Hostage Taker (37 page)

B
ack at the MRU, Haddox believed he had untangled the complication.

Eve had spent hours trying to figure out why Sean Sullivan was not worth trusting. Problem was: She was looking in all the wrong places. She believed that people’s communication style—everything from their facial expressions and body movements to their tone of voice and choice of words—betrayed what they really meant.

What Haddox trusted was bits, bytes, and data. People lied, but their digital fingerprints always betrayed them. It was all pretty simple. And today he was convinced that they’d find the answers they were looking for on the flash drive found in Sean Sullivan’s breast pocket. He told Eve as much.

She agreed. “Not because I think data has all the answers, though.”

“Then why?” He shoved the drive into his secure machine. Touched a few keys to begin running the background diagnostics.

“Because it was important to him. He kept it right next to his heart.”

There were two files on the flash drive. One was a .JPEG image. Its time stamp was forty-eight hours old. It was a digital copy of a scrap of paper.

What are you guilty of?

I already know.

View the files on the enclosed flash drive. They will apprise you of the situation and what you personally have at stake.

Your first instinct will be to call the police.

DON’T.

“I’m confused,” Eli said. “Did Sullivan send this—or receive it?”

“Just wait,” Haddox replied. “And keep an open mind.”

“But Sullivan
was
the police,” Eli mumbled.

Your next impulse will be to call a friend.

That would be unwise.

“Let’s see the file,” Eve directed. She crouched close beside him.

The time stamp read 15:53 hours. The date was two days earlier. The girl was sitting on a bed. She wore skinny jeans, a red cardigan, and socks with glitter sparkles on them. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her feet were bound in front of her. A long stretch of duct tape covered her mouth, stretching all the way around her long chestnut hair.

“Georgianna,” Eve breathed. “This was taken right after she disappeared from school.”

“This is what Sean Sullivan personally has at stake,” Haddox told them. “Assuming we believe he was the recipient of the note, not the sender.”

There was no audio on the drive. Just a second image.

In that one, the girl was lying down. The sun cast a shadow on her figure.

A crisscross image. It reminded Haddox a little of the Holy Cross. It also reminded him of the bars of a jail cell he’d once had the misfortune to sit in.

“Go back to the message,” Eve directed.

Be assured of three things:

“Annie Martinez didn’t do as he asked. According to the hostages, he made them confess their worst—and those he eventually killed ‘deserved it’ from his point of view.” