9

 

 

Eve tagged Peabody, reeled off the names from Willow’s list. “These people are connected to the suspects, most likely the female. Nail them down, get contact information.”

She clicked off, turned to Roarke. “If Mackie’s monitoring the security cams in the apartment remotely, jamming them will tip him.”

As they walked, Roarke simply patted her shoulder and contacted Feeney. Though they launched into e-speak that made her head bang, Eve understood enough to interpret.

“You—or Feeney—can override the cam and replay a loop.” “Exactly so. If Mackie’s monitoring closely, it won’t fool him for

long, so we’ll want to time it well.”

“He could’ve rigged the door, right? He’s a cop, he’d think of details. Rig the door to let him know when anyone goes in, so—”

“Darling Eve, this is hardly my first B and E. In fact, how happy am I it’s not even my first of the day. Have a little faith.”

The snapping wind had keened to a sharp edge. She caught the scent of soy dogs and chestnuts from a cart—a puff of winter- fragrant smoke. Someone’s vehicle alarm went off in annoying, rapid beeps as a couple of teenage girls ran by giggling like lunatics.

Roarke spoke easily to Feeney. “Override in ten,” Feeney announced.

“Copy that. Take the door,” Eve told Roarke. “Unlikely he’s got a way to monitor my master, but why take the chance?”

“And go,” Feeney said.

They went to the entrance and, with Roarke’s clever hands, were smoothly inside in under six seconds.

“No lobby cams, but the standard in the elevator.”

“We take the stairs.” Eve started up.

A decent enough place, she thought. Nothing close to the ex- wife’s duplex, but decent. She noticed sporadic soundproofing, catching snippets of sound from apartments as they moved up.

But on Mackie’s floor all held quiet. “He bumped up his security.”

Roarke nodded as they stood out of range of the camera over his apartment door. “I’ve got this one.”

He took a device from his pocket, keyed in something, studied the readout, added more code. “Feed’s looped. Let’s see what other tricks he has for us.”

When they approached the door, Roarke used the same device to scan the locks, the security swipe. “Clever,” he murmured. “I’m reading a monitoring system, so you were right to be cautious here. No explosives, so that’s a bonus, isn’t it? Let me just . . . Aye, that’s it. Each in its time. Yes, clever enough. But . . . There you are. Hang on to this, will you?”

He handed Eve the device that hummed quietly in her hand while he took out his tools.

She watched him slip around a trio of police locks like they were thumb bolts.

Eve handed the device back to him, drew her weapon. “No explosives, good. But remember that old vid we watched a couple weeks ago? The guy booby-trapped his place. Had a big-ass shotgun rigged to go off if the door opened?”

“Classic vid,” he corrected, “but I do remember, yes. So why don’t we . . .”

They stepped to either side of the door. Eve turned the knob, dropped low, shoved the door open from the bottom.

No booby trap, no trip wires, no internal cameras. And very little else.

She stepped into a living area that held one aging and sagging sofa.

“You reading this, Feeney?” She turned a circle to give him the three-sixty with her lapel recorder.

“Yeah, shit.”

“We’ll clear it anyway.”

He’d left his bed, stripped to the mattress. A second bedroom held nothing but accumulated dust and some empty clothes hangers.

“They left this place weeks ago. Lowenbaum, stand down. They’re not coming back here. Peabody, call in the sweepers. They can go over the place, for form’s sake.”

To release a bubble of frustration, she kicked the sofa. “Copy that, sir,” Peabody said. “I can give you those names.” “Give.”

“Rene Hutchins, the school psychologist at the female suspect’s high school. Thomas Greenburg, principal at the same school. Lynda Track works with Zoe Younger—and is Lincoln Stuben’s sister.”

“Have them contacted, interviewed. Assign protective details.” “On it.”

“You don’t believe they’re in immediate danger,” Roarke said.

“No. One mission at a time.” Eve hissed out a breath. “Rounds out her hit list with two authority figures from her school and her stepfather’s sister—who’s likely friends with her mother.”

She took a turn, put the second hit list aside for now, dealt with what was more immediate—the three unknown people on the first list.

“He figured we’d get here sooner or later. He prepared for that.

Left the furniture that was too big and too old to bother with. Carmichael, Santiago, start knocking on doors here. Let’s see if anyone can tell us when he booked.”

