Hostage Taker (22 page)

F
rank García walked briskly down Seventh Avenue, having decided he would cut east only when he reached Fifty-first Street. He didn’t like crowds—so he usually had a strategy to avoid them. He also didn’t like being cooped up, told what to do, and forced to talk about his feelings—so he was happier today than he had been in weeks. His ex-wife had certainly gotten her revenge. Teresa had convinced some judge to mandate his participation in a PTSD treatment program for vets as a condition of continued custody visits with Frankie Junior.

Frank got it: Four tours overseas had changed him. His already short fuse had become hair-trigger. His generally wary nature was now nakedly suspicious. His brain sometimes churned with memories he wanted to forget.

None of this made him an unfit parent.

Men had gone to war for centuries. Afterward, soldiers came home—manned up—and buried their wounds so deep they couldn’t be touched. No one needed a shrink or the “talking cure.” They sure as hell didn’t need medication. Or a treatment plan. Or a schedule so tedious it was clearly designed to bore them to death. The irony hadn’t escaped him that Eve—who could psychobabble with the best of them, and who actually seemed to believe some of that shit—was responsible for his newfound freedom.

García breathed in the mix of smoke and exhaust from the hundreds of cars that were stalled. Traffic was backed up for miles. He noted the familiar: His favorite deli. A bar he knew all too well. A gentleman’s club he’d frequented years ago. Then focused on the new additions choking out the seedy establishments that were his comfort zone: A French bakery. Two banks. A wine bar. All catering to the thousands of tourists that roamed the streets surrounding Manhattan’s most popular destinations—Times Square and Rockefeller Center.

Cops stood at every street corner. Security, in theory. Except the uniforms didn’t know what the hell was going on, either. Their main job was to make sure no traffic went east.

The real law enforcement presence began at the rear side of Rockefeller Center. The cop standing by the concrete blockade on West Fifty-first Street gave García a sour look.

“I’m on your list,” he said, producing his ID.

The officer glanced at García’s scruffy jeans and mud-stained boots. “Didn’t expect to come in today, huh?” Then he compared García’s mug with the official photo and frowned. “You look older now.”

“No shit. Happens to all of us, pal.”

The officer chuckled. “You can say that again. Go on ahead.”

García walked on, passing by more banks. The entrance to the ice-skating rink. He glanced at the Christmas tree, all set for lighting. The only thing missing was the tourists. Normally, one could hardly walk in this area during the holiday season. Now all he saw were men and women in uniform—NYPD and FDNY—standing around, waiting, jumpy. Frank got a chill and made the sign of the cross. It was a habit he’d developed overseas to protect himself.

He reached Fifth Avenue. Showed his credentials again to four different cops. Saw the bulletproof fortifications that had been put in place in front of the Cathedral. Ignored them—and went up the short flight of stone steps to the massive bronze doors in front. Considered the various sculptures of the saints. Everyone paid attention to Saint Joseph and Saint Patrick on the top row. But he’d always preferred Mother Cabrini in the middle row.
Mother of the Immigrant.
He crossed himself again and cast a quick prayer to her now.

Then he knelt by the door.

It was as though that one action grabbed everybody’s attention. Cops started waving their arms. Emergency personnel shouted for him to take cover.

Frank ignored them all. He’d said his prayers. He was wearing his lucky red socks and bandana. He believed this wasn’t his time yet.

Eve had said the explosive technique was an HBIED. García had seen too many of them. Sometimes, doors or lights switches were rigged with wires leading to an initiator switch. Sometimes the makeshift bombs were embedded in the floor. Still other times, insurgents built holes in the load-bearing walls and packed them with explosives—so if the explosion didn’t get you, the structural collapse would.

Hostages were coming and going through this door, however. That meant it had to be rigged.

Which was good. Because when IEDs were buried, the only safe way to clear them was to level the structure.

Someone with a bullhorn shouted for him to leave the door. “Take cover, for Christ’s sake!”

He ignored that, too. Checked out the small doors on either side of the main entrance. In his own time, he turned the corner and continued his inspection, walking down Fifty-first Street.

Taking in the side access doors. Windows of jeweled stained glass up high, shrouded in scaffolding. Past the Parish House. Then the Cardinal’s Residence. Then back toward Fifth Avenue via Fiftieth.

Eve had said their experts had discovered few vulnerabilities to exploit.

García didn’t understand why they’d had so much trouble. Maybe that was because after four tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was good at finding openings where they didn’t exist. Not much ever surprised him. And the issue at Saint Patrick’s was really no different from what he’d encountered half a dozen times in Fallujah.

