13

 

 

Roarke shifted his body to block any possible view from the adjoining duplex when Eve palmed her badge.

“First trick is to get them to open the door, fast. After that, just move in. We’ll deal with the rest inside.”

She didn’t need a trick, as the door opened.

The man, mid-thirties, wearing a gray Mets sweatshirt and jeans with holes in the knees, frowned at the badge.

“What?”

“Hey, Philippe!” With a blast of a smile, Eve moved forward.

Roarke closed the door at their backs. “Wait just a—”

“There’s trouble next door. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and this is my consultant. I need you to call Jan—just call her from wherever she is.”

“But I want to know—”

“Philippe,” Roarke said in a smooth, easy tone. “The quicker you follow the lieutenant’s instructions, the quicker we’ll explain. How’s your soundproofing?”

“Our—well, we’re working on it. Why—”

“I see you’re doing some renovations,” Roarke continued in that same conversational tone, then glanced at Eve. “Handy.”

“Yeah, should be. Call her, get her down here.” As she spoke, Eve stripped off the pink coat because it made her feel like an idiot, tossed it on a seriously old-fashioned hall rack someone had painted bright blue.

“Let me see that badge again.”

Eve held it closer, waited while he studied it, and her. And, still watching her, he shouted out, “Jan! Come on down here.”

“Phil, I’m in the middle of—” “Come on, Jan.”

Moments later a tall woman in paint-splattered overalls, blond hair bundled up under a Yankees cap appeared. A mop head of white scurried down after her, yipping all the way. “I was just putting another coat of— Oh, sorry. I didn’t know there was anyone here.”

“They’re the cops.” “The—”

Jan stopped when Eve put a finger to her lips, then scooped up what had to be a dog, continued down the stairs.

“Let’s take this back there.” Eve gestured. “Have you got a music system? How about you put on some music, like you would when friends come over. There’s trouble next door,” she repeated. “You share a wall, and your soundproofing’s iffy. Put on some music, we’ll go in the back, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

As the dog wiggled to get down, Jan groped for Philippe’s hand. “Behave, Lucy! I told you something was off with the new people, Phil. What did they— Okay.” She shook her head, sucked in some air. “Let’s go back to the lounge. You won’t believe how great it looks now.”

Eve gave her a nod of approval. “Can’t wait to see it.”

“Put on some tunes, Phil, and let’s crack that wine. I don’t know how much they can hear over there,” Jan said quietly as they headed back, past dingy walls, spaces where dingy walls had obviously been torn down. “We can sort of hear them—their screen noises, and on the third floor some thumping around. That’s where our workshop is, so we spend a lot of time up there.”

When they reached what Jan called the lounge, Eve noted it was pretty great. They’d transformed the space into a cozy, retro-style kitchen with warm gray counters and a lot of plants thriving under dull silver gro-lights. It spread into a lounge space with big cushy furniture, floor pillows, funky lamps on one side, and a long table with eight mismatched chairs under a trio of wire balls that served as pendant lights.

In the corner sat another pillow with three short sides, and a bone- shaped toy in fluorescent blue.

“Isn’t this charming.”

“Thanks.” Jan offered Roarke an uncertain smile as she set the dog down. It scurried—Did it have feet under that hair? Eve wondered—grabbed the bone, and scurried back with it clamped in its teeth like a bright blue cigar. “We’ve been working hard on it.

Month fourteen now.”

Roarke tapped a finger on the kitchen island. “You’re doing the work yourselves?”

“With some friends as slave labor. We wanted this area done first, and the powder room down there. We’re nearly finished with the master suite now.”

“Great.” While she understood Roarke’s line of conversation served to calm the civilians, time mattered. She tapped her earbud. “Feeney, where is he?”

“Still third level.”

“Let me know if he moves. This is an NYPSD operation,” she began as the dog stared up at her—she could just see its eyes. “The individuals next door are suspects in an ongoing investigation. We know the adult male is currently stationed on the third floor of the adjoining building. Have you seen the second individual?”