She resisted, barely, kicking the sofa again. “Okay, all right. No more pussyfooting around. Feeney, will you contact the commander, give him the status? We’re going full release on the IDs. I’m available for a media conference in an hour.”

“Better you than me, kid.”

“Lowenbaum, be available for same.” She yanked out her ’link, started that ball rolling. “Nadine.”

“Dallas. I’ve been trying to reach you all damn day. Everything’s pushed to—”

“Where are you?”

“What? I just got home, but—” “I’m coming to you. Which home?”

“My new place. My only place now. What—”

“No cameras. I’m on my way.”

Roarke studied her cold, angry eyes. “Yanking the cork out of the bottle, are we?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you need from me?” “Right now? I could use a ride.”

In a fraction of the time she could have commandeered a police vehicle, she was sliding behind the wheel of a husky all-terrain.

Peabody dropped in beside her. “It’s big and warm.”

“It’s temporary. Plug in Nadine’s address. I don’t know where the hell it is.”

“Oh, it’s great. She’s still decorating it, but I heard it’s already looking mag, and—”

“I don’t care what it looks like.”

“Right.” Peabody sat back as the comp cued Eve on direction. “You want Nadine to break the story before you talk to the general media.”

“I want her to fucking explode it. That’ll cut down on the time I have to stand there giving statements, answering stupid questions. More, she’ll dig in. There’ll be stories and data about the suspects, about the victims. We have targets as yet unidentified, as yet unprotected. A good chance they’ll come to us after this. We need more background on the dead wife.”

“I did more digging while we were waiting. Birth family, education, employment. Nothing stands out. Pretty stable family, grew up in Westchester, no trouble in school, two years of college, general studies. Worked in retail. Moved to Brooklyn, roomed with a couple of girlfriends. switched jobs—still retail. Married Mackie, moved again, changed jobs again. Last employment Boomer’s, clothing store on East Fifty-Seventh.”

“She went to the doctor’s, must’ve been heading back to work after the appointment. I want to talk to Marta Beck, find out what went on that day at the appointment. Let’s find out the name of her supervisor at work. Mackie blamed the doctor, and Beck’s initials are on the hit list, so he sees her as part of it.”

“Beck isn’t a medical. She’s administration.”

“Exactly. Beck said they often ran behind with appointment times.” “Ever been to a doctor that doesn’t?”

“I try to avoid them. So maybe her appointment ran late, and she’s rushing—why else does a sane person run out into the street? If she was rushing back to work, he might target her supervisor, or someone at her job. Get me names.”

“Got that. Oh, you can park in the underground here, there’s a visitors level.”

“We’re not visitors.”

The building was sharp and sleek and silver. Not shiny and bright, but aged in a way to lend it character and dignity. She pulled straight up to the lavish front entrance, nosing in behind a limo disgorging a woman inside a massive fur coat carrying a tiny dog—also wearing a fur coat over his skinny dog body.

The doorman hustled to the lady with the dog, took a safari’s worth of shopping bags from the driver. The doorman glanced toward Eve as she pushed out of the A-T, started to speak.

He stopped, gave a brisk nod as he juggled bags and hustled back to the door. “Lieutenant Dallas, I’ll be right with you.”

“I don’t need you,” she said, beating the lady and dog to the door, striding straight through.

“Charlie,” the woman said, “will you just have everything sent up?

Mimi is exhausted.”

“Absolutely, Ms. Mannery. Lieutenant.”

“Nadine Furst, expecting me. Leave my vehicle where it is.”

Eve walked away from him, then realized she didn’t have a clue.

Ground level soared toward vaulted ceilings where vines twined around white beams. Light sparkled on white marble floors from huge chandeliers fashioned from twists of that aged silver and balls of rich blue glass.

At a scan she spotted a bank, three boutiques, restaurants, a bakery and a gourmet food mart, a business center.

“Security will clear you right up.” Charlie the doorman, still buried in shopping bags, hurried up to her. “Ms. Furst’s penthouse can be accessed from elevator bank C—any car.”

Eve headed to C, past a translucent wall of falling water that fell musically into a narrow pool banked with lush red flowers.

Eve stepped into the elevator, scowled when a disembodied voice proclaimed: Two occupants cleared for Penthouse A. Please enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

“Yeah, because it’s been a fucking day at the beach so far.” “We know where they’re not, so that’s something,” Peabody

muttered as she worked on her PPC. “Okay, got the assistant manager at Boomer’s, one Alyce Ellison.”