A madman was inside a house with weapons. He’d booby-trapped the place with IEDs. There were civilians around that Frank was forbidden to hurt. Not to mention religious treasures he was forbidden to destroy. Despite these impossible parameters, he had to complete his mission.

It was just a matter of being creative. Outsmarting the dirty bastards.

He glanced down at the pavement under his feet.

Yes. He had no doubt that his idea would work.

5:42 p.m.

As we continue to follow this developing situation at Saint Patrick’s, we have a caller on the line, Jorge Valdes, a sous chef at Café Bonne Nuit, who believes his coworker is among the hostages being held. Mr. Valdes, what can you tell us?

What are you asking for, Mr. Valdes?

Thank you, Mr. Valdes. Our thoughts will be with you. It isn’t easy for any of us to watch, helpless to act, as this tragedy unfolds before our eyes…

T
hree women and one man stood in a semicircle facing Eve in the temporary holding unit. Its warm overhead lights were the color of honey. So were the walls, painted a light hue with a slight pink overtone that a consultant claimed had a calming effect. Because most people inside this holding unit—criminal or not—tended to be on edge.

These four were no exception.

It didn’t help that the air was cold and drafty, and the tables and chairs were made of cheap plastic that attracted the chill and held it.

Four chairs.

Four people.

None of them sitting down.

The man was tapping his foot. He looked Eve up and down, evaluating. “Mind telling us what’s going on here?”

Eve glanced at her notes quickly.
Blair Vanderwert.
The realtor. He was wearing a well-cut pressed suit and an immaculate white shirt. His tie was navy and red, and his dark blond hair was practically glued in place with gel.

“Special Agent Eve Rossi. Thank you for coming.” She shook each of their hands in turn. Blair’s was warm and dry. The women’s were each icy cold.

“Special Agent?” The woman who spoke up had a low, husky voice. She was wearing a dumbfounded expression and a white summer dress; she gave the impression of a woman who’d ended up in Milwaukee when she’d expected Miami.
Cassidy Jones.
“What does the FBI want with
us
?”

“Yeah,” the realtor chimed in. “I mean, I thought I had a professional appointment. Then the Feds brought me in. But out there, it’s swarming with cops. What the hell is going on?”

A shadow filled the doorway as the door opened. Haddox had changed his shirt. The new one matched his deep blue eyes and had no blood on it. He also smelled faintly of aftershave. Eve found that she liked it.

“Have you been told what’s happened at Saint Patrick’s this morning?” Eve asked.

A petite, dark woman removed her earbuds. Wearing a little black dress and ballet flats. Hair pulled back.
Alina Matrowski.
“This place is crawling with police and EMS and firemen. The news said there’ve been reports of a shooting. You have Midtown completely buttoned down under tight security, like this is the next 9/11, yet you bring us right into the middle of it all?”

“We’re not idiots.” Another woman with a colorful red-and-green cloth on her head glared at them.
Sinya Willis.
Her accent was clipped. Caribbean. Jamaican.

“Before I explain, I have a question that might sound odd: Do any of you know each other?”

Blair said no immediately—with an almost imperceptible tone of disdain. The women shook their heads, with Cassidy saying, “You’re talking about before we met a few minutes ago, right?”

“Have any of you
seen
each other before? Meaning you might recognize each other’s face, even if you never met?”

There was a chorus of no’s.

“I’m positive I’ve never seen a single one of these people before,” Sinya added emphatically.

“Do any of you recognize this voice?” Eve pressed a button—and for thirteen seconds, the Hostage Taker’s words filled the room.

All four witnesses stared at her, blank-faced.

“What about this man? Do any of you recognize him?” Haddox stepped forward, clicked on the keyboard near Eve, and a facial composite of Luis Ramos—made by the staff sketch artist after talking with Haddox—flashed on the screen.

“Never,” Alina said, her brow furrowed. The others agreed.

“Is he the guy who shot people?” Cassidy asked.

“No,” Haddox said. “His name came up. Just like each of yours.”

It was exactly as Eve suspected. This would not be a search that moved forward in a straight line. It would go backward and sideways and at diagonals, probing their social connections and everyday habits. Figuring out if any of them shared the same dentist, shopped at the same grocer, prayed in the same church, or went to the same dog park.

“The reason all of you are here is because you’re connected somehow,” Eve informed them. “And we need to figure out how.”

“What do you mean,
connected
?” Blair demanded. “Like how all of humankind is connected? Like that Six Degrees of Separation with Kevin Bacon game?”

“What are you talking about?” Alina interrupted.

