7

 

 

Morris’s topcoat flapped as he stood over the body of the first victim. He pulled a can of Seal-It out of his own field kit, lifting his gaze to Eve as he coated his ungloved hands.

“I’ll take them in order. Do you know if this is how and where she fell?”

“The bodies and the scene have been compromised.” She stopped, shook her head. “Compromised, hell. They’re FUBAR. I’ve called for any and all security feeds so we can reconstruct. The crowd panicked, and some, including at least some of the DBs, were trampled.”

“An attack here?” He pulled gauges out of his kit. “We’re lucky it isn’t worse.”

At the moment, Eve didn’t want to think about worse. “ID’d as Fern Addison, age eighty-six. She was hit first, then the boy—Nathaniel Jarvits, age seventeen; then Officer Russo; then the male, David Chang, age thirty-nine. Another was hit, but survived—so far—she’s in surgery.

“Four out of five then,” Morris murmured, kneeling down by the body. “You’ve done your on-site on her?”

“Yes, all of them. We have TOD on all of them. You can verify.” “In this case, I will. It’s best to be thorough.” He arranged his

gauges, engaged his recorder, and began. “Mid-body, deadly force. TOD thirteen-twenty-one. I can tell you more once I have her in my house. From this cursory examination, I’d say she was gone before she hit the ground.”

He signaled to the morgue team. “They can be bagged, tagged, transported as we go.”

Rising, he moved to the second victim. “Seventeen, you said.” “Yeah, seventeen. Today.”

“Ah, Christ, life can be so cruel. Parents?”

“Yes, and a sibling. He was airboarding with friends, took the strike in the back, and—similar to Ellissa Wyman—the force and his own momentum propelled him forward into a group of pedestrians. Minor injuries, treated or being treated on scene.”

“Mid-back, again from this on-site, similar to Ellissa Wyman.” Still he verified TOD.

“According to his partner, Officer Russo attempted to shield the boy, shouted for people to take cover. He was struck seconds later— at least according to my TOD results, he died seconds after the boy.”

Once again Morris looked up, looked around. “You’ve contained this area quickly.”

“Not quickly enough.” She crouched beside him, decided she didn’t give a rat’s ass about the official record. “They had me and the victims on the goddamn jumbo screens. This kid’s mother or father? They may see that replayed before we can notify them. I had to give that to Peabody.”

Understanding, he touched her hand briefly, then rose to go to the fallen officer.

“He’s young, too.” “Twenty-three.”

“Head strike, mid-forehead. Do you suspect the shooter was showing off, as he was with the third victim at the rink?”

“I suspect the shooter knew Officer Russo would be wearing body armor as is procedure. He might have injured Russo with a body shot, but he wouldn’t have taken him out. The goal was to take him out. You’ll see the fourth victim was another body shot, and my information is the survivor was struck mid-body, but to the left. A few inches right, and she’d be lying here with the other four. She still may come to you.”

“All victims are equal in my house, but . . .” Morris verified TOD. “You kill a cop, it changes everything,” Eve finished. “This shooter

has to know that. There was a choice here, this was deliberate. He targeted a cop—and it may be he targeted this specific cop.”

“Yet didn’t stop there, but took another, and sent a fifth to surgery.”

“I think—” She broke off as she heard the shouts, the hysteria.

She saw a woman struggling with a pair of uniforms at the barricade, weeping, fighting, screaming a single name over and over.

Nate. Nathaniel Jarvits—the second victim.

“His mother,” Morris said. “Would you like me to—”

“No, I’ve got it. Finish here, get the victims transported as soon as you can.”

She rose, walked quickly.

Not even wearing a coat, Eve noted. The mother had run out of wherever she’d been in her street clothes.

“Mrs. Jarvits. Mrs. Jarvits! Look at me, look here. I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Nate. Nate. Where’s my baby?”

“Mrs. Jarvits, I need you to come with me.” Where the hell was she going to take her in this mess? As she considered her best options, Eve started to take off her coat, but Whitney moved more quickly.

“Mrs. Jarvits.” He wrapped his own coat around her. “I’m Commander Whitney. Come with me now. Coffee shop.” He gestured. “I’ve had it cleared. I’ll take Mrs. Jarvits.”