“Have her brought in,” Eve snapped as the elevator doors open. “I want her in protective custody now.”

“Who?” Nadine demanded, standing in a wide foyer flanked by matching pedestal tables holding blue orchids.

Eve had said no cameras, but as usual, Nadine Furst stood camera ready in a sharp suit of bold red, her streaky blond hair swept back from her foxy face. Eyes of clever green held Eve’s gaze.

“Now, Peabody.”

Behind Nadine the living area spread—sparcely furnished as yet, with glossy floors the color of the roasted chestnuts that had scented the street. A wall of windows opened the living space to a wide terrace, and a spectacular view of the city.

“I don’t have much time,” Eve began. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Nadine.”

“Not much time, understood, but since you’ve been dodging me all day, I’d like a little room.”

“Not dodging you. Dodging media period, and for a reason. I’m here now because I’m going to be part of a media conference in about an hour. I don’t have much room to give.”

“Got room for coffee while we do this?” “God, yes.”

“Follow me.”

Nadine moved briskly—Eve noticed she wore house skids with the suit—across the living space, through a dining area with a long, slick black table centered with a big glass basket in orchid blue and surrounded by black chairs with blue seat cushions. Into a silver- and-white kitchen, complete with breakfast nook in a window alcove and a massive center island.

“You don’t even cook.”

“I can if I have to, and why not have a fabulous space for catering?

It so happens I have Dallas blend stocked.” “What blend?”

“Don’t you even know what you drink?” Nadine asked as she slid open a black panel to an AutoChef.

“Roarke’s coffee.”

“Which has several blends. Yours is Dallas.” “Huh. Peabody, can you use that wall screen?” “Can do.”

“Put up the ID photos while we get this coffee.”

Nadine’s fingers paused on the controls of the AutoChef. “You’ve ID’d the shooters?”

“Coffee, program coffee,” Eve ordered, now fairly desperate for a hit. “Former Tactical Officer Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, age fifteen.”

“Holy shit.” Nadine yanked open a drawer for a notebook, a recorder.

“No recorder, not yet. Suspects are still at large.”

Not one to stand on ceremony where coffee was concerned, Eve opened the AC herself when it signaled, took out a white mug of black coffee.

“They’ve vacated Mackie’s known residence. The minor suspect’s mother, stepfather, and half brother are in protective custody.”

“How did you ID the suspects?”

“Good police work. Look, you’ll get what I can give you now; you’ll get what I can give generally at the media conference.”

Eve gulped down coffee, felt her system revive. And paced. “Pictures on screen, Peabody.” Nadine passed Peabody a coffee regular. “You can take notes, Nadine, but no recordings until the official conference.”

Quickly, succinctly, Eve outlined what she could, still pacing, still gulping coffee.

“You believe Willow Mackie is a willing participant in the killings.” “Here’s some off-the-record until I clear it.” Eve waited for Nadine’s

nod. “I think she’s the shooter, and I believe—bullshit,” she corrected. “I know she has a secondary hit list of her own. For

whatever reason, his own physical or emotional state, or the fact he’s a twisted, vengeful lunatic, I think Mackie’s given his daughter the green.”

“Why the unconnected strikes—two people at the ice rink, four at Times Square? Cover?”

“It looks that way.” But Eve thought it was more, even more callous than that. “We believe the suspects have additional targets, and will move on them quickly. If they follow pattern, they’ll choose a public area, somewhere the target routinely goes or lives or works. And they will take more lives.”

“You want me to get their faces out there. When am I cleared for it?”

“Now. Their names and faces, as soon as you can. The other details, I need twenty minutes. The off-the-record stays that way until I clear it. That gives you a leg up on the rest of the media. That leg up comes with a price.”

“Name it.”

“Put up Susann Mackie, Peabody. I want this face, too. I want Mackie to see it every time he turns to the screen. I want him to hear her name, to revisit her life and death.”

“You want to break him.”

Eyes flat, Eve set the empty mug down. “I will break him. One more. The lawyer Mackie hired—he’s a potential target, but I’ve got no name. You could dig there, too.”

“I’ll put some people on it.”

“You hit anyone with these initials—JR or MJ—you let me know right away. Right away, Nadine.”

