—
Ignoring a tinny ringtone sounding “Jingle Bells” and the squawking radios of officers passing by, Eve stood and flipped through the file.
She flipped past Cristina Silva’s vital stats and the medical examiner’s certification to where the narrative began. Phrases jumped out at her.
The body is clad in a torn green long-sleeve T-shirt, white bra partly bloodstained, gray pants, & black underwear.
Presumably, this was a woman who’d wanted only to attend early-morning Mass—and found less solace than she’d bargained for.
The body is that of a well-nourished Hispanic woman, sixty-five inches, 131 lbs., and thirty-three years old by report.
Add to that: bound to a sign that asked for HELP.
The corneas are clear, irises brown.
With a handwritten note tucked on back of the sign, requesting SA Eve Rossi.
The earlobes are cosmetically pierced.
She had been chosen as the first victim.
The fingernails are short, evenly cut intact.
And one final succinct phrase—Gunshot wound, penetrating, fatal.
The preliminary autopsy findings were attached to selected Internet printouts. Cristina indeed had a record of criminal arrest. Five years and three months ago, on an eighty-five-degree summer day, she had forgotten to drop her fifteen-month-old baby girl off at daycare. Instead, she’d gone directly to work, leaving her daughter buckled into her seat in back of her Toyota. Seven hours later, she’d found her child—dead.
She’d been convicted of reckless endangerment. Sentenced to probation, counseling, and community service. Condemned by all in the press—but most of all by herself.
Cristina’s background raised a question Eve hadn’t wanted to address because it complicated matters so significantly. She’d assumed there were more hostages inside the Cathedral. She’d also assumed every hostage being held was random. Just a collection of strangers who had intended to attend early-morning Mass. She had worried only about who—and how many—the hostages were.
But was it possible these people represented something more to the Hostage Taker? That they had been chosen for a reason?
Her heart ached as she stepped back inside the MRU.
Chapter 26
Do people ever think about what’s important?
There’s one time when strangers willingly step in, no hesitation at all: when they have unsolicited advice.
I’ve seen it happen, particularly to young mothers—on the bus, in the grocery store, really any public place. “The baby needs more layers, dear; he’s going to catch cold.” “The child’s too old to still be drinking from a bottle; you’ll stunt his growth.”
It’s different for men, of course. At the bar, you’ll hear variations on: “Think you’ve had too much, man. Better slow down.” Others enjoy butting into personal relationships, asking the woman: “Is he bothering you?”
But when the stakes are real?
Those same worrywarts turn a blind eye.
Last summer, a homeless man ran up to a child in Riverside Park and shoved him. The child’s father objected. The homeless man produced a knife and stabbed the father four times. The child cried as the father lay bleeding on the ground—and countless bikers, joggers, and dog walkers passed by.
It was nineteen minutes before 911 received a call, asking for help.
Don’t you just love people?
Always there when you don’t want them.
Never around when you do.
Hypocrites.
HOUR 7
2:17 p.m.
On the line, we have Professor Menklin, a historian at Columbia University, who also sits on the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission.
Professor Menklin, as we wait to learn the identities of those individuals we believe are held captive inside the Cathedral—and what action law enforcement will take next—let’s discuss the Cathedral itself. Is it safe to say this historic landmark is part of the Hostage Taker’s plan?
PROFESSOR MENKLIN: Absolutely. You know, Saint Patrick’s truly represents what this city is about. It was built because so many immigrants were arriving in New York who followed the Catholic religion—and also because this great city of ours required a great Cathedral to rival the best of Europe. So Saint Patrick’s Cathedral represents the importance of Catholicism in New York—as well as the importance of New York City itself.
Professor, you raise an interesting question. Is the Hostage Taker targeting Saint Patrick’s as a symbol of Catholicism—or as a symbol of our city?
PROFESSOR MENKLIN: Does it have to be an either-or proposition? Because it strikes me as possible: This madman might be doing both.
Chapter 27
Outside, pearl-gray clouds covered the sky. It was definitely colder. Eli could see it through the tiny window at his workstation, not to mention feel the draft coming in through multiple gaps in the trailer’s walls. Whoever designed these MRUs obviously had never experienced the way the wind whipped around skyscrapers during a Manhattan winter. He shivered.
It actually looked like it might snow. Light snow in this city was magical—especially when it came in December and lent atmosphere to all the wreaths and lights, window displays and holiday markets. But it had to be light. Heavy snow lasted too long—and made the sidewalks a dirty, slushy, treacherous mess.
He sighed, then returned to those crazy stone images of New York’s skyline coming undone. He didn’t understand how this hostage-taking could be motivated by religion—no matter what Professor Galla had said. Looked like the work of a garden-variety terrorist. Hell, though—he also couldn’t begin to understand how a nutjob like this guy would think. That was why he liked following the money trail. That was his element. He understood how people felt about money: how they stole it, where they stashed it, and, ultimately, how to get it back.
He glanced at the clock: 2:19 p.m. He needed a real job to do. Get out of this freezing tin can on wheels. When was Mace going to call?
As if in answer to his question, his phone beeped. Except it wasn’t a call. It was a text. There were three of them, all from John. Increasing urgency in every one.
