Hostage Taker

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “How long have you been seeing John?”

  “A few weeks.”

  Meaghan smiled indulgently. “You’re in the honeymoon period. I remember the night I met my ex. I was an undergrad at Saint John’s, and I’d gone out with a friend to celebrate her birthday. He was there, drinking with his police buddies, and he asked me to dance. He was a lot older than me, but the band played a slow song and he put his hand on the small of my back and I knew: We belonged together.” Another gulp of champagne. “You know how at every wedding, people say the couple is so great together? Half the time, it’s just empty words. But when it’s real, it means that you’re actually better and stronger with this other person than you are alone.”

  Eli wasn’t sure about that. But he’d once experienced its opposite: a bad relationship in which he only became an uglier and more despicable version of himself.

  Eli wracked his brain for what to say next. He’d never been any good at making small talk. “You still live around here?” he managed.

  “Long Island born, bred, and stuck in my parents’ house.” She took a noisy gulp of champagne.

  He’d pegged her all wrong. Forget distracted. Make that intoxicated.

  “I’ve got you beat. I’m Lower East Side born, bred, and I’ve lived my whole life in my grandma’s apartment,” Eli offered.

  Meaghan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “It’s rent-controlled. Crazy cheap. And I’m unemployed.” The instant he said the words, he wished he could take them back. Why did he always talk too much when he was nervous? He loosened his tie.

  “How long have you been out of work?” Another gulp of champagne.

  There were a couple different ways Eli could answer that question. Since I was arrested for insider trading eight years ago. Since the only job that would have me disappeared three months ago. He had nothing good to say. He wished John would stop singing those silly Christmas carols and come rescue him. “Sorry, I’m bad at parties.”

  A faint smile. “But you’re good with ordinary social interactions?”

  “No,” he admitted right away.

  That generated a laugh. “Didn’t think so. That’s okay. What do you do?”

  “Told you: nothing right now.”

  “So what did you do? Let me guess—law, like John?”

  Eli shook his head.

  “Accountant?”

  Suddenly, Eli was seized by the desire to feel important. Just for a moment, even if only in the eyes of John’s lush of a cousin. “I actually worked for the FBI. A secret division.”

  That got her attention. She stood up a little straighter. Opened her eyes a little wider.

  She waited for Eli to say more, but he was done. In two sentences, he’d broken every confidentiality agreement he’d ever signed. Though, come to think of it, did those rules even apply, now he had been fired?

  “Let me get you another drink,” he said.

  He expected her to pass him the now-empty champagne glass she held. Instead, Meaghan leaned in so close he worried she was going to kiss him. Her lips mercifully stopped within inches of his ear. “Tell me the juiciest case you ever investigated.”

  Eli allowed himself another desperate glance in John’s direction. Opposite the piano, where John was still singing with his brothers—the tune had changed to Deck the Halls—there was a small seating area. It had chocolate leather sofas and was near a massive flat-screen TV that made Eli wish he could just settle in with a beer to watch the Knicks game. And ignore all these people. “I don’t think you’d find anything I did very interesting.”

  “Try me.” She waved to a woman teetering across the room in silver sandals with stiletto heels. They looked hard to handle sober, much less after a couple drinks. “Hey, Lori—come over here.

  “Meet John’s new boyfriend.” Meaghan slurred the words, but managed the introductions. “He was a secret agent with the FBI, and he’s about to tell me all about his favorite case.”

  “I really can’t do that.” Eli slid off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket. Lori had steely blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through him, and he didn’t want to advertise that mustard stain.

  “We’re all friends here,” Lori purred. “I’d love to know what a secret agent does.”

  Two other women heard the word secret, and suddenly four women were watching Eli expectantly.

  Eli thought that they were all missing the concept of the word secret. He answered, “By secret, I really mean under-the-radar. We were guys who got the job done without attracting attention.”

  “You don’t look like an FBI agent,” a woman with curly brown hair and a nasal voice pointed out. “What did you do?”

  “Boring stuff. My expertise was money. Unraveling complex financial schemes.”

  “I thought agents had to pass fitness tests every year.” Lori gave Eli’s beer belly a pointed look. “Like firefighters.”

  “Not for my job,” Eli said.

  “Sounds like it wasn’t regular FBI, then.” Lori’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  That was true. Eli wouldn’t have lasted a month in a regular Bureau job—even if anybody was willing to give him one. The bureaucratic machine at 26 Federal Plaza would almost certainly have chewed him up and spit him out. He needed the freedom—what fancier people called carte blanche—that the Vidocq Unit had given him.

  “Good thing the NYPD doesn’t require annual requalifications,” Meaghan remarked, “or my ex would be screwed. Is that why you got fired?”

  “I never said I was fired,” he protested stiffly.

  His eyes scanned the room. Where is John?

  “But you’re unemployed. Is it some kind of suspension?”

  Meaghan meant it as a challenge to Eli, but she hadn’t counted on Lori’s interest. “Like your ex?” Lori placed a sympathetic arm around Meaghan’s shoulder. The blast of jasmine perfume nearly made Eli sneeze.

