5

 

 

Eve covered an office building, a residential building. She felt one apartment in the residential might warrant a trip back, and certainly a full run on the tenant. Single man in his mid-thirties, who’d served in the Army for five years.

The quick run she did, while hoofing it to the next building, showed he’d served as a supply officer—minimal weapons training—but she marked him down to be interviewed either when he was in residence or at his place of employment.

The ugly, incessant sleet began to thin, just a little, as she walked east from Third Avenue to Second.

She hit a flop, a struggling art studio, more offices. Got no buzz at all.

The hotel, her next stop on Second, looked old but well kept. Low- to mid-range. “Family friendly,” according to its billing, with some rooms boasting a kitchenette.

The lobby, quiet and small, held a skinny cafe, a closet-sized gift shop, and a single clerk at the desk. He smiled broadly.

“Good morning. Such a dreary day to be out and about. How can I help you?”

He had such a pleasant face, all round and cheerful with a voice to match, Eve almost felt bad about pulling out her badge. He blinked at it.

“Oh my, is there something wrong, Officer—no, excuse me, I see it’s Lieutenant. Lieutenant!” he repeated before she could speak. “Of course, it’s Lieutenant. Dallas. I loved The Icove Agenda, book and vid. I hope I can help one of the most dedicated public servants in the city.”

“Me, too. I’m looking for someone who would have had a room yesterday, most likely on the ninth or tenth floor, facing west.”

“A check-in yesterday. Let me—”

“Not necessarily a check-in yesterday. Could’ve been prior, but they’d have been in-house yesterday. We’ll start with guests, but I may be looking for one of the staff, someone who could gain access to an empty room.”

“I see, I see. No, of course I don’t see at all, but let me check the rooms.”

“It’s likely a male, likely alone. But don’t rule out female or a companion.”

“Ninth floor, west . . . We have Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Hubble.

They’re here for four days, with a checkout tomorrow.” “You got a home address on them?”

“Oh, yes, Des Moines. They’re return guests, this is their third visit.

They come for the inventory sales and a show.”

“Give me somebody who checked out this morning or late yesterday.”

“All right. This is rather exciting.” His pleasant face turned a little pink to prove it. “We have Mr. Reed Bennett, home address is Boulder, Colorado. I believe he’s a salesman, and here for meetings. He checked in two days ago, checked out this morning. Just about a half hour ago, actually.”

“Call off housekeeping. I’m going to want to see his room. Who else you got?”

“Ms. Emily Utts and Ms. Fry. Ladies of a certain age in from Pittsburgh. Here for a little reunion with some classmates—from college. Class of ’19.”

“Probably not. Any others?”

“Just one more. Mr. Philip Carson, from East Washington, accompanied by his teenage son, or daughter—I’m not sure, it’s so hard to tell at that age, isn’t it? Especially when they’re wearing one of those hoods and all bundled up. I see here they requested that specific room.”

A bell rang. “Specific room. Had they stayed here before?”

“I don’t have that name in our database, but I did think Mr. Carson looked familiar.”

“Do you remember their luggage?”

“I . . .” He closed his eyes, squeezed them, then popped them open. “I do! I do because I started to call for Gino to assist them, but Mr. Carson said they didn’t need a bellman. They had two rollies, one each, and the child had a backpack. Mr. Carson had a case—a large metal briefcase.”

“When did they check out?”

“Yesterday, though they were booked to stay through the night.

They checked in about five the evening prior—I remember as I was about to go off my shift. I’m not sure I saw them at all until they checked out about three-thirty yesterday. Mr. Carson said they had a family emergency.”

“I need to see the room.”

“Oh my. Yes, yes, but I’m afraid it’s been cleaned.” “I need to see it.”

“Let me get Gino to cover the desk, and I’ll take you up myself.

Just one moment.”

He bustled. At least that was the word that came to Eve’s mind, moving quickly as a man in a bellman’s navy uniform came out of a side room.

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh, I’m Henry. Henry Whipple.”

He actually looked like a Henry Whipple, Eve decided as they stepped on the elevator together. One old enough that it required Henry to push a button for the tenth floor.

“Some guests enjoy the old-fashioned touches,” he explained.