“The boy?” Philippe frowned, looked at Jan. “I don’t remember seeing him today, but I was at work, didn’t get back until around six.”

“I worked here today, third floor. I was painting. I saw him head out, maybe about four, four-thirty? I’m not sure of the time, it could’ve been a little later. He had his backpack and some sort of big case. I don’t know if he came back. They’re dangerous, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. We need your cooperation,” Eve continued as Jan scooped up the dog again, held it like a baby in her arms. “Let me assure you, there are police stationed outside, and our first priority is your safety.”

“Oh man.” Philippe pulled Jan against his side. “What did they do?

We’ve got a right to know.”

“They’re the prime suspects in the strikes on Wollman Rink and Times Square.”

“I’m going to sit down.” Jan’s color drained away as she pulled out a counter stool. “I’m just going to sit down a minute.”

Scared, Eve noted, but not surprised. “Have they approached you?”

“The opposite,” Jan said. “Both made it clear they didn’t want any neighborly interaction. The boy’s only here half the time.”

“Actually, it’s a girl.”

“Really? The man calls him—her—Will. I heard that a few times. He—damn it, she goes off every other week. I figured it’s a custody deal, and would’ve felt a little sorry about it, but she gave me the creeps. Something about her just had the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.”

“She’s just a kid,” Philippe murmured.

“Who, along with her father, is responsible for the deaths of seven people. We could wait him out, but other lives are on the line. In the case she carried away with her is, we believe, a long-range laser rifle. We need to capture her father and learn her location and the name and location of her next target. The quickest, cleanest way, we feel, is to do that from inside.”

“Inside what?”

“Phil.” Jan shook her head at him. “Inside here to inside there.

Common wall.”

“Go through our place to his? He’s armed, isn’t he?”

“He is. So are we. There are twenty cops, armed, ready to move in. If we take the building by force, there will be injuries, possibly fatalities. This way lessens.”

“You have to get Jan out, get her to safety first.” “We can work with that.”

“No.” Jan pushed to her feet again. “No, because first I’m not going without you, and if we both go and he sees us, the whole thing falls apart.”

“We could walk Lucy.”

“Phil, you walked Lucy right after you got home. It wouldn’t look right if we went out again with her, and we’ve got . . . well, company.”

“We can keep you safe inside,” Eve told them. “My word on it. Do you do any renovations in the evenings like this?”

“Sure. We knock off anything that’s annoyingly noisy around ten, but most of this is done in the evenings and on weekends.”

“We need to see the second floor. You’re just taking your friends upstairs, showing them the work. Okay?”

“Jan?”

“We’re going to be okay, Phil.”

“I’m not letting anything happen to you, so yeah, we’re going to be okay. So let’s get married.”

“You said—what?”

“I love you, you love me. We adopted a dog together. We’re building a home together, and I’m taking this as a sign. Let’s get married.”

“I . . . yeah.” On a half laugh, Jan threw her arm around Philippe’s neck, pressed with the little dog held between them. “Let’s get married.”

“Congratulations, but maybe we could hold off on the wine and applause until after we’ve taken the killer next door into police custody.”

“Sorry. This is the strangest, scariest night of my life.” Philippe dropped his brow to Jan’s. “And it made me realize I want to spend all the rest of them with you.”

“Sweet. Kudos. Let’s move.”

As Eve strode out, Roarke dropped a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Love changes everything. I proposed to my wife after we limped away from a physical altercation with another serial killer. Good times.”

“Feels surreal, but I guess not so much when you’re a cop.” “She is. I’m not.”

Eyes widened, Philippe pointed at Eve, then at Roarke, got a nod. “And trust me, you and your fiancée couldn’t be in better hands.”

Eve walked straight back—rooms without doors, rooms full of building supplies—to the master suite in progress.

“This is directly under him,” she said quietly. “Anything that’s not inane chatter about decor and marriage, keep it down.”

“This room’s soundproofed,” Jan told her.

“All the better.” Eve looked up, imagined Mackie, then studied the communal wall.

It didn’t matter to her it was smooth, clean, and the color of Irish moss. It mattered that the wall led to Reginald Mackie.