  “Internal Affairs is still investigating.” For Eli’s benefit, Meaghan added, “They think he stole from the evidence locker.”

  “What do you think?” Lori demanded.

  Eli watched Meaghan take a moment to answer. When she did, she stumbled. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  “Maybe the secret agent here could help,” Lori said sarcastically.

  All eyes turned to Eli.

  He was used to being made fun of, so he struck a reasonable tone. “Not like that. I told you my job: I tracked down money. Unraveled finances.”

  Meaghan shook her head. “Internal Affairs can take their time. I can’t. For God’s sake, he has my daughter every week.”

  “Does she think her father did it?” the curly-haired woman asked.

  “I won’t poison her relationship with him by asking that. But I need to know, all the same. I don’t know who he is—not anymore.” She drained her glass, then explained. “Last year, he was coming off a double shift. Tired and distracted. His car struck a pedestrian crossing the street. He wasn’t charged with a crime. He was sober and she was crossing against the light. But the man who left me to go to work and the man who came home that night weren’t the same.”

  No one said anything. There was nothing to say.

  Meaghan wanted someone to tell her whether her ex-husband was still a responsible father. The problem was: Nobody was in a position to do that.

  Eli could sense the sadness as Meaghan stared off into some place he couldn’t see.

  “Don’t you at least have a contact who might help?” Lori asked Eli.

  Eli shook his head. He was disappointing all of them.

  Lori jumped in. “I know you!” Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide.

  Eli put down his drink. It was time to leave.

  “I recognize you,” she insisted. “From the papers. White-collar crime. Money laundering. Tax evasion.”

  They were all staring at him with a mix of holier-than-thou attitudes and pity.

  “I remember now,” the brunette piped up. “They covere
d your trial on the front page of Newsday for weeks!”

  The crowd around him was growing. “Deck the Halls” had finished. John was rushing toward him from the other side of the room.

  “The headlines said they’d locked you up and thrown away the key,” someone contributed. “How the hell did you get out?”

  Eli just stood there, clutching his chest. A worthless schmuck. “You’re right. I was in jail. But I did work for the FBI.”

  Then John reached him and hustled him away.

  —

  That morning, lying in bed, Eli was still running through all the things he wished he’d said. Different choices that might have led to a less disastrous night.

  He had nothing: No job. No self-respect. And after last night, probably no boyfriend.

  That’s when his phone rang and everything changed all over again.

  VIDOCQ FILE #A30888

  Current status: INACTIVE

  Eli Cohen

  Age: 46

  Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian

  Height: 5’8”

  Weight: 237 lbs.

  Eyes: Hazel

  Hair: Red

  Current Address: 123 Orchard Street (Lower East Side).

  Criminal Record: Multiple felony counts for embezzlement, tax evasion, and money laundering. Sentence: thirty-five years.

  Expertise: Corporate financial systems and the clandestine movement of money.

  Education: City University of New York, B.S. and Fordham University, MBA.

  Personal

  Family: Parents deceased. Estranged from extended family after coming out of the closet in March 1990. Remains in touch with sister, Elaine.

  Spouse/Significant Other: New relationship with John Murphy, a tax attorney.

  Religion: Nontraditional Jewish, devotee of the mysticisms of Kabbalah.

  Interests: Comics and fantasy baseball.

  Profile

  Strengths: Enjoys the challenge of deciphering complex financial models.

  Weaknesses: A loner who doesn’t bond well with others. Excessive preoccupation with his health (nondiagnosed hypochondria) compromises his abilities and work habits. History of depression. (In 2010, he was hospitalized for seven weeks following a failed suicide attempt.)

  Notes: Isolated and misunderstood. Will attach himself to someone who understands him. His fundamental insecurity makes him vulnerable to the influence of more dominant personalities—including hostiles resorting to bribery or other coercion methods.

  *Assessment originally prepared by SA Eve Rossi. Updated by ADIC Henry Ma. For internal use only.

  Chapter 11

  Searching the Midnight Mass uploads on YouTube yielded no results. But within the last seventy-two hours, five people had uploaded videos of the construction work at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Eve fast-forwarded through each, scanning footage of stained-glass cleaning and concrete repairs.

  Nothing stood out as remarkable.

  Am I just missing it? Is the Hostage Taker’s upload among footage I’ve already reviewed?

  She desperately needed information if she was going to have any chance of defusing this situation.

  She scanned videos uploaded for tourists coming to NYC. Still nothing.

  Then Eve toggled through three YouTube videos of the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral choir in performance and finally found the video posted by the Hostage Taker.

  —

  The clip wasn’t long. Only three minutes, eighteen seconds in duration. She forced herself to watch it four times.

  First, she focused on the wires.

  Second, she focused on the detonators.

  Then, she focused on the grainy figures who were doubtless the hostages.

  The fourth time, she focused on the stone images. These were the most disturbing of all: stone sculptures that appeared to be part of a wall of the Cathedral. Except rather than depicting the usual saints or the Virgin Mary or even Saint Patrick, the sculptures showed the destruction of New York City itself.

  The Brooklyn Bridge breaking in half.

  People running in panic beneath the Stock Exchange.