“Please, where’s my son? Is he hurt? I need to see my son. He’s Nathaniel Foster Jarvits. He’s Nate.”

Whitney wrapped an arm around her, steered her away as Peabody jogged up.

“I couldn’t reach her. She must have seen a bulletin. I was able to contact the father, but I couldn’t reach her. She works a few blocks away.”

“She just ran,” Eve concluded. “She saw the damn feed and she ran. All right.” She took a breath to settle herself. “We’ll take the witnesses in the coffee shop. We’ll split them up. Jenkinson, Reineke.”

“On the way. Traffic’s insane. ETA ten minutes.” “Any word on the survivor?”

“Nothing new.”

“Then let’s do what we do.” She looked over as Russo’s bagged body was lifted onto a gurney for transport. At least a dozen uniforms stopped, stood. Saluted.

Eve did the same. “Whitney’s giving a push on Russo. We’ll have full data and we’ll have it fast. He’s priority—and not just because he’s one of ours.”

She scanned the faces of cops, then her eyes narrowed as Roarke moved around them, walking toward her. Inside the barricade.

She should’ve figured he’d beat her own detectives to the scene. “You didn’t need to drop everything and come here.”

“I’m here. Whatever you need from me, you’ll have. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Nothing he could have said could have so completely closed her throat. He understood. She hadn’t known Russo, but he’d been a cop, doing his best to serve and protect.

He’d died trying to protect.

Roarke shifted, shielding her from the sharpest bite of the wind.

He didn’t, as he wanted to, put his arms around her. “The report said four dead, unknown injured.”

“That’s accurate. He went for five and one survived—so far.

Others were injured in the panic.”

“Whatever you need from me,” he said again.

“If you could . . .” The sleet had turned to a thin, sad snow. As it fell, she took another moment to compose herself. “If you could work that program of yours on this incident. Coordinate with Feeney, or McNab, or both. Any data you can get is going to help. I nailed the first nest this morning using whatever the hell you put together.”

“I’ll start right away.”

To her shock, he reached into the pocket of her coat. And he took out the gloves she’d forgotten she’d stuffed in there.

“Put these on. Your hands are cold. Once I have what I need out here,” he continued, “is there a place you want me to work?”

Since he’d pointed it out, she realized her hands were cold. Pulling on the gloves, she huffed out a breath that formed a thin cloud, blew away in a snap of wind. “If you can get to my office, you can use that. Or if you need more room, Peabody can get you a conference room.”

“Your office is fine. Otherwise, I’ll use the lab in EDD. I know my way around.”

“Yeah, you do. Looks like I owe you again.”

“Not this time.” He took her hand, squeezed it. “You have spare gloves in the dash box if you lose these. Take care of my cop.”

I

—

t took more than two hours to clear the scene, to interview witnesses, to take contact information. She left Jenkinson and

Reineke to deal with the dregs. Whitney had already left the scene, to personally notify the fallen officer’s next of kin.

For a moment she just sat behind the wheel of her car, ordering her thoughts. Then, with no patience for knotted traffic, maxibuses, or anything else, hit the sirens.

“You’ll head up to EDD,” she told Peabody. “See if you can help in any way. The minute we have any target buildings, anything over seventy-five percent probability, I want detectives knocking on doors. Unless they’re working hotter than this, they’re all out there, working this. Can you coordinate that?”

“Yes, sir. I can take that.”

“I’m going to sit on Yancy. We need those sketches. I need to talk to Nadine, work her into pushing angles we want pushed. I’ll work with Morris, but I don’t think he or the dead are going to tell us anything we don’t know at this point. And with Mira, but same goes.”

She drove fiercely, adding vicious blares of her horn to her sirens when people didn’t get the hell out of her way fast enough.

“Here’s a puzzle, Peabody. What do a respected OB-GYN and a cop still green under the edges have in common? Besides being dead.”

“Why the cop, Dallas?”

“Because if you’re killing for sport, no matter how cocky you are, most will lay off cops. This isn’t sport. It’s a mission. Because he was the only head shot. We need to find out what connects Michaelson and Russo, and we need to find out fast.”

She pulled into the garage at Central, swung into her slot, braked hard. “Russo had just come back from his lunch break. Five minutes before, five minutes after, he’s not in that spot. That’s not a coincidence because—”

“Coincidences are bollocks,” Peabody finished. “I got the memo.”