Old-fashioned, she thought. “Do your windows open? The guest rooms.”

“They do, though not fully. Now we have privacy screens—guests expect that, but again some enjoy being able to open the window a few inches in pretty weather. Or because they want to hear New York.”

“Soundproofing?”

“Some, yes, but not what you’d find in newer or more expensive hotels. We’ve been family owned for five generations, and have tried to keep our little home-away-from-home affordable for visitors, especially families.”

“Got it.”

When they stepped out on ten, Eve could hear the murmur of someone’s entertainment screen—not offensive, just the mutter of it through the door of the room. Still, room security wasn’t pitiful, and the corridor itself was as clean as the rest of the building.

She started to reach for her master, saw Whipple had his out, and let him unlock the room.

“Should I wait out here?” “Just inside, shut the door.”

The lights worked by switches—another old-fashioned touch. Two beds, well made with white duvets, crisply cased pillows, a good- sized dresser, a bathroom so clean she could smell the lemon scent from the cleanser. And a small but efficient kitchen area with a glass- fronted cabinet holding various drinks, another holding snack food.

But the windows were what drew her across the room.

She unlocked one, lifted it. Four, maybe five inches, she judged. Room enough.

She pulled over one of the two chairs, sat, took out her field glasses.

“Fucking bingo. I just know it.”

She looked down at the carpet—on the thin side, but clean. Took out microgoggles, studied the windowsill, shook her head.

“I’d like to speak with whoever cleaned the room.”

“That would be Tasha. Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re looking toward Central Park, aren’t you? With binoculars. The media reports . . . This is about what happened yesterday. About those poor people. On the skating rink.”

“Keep it under your hat, Henry.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I believe I need to sit down, for just a moment. My legs.” Pale, he dropped into the second chair.

“Don’t go fainting on me.” Pulling out her PPC, she did a run on Philip Carson, East Washington.

“No, no, I just need a moment. I’ve worked in hotels for twenty- three years. I’ve seen and heard and dealt with a great deal, as you might expect. But to think I may have . . . the person who did . . . But, he had a child!”

“Maybe. Is this the guy?”

Patting his chest, Henry studied the image on screen. “Oh, no, he was younger than this.”

“How about this guy?”

“No, not that young. I’m sorry.”

“Elimination’s good.” And that eliminated the two Philip Carsons in East Washington who were under eighty and over twenty. “Housekeeping, Henry.”

He let out a long breath before pulling out a ’link, tapping a code. “Tasha, I need you in 1004, right away.”

“If this room was used, I got really lucky, but luck can happen. Or I could be wrong. Do you have security feed from yesterday?”

“We— I’m sorry— We don’t have it at all.”

Another good reason to pick this location, she thought. “Can you describe the man and the kid?”

“Yes, yes.” Some of his color came back. “I absolutely can do that.

I’d be happy to do that.”

“Okay, you’re going to give me the basics in a minute, then I’m going to have you work with a police artist. Can you come to Central?”

“I—I just need to have someone come in to take my shift.” “How about I send the artist to you?”

“Thank you. It would be helpful.”

“You’re helpful, Henry. I’ve got it,” she said at the knock on the door. She opened it to a tiny blond woman with enormous blue eyes.

“Tasha, this is Lieutenant Dallas. She needs to ask you about the guests who were in this room.”

“And the room after they left it.”

“Okay, but I didn’t actually see the guests. They had their privacy light on, so I didn’t see them.”

“What can you tell me about the room, after they checked out?” “They were really neat. I could tell they’d used the kitchen, but they’d washed up after themselves. Most people don’t. I still washed

everything, Mr. Henry. And they used the honor bar, so I replaced everything.”

“The rug, over here by the window. Did you notice anything?” “Now, it’s funny you should ask. I could see they must’ve brought

over the chairs and sat there by the window. You could see the, you

know, dents in the rug. And there were a couple other dents. I think maybe they had like a little telescope, and sat there looking at the city. People do that.”

“Oh my,” Henry murmured. “Oh my.”

“I vacuumed up really good, Mr. Henry.”

“I know you did, dear. The room is spotless, as always when you turn one.”