“I just finished the second coat—or nearly finished.” Jan sighed. “Does it really have to be this wall?”

“Quickest, safest. The department will have it fully repaired, and in a timely fashion. I’ll make sure of it. Feeney?”

“Got you. He’s maintaining position. I read four people in your location, and the dog, directly under his.”

“We’re going in from here. The two civilians and the dog will return to the main level, rear—get your outdoor gear,” she told them. “And be ready to be removed to safety if necessary.”

“Copy that,” Feeney responded. “Two civilians and, ah, a dog, to be taken out when needed. How about a little distraction on the street—draw his attention while you’re cutting through.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

Eve pulled the laser cutter out of the satchel. “We’re ready.” “Jenkinson, Reineke, you’re on,” Feeney announced.

“That’s top-of-the-line.” Drawn to the tool, Philippe moved closer. “We invested in a good one, but that’s top-of-the-line.”

“It’s yours,” Eve said on impulse. “When we’re done here.” “No shit?”

“None whatsoever.” She handed the cutter to Roarke. “Get your gear, go downstairs, back to that lounge area. If we need you out, cops will get you clear. Otherwise, hold tight, keep quiet.”

Eve gave the dog—still clamping the blue bone—a steady stare. “And keep the dog quiet, too, if you can.”

Jan took one more look at the wall. “It’s just paint. And new wiring.

And soundproofing.”

Philippe put his arm around her to lead her out. “And every time we look at it, we’ll remember the night we got engaged.”

Eve waited until they were clear, then pulled out her weapon. “Just big enough for us to get through.”

Roarke hunkered down, switched on the tool.

It hummed, but to Eve’s ears Galahad’s sleeping purr pitched louder.

“Curtain’s up,” Feeney said in her ear.

Eve sidestepped to the window, spotted her detectives—hanging on to each other as drunks do. Soundproofing and what she took to be new windows aside, she could hear them singing.

Top of the lungs, she imagined, in some sort of actual harmony. Stumbling, falling-down drunks, carrying each other home.

Not bad.

She moved back to Roarke, who’d cut a thin line from the baseboard up about two feet, and began to cut another two feet away.

“Can’t you cut faster?”

“Do you want it quiet or fast?” “Both.”

“Just hold your water, Lieutenant.” “What does that even mean?”

“Don’t piss yourself,” Feeney informed her.

“Then it oughta be ‘don’t piss yourself.’ He’s nearly through.” She angled her recorder.

“Copy that. He shifted some, but they don’t have a clear shot. Your boys have his attention. Jeez, some street LC’s trying to work them. You see that?”

“I can live without seeing two of my detectives getting propped by an LC. We’ve got a hole. Going through.”

Even as she bellied down, Roarke slid in front of her. She tugged, jerked her thumb behind her, but he just shook his head, and wormed his way through.

“Roarke’s in,” she whispered. “I’m behind him.” She blocked out annoyance—who was the cop here—and slithered through into a room dark as pitch.

Roarke touched her arm, then switched on a penlight.

She followed it, scanning a room about the size of the one they’d left. She made out an air mattress, a sleeping bag, a batt-powered lamp, and a nearly empty bottle of liquor—maybe gin, maybe vodka. Folding table and chair, she noted, with a tablet and a small printer.

The door stood open to more dark.

“He’s got it blacked out in here,” she murmured to Feeney. “Probably has night-vision goggles. We’re moving. Stay low,” she told Roarke, and combat crawled toward the door.

He stayed ahead of her again—he was longer, and he had the light. She’d have something to say to him about that later.

“Through the door, moving toward the stairs. Going silent.”

She moved into a crouch, slowly started up toward the third floor. Halfway up, she started to tap Roarke, have him turn off even that thin beam. But he tapped her first, kept his hand on her arm, cut the light.

When they reached the top, the mini motion detector aimed at the stairs set off a wild beep.

“He dropped! He’s moving toward you.”