“Fucking A, and according to his partner, they routinely took their break at that time, came back on duty at that time. A routine, Peabody, like Michaelson. None of the other victims had that routine. Only two out of the eight targeted had a routine, could be counted on to be where they were—that time, that place.”

“Wyman,” Peabody began.

“Was a regular at the rink, but she didn’t go on specific days, at specific times, the way Michaelson did. She had a looser routine.”

Eve strode toward the elevator. “They’re trying to make it look random, but they can’t. Because it’s not. We’ll find the link, we’ll find the goddamn link, and we’ll take them down.”

“It’s personal now. Don’t say it’s not,” Peabody insisted. “It’s always a little personal, but this is—”

She broke off when the elevator opened. Two uniforms and a couple of detectives stepped out. All four wore black armbands.

The older of the uniforms nodded to them. “Lieutenant, Detective.

Anything you need.”

Eve nodded in return, but said nothing as she stepped in, ordered their level.

Because Peabody was right. It was personal now.

E

—

ve split off, headed straight to Yancy’s division. More black armbands—it didn’t take long for the word to spread. She

nearly stopped short when she saw the pretty blond standing with Yancy at his desk. Laurel Esty, she remembered, a key witness in a recent investigation. One who’d worked well with Yancy.

Laurel brushed a hand down Yancy’s arm, turned to go. When she saw Eve, she smiled in recognition, then her big eyes sobered.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m really sorry about what happened. I just stopped by to . . . Well, I’m just leaving.”

“Okay.”

“Ah, bye, Vince.”

“I’ll see you later.” Yancy looked at Eve as Laurel wound her way out. He wasn’t a blusher like Trueheart, but if he had been, his handsome face would have reddened all the way to his curly mop of hair.

“Um, she was just . . .” “Leaving.”

“Right. We were going to try to meet up for drinks, but . . .” “Drinks?”

“Yeah, we’re sort of seeing each other.” “Not my business.”

“Well, no, but . . . Anyway.”

“I’m a little more interested in the sketches. Your progress there.” “Right, which is why I canceled the drinks deal. It’s taken me

longer than I wanted, and Henry was a hell of a good wit—which is partially why. He gets details—and more of them when I asked if Mira would work with us. She does this cognitive memory thing and he struck me as a good candidate.”

After a glance around, he dragged over a second chair from an unoccupied desk. “I wanted to let it sit an hour, go back and refine, but here’s what I’ve got for you.”

She sat, waited while he ordered the sketches on a split screen.

Eve’s cop gut did a fast dance. “Jesus, Yancy, these are the next thing to photos.”

“Credit Henry. Seriously.”

She’d credit Henry later, but right now she studied the artist/comp concepts of a white male, early fifties, square-jawed, hard-eyed. Not what she’s call a gaunt face, but thin in a way that read illness or loss of appetite to her. Short, not quite military short, medium-brown hair worn in a brushback.

Clean-shaven, tight-lipped, fuller on the top. Eyebrows thick and nearly straight.

She switched to the second sketch.

No more than sixteen, still a little dewy, rounder in the cheeks, softer in the jaw. A mixed-race heritage in the deepness of the eye color, in the soft brown skin tone, in the texture of the hair—black hair in dreads under a ski cap.

But the shape of the eyebrows and jaw—that slightly fuller upper lip . . .

“I lean female,” Yancy said, “but that’s just impression. Could be a boy—Henry leaned boy by the end of our session. Boys can have a

softness to them at that age. Male, I’d say no more than fourteen. Girl, maybe up to sixteen.”

“They’re related.”

“I’m going with you there. Might be father and kid, or he could be an uncle, but there’s a familial resemblance. Shape of the jaw, eyebrows, mouth. I’ve got more—full body on each.”

“Have you run any face-recognition?” “Not yet, I wanted to tweak a little.”

“Run now, tweak later. Filter the run on the adult with military or police training. Let’s see what pops.”

“Hang on.” Yancy swiveled to another screen, started the program, added the filters. “You should see the full-body. Even if we don’t release these, it’ll give you a clear sense of build, on both.”

