Hostage Taker (15 page)

T
he world was deathly gray. The glittering white lights of Saks had been snuffed out. Their holiday windows had gone dark. The Olympic Tower and Rockefeller Center were now unlit. It was as though someone had flicked a switch and blacked out Fifth Avenue’s celebration of light.

All in the name of security, of course.

“What the hell were you doing out there?” Henry Ma spoke in a low rumble the moment Eve was in earshot. “You could’ve got yourself killed.”

“You know exactly what I was doing,” she replied coolly.

“That kind of hotheaded move can get you booted right out of the field. Worse: The news media might have caught it. Their long-range lenses pick up everything.”

“I
was
out of the field. You’re the one who brought me back in. Is this about your disagreeing with my judgment—or just a public-relations issue?”

“I’d call your actions ill-advised on both counts.”

Except Eve knew: It was the prospect of public judgment that annoyed Henry. And he didn’t like this case already. It wasn’t straightforward. The city was in chaos. They still had no ID for the suspect. No clear motive. No resolution in sight.

“There’s a casebook we study at the Academy in Quantico,” she told him. “I believe you know it. Your name’s on the spine as a coauthor. If you think about it, you’ll recognize that what I did falls strictly under chapter three, section two.”

Henry shook his head. “So what exactly did you learn from that stunt you just pulled?”

She continued walking back toward the MRU. The area around the secure perimeter was filled with officers moving around—some in ballistics gear, some wearing fluorescent vests, others in plainclothes. Their faces were uniformly pale, concerned. It was increasingly cold. From somewhere beyond Rockefeller Plaza, a Christmas carol played. The notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” danced like snowflakes in the air above.

She glanced at Henry, who followed her closely. “I learned who we’re dealing with. You’d call him a control freak—and he is. But here’s what’s important: His need for control tells me about his background. Now I know we’re looking for someone with gaps in his history. Possibly from a broken home. Possibly he’s grown up with multiple parent figures. As an alternative, he may have moved around a lot as a child. Maybe a military brat, which would figure into the sniper training. Maybe he followed his father into military service—or similar law enforcement or security professions.”

“So you’ve just narrowed our field of subjects down to—oh, what?—almost half of America?”

“It’s not about narrowing the field,” Eve replied, ignoring his tone. “It’s about knowing your subject. Experiences like I just described will make the subject very protective of his physical and emotional space. Like we just saw.”

“And you can manipulate that?”

“That’s the plan.”

“What if this is all smoke and mirrors—and he’s not actually holding anyone inside the Cathedral?”

“And what if he’s got three dozen people in there?” she countered. “There must be more we can do to find out.”

“Believe me, I’m working on it.” Henry glanced up Fifth Avenue to the roadblock where police in riot gear now controlled growing crowds of unhappy onlookers. Headlights blazed beyond the blockade. Horns were honking; people were shouting; traffic was snarled up for blocks. “There are two individuals we strongly suspect to be inside. The boy’s mother. And the priest who would’ve presided over this morning’s Mass. No one can reach him.”

“Don’t forget the cop—assuming our eyewitness is right about that. Anything else?” Eve put her hand on the door to the MRU.

“Just this. A preliminary coroner’s report on the first victim is in—obtained in record time, due to the urgency of the situation. No toxicology yet, obviously. But plenty of information we can use—including ID.”

Eve took the manila folder from him. “So who is she?”

“Name’s Cristina Silva. And identifying her was a breeze. Turns out she had a criminal arrest; all her information and prints were on file.”

Ignoring a tinny
ringtone sounding “Jingle Bells” and the squawking radios of officers passing by, Eve stood and flipped through the file.

She flipped past Cristina Silva’s vital stats and the medical examiner’s certification to where the narrative began. Phrases jumped out at her.

The body is clad in a torn green long-sleeve T-shirt, white bra partly bloodstained, gray pants, & black underwear.

Presumably, this was a woman who’d wanted only to attend early-morning Mass—and found less solace than she’d bargained for.

The body is that of a well-nourished Hispanic woman, sixty-five inches, 131 lbs., and thirty-three years old by report.

Add to that: bound to a sign that asked for
HELP.

The corneas are clear, irises brown.

With a handwritten note tucked on back of the sign, requesting SA Eve Rossi.

The earlobes are cosmetically pierced.

She had been chosen as the first victim.

The fingernails are short, evenly cut intact.

And one final succinct phrase—
Gunshot wound, penetrating, fatal.

The preliminary autopsy findings were attached to selected Internet printouts. Cristina indeed had a record of criminal arrest. Five years and three months ago, on an eighty-five-degree summer day, she had forgotten to drop her fifteen-month-old baby girl off at daycare. Instead, she’d gone directly to work, leaving her daughter buckled into her seat in back of her Toyota. Seven hours later, she’d found her child—dead.

She’d been convicted of reckless endangerment. Sentenced to probation, counseling, and community service. Condemned by all in the press—but most of all by herself.

Cristina’s background raised a question Eve hadn’t wanted to address because it complicated matters so significantly. She’d assumed there were more hostages inside the Cathedral. She’d also assumed every hostage being held was random. Just a collection of strangers who had intended to attend early-morning Mass. She had worried only about who—and how many—the hostages were.

But was it possible these people represented something more to the Hostage Taker? That they had been chosen for a
reason
?

Her heart ached as she stepped back inside the MRU.

D
o people ever think about what’s important?

There’s one time when strangers willingly step in, no hesitation at all: when they have unsolicited advice.

I’ve seen it happen, particularly to young mothers—on the bus, in the grocery store, really any public place. “The baby needs more layers, dear; he’s going to catch cold.” “The child’s too old to still be drinking from a bottle; you’ll stunt his growth.”