“Done. How are you going to break her?” “I’m working on it. We have to move.” “So do I.”

“Swank digs, Nadine,” Eve commented.

Nadine smiled. “Thanks. I wanted swank, and they’re going to be swankier when I’m done.”

As Eve turned to go, Nadine snatched up her ’link. Eve heard her say: “Put me through to Lloyd now. I don’t give a hot fuck what he’s doing. I said now!”

When they stepped into the elevator again, Eve took a breath. “Peabody, have the witnesses to Susann Mackie’s accident brought in. None of their initials were on the list, but we won’t risk it. And I want Zoe Younger in Interview. We’ll see what Baxter and Trueheart got from her, but I need this round.”

She checked the time. And she wondered where Mackie and his murderous offspring would be when they saw their own faces on screen.

T

—

hey were in the converted loft Mackie had rented shortly before Thanksgiving, where he’d begun moving during the kickoff of

the holiday season.

He’d bought some furniture—cheap, serviceable—and though it stung to pay rent on two apartments, he felt it worth the expense. Just as it stung to leave some money in his old bank account, under a name he no longer used.

He hoped to be able to clear out that account, but if not, again, it was worth the expense.

If things went well—Plan A—he and Will would be on their way to Alaska within the week, where they could live off the land quietly and remotely.

Where they could hunt, where they could build a home, a life.

Zoe would sic the dogs on them, of course. He wouldn’t blame her for it. But they’d leave no scent, no trail, and for a few months, Will would be William Black, age sixteen, the son of John Black, a retired insurance adjuster from New Mexico. A widower who was homeschooling his only son.

They’d move again, inside Alaska, and become father and daughter again. And, as they did here in the loft, they would keep to themselves. He’d find peace in Alaska. He believed it, had to believe it. No more night terrors, night sweats. He’d ease himself off the funk, off the booze. His hands would stop shaking, his mind and eyesight would clear.

Susann and the son he’d longed for would be avenged. Justice well served by the daughter who gave him pride and purpose. And

one day, when Will was old enough, he could leave her, secure in the knowledge that his only child could make her own way.

He could leave her to join Susann and the son they’d named Gabriel.

Thinking of them he began to drift away, into the comfort of imagining Susann in a white dress, sitting under a big, arching tree on a gentle green hill, with the baby in her arms.

There was a little farmhouse nearby, yellow with blue shutters, a white fence, a garden in bloom.

Their dream house, one they’d built in their dreams and conversations, the house in the country they’d dreamed of having one day.

She waited for him there, with the baby in her arms, and a brown puppy sleeping by her side.

He needed to see her there, her and his son. Under the big tree, in sunlight. At night she screamed for him in the dark, screamed his name, and the baby screamed with her.

But now she smiled, content to wait until he climbed the hill and sat beside her.

“Dad! Dad!”

He shot awake, reaching for the weapon at his hip.

In the gloomy light of the loft he saw Will standing in front of the short sofa, staring at the wall screen. She’d been cleaning her weapon, he noted, pleased to see the rifle on the table in front of her.

Still, the snap in her tone brought him to his feet, brought back the former soldier inside him. “Do we have a breach?”

“They’ve got our names, our faces.”

He stepped over to stand with her, to listen to the breaking story.

His last official ID photo, and Willow’s, filled the screen while the reporter’s voice sounded over them.

“To repeat, police have identified two suspects in the Wollman Rink and Times Square attacks in which seven people, including a police officer, were killed and more than fifty people were injured. Police are looking for Reginald Mackie, a former Tactical officer with the NYPSD, and his fifteen-year-old daughter, Willow Mackie.”

The ID shots shrunk, swiped to the side of the screen while Nadine Furst in her bold red came into view.

“Police officials have scheduled a media conference to provide additional details. At this time, they ask if anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of these suspects, please do not engage, as they are believed to be armed and dangerous.

“Reginald Mackie, fifty-four, an Army veteran and decorated police officer, was widowed in November of 2059 when his wife, Susann Prinz Mackie, was killed in a vehicular accident. Mrs. Mackie,” Nadine continued when Susann’s picture came on screen, “was sixteen weeks pregnant at the time of the accident.”

Susann’s picture hung on screen, lips curved, eyes smiling. Then his came on, and Willow’s while Nadine continued the report.

“How’d they make us? How’d they make us this fast?”