  The Statue of Liberty being swallowed up whole into the water.

  Is this terrorism? Impossible not to think so. After 9/11, almost anybody would.

  Unless she didn’t understand the images carved into the stone. Was it possible these statues were a part of Saint Patrick’s that she had never noticed? That no one talked about?

  The Hostage Taker’s message made Eve want to call another member of her former team—Frank García. A former Army Ranger, he was the one man who could possibly handle a Special Ops mission, given these particular challenges.

  But a few clicks on the computer made it clear: García was not available. At least, not right now.

  Divorce proceedings with Teresa had been contentious, and apparently he had threatened her. She obtained a restraining order against him—then agreed not to press charges if Frank would enter a program to treat his PTSD and alcohol dependency. He’d chosen one at New York–Presbyterian.

  Eve felt a twinge of guilt, reading it all. She had known about García’s issues. The problem was: The same paranoia and hypervigilance that had cost García his family also made him extremely good at his job.

  She couldn’t bring herself to dial after she closed García’s digital file. Now that she knew where to find him, she could afford to wait.

  She picked up the phone all the same. She had saved the hardest call for last. Her history with Haddox was complicated. So she planned to keep the conversation simple.

  Chapter 12

  The rain that had drenched New York City early that morning had reached Boston when Corey Haddox woke up late—drowsy, satiated, and craving a smoke. He stretched his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his white undershirt and jeans, listening to water gurgle down the drainpipe outside the window.

  Where is my shirt?

  Not on the floor.

  Not on the chair.

  Then he looked to his right on the bed and found it on the stunner who was snoring softly beside him.

  She was wearing nothing but a shirt. His shirt. It looked grand on her.

  He pulled a Marlboro Red out of his pocket, lit it, and sat—just savoring the moment. Taking one last look at the redhead beside him. A great kisser, phenomenal between the sheets. He was tempted to put his hand under her shirt one last time, knowing this woman’s skin was lean, firm, warm.

  Yes, he would have loved to spend more time with Bridget Malone. But he needed to get moving.

  He appreciated how lucky he’d gotten. And Haddox knew one thing about luck: It always ran out.

  He took a long, final draw on his smoke, then ground it into the makeshift ashtray—a soap dish with a pink seashell on it—that she’d given him for the nightstand. Found his shoes where they’d been flung across the room. Threw his leather jacket on. Tiptoed down the hall—and offered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t wake up. Because now he had a job to do. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but he wanted Bridget Malone to believe she had chosen him at the Emerald Inn last night. She ought to remember him for what he’d seemed to be—a charming Irishman briefly in Boston to visit old friends.

  It was gloomy outside, so Haddox was forced to turn on a brass lamp in the living room. He surveyed the room. Bridget’s decorating style was pure Pottery Barn. Sofas with loose, easy slipcovers and cabinets with fake apothecary drawers. Brand-new, but designed to look old.

  She was also a neat freak. The remote control sat in a special holder on the end table. Magazines were on the coffee table: Pointe, Dance Spirit, and Time Out Boston. They were displayed in a half-fan position, organized by date, with newer issues on top. This was good. Even better than he could have hoped for. A girl who organized her magazines probably had a special place for her bag.

  Where is that purse?

  He scanned the room, came up empty.

  Is there a hall closet?

  No. Which wasn�
��t really a surprise, not in an old building like this.

  He walked toward the front door. There was an umbrella stand and bench just beside it. A quilt was folded and draped across its length.

  He lifted it up. Found nothing underneath.

  He should’ve stuck to his original plan, which involved only chatting her up at the bar and pinching her phone. Problem was, he liked women—and he’d liked this one, in particular.

  On the floor, he saw the simple ballet flats she’d worn, and his memory flashed to last night. They’d come in the door, she’d kicked off her shoes—and…

  Then what?

  The answer came: Kitchen. Look in the kitchen.

  Her bag was there, dropped on the counter. A small zippered pouch by Michael Kors. Not much in it. Pink lipstick. A pack of Trident, spearmint flavored. He fished out her wallet, opened it, and found five twenties and six ones. Usual array of credit cards: AmEx, Visa, and Discover. Driver’s license.

  His heart took a hopeful leap in his chest—but the address was for this apartment. The one he was standing in, not the one he was searching for. Damn.

  There were no photos or receipts or scraps of paper. This was the electronic age. What he needed was going to be on her cellphone.

  From the street outside, he heard voices. Loud and angry.

  He scanned the countertops. It was a tiny kitchen. Barely enough room for a coffeemaker and a roll of paper towels. Definitely no cellphone.

  He returned to the living room, scanning all the electrical outlets.

  Nothing.

  He stole a glance out the window. The rain was still teeming. Three Ford Explorers were lined up at the curb. The doors opened and six men wearing raincoats got out. Two from each car.

  Not good.

  He wondered if he should return to the bedroom. If it was possible he had missed seeing the phone there.

  No, I searched there when she was in the bathroom. I was quick, but thorough.

  He heard the slam of car doors closing. The six men gathered briefly in a circle. One of them looked up toward the window where Haddox stood.