He brought up the next sketches, showing the adult male—broad- shouldered, long-legged. He struck her, again, as someone who’d lost weight, maybe some muscle tone. Not a weak sister, she mused, but due to illness or stress. A little hollow-eyed.

The minor suspect was definitely a more delicate build, but compact rather than gangly. Tough and . . .

“Kid’s fit—there’s a springy look there.”

“Springy,” Yancy repeated. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good word for it. I think— Wow, we got a hit already. I don’t think it’s going to . . .”

He trailed off as the ID image popped on screen. Then let out a deep breath, said, “Hot, holy fuck, Dallas.”

Eyes on the ID shot, Eve gripped Yancy’s arm. Hard. “Hold it down,” she murmured.

“He’s a cop,” Yancy said under his breath. “He’s a goddamn cop.” “Was,” Eve corrected.

Reginald Mackie, age fifty-four, retired after twenty years on the NYPSD—the last eleven of them in Tactical. Prior to joining the force, he’d been U.S. Army—a weapons expert.

He’d been Lowenbaum’s.

“Send me everything, now. And don’t talk to anybody—anybody— Yancy, about this until I clear it.”

She didn’t sprint away, though she wanted to. Cops observed, and the primary in this investigation running through Central would lead many to the correct conclusion. She had a hot lead.

But she moved fast, yanking out her ’link as she went. “Lowenbaum. My office, asap.”

“I’ve got a—”

“Drop it. Whatever it is, drop it, and move.”

She cut him off without waiting for an assent, contacted Whitney next. “Sir, I need a conference room, and your presence, and Mira’s, as quickly as possible.”

“I’m on my way back from the notification.” He studied her face, and she saw realization come into his eyes. “Twenty minutes. I’ll take care of the room and Mira.”

She risked the sprint on the glides—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d bulled her way up or down them—and contacted Feeney next.

“I need you, Roarke, and McNab if you can spare him.”

She didn’t have to explain, not to Feeney. He only nodded. “Give us ten.”

“My bullpen if you make it in under ten. Conference room—you’ll need to check the log for which one—if it’s longer.”

She clicked off again, stepped into her own bullpen. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. I want everyone who isn’t about to close the case of the decade to prep for a full briefing and op.”

“Yancy hit.” Peabody pushed to her feet. “How sure are we?” “I’m going with a hundred on that. Lowenbaum’s on his way, the

commander is booking a conference room. We roll there as soon as it’s ready. And we keep this right here for now.”

“Fuck me.” Face grim, Baxter clenched his fists. “It’s a cop.”

“I’ll have more data shortly. Close out whatever you’ve got—and if you can’t, explain why, my office, in five. Peabody, with me.”

Swinging off her coat, Eve strode to her office. “Computer, background data, in full, on Tactical Officer Reginald Mackie, on screen.”

 

Acknowledged. Working . . .

 

“Close the door,” she ordered Peabody, then began reading. “Enlisted, U.S. Army, in 2029, pulled out in 2039, as a sergeant.

Trained sniper, instructor. Started on the job six months later, moved

to Tactical in ’49. Retired last year, spring. Last CO—Lowenbaum.”

She paced as she read. Without asking, Peabody programmed coffee, passed a mug to her.

“Married Zoe Younger, 2045, one offspring, female, Willow, age fifteen. Computer, ID photo and data on Willow Mackie.”

When it came up, Eve studied it with cool, flat eyes. The hair, a bit longer than the sketch, but it was as in the bag as Reginald’s.

“She’s the one with him,” Eve said. “That’s confirmed. Divorced— Reginald Mackie, that is, 2052. Start running the ex-wife, Peabody. I want her current status, address. Who has custody of the kid.”

“I’m on it.”

“Married Susann Prinz, 2059. Widowed—and there it is, I’d bet my ass—2059. November 2059. Married March, widowed November.

Computer: How did Susann Prinz die?”

 

Accessing . . . Prinz, Susann, age thirty-two at time of death, was killed when struck by a vehicle as she crossed East Sixty-Fourth between Fifth and Madison Avenues. According to the accident report and witnesses, Prinz ran out between parked vehicles, and was struck when the oncoming vehicle was unable to stop. No charges were filed against the driver, Brian T. Fine, age sixty-two. Do you wish the full incident report and all follow-up data?