“What did you do with the trash? They must’ve left some trash.” “Oh, that goes straight into the recycler.”

“Sheets, towels?” “Right to Laundry.”

“I bet you scrubbed down the bathroom, every surface.” “Oh, yes, ma’am. We sanitize.”

“Lieutenant,” Eve corrected absently. “You wiped down the dresser, the counters, nightstand?”

“Oh, sure. Clean and comfortable. It’s hotel policy.” “Light switches?”

“Sanitized.”

“Henry, I’m going to want sweepers—the crime scene unit—to go over the room. Just in case. Thanks,” she said to Tasha, opening the door to nudge her out. “Okay, Henry.” Eve pulled over the chair so she could sit across from him. “What did these two look like? Every detail you can remember, including what they wore.”

S

—

atisfied she’d squeezed everything she could out of him, Eve sent Henry on his way, pulled out her ’link.

“Hey.” Peabody’s face—pink-cheeked—filled the screen. “Finished at the college. I’ll write that up, but there’s nothing so far. I’m on my way to the first building on First. Nothing on York I could find.”

“That’s because I found it on Second. Manhattan East Hotel, room 1004. Let Jenkinson and Reineke know.”

“You found the nest? Are you sure?”

“Would I be calling you off otherwise? Head to Second, meet me here. Save the questions,” Eve added before Peabody could ask another. She ended transmission, ordered the sweepers, contacted Detective Yancy, the police artist, then tagged Lowenbaum.

“That’s some luck you got, Dallas. You oughta be playing the horses.”

“You’re going to want to see this, Lowenbaum, and I’m going to want you to verify I’m not talking out of my ass when I say the right shooter could’ve made the strikes from here.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Bring the laser rifle you figure with you, and a bipod.” “Already on the list.”

After shoving the ’link back in her pocket, Eve wandered the room. On the small side, she thought, but more than adequate.

Had to scout the room at least once before, alone most likely. Not with the partner. Had to be sure it could be done, and this was the place to do it.

Quiet hotel, no cams, but solid security on the guest room doors. Nobody’s going to stroll in unexpectedly. Just a guy and his teenage kid traveling to New York—who pays attention?

Henry Whipple, she thought—and yeah, that was some luck.

Book the room—bogus ID, but the card used to register has to pass hotel scan, so it’s good bogus. Carry your own bags, come up, lock the door, put on the privacy light, then—

She kept walking through it as she moved to the door to answer the knock, let in a slightly out-of-breath Peabody.

“How did you—”

“Front desk clerk who pays attention. Suspect was traveling with what Henry—front desk—believed was his minor child—teenage type. Not sure on gender. ID’s bogus, but we’ll push on it deeper.

Philip Carson, East Washington. Requested this room specifically.” Eve pulled out her field glasses. “Have a look.”

Peabody moved to the window, looked out. “Wow, it’s a really long way, but yeah, it’s a good view of the rink.”

“Housekeeper’s sanitized the works, but she noticed little dents in the carpet by the window, like a chair and a bipod would make.”

“If this is it, they had to have been here before, had to know they’d have the shot.”

“Henry thought the adult male looked familiar. And we’ve got a description—Yancy’s heading in to work with him. Caucasian male, late forties, early fifties, about six feet, on the thin side at about one-

sixty, square jaw, short medium-brown hair. Not sure on eye color, but Henry thinks light—blue, green, gray. And maybe he had a cold, or was getting over something. He looked drawn, was the word. And his eyes looked tired. Wearing a black parka, black ski cap, jeans.

Carrying a large metal briefcase and a midsized black rolly.” “That’s a lot. If Henry’s accurate, that’s a lot.”

“There’s more. The younger suspect, mixed race, medium complexion—Henry claims beautiful skin there—green eyes, black hair in short dreads, about five-five, about a hundred and twenty.

Dark green, knee-length coat, green-and-black-striped cap. He said no older than sixteen, but that may be the height, the build, and the assumption this was the adult suspect’s offspring.”

“And if it is.” Peabody handed the field glasses back to Eve. “Well, Jesus.”