“Take cover!” Eve shouted to Roarke, and rolled. She saw the streak from the strike whiz by, laid down a stream of suppressing fire. “Stay clear, you stay clear! Punch those holes, get me some light.” She rolled again, sprang up. “Move in, move in.”

A high whine had her dropping, a series of tiny holes punched through the barricades on the window. She felt more than saw Mackie hit the stairs.

“He’s going down to two. Roarke, are you clear?” “Clear. You’re not wearing any armor. Stay behind me.”

“His aim’s crap,” she said, and bolted down. She heard Roarke cursing viciously behind her, heard the battering ram crashing, crashing against the door down below.

Felt her way along the wall until her hand came to a doorway. “At your six!” Feeney shouted.

She dropped and rolled, heard the thud of something striking the wall, fired toward it.

“He’s moving past you, made a left.”

“Roarke, move left—hit the wall, stay down.” She did the same. “Mackie! It’s done, it’s finished. Throw out your weapons and surrender.”

He answered with a volley of strikes that whined and speared through the opposing wall.

She put her lips to Roarke’s ear. “Get the penlight. Stay out of range. Aim in at the doorway.”

“I can widen the beam.”

“Do that. Feeney, exact position?”

“Back wall, between the windows. Five feet east, ten feet north of your position. They don’t have a shot.”

“Copy that.” She squeezed Roarke’s hand. “In three, two.”

She moved on one, hurtling down the narrow hall, calculating distance as the light flashed.

She got a glimpse—hand lasers, full body armor, night-vision goggles.

With her stunner two clicks down from full power, she aimed for his eyes.

She felt the burn streak down her arm, heard him cry out, rolled clear. Laid down another stream as Roarke rushed to flank the doorway. His stream hit Mackie low, biting into his boots, hers went back for the goggles.

This time, he dropped.

“Suspect down, he’s down.” She rushed in, kicked away the weapon that dropped out of his shaking hand. “Get me more light, get me some damn light.” But she yanked Mackie’s arms back, snapped on restraints before she tested the pulse in his throat.

“He’s alive.” She felt the wet on her fingers, smelled the blood. “He’s bleeding. We need the MTs. We need a bus.”

She heard breaking glass, the booming crash of the door and barricade giving out, then the rush of boots.

“He’s down,” she repeated. “Hold your fire. Get the damn lights on.”

“He cut the power.” Lowenbaum dropped down, pulled a flashlight out of his belt. “They’re working on it.” He trailed the light over Mackie. “Goggles shattered. Looks like he got shards in his eyes.

Let’s get a medic!” he shouted.

“He can wait. The lieutenant’s hit.”

At Roarke’s terse statement, Eve glanced at her arm, saw the blood seeping down her sleeve. “Grazed me is all.”

“Bollocks to that.” So saying, Roarke hauled her up, dragged the jacket off.

“Look, simmer. I know when I’m really hurt.”

“More bollocks. If you knew so bloody much, you’d be wearing your armor.”

“I had it—the coat.” She hissed when he ripped off her sleeve, used it to staunch the blood.

“You aren’t wearing the shagging coat, are you?” “I—”

“And I didn’t think of it until it was too late.” He bound up the wound, then caught her face in his hands. When her eyes fired out a warning—Don’t even think about kissing me—he nearly smiled. “You’ll have that tended to properly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nice field dressing, thanks for that. Now I’m going to make sure my suspect stays alive.”

She turned as Peabody hurried in. “Civilians?”

“Secure—still in their own residence. Magly cute dog. MTs on the way—ETA one minute. The house is being cleared, and Feeney’s working with McNab and Callendar to get the power up again. You got hit!”

“Grazed.”

“But—but—you had my magic coat.”

“I took it off. Don’t,” Eve said before Peabody could harass her as Roarke had. “When the power’s up, get EDD to check out any and all electronics. Then—”

“Dallas, you want to take a look here.”

She looked back as Lowenbaum played his light around the room.

Or, more accurately, the armory. A battered worktable held more than two dozen weapons—long and short range, knives, boomers. More body armor hung on pegs, along with other goggles, field glasses.

“He must’ve been stockpiling for a while, maybe even before his wife died.”