Eli knew he was spinning wheels on the religious imagery, so he dialed John back. When John picked up, Eli didn’t waste time on hello. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Not exactly.”
Eli tensed, waiting for the blow. Last night must’ve gone even worse than he thought. He recognized the reluctance in John’s voice. The tone that made clear he didn’t want to be having the conversation they were about to have.
And Eli knew that tone well: It usually came right before “We need to talk” or “This isn’t working anymore.”
Instead, John said, “I’ve got a problem. And I need your help with it.”
“Of course.” Eli almost gushed with relief. God, he sounded like a schoolgirl. “Let’s meet after work tonight. Talk it through together.”
“It can’t wait.”
“Really? Uh.” Eli glanced around, self-conscious now. The room was bustling with activity. Other agents were doing six different things at once. It was definitely not the time to be on a personal call. “I can try to call you again, soon as things settle here.”
“It’ll only take a sec.” Now there was a throaty, pleading tone in John’s voice. Eli couldn’t resist it.
“Okay. Let’s hear the thirty-second version. And I promise I’ll call back the moment I can talk more.”
“I know you met my cousin Meaghan last night.”
Thin as a rail. Green dress. Stiletto heels. Great memory for long-ago details in the crime blotter. Unfortunately, Eli remembered her all too well. “What about her?”
“Meaghan needs help. I thought of you.”
“Help?”
“Her kid’s missing. A thirteen-year-old girl.”
“Sounds like she needs the police and an Amber Alert, not me.” Eli was aware that a cop whose cheeks were liberally sprinkled with giant
freckles was looking at him strangely. Probably wondering why he was on a personal call.
“She tried that. Didn’t work. Officially, this is her ex-husband’s custody week. He’s not obligated to check in with her. So the police won’t lift a finger until his custody period ends in another forty-seven hours.”
“Is she on friendly terms with her ex?” Eli lowered his voice.
“They’re amicable.”
“Maybe it’s his custody time and he doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Fair enough. But her daughter? I know Georgie; she’s a typical teenager—absolutely glued to her phone. She’d never ignore her mother’s calls.” There was a steely edge in John’s voice that surprised Eli.
“Unless she’s got a dead battery. Or is out of range. Or—”
“I get it,” John interrupted. “There are plenty of logical explanations. Meaghan’s considered all of them. She’s still worried.”
A half-formed memory thrust itself into Eli’s consciousness. “Her ex…he was having some kind of problem, wasn’t he?”
“He’s been suspended from the NYPD. Both Internal Affairs and the D.A.’s office are investigating him. Theft. Drugs.”
“So how come he still gets custody of the girl?”
John let out an exasperated sigh. “Because there’s no proof. Not yet. Remember, this is America: We still consider people innocent ’til proven guilty.”
“Uh-huh.” Eli reached for a scrap of paper. “What’s the daughter’s name?”
“Georgie. Officially, Georgianna Murphy.”
“Cell?”
John rattled off a 917 number.
“I’ll look into it,” Eli promised. “Soon as I can.”
“Hurry,” John urged. “You know how mothers worry.”
Eli clicked off the line and shoved his notes deep into his pocket. This wasn’t good. It was too soon for him to be navigating the treacherous ground of John’s family issues. Frankly, never was probably too soon. Half the equation involved a missing kid. The other half involved a derelict ex-husband. Together, it all added up to a huge family drama.
Chapter 28
Now that Haddox knew Cassidy Jones was an actress, finding her was a breeze. Cassidy shared an apartment with two other actresses in Astoria, Queens, above a Greek diner. She’d moved here from Georgia five years ago, searching for her big break. She was still waiting for it to come. But she had secured an up-and-coming agent at William Morris to represent her, putting her in a better place than most.
Cassidy wasn’t home, but her roommate was. She gave her name as Chloe, and judging from the slow way she drawled her vowels, she was a Georgia transplant just like Cassidy.
“Cass is out,” she told Haddox. No offer to take a message.
“Listen, I’ve just gotten off the phone with Bob at WME,” Haddox improvised. Cassidy’s agent, Bob, hadn’t wanted to be bothered—and had actually hung up on Haddox. But strictly speaking, Haddox was telling the truth. “I really need to reach Cassidy, but she’s not picking up her cell.”
He heard the crackle of chewing gum. “That’s cuz she’s at work. She’s not allowed to take calls during her shift.”
“When does she finish her shift?”
“Six tonight.”
“Listen, I’m with a crew at Rockefeller Center who wants to bring her on down, but six tonight is too late. Could you give me her work number?”
“You mean NBC?”
Haddox glanced at the building that soared to the sky behind him. “I’m in front of their studios right now.” The most believable lies were actually half-truths. When you offered a small detail that could be interpreted several different ways, you could count on your listener to imagine what she wanted.
Chloe was silent. Haddox imagined her battling feelings of jealousy. Wondering why Cassidy was getting interest from NBC but the phone wasn’t ringing for her. It was always tough on a friendship when one career took off and the other didn’t.