 

“Yeah, lock that in, but give me the name of the officer or officers who responded to the scene.”

 

First-on-scene, and the officer of record, was Officer Kevin Russo, badge number—

 

“Hold that. That’s enough. Was Prinz pregnant?” Prinz was sixteen weeks pregnant at time of death. “Her doctor? Her—what is it—obstetrician?”

One moment . . . accessing . . . Her obstetrician of record was Dr. Brent Michaelson.

 

“Pause run,” she said at the knock on the door, and went to open it herself. “Lowenbaum. I need everything you can tell me on Reginald Mackie.”

“What?” Shock, an instant denial registered on his face. “No.

Come on, Dallas.”

Deliberately, she shut the door behind him. “You knew he was off

—you’d have seen it. Think back.”

“Well, Christ.” He took a moment, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Listen, Mac was wound tight, but a lot of Tacticals are. He was a good, solid cop. I worked with him for a dozen years. His wife died

—an accident. They hadn’t been married a year, and she was pregnant, and he . . .”

Eve waited until Lowenbaum added it up, fast. “Ah, fuck it. Fuck.

This is about Susann. It has to be about Susann. He has another kid, a girl, about fourteen, fifteen.”

“Willow, fifteen, ID’d as the second suspect. I’m going to fill you in, and you’re going to fill us in. And you’re going to pick your best men

—I want officers who can keep the lid shut—and prepare for a takedown.”

“A lot of my best men worked with Mac. Susann’s cousin’s on the job, a friend of mine. That’s how they met.”

A former cop, Eve thought, with twenty in, would have a lot of friends and connections on the job.

“Pick carefully. And remember he’s responsible for seven deaths, and one of them was a cop. A twenty-three-year-old uniform whose last act was trying to shield another victim. Mackie gets wind we’ve ID’d him, he’ll either rabbit or he’ll go the last-stand route.”

“He won’t rabbit.” Pale, Lowenbaum scrubbed at his face again, pressed his fingers hard against his eyes. “Give me a few minutes to settle into this, order my thoughts. I know him as well as anybody, I’d say.”

“And the kid? Do you know the kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know Will, a little anyway. She idolizes him. She’s been in some trouble here and there—school shit—and her mother

remarried, had another kid. It’s split custody with Will. Let me organize this in my head. We have to stop him, and I’d like him to be alive after we do. Let me think.”

“Think here. Peabody, find our conference room.” “It’s A.”

“Let’s take what we’ve got, move this there. I need you in ten, Lowenbaum, organized or not.”

“Ten’s good.”

Within five, Eve was putting her board together, putting her thoughts together, putting the outline of an op together.

When her detectives and uniforms began to file in, she glanced back at Uniform Carmichael.

“Uniform Carmichael, I need the following people brought in for protective custody. Brian T. Fine, Zoe Younger, Lincoln Stuben, Zach Younger Stuben, age seven, Marta Beck. Peabody will give you home and work addresses. If these individuals don’t cooperate, arrest them for impeding a police investigation. Send out whatever people you need, and get those individuals into Central as soon as possible. You’ll be fully briefed subsequently. Peabody, get him those addresses—home and employment. No chatter, Carmichael.

Absolutely none.”

“No chatter, LT. Absolutely none.”

Eve went back to her board as Feeney came in with Roarke and McNab, as Lowenbaum—no longer pale—followed.

“Grab chairs, grab coffee if you need it. We start as soon as the commander and Mira are in the room.”

Roarke moved to her, spoke quietly. “It’s one of yours?” At her nod, he simply looked into her eyes, didn’t touch her as he wanted. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

She heard Mira’s heels—brisk, brisk, brisk. “Maybe you can see if there’s any of that flower tea crap Mira drinks in this AutoChef. This is going to take a while. You didn’t order in a bunch of food, did you?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t. This is the sort of thing you’re better off going into hungry.”

She already had Mackie’s ID photo—along with Yancy’s sketch. Willow Mackie’s beside it on the board. And the room full of cops muttered and mumbled around it.

Then Whitney stepped in—with Chief Tibble—and the room silenced.

“Lieutenant,” Tibble said, and moved to a chair. “You have the room.”

“Yes, sir. Everybody, take a seat, listen up.”