journey to Herald Square.

  The crowd was so loud, Eve barely heard the text message that just pinged the flip phone the kidnapper had left her. She didn’t recognize the number, but the message got her immediate attention.

  Demand #3: Commissioner Donovan must take a seat on the final float—Santa’s sleigh. NOW!

  WJXZ REPORTS

  This is Gwen Allensen, reporting from Macy’s flagship store at Herald Square, where thousands have gathered to watch as the magnificent parade floats and giant balloons make their way across the finish line.

  In addition to the 50 million of you watching on television at home, we estimate there are about 3.5 million live spectators here standing along the parade route.

  And, just coming into view, you’re about to see the rascally Aflac duck with his trademark red scarf!

  First making his appearance in the parade back in 2011, the Aflac duck is what Macy’s calls a balloonicle—a thirty-five-foot-high balloon mixed with a self-propelled vehicle.

  Note that a plush version of this cute white bird will be for sale throughout the holiday season at Macy’s. Since all proceeds will go to hospitals nationwide, make sure you find one to take home.

  In breaking news, we are just receiving reports that a man has been stabbed on the Upper West Side. We have no information yet on the extent of his injuries—or whether the perpetrator is under arrest.

  Chapter 68

  Inside the Security Tent, 77th Street and Central Park West

  “Before Agent Rossi takes you through our specific strategy,” Jan began, “I need to explain what we found in Central Park.” The forensic tech was short, with no-nonsense hair and an attitude to match. “First, I’m sorry to hear about Frank García.”

  All around the tent, there were somber nods
of acknowledgment. Outside, a high school band was playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  “As you know, it was García who tracked down the storage shed inside Central Park where the kids had been held for some hours. The commissioner’s daughter, of course, is still somewhere under the kidnapper’s control.” Jan took a sip from her cup of coffee and grimaced.

  “We have teams on the ground searching now,” Eve added, “but the park covers more than eight hundred acres and has twenty entrances. And that’s assuming they’re still in the park—and not on the move to an entirely different location. We could have a thousand officers on the grounds, looking under every branch and turning over every leaf, and still not find Allie. More troubling, we now believe her kidnapping is less likely to be a personal attack against the top cop alone. It may be part of a larger plot—involving the parade that millions of eyes are now watching.”

  The faces around her grew grimmer.

  Deputy Commissioner George Kepler walked into the tent. Approached Donovan. “I assume you’ve been told that you’re a damn fool, about to take an unnecessary risk.”

  “Not your call. You’re ready to take control if need be?”

  Kepler nodded. “Don’t think I don’t know how hard that is for you to say.”

  Donovan shrugged. “It’s all part of the job.”

  “Part of your job is staying safe. This city and this department need you.”

  “And I know how hard that is for you to say.”

  Jan was still talking in clipped sentences. “García recognized the smell of mothballs in the room where the kids had been held. The smell was suspicious enough that we undertook a full chemical analysis. What we found was Soman—a nerve agent. It’s a close cousin of the better known chemical weapon, sarin.”

  A serious woman with thin-set eyes asked a question. Are we expecting something on the order of the Tokyo subway attacks?

  “It’s possible this agent could be dispensed in a similar way,” Jan answered bluntly, “but potentially with a more far-reaching—and deadly—effect. You may remember that a dozen people died in Tokyo. Fifty were seriously injured and nearly a thousand temporarily blinded. That’s because the release of sarin in the Tokyo subway was crude. A diluted substance was poured into sealed bags. At the agreed-upon time, those bags were punctured—and puddles of the nerve agent released, exposing people nearby. Had the perpetrators dispensed it as an aerosol—a fine, inhalable mist—there could have been thousands of casualties.”