“There’s another knife stuck in the wall out there,” Peabody said. “So that’s what that was.” Eve looked down at Mackie. “You’re

going to find that funk, too. I could see the tremor in his hands.”

She stepped back as the MTs came in. “Patch him up, bring him around. I need him in Interview.”

To keep Roarke off her back, she let the MTs treat her arm while she, Lowenbaum, and Feeney had their roundup.

“He had a two-level barricade on the doors and windows,” Lowenbaum told her. “If we’d tried storming, he’d have picked some

of us off.”

“Maybe—didn’t want to risk it—but he’s not the marksman he was.

My team found two kegs of funk hidden in the closet of his room. Probably hiding it from the daughter, but she’d have been blind and deaf not to see the effects.”

“Prided himself on his exceptional vision and steady hands.” Lowenbaum shook his head. “But he goes on the funk, goes on what takes those away.”

“Ever known a funky-junkie who didn’t think they’d beat the effects until they didn’t? I’m going to the hospital—I’ve got four cops on him. Unless he’s fricking dying, he’ll be in a cage tonight.”

“Heard the MTs say he’d need surgery on his right eye—maybe the left, too.” Feeney shrugged. “Even then he ain’t getting it all back

—some of that’s the funk. Got some burns on his lower calves where the boot leather seared into him. I’m not going to cry about it.”

“He was a good man once. I’m not going to cry about it, either,” Lowenbaum added. “But I’m goddamn sorry he lost the man he was.”

“The daughter’s still out there.” Eve pushed to her feet, ignored the low-level burn down her arm. “And there’s no evidence suggesting she has any trouble with steady hands or eyesight. We get him patched up, get him in a cage, break him.”

“It’s his daughter, Dallas. I don’t see how you can break him down enough to flip on her.”

“He’s a junkie,” she said flatly. “I’ll break him.”

B

—

ut not that night. Eve argued with nurses, with doctors, and ultimately with the surgeon. Reginald Mackie would not and could not be released from the hospital for at least twelve hours.

“We removed sixteen shards of infrared lens out of his right eye and seven out of his left.”

“He killed seven people in two days.”

The surgeon huffed out a breath. Maybe his own eyes looked exhausted, but Eve didn’t give a shit.

“You do your job, Lieutenant, I do mine. I’m giving you the facts.

His addiction has already compromised his vision, his retina, and his

optic nerves. This trauma has left his corneas and his retinas damaged further. Once cured of his addiction, he would be a viable candidate for organ replacement, or at least additional surgery, but at this point we’ve done what can be done. He and his eyes need rest. We need to keep him under observation, as we’re concerned about more deterioration or infection.”

“Is he awake?”

“Yes, he should be. And he’s restrained and guarded. We have our own security backing up your officers. We’re fully aware of who he is, and what he’s done.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“I have no medical objection to that. His head is in a stabilizer. We don’t want him to move his head, jar his eyes in any way, for the next twelve hours. After that, I’ll examine him, and hopefully clear him for release to your custody.”

Accepting it was the best she’d get, Eve made her way to Mackie’s room. She moved through the two uniforms on the door, inside where she had two more keeping watch.

Mackie lay still, his head slightly inclined inside the cage-like stabilizer, his eyes covered with bandages. Tubes ran from him into machines, and the machines clicked and hummed busily.

God, she hated hospitals, had hated them since she woke up in one at the age of eight. Broken, battered, with no idea where she was, who she was.

But Mackie knew who and where.

She signaled to the uniforms to give her the room, then approached the bed.

“Record on,” she said clearly, and saw Mackie’s fingers flex in reaction. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, questioning Mackie, Reginald. Mackie, in case you missed it, you’ve been placed under arrest for multiple counts of murder, conspiracy to murder, possession of illegal weapons, armed assault on police officers, and a whole bunch of lesser charges. It’s what we could call a freaking cornucopia of charges. Also, in case you missed it, I’m going to reread you your rights.”

As she did, slowly, she watched him, watched his jaw tighten, his mouth firm, and those fingers tap, tap, tap on the sheets.

