by Jen J. Danna
“Thank God. Charles, we’re going to bargain for your release. I’m going to get you out of there.”
But Gemma was focused on the voice of the man no longer speaking. On his tone. His steadiness. His words.
“I know who’s in charge.”
“I know who’s in charge...”
He was.
Gemma surged to her feet, reaching out a hand to stop a man a full city block away, even as she heard the metallic click of the gun’s safety once again through the phone line. “Patrick? Patrick! I need you to calm down. We can help you, but only if you leave the hostages unharmed. You’re not looking at serious charges right now, but if you harm anyone, I can’t help you and there’ll be no looking back. Don’t cross that line, Patrick.”
“That line was crossed before I ever set foot in this building.”
The suspect’s voice held a resignation that turned Gemma’s blood to ice. It was already too late.
“Mr. Mayor, this is what your games have brought.”
Rowland lurched to stand, his fingers clawed over his earphones, his eyes wide and wild. “Charles! Don’t hurt Charles!”
In the background, Charles Willan pleaded that he had a wife and children waiting for him at home.
She could picture Willan’s face as seen in the papers from charity events and news conferences. A tall, blond, fit man, his bright smile radiating strength and confidence. Only now there’d be no smile. She could see him, on his knees, his hands raised in surrender, as he begged for his life.
Her mother, standing tall and proud as she faced the man in the black mask. From her place on the floor, Gemma could see the tremor in her fingers. The man screaming at her to sit down and to shut up. Her mother holding firm, talking quietly, trying to convince the man to let the hostages go, that it wasn’t worth hurting anyone, and that they could just take the money. The gun swinging up to point directly between her eyes.
A single gunshot blocked out all other sound.
CHAPTER 13
“Charles!” Rowland’s scream was full of agony as he stum- bled backward, knocking over the chair behind him so it crashed to the floor. The cord for the headset snapped tight and then yanked from Rowland’s head to clatter to the table.
“Patrick! Patrick, talk to me.” Gemma leaned over the table, both hands braced on the edge. “Patrick?”
But the only sound that came across the line was a quiet click.
Gemma’s head snapped up to McFarland, but he shook his head. The call had been terminated.
Gemma sank down in the chair, bracing her elbows on the table to drop her face into her upraised hands, trying to block out Rowland’s wails of grief or the scuffle behind her as Garcia tried to calm him. Gradually the sound decreased and Gemma realized Rowland had been removed from the room. She looked up and met McFarland’s gaze across the table.
“Garcia and Taylor dragged him out,” he said in answer to her unspoken question. “Even without Willan dying, we can’t use him anymore. He killed any chance of that as surely as he killed Willan with his little power play during the press conference.”
Gemma sprang to her feet, just needing to move. “Goddamn Sanders. We can hang this clusterfuck on him and his need to show force.”
McFarland threw himself back in his chair, looking utterly wrung out. “You know what tactical is like. Some officers value the negotiation process. Some still think strength is the best way to end a siege. Sanders is one of those.”
“And now Willan has paid for it with his life.” She met his gaze. “Unless... you don’t think that was staged? That he pulled the trigger near the phone, but not into Willan’s head?”
McFarland shook his head. “No. And neither do you.”
“No. Willan’s gone.” She reached for a bottle of water on the table and downed a quarter of it in one long series of swallows. But it didn’t wash the sour taste of failure from her mouth.
McFarland righted Rowland’s toppled chair. “What’s next?”
He knew exactly what came next and Gemma knew it was a gentle way to give her a push to take the next steps after a significant setback.
Because what came next was saving the lives of the remaining seven hostages. To do that, they had to find leverage with this suspect, which was nearly impossible when they didn’t know who he was.
Or did they?