Cassidy turned to her. “You know the actor Kevin Bacon? There’s a game you can play: Link any actor to him through no more than six connections. You can even search any actor’s ‘Bacon number’ on Google.”

“Huh.” Alina fingered her ear buds.

“Why do you think we’re connected? And why do you care, if we are?” Cassidy wanted to know.

“We believe you are each somehow connected to the shooter at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral this morning. He’s armed—and he’s killed innocent people,” Eve answered bluntly. “We don’t know who he is. But we have reason to believe all of you know him.”

“Nonsense,” Blair said. The others chimed in with a round of denials:
I definitely don’t know any murderer. Don’t know anyone who’d do something crazy like this.

“Maybe you don’t know him well. Maybe he is a teller at a bank where you all deposit your checks. Maybe he’s the movie ticket usher where you all went to the movies. Maybe he sold you all a pair of shoes.”

More denials.
I don’t think I shop where he shops. I don’t like movies. I only buy shoes online.

“None of you are Catholic?” Eve asked. “None of you regularly attend Mass—at Saint Patrick’s or elsewhere?”

Another round of denials.

“I think your information is wrong,” Sinya insisted.

“Unfortunately, it’s not,” Eve said. “The shooter inside has taken hostages. He has issued only one demand: For you to come here as a ‘witness.’ He asked for each of you by name.”

This time, no one spoke. They were speechless. Stunned.

“What does this guy want from us?” Alina finally ventured.

“Apparently, nothing more than your presence here as a witness.”

“To what?” Blair asked. “Why would this nutjob want us?”

“We don’t know,” Eve admitted. “But you should be aware: We will do nothing that in any way jeopardizes your safety.”

“Are we safe here?” Cassidy cast a nervous glance around the holding unit.

“Safe as houses,” Haddox said. “Safer than you’ve ever been in this city.” He rapped on the window of the unit. “Bulletproof. Bombproof. Fireproof. And hundreds of New York’s Finest to protect you outside.”

“So we’re asking you to stay here. To answer our questions and help us figure this out.”

“What do we get out of this?” Blair asked.

Eve didn’t smile. “The satisfaction of knowing that you’re helping. Saving lives, by sharing what you know. And when it’s over, you’ll be the center of attention—if you want. Each of you will get your fifteen minutes of fame—because every news outlet in the world will be clamoring to talk with you.”

“Even NBC?” Cassidy cast a glance toward Rockefeller Center.

“Especially NBC,” Eve reassured her. “What’s really important is that each of you is our only connection to knowing the Hostage Taker inside. You may have met him without being really aware of who he is. If you can work with me—and help me figure out how you might have each crossed paths with him—I think I can identify him. Maybe even figure out what he’s doing in there.” She nodded toward the Cathedral.

“What
do
you know about him?” Sinya crossed her arms across her chest.

“Not much,” Eve admitted. “I’ve developed a profile. My best guess is that he’s middle-aged. He has an above average IQ, developed social skills, and substantial organizational skills. He has a security background: Military. Police. Maybe even prison guard. He knows this Cathedral intimately—which leads me to guess that he’s Catholic, from the local area, and has spent significant time in the building over the years. He doesn’t just want to kill the victims he’s taken. He wants to destroy them on a public stage, with not just the world watching.” She looked from person to person. “With each of
you
watching.
Witnessing,
he calls it. That suggests a religious fixation.”

They stared at Eve. But there were no questions, so she continued. “He lives alone or with an elderly parent. No one has reported him missing—or called with specific concerns—which means he is able to plot and execute his plans without interference from a spouse or partner. He may have been married in the past. I believe he has a child—or had one.”

Still no questions.

“He understands forensic procedure. What cops do. What negotiators do. How technology works. He has concealed himself by using multiple burner phones: some stolen from his victims and others prepaid. Ostensibly, his victims were random visitors to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Yet there are reasons why he might have wanted each of them dead. We don’t know who remains inside and how they play into his plans. Mainly, we’re unsure why he mentioned each of you by name. It appears you do not know each other. You never went to school together. You don’t share common friends. You don’t live in the same apartment building or even the same neighborhood. But
something
connects you—and makes you important to the guy inside that Cathedral.”

They all kept staring at her. No one made a comment.

“We have questionnaires for all of you,” Eve said.

“I’ve designed a program that will cross-reference your answers and identify any patterns or similarities,” Haddox explained. “To make this as painless as possible.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sinya demanded. “You just need information from us? Then we get to go home.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Eve replied.

She fixed Eve with a fierce stare. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”