“Solid police work.” He said it quietly as he saw his dream of a life in Alaska, a life of peace, fading.

Gone, he thought. No peace to come. No home. No life to build. “But we’ve been so careful. They have Mom by now, don’t they?

And Lincoln and the brat.”

“Your brother,” Mackie reminded her. “He’s your brother, Will. Your blood.”

Something feral gleamed in her eyes, but her father didn’t see it. “Yeah, they have them. You cleared out everything from your room? Anything that connects to the agenda?”

“I told you I did.” Insult sliced through her tone. As if she’d leave anything. Her eyes, hard green against that soft, smooth skin, flashed toward him. “There’s nothing in my room back there. I’m not stupid.”

He nodded, moved over into the tiny kitchen area, programmed coffee for himself, got her a tube of the Coke she preferred. “This is why we worked out a Plan B.”

“But, Dad—”

“Will, the mission comes first. You understood that. You trained for that. We go to the alternate plan, and regroup.” He gave her a sad smile. “You need to cut your hair, honey, and get moving. I’ll get to you when I can, but . . . In the event I’m captured or taken out, you know what to do.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I depend on you.”

When she nodded, he stepped back. “Pack it up, clear it out, wipe it down. We both move tonight.”

“The media conference. We need to watch. We need to know what they’re releasing to the public.”

Pride rose again. “That’s right. Leave the screen on.”

E

—

ve might have hated media conferences, but she knew how to use them when it worked to her advantage. If the Mackies

weren’t watching live, they’d see the constant replays, the sound bites, the endless talking-head commentary.

So she made certain the killers got an earful.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge what investigative steps led us to identify the suspects other than to say the NYPSD has focused its manpower, its experience, and its man hours into doing so since the first strike in Central Park.”

One of the reporters leaped to his feet. “Isn’t it true that additional focus and manpower was put into the investigation after an NYPSD officer was killed?”

Eve said nothing for fully five seconds. “Ellissa Wyman, Brent Michaelson, Alan Markum,” she began, and named every victim, in order of their deaths. “Those are the lives taken, the human beings killed. I wonder if the suspects know their names, looked into their faces, thought of their families. We did. So save your idiot remarks for somebody who hasn’t stood in the blood of the seven dead.

Nathaniel Jarvits was only seventeen. He died on his seventeenth birthday. Officer Kevin Russo, age twenty-three, was struck down while going to Nathaniel Jarvits’s aid, trying to shield him from further injury. While doing his job as a police officer. Do you want me to give you a thumbnail on each victim? Because I can if you don’t have the balls to do your job and report on who they were.”

“Do you have a motive?”

“We believe the Mackies are targeting individuals connected in some way with Susann Mackie’s accident. We’re actively pursuing this line of investigation.”

“Willow Mackie is only fifteen. Do you believe she was taken as a hostage by her father?”

“Evidence does not lead us to believe Willow Mackie is being held against her will or is being coerced. And don’t bother because I’m not at liberty to share that evidence with you at this time. Both suspects are expert and experienced marksmen. Reginald Mackie trained his daughter in weaponry, in marksmanship. Seven people have been killed, more than fifty have been injured by what we term long-distance serial killers. The LDSK is, at the core, a coward.

Skilled, cold-blooded, but a coward who kills at a distance, who sees the victim as nothing more than a target or a mark.”

“Reginald Mackie used that skill as an NYPSD officer,” someone called out.

“The skill, yes. Tactical officers aren’t killers. Nor do they mark innocents. It’s their job to use that skill to protect the innocent and other officers. And to take down a threat by forceful stun. Terminating that threat is only ordered when the risk to other lives is too great.”

“Why didn’t Mackie’s predilection show on his evaluations?”

Before Eve could answer, Lowenbaum stepped forward. “That’s on me,” he stated. “Lieutenant Lowenbaum. I was Reginald Mackie’s supervising officer.”

Eve stayed back. Lowenbaum was clear, precise, accurate. He fielded follow-ups with more patience than she might have.

But when she’d heard enough, just enough, she moved forward again.

“If you want to angle a story that blames the department for the actions of a retired officer, go do that. But right now there are two suspects at large. You have their names, you have their faces.

Maybe you should push forward with your trumpet call of the public’s right to know and get this information out there. It might save a life.

We’re ending this session so we can go to work and make certain we save lives.”