“We can’t verify that yet. They booked this room, checked in early evening, carried their own bags up, locked the door, engaged the privacy light. They took some drinks and snacks. One of them might have gone out for food—no cams in this place—or they may have brought in what they wanted. Housekeeper says they were neat— cleaned up after themselves.”

“Wiped the place down, you can bet.”

“You can bet,” Eve agreed. “But efficient housekeeping took care of that anyway. I have sweepers on the way in case, but I don’t expect to find anything. They left about ten minutes after the strikes, claiming family emergency, as they were booked through last night.”

“In case they missed the target, and to give them into the afternoon.”

“They also booked the room over a week ago, so that takes the third vic out of target specific. Add this: They come in, set up. The rink was open, but they waited, spent the night, spent the morning before making the strikes.”

“Okay, yeah, why not finish it? The rink’s a popular spot at night, and well lit. People panic more at night, right? If that’s the only motive, hit at night. But they spent hours in this room. It leans more toward one of the victims being a target.”

“Eat some snacks, maybe watch some screen. Sit there, looking through the scope, thinking about all the people you could end from

your perch. The ones walking home, going out to dinner, riding in the back of a cab? They owe their lives to you. That makes you feel powerful.”

Walking back to the window, Eve looked out, hands in her pockets. “They’re alive because you allowed them to live. And they’re all as clueless as ants on a hill. They don’t know all you have to do is step on them. You spent a long time in the night sitting here, thinking about that. Imagining. Anticipating.”

“Which one?”

“The younger. Or if not the younger, it will be.” “Why?”

“What’s the point otherwise? Henry? He’s solid, and he’s got a sharp eye. I can buy the second suspect may be into the twenties, but no more than that. Henry wouldn’t be that far off—and we’ll see what Yancy has to say when they work together. So why have the young one along? It’s not for the fucking company. There’s a purpose. Here’s how it’s done, kid, and next time it’s yours to do. Or it’s your time. Take your shot.”

Hadn’t that been the way between her and Feeney? Here’s how it’s done, kid. Now do it.

“Henry felt that father/child connection. Maybe that was because that’s what they wanted to project. But that’s often how it plays out with a trainer and a trainee, especially with that sort of age gap.”

“It could go back to pros,” Peabody suggested. “The older pro training the younger, related or not.”

“Yeah, it could. Except when you look at the vics. Just not enough to gain. Michaelson was well-set, but not swimming in it. His practice will go to his godson—and the godson was already coming into the practice. So far I’m not finding any patients who’d want him dead.

His ex is remarried and they appear to have maintained civility. He had a good relationship with his daughter—who’d benefit financially, but doesn’t have any outstanding debt or anything that shows. It doesn’t feel like money.”

“Sex is always a good one.”

“Nothing to indicate he had any serious partners there. All that holds, as far as we know, for Wyman. So, we keep looking.”

“Yeah, I’m hitting the same, on Wyman. Just no gain to killing her.

Nobody disliked her, knew of anyone who did, or hit on her hard enough to have a thing.”

“Well, somebody had something on her or Michaelson.”

Once again Eve went to the door to answer the knock, and let in Lowenbaum.

He walked in, black coat wet with sleet, pulled off his ski cap.

“I meant it about the horses.” Contemplatively chewing his gum, he scanned the room. He carted in a large, locked case. “The guy at the desk went white as a sheet when he saw this.” Setting the case on one of the beds, Lowenbaum tapped it. “After I badged him, he told me the man who was in this room had one just like it.”

Fucking bingo, Eve thought again. “I don’t know the horses, but maybe I’ll lay some on tonight’s Knicks game.”

“Your man bought the Celtics, didn’t he?” “Yeah.”

“Chill.” Still scanning, Lowenbaum unlocked the case. “Decent room, decent place. He could’ve gotten a flop a lot cheaper, done the job. Longer odds us nailing that location.”

“He wasn’t alone.”

Now Lowenbaum looked up. “Is that so?” “Younger—undetermined gender. Desk guy thought teenager, but

we can’t narrow it there yet.” “Changes things.”

Eve stepped closer as Lowenbaum opened the case and began, with quick, practiced efficiency, to assemble the weapon.