Haddox scanned the files of both girls. Cassidy was a five-foot-eight platinum blonde, full-figured à la Marilyn Monroe with a Heidi Klum smile. Chloe was a five-foot-one former gymnast with short, dark hair—more of a ringer for Mary Lou Retton.
“There aren’t many tall blondes like Cassidy available right now,” he said. No reason, he figured, for Chloe to get bent out of shape over nothing. He also laid his brogue on thick. In his experience, women responded to musical Irish vowels.
This one was no exception.
“I can find the number if you give me a second to look.” Another snap of the gum. Fourteen seconds passed; then Chloe was back, rattling off a 718 number.
“And where is this?” he asked.
“The Utopia,” she replied. “It’s a diner—and it’s actually downstairs. If you have trouble reaching her, I can walk down and give her the message.”
—
With memories of good times with Sweet Pea still dancing in his head, Mace strode up the steps of the squat brick station house on Thirty-fifth Street near Ninth Avenue. Midtown West Precinct. Still known informally as “the Busiest Precinct in the World,” even though a few years ago some official made them take down the banner that advertised it. After all, these guys policed Times Square, the tourist traps and hotels, and all three transportation hubs: Port Authority Bus Terminal, Grand Central Terminal, and Penn Station.
They had another reputation besides being busy: These were the NYPD’s bad boys, the black sheep who’d gotten caught doing everything from trading favors at the local strip clubs to going shopping at the trucking bays in the garment district. Where valuable stuff sometimes just happened to fall off the truck when the cops showed up. In Mace’s book, that made them slightly more interesting than the average cop.
He walked up to the receptionist. She was a no-nonsense woman who met his infectious grin—the same one most women couldn’t help but respond to—with a frosty glare. She was going to be a challenge.
He kept his broad smile pasted on and said, “Think you could help me locate somebody?”
“You know how many people come through these doors every day?”
“More than I can imagine, I’ll bet,” Mace answered earnestly. “But I don’t mean a particular officer. I just need you to point me toward someone who knows what’s going on. Who has his fingers in all the cookie jars.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“You must know an officer who could help a brother out?” His smile broadened.
“I ain’t nobody’s babysitter.”
He sighed. “Just looking for a little interagency cooperation.” Mace pulled his old FBI ID out of his wallet.
No luck. The no-nonsense woman was immune to both his charm and his badge. She pawned him off to the nearest warm body. “Go see Sergeant Rodriguez over there.” She stabbed a finger toward a weary-looking young man sitting at a desk buried in paperwork. “He handles general inquiries.”
Mace almost agreed, figuring that was the best he’d manage to do. Besides, maybe Sergeant Rodriguez only looked like a dweeb who never broke the rules.
Then he hesitated—because something important had occurred to him.
How could he have missed the solution to his problem? It had been staring him in the face as he walked into the precinct house.
So he said “Maybe later” to the ice queen—and turned to leave.
—
Two down. Three to go. Blair Vanderwert—the next name on the Hostage Taker’s list—was a cakewalk to locate. He was a New York City realtor who specialized in Upper East Side properties.
Haddox didn’t think he would like him much. Vanderwert’s website profile was the picture of a man who seemed far too pleased with himself. Bleached white teeth. Fake smile. Perfect hair. Tweed blazer and cotton plaid shirt. The man was probably incapable of killing a cockroach who invaded his kitchen, but he had dressed like he was going hunting with the hounds.
Still, Blair Vanderwert was nothing if not easy to find. He maint
ained an office with a receptionist. His email and cell number were posted all over the Internet. His latest tweet was eleven minutes ago.
Haddox didn’t bother trying to call him now. Vanderwert would be there for the taking when he needed him.
At least, so long as Haddox played the perfect cover. And reading about Vanderwert’s record-setting sales in twenty-two buildings and $150 million yearly sales volume, Haddox knew that wouldn’t be a problem.
Chapter 29
Four hours, thirteen minutes to go.
A security camera on the northeast corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-second Street had picked up the image of a cop matching the description given by Angus MacDonald. The cop was walking in the general direction of Saint Patrick’s at 6:49. His head was turned—but the footage was being circulated throughout every NYPD precinct all the same.
Eve dialed the leader of Omega Team—an interagency SWAT team—on a secure line. Henry Ma had authorized a search-and-discovery mission. In the event that Eve failed to negotiate an acceptable outcome with the Hostage Taker, they urgently needed to devise a plan that would minimize casualties and damage. Both to any hostages and to Saint Patrick’s itself.
Eve knew that this was the right move. While there had been small victories in her dealings with the Hostage Taker, she was very far from understanding who he was and what made him tick. Absent a breakthrough on her end, they desperately needed information. To know any vulnerabilities and possible entry points. The number and location of potential hostages. The position of the Hostage Taker or Takers.
But there was no question that this was high-stakes poker. A massive roll of the dice. If the Omega Team blew their cover, they would be back to square one—or worse. The fragile thread of trust between Eve and the Hostage Taker would be broken—and the lives of all hostages would be at terrible risk.
The Omega Team planned to approach from the roof of the Rectory at the rear of the Cathedral. They hoped to be out of sight of the sniper who had already killed two innocent victims.
Hostage Taker Page 13