Sitting, Gemma pulled her notepad toward her and picked up her discarded pen. “Next is regrouping and figuring out a new angle to get the remaining hostages out of there. Immediately. This guy is now going to figure he has nothing to lose. He’s killed his highest-profile hostage, the rest could just be collateral damage. But we’ve seen this before. Some of the suspect’s rage is going to be spent now, and that gives us a time-out before he starts to ramp up again.” She scanned the research notes she’d made. “It’s critical now to know who we’re dealing with. I have a couple of possibilities as to his identification, though one is stronger than the other.” She looked up at McFarland. “How’d you do?”
“I have a couple too, but I’m not convinced they’re strong enough.”
“Working on anything is better than sitting here wallowing. Let’s hear them.”
McFarland pulled his laptop closer and brought up his notes. “I have three politicians who fit the bill, but we’re really looking in the world of law enforcement, so let’s backburner them for now. First off, there’s the president of the PBA, Monty King. King has been a vocal proponent of stop-and-frisk right from the beginning. Says it keeps cops safe.”
Gemma was familiar with King, who was president of the Police Benevolent Association, the NYPD’s largest labor union, for nearly ten years. “This seems extreme for King.”
“I told you I didn’t think this was a strong enough possibility. Still, let’s keep him in mind. Then there’s Fred Klegmann.”
“I’m not familiar with him.”
“You wouldn’t be, but you might be with his daughter, Melissa. Officer Melissa Klegmann was killed at a traffic stop when she pulled over a car with a broken taillight and was shot by the driver through the open window as she approached. The incident was captured on her dashcam, including the license plate of the car. They tracked down the driver. Turned out he had twelve ounces of heroin on him, which made him guilty of a Class A drug felony, with a minimum mandatory sentence of eight years’ imprisonment.”
“And he thought second-degree murder with a minimum fifteen-year sentence would be preferable?” Gemma scoffed.
“Apparently. Anyway, Fred Klegmann has crusaded since for anything to improve the safety of cops, and was a vocal supporter of stop-and-frisk.”
“He seems more likely than the first one. Klegmann’s not a cop, but might be familiar enough with the police because of his daughter’s profession. Anything else?”
McFarland paused, contemplating his list. “Nothing else strong enough. We’re going to be short of time here, so let’s keep it as clean as possible. I’ll hold on to them in case nothing else rings true. What about you?”
“I have three, but I think only one is a strong possibility.”
“Let’s narrow the list down then. Who are your less likelies?”
“The first one is Detective Cynthia Rogers, who was stabbed during a drug bust six months ago. She was critical following the attack, but managed to pull through. She’s been back on the job for about four months now. But we’re not looking for a woman, so unless one of her male coworkers or relatives wanted to go this far, I don’t think we’re looking at Detective Rogers. Then there is Julio Hernandez. Hernandez is a beat cop out of the Seventy-fifth. He witnessed an illegal firearms sale in a back alley in Brooklyn, went after both suspects, and got caught in a firefight during the apprehension. Got hit in the shoulder, but managed to take the shooter down. Was pretty vocal about it afterward.”
“Sounds like what he needed was backup more than the ability to search the suspects,” McFarland said. “It was a firearms exchange, and he knew there
were weapons.”
“That’s what I was thinking, and why he’s moved down my list. But then we have Connor Boyle. Connor was an officer with the Midtown South Precinct. He was killed four months ago responding to the report of a robbery. He stopped a suspect, but didn’t have cause to search him. That suspect then gut shot him, point-blank, before making an escape. He was never apprehended. Officer Boyle died at the scene.”
“Officer Boyle is not our hostage taker then,” McFarland said. “But maybe a fellow officer?”
“You’re half right. I think our suspect is his father, John Boyle. Captain John Boyle, out of the Forty-first Precinct. Or he was, until he retired five months ago.”
“That one hits all the right notes.” McFarland bent over his keyboard, clicked a few times, and then turned it around so Gemma could see. “Here’s Captain Boyle.”