“How much would that weigh? Case included.”

“A solid fifteen, with the extra batteries.” He took out the bipod, tapped a button, telescoped it out.

“First window right of the bed,” Eve told him. “The housekeeper saw the depressions left in the carpet from the bipod, and from a chair.”

“You’re shitting me now.”

“Truth. They’re observant here at Manhattan East. And the window opens, about five inches from the bottom.”

“Handy.” After setting the bipod in front of the window, Lowenbaum retrieved the rifle, secured it. “Thanks,” he said when Peabody

brought over a chair.

He sat, looked through the scope, made some adjustments, walked the chair over a half inch. “Pick ’em off like flies,” he murmured.

“You could make the strikes from here?”

“Yeah, I could. I’ve got another two on my squad I’d count on to make it, and another three who’d at least wing the targets from here.”

“Moving targets,” Eve reminded him.

“I could, the two on my squad could. Moving targets, let’s give the other three a fifty-fifty at this range. Take a look.” He got up from the chair; Eve took his place.

The scope made her field glasses feel like a toy. She studied the empty rink, the barricades, made her own adjustments to widen the field, and watched gawkers taking photos of the rink.

She put a woman with a blue pom-pom cap and scarf in the crosshairs.

Powerful, she thought again.

“Makes me feel I could make the strike, but that’s not factoring in wind, temps, and all that other crap. Could the younger guy have been here to do those calculations?”

“You have a weapon like this, and you have the skill, you do your own. It’s almost innate. And it’s . . . you’ve got to say intimate. You and the weapon, I mean. You and the target, that’s not.”

Nodding, Eve rose. “You’d verify this is the location?”

“I would, but why not use the toys we’ve got to lock it down.”

He sat again, took out his PPC. “I can plug in this location—the exact position of the weapon, the exact position of the targets, and do a reverse calculation.”

“You can?”

“I can now because on my way in I had a conversation with Roarke about doing that using this new program. I figured, why the hell not ask the guy who came up with the program—more advanced than we’ve been using—and give it a try?”

“I should’ve thought of that.”

“Then you wouldn’t need me. Give me a sec.”

While she waited, Eve jerked a thumb at the door for Peabody to answer. “If that’s the sweepers, tell them we’ll be ready for them in a minute. Have them hold.”

“Another sec,” Lowenbaum told her. “It’s a lot of tech for me. Your genius was heading into a meeting—maybe he’ll buy the Mets—or I’d tag him again, see if he could do it by remote. But I think I can . . . Okay, okay, there it goes. And we have a ninety-five-point-six probability on this location.”

He handed Eve his PPC so she could see the results.

“That’ll be handy in court when we bag the bastards.” He took the PPC back, put it away. “My work is done here. I’d like to see these assholes. You’re going to shoot me the security feed?”

“No cams in the place.” “And the lucky streak dies.”

“But I’ve got a solid description, and Yancy’s coming in to do sketches.”

“And rides again. Give me the basics,” he said as he began to disassemble the weapon as efficiently as he’d assembled it.

“Caucasian male,” she began, filling him in while he secured the weapon and the stand.

“I’ll take a good look when you have the sketches. I know some guys who could make these strikes, either by face or rep, and some personally. Maybe it’ll pop—or I can show it to some I trust aren’t asshole bastard lunatics.”

“You’ll have it when I do. Appreciate it, Lowenbaum.”

“I’d say all in a day’s, but . . . not this time. I’ll be seeing you. Keep it loose, Peabody.”

“That’s how I roll.” Peabody let him out, let the sweepers in.

Once Eve had given them the basics, she and Peabody left them to it.

“I’ll keep digging on Ellissa Wyman. With it leaning this far target specific, the suspects could be in the wind, well into it.”

“You think they’re done?” Eve countered. “If they hit their target—”

“Why the partner, Peabody? Why the younger? Partner or, if we’re really talking at least twenty years age difference, maybe apprentice? What’s the training for? Some connection between the

suspects and one of the vics, there’s got to be. But people have more than one connection, and people with this kind of grudge? They’ve got more than one of those, too.”

Eve stepped into the elevator, stabbed the button for lobby. “They’re not done.”