It’s different for men, of course. At the bar, you’ll hear variations on: “Think you’ve had too much, man. Better slow down.” Others enjoy butting into personal relationships, asking the woman: “Is he bothering you?”

But when the stakes are real?

Those same worrywarts turn a blind eye.

Last summer, a homeless man ran up to a child in Riverside Park and shoved him. The child’s father objected. The homeless man produced a knife and stabbed the father four times. The child cried as the father lay bleeding on the ground—and countless bikers, joggers, and dog walkers passed by.

It was nineteen minutes before 911 received a call, asking for help.

Don’t you just love people?

Always there when you don’t want them.

Never around when you do.

Hypocrites.

2:17 p.m.

On the line, we have Professor Menklin, a historian at Columbia University, who also sits on the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission.

Professor Menklin, as we wait to learn the identities of those individuals we believe are held captive inside the Cathedral—and what action law enforcement will take next—let’s discuss the Cathedral itself. Is it safe to say this historic landmark is part of the Hostage Taker’s plan?

Professor, you raise an interesting question. Is the Hostage Taker targeting Saint Patrick’s as a symbol of Catholicism—or as a symbol of our city?

O
utside, pearl-gray clouds covered the sky. It was definitely colder. Eli could see it through the tiny window at his workstation, not to mention feel the draft coming in through multiple gaps in the trailer’s walls. Whoever designed these MRUs obviously had never experienced the way the wind whipped around skyscrapers during a Manhattan winter. He shivered.

It actually looked like it might snow. Light snow in this city was magical—especially when it came in December and lent atmosphere to all the wreaths and lights, window displays and holiday markets. But it had to be
light.
Heavy snow lasted too long—and made the sidewalks a dirty, slushy, treacherous mess.

He sighed, then returned to those crazy stone images of New York’s skyline coming undone. He didn’t understand how this hostage-taking could be motivated by religion—no matter what Professor Galla had said. Looked like the work of a garden-variety terrorist. Hell, though—he also couldn’t begin to understand how a nutjob like this guy would think. That was why he liked following the money trail. That was his element. He understood how people felt about money: how they stole it, where they stashed it, and, ultimately, how to get it back.

He glanced at the clock: 2:19 p.m. He needed a real job to do. Get out of this freezing tin can on wheels. When was Mace going to call?

As if in answer to his question, his phone beeped. Except it wasn’t a call. It was a text. There were three of them, all from John. Increasing urgency in every one.

Eli knew he was spinning wheels on the religious imagery, so he dialed John back. When John picked up, Eli didn’t waste time on hello. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Not exactly.”

Eli tensed, waiting for the blow. Last night must’ve gone even worse than he thought. He recognized the reluctance in John’s voice. The tone that made clear he didn’t want to be having the conversation they were about to have.

And Eli knew that tone well: It usually came right before “We need to talk” or “This isn’t working anymore.”

Instead, John said, “I’ve got a problem. And I need your help with it.”

“Of course.” Eli almost gushed with relief. God, he sounded like a schoolgirl. “Let’s meet after work tonight. Talk it through together.”

“It can’t wait.”

“Really? Uh.” Eli glanced around, self-conscious now. The room was bustling with activity. Other agents were doing six different things at once. It was definitely not the time to be on a personal call. “I can try to call you again, soon as things settle here.”

“It’ll only take a sec.” Now there was a throaty, pleading tone in John’s voice. Eli couldn’t resist it.

“Okay. Let’s hear the thirty-second version. And I promise I’ll call back the moment I can talk more.”

“I know you met my cousin Meaghan last night.”

Thin as a rail. Green dress. Stiletto heels. Great memory for long-ago details in the crime blotter. Unfortunately, Eli remembered her all too well. “What about her?”

“Meaghan needs help. I thought of you.”

“Help?”

“Her kid’s missing. A thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Sounds like she needs the police and an Amber Alert, not me.” Eli was aware that a cop whose cheeks were liberally sprinkled with giant freckles was looking at him strangely. Probably wondering why he was on a personal call.

“She tried that. Didn’t work. Officially, this is her ex-husband’s custody week. He’s not obligated to check in with her. So the police won’t lift a finger until his custody period ends in another forty-seven hours.”

“Is she on friendly terms with her ex?” Eli lowered his voice.

“They’re amicable.”

“Maybe it’s his custody time and he doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“Fair enough. But her daughter? I know Georgie; she’s a typical teenager—absolutely glued to her phone. She’d never ignore her mother’s calls.” There was a steely edge in John’s voice that surprised Eli.

“Unless she’s got a dead battery. Or is out of range. Or—”

“I get it,” John interrupted. “There are plenty of logical explanations. Meaghan’s considered all of them. She’s still worried.”

A half-formed memory thrust itself into Eli’s consciousness. “Her ex…he was having some kind of problem, wasn’t he?”

“He’s been suspended from the NYPD. Both Internal Affairs and the D.A.’s office are investigating him. Theft. Drugs.”

“So how come he still gets custody of the girl?”

John let out an exasperated sigh. “Because there’s no proof. Not yet. Remember, this is America: We still consider people innocent ’til proven guilty.”

“Uh-huh.” Eli reached for a scrap of paper. “What’s the daughter’s name?”

“Georgie. Officially, Georgianna Murphy.”

“Cell?”

John rattled off a 917 number.

“I’ll look into it,” Eli promised. “Soon as I can.”

“Hurry,” John urged. “You know how mothers worry.”

Eli clicked off the line and shoved his notes deep into his pocket. This wasn’t good. It was too soon for him to be navigating the treacherous ground of John’s family issues. Frankly, never was probably too soon. Half the equation involved a missing kid. The other half involved a derelict ex-husband. Together, it all added up to a huge family drama.