The man staring statically back at them was wearing dress blues with his captain’s bars on the collar of a crisp white shirt. Over his left breast pocket lay his shiny gold-and-blue enamel captain’s shield under a stack of NYPD medals Gemma recognized as she scanned the photo—an American flag breast bar, the World Trade Center breast bar, the Exceptional Merit medal, and the Medal for Valor. The captain was posed in front of the standard American flag/NYC flag backdrop of all official NYPD officer photos. However, instead of the smile many officers wore, his expression was serious, like he carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. His eight-point uniform cap covered hair already gone gray, and his light gray eyes stared out from under heavy lids in a wide face.
“This guy was no lightweight. Those are some serious medals for significant acts of courage. Did he retire with full honors?”
“Let me check.” McFarland spun the laptop back around to face him and ran a quick search query. “Yes. On time, as expected. Nothing notable there. Some local write-up about a solid career cop.” He whistled. “Here’s something useful. He’s third-generation NYPD.”
“Which made his son fourth generation. Any other Boyles on the force?”
“The PBA newsletter only mentions the single son. No other family.”
“So his son’s death cost him everything,” Gemma hypothesized. “A son. The potential for grandchildren and a continuing family line to carry on the Boyle name. The common NYPD history and the pride of all those generations of cops dating back to ... World War Two? All taken away by a single bullet from a gun his son didn’t know about because he couldn’t search for it. Also, note that Boyle is an Irish surname and he picked Patrick, a classic Irish name, a saint even, as his pseudonym. What do you want to bet there is or was a Patrick Boyle in his family tree?” She sat back in her chair, propping her elbows on the arm and weaving her fingers together. “I can’t prove it, but this is the guy, I can feel it. And keeping that in mind, we never had a chance at this.”
“What do you mean?” McFarland asked.
“Think back to what he said when I was trying to talk him out of killing Willan. ‘That line was crossed before I ever set foot in this building.’ He knew when he walked into City Hall that he intended to take a life in exchange for the life ripped out of his arms. The only thing I think went sideways was he always intended it to be Rowland, the man who championed repealing the policy that directly led to his son’s death. Willan was always on board with it though, so when it was clear it wouldn’t be Rowland, he was satisfied with Willan. We were never going to stop Willan’s murder. Rowland’s press conference didn’t change the final result. Maybe it moved it up in the timeline, but Willan was lost the moment he was taken hostage. No matter what anyone said, there was never going to be any dealing with Boyle.”
“Do you think that’s why he wanted Rowland face-to-face? So he could kill Willan in front of him?”
“I’m not sure he wouldn’t have taken them both out, given the chance. But I do think his angle on it changed as his original plan morphed. Losing his son had to just about kill Boyle. Right from the beginning, he said Willan was going to die and it was all Rowland’s fault. He considers Rowland responsible for his son’s death.”
“He wanted Rowland to feel the same agony by killing a lifelong friend and colleague. Rowland is divorced with no children, so Willan would be the target with the most impact.”
“Exactly. And when we wouldn’t allow the face-to-face and he’d been pushed as far as he’d go, he did the next best thing. Killed Willan while Rowland was on the phone with him and could hear the terror of his last seconds when Willan knew he was going to die. And then the gunshot that ended it all.” She sagged back in her chair. “Rowland will never forget those sounds for as long as he lives.”
She knew that all too well.
“Mission accomplished then, as far as Boyle is concerned.”
“Which brings me to my next thought.” Gemma flipped back a page in her notepad, picked up a pen, and crossed out a single name. Then she studied the list:
Clara Sutton
Angelo Carboni
Janina Lee
Elizabeth Sharp
Jamal Bowen
Andy McLaughlin
Carlos Rodriguez
She tapped her pen beside the list of names. “What if he’s completed his end goal?”
“You mean ‘a life for a life’?” McFarland looked thoughtful. “And now that’s done, he hasn’t got anything left. He killed with deliberate planning and intent. That’s murder one. We don’t exercise the death penalty, but it still could be twenty-five to life in prison. Which would be a death sentence at his age. And, as you said, a cop in prison? The prison population will make his life a living hell or just might end it prematurely.”