“Do you understand your rights and obligations in these matters? I know you’re awake and aware, Mackie,” she said after a beat. “And you know that you’ll be out of here and in a cage very soon.

Stonewalling me gets you nowhere. We’ll find her.” This time his thinned lips curved, just a little.

“Don’t think so? Think again. We’ll find her, and when we do, she’ll spend a lot more years in a cage than you have left. Fifteen years old? She could spend a hard century in a cage, off-planet. Never see the sun again. If you think her age will play in her favor, think again there, too. I put away one younger than she is. If I have to hunt her, I’ll make it my mission to see she spends every day of the rest of her life locked up like an animal.”

His hands shook, but he managed to lift the middle finger of his right hand.

“Gee, that stings. I guess you’re feeling pretty smug, lying there getting pain meds and something to cut down on the funk withdrawal. But that won’t last. I wonder if you’re thinking Willow’s on her way to Alaska. Yeah, that’s right,” she added when his hands fisted. “We know all about Alaska. We’d bag her, bag, tag, and toss her in that cage. But she’s not heading to Alaska, you idiot. She had a hit list of her own. Headed by her mother, her stepfather, her little brother.”

“Liar.” He croaked it out.

“She has blueprints of her school.” “Get out.”

“The names of specific school employees and students she plans to take out.”

His breathing sped up, quick, short breaths. The trembling increased. He said, “Lawyer.”

Eve deliberately misunderstood him. “We know you had the lawyer on your list. I’m talking about hers.”

“Lawyer,” he repeated. “I want a lawyer.”

“So you understand your rights and obligations?” “I understand, and I want a lawyer.”

“Your choice, a bad one, but that’s not a surprise considering your track record. Give me a name, a contact, and we’ll get your lawyer.”

“Provided. Appointed.”

“You want a court-appointed representative. Okay. Seriously bad choice, but I’ll start that ball rolling. The doc says you’ll be ready to move in under twelve hours now. Enjoy your plush accommodations while you can. They’re going to go seriously downhill. End of questioning.”

Eve stepped to the door, switched off her recorder. “A lot of blood on your hands, Mackie. Your daughter’s may be on them before this is over. You think about that while you wait for your lawyer.”

She stepped out, jerked a thumb at the two uniforms to send them back into the room.

“He said lawyer,” she told the other uniforms on the door. “I’ll be arranging that. No one but the lawyer, if and when he arrives here, and authorized medical personnel are to enter his room. Check every ID, and scan anyone going in for weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drag over a couple of chairs,” she advised. “It’s going to be a long night.”

She walked away, hunted up the head nurse. Badged her. “I’m to be informed the minute Reginald Mackie is medically cleared for transport.”

“Of course.”

“He’s requested a lawyer, and I’ll arrange one. No one but the lawyer, when appointed, medicals required for his care, and authorized police officials are to be given access to him.”

“Understood.”

“If anyone attempts to gain information about his status, you are to log the contact, and tell them nothing.”

“Lieutenant, it’s not my first roundup. I know the drill.” “Good. Make sure everyone else does, too.”

Stepping away, she used her ’link to begin the process of granting Mackie his right to a court-appointed lawyer.

Roarke walked over, held out a tube of Pepsi. “The coffee here is marginally better than at Central, but it’s close.”

“Thanks. I need another couple minutes. I want to update the commander, Peabody, make sure Mira’s on tap, with all her hats, when I finally get Mackie into Interview tomorrow. And I want to talk

to Nadine, have her blast the daughter’s picture on screen. Other media will follow that lead.”

“Take your time.”

It took another thirty, but when she felt she’d done all she could do, she two-pointed the empty tube into a recycler.

“He may delude himself that she’s off to Alaska, but she’s still here. Still in New York, and prepping for the next strike.”

“I agree with you, but there’s nothing you can do here and now.

You need to go home, get some sleep.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She glanced back as Roarke steered her toward the elevator. “I hope he sleeps right and tight tonight, because it’s the last night he’ll spend outside of a goddamn cage.”