“He may not care if he makes it out alive today. He’s done all he can to avenge his son’s murder. This is where things get dangerous because if he really doesn’t care what happens now, he may not care if the hostages live or die.” Gemma set down her pen and looked up at McFarland “We need to get him back on the phone now. ESU has ears on him, and there haven’t been reports of any additional gunfire, so, for now, the hostages are likely untouched. However, he may think his best chance to end this as quickly and painlessly as possible is suicide by cop. To do that, he’ll want to become public enemy number one. And the best way to ensure that will be to kill everyone in the room.”
CHAPTER 14
“Ready?” Garcia sked,
“Yes, sir.” Gemma nodded at McFarland, who tapped in the phone number.
The phone rang again and again, and went to voice mail.
“Dial it again,” she said.
Voice mail a second time.
“Is he ignoring the call, or is it chaos inside City Hall and he’s occupied?” Taylor mused.
“Or is he so pissed he pulled the phone cord out of the wall and we’re SOL on communications,” McFarland countered.
“My money is on him playing it cool,” said Garcia. “He’s reestablishing that he’s the one in control. Just in case killing Willan didn’t get that point through.”
“Oh, he’s made his point abundantly clear.” Gemma’s voice was flat as she struggled to keep her temper under wraps. The senseless loss of life enraged her, but a loss of control now could lose them the entire game. She could afford to let her guard down with her colleagues, but today she didn’t even want to crack that door open, for fear of what might come flooding out. This entire situation was digging up too much of a past she didn’t want to dwell on.
Lives depended on her remaining calm. She’d made a connection with him; now it was time to leverage that connection against him.
The hostage taker finally picked up on the fourth round. “Now are you going to believe everything I say?”
“I never doubted your word.” Gemma spoke carefully, feeling like every word carried the weight of a human life. “That’s not the issue here.”
“No, what’s at issue here is that I want changes made. I’ve got another seven lives here that can walk the same path as Charles Willan. Is Rowland still there?�
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“No. We sent him away. You don’t need him anymore anyway. You’ve made your point.”
“You think you know me so well. How do you know I don’t want to kill every living soul in this room, including me?”
Gemma felt her patience slipping. She was so tired of his attitude and his disregard for the terrified lives he held in his grasp. She turned to Garcia, but she didn’t even need to voice her question. He simply nodded his assent.
Time to set him off balance. Time to take the upper hand.
“I think you only wanted ‘a life for a life.’ Now that you’ve avenged Connor, how would he feel about you killing others in his name? People who are innocent of anything having to do with his death. People who are public servants... just like he was.”
Gemma counted in her head as the seconds of silence ticked off. One... two... three... fo—
The laugh came first. It wasn’t the reaction Gemma expected. She foresaw shock, surprise, or the disconcerted stumblings of confusion. But not humor.
“Well, a point to you,” he said. “How’d you figure it out?”
“That you’re John Boyle? I had you pinned as a cop back near the beginning of our conversation Then it was just a matter of figuring out which cops had an ax to grind because of the lack of stop-and-frisk. You weren’t the only possibility, but to me, you were the right possibility.”
“Maybe Tony Capello is proud of his little girl after all.”
“He sure is.” A movement in the doorway caught her eye and she turned to face Sanders standing in the doorway. The look on his face told her they were out of time. “John... I can call you that?”
“You’ve earned it at this point.”
“John, I don’t think you want to hurt those other people. You’ve hurt Rowland, taken a loved one from him, like you feel he took from you. The other hostages don’t deserve to die. You’ve made your point.”
Sanders shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Gemma knew she needed to end her call with Boyle to discuss strategy—before Sanders blew right in front of the suspect. “John, can I have your word you won’t harm any of the hostages for now? We’ve done what you asked, and city council is discussing your proposal. Let me see if they’re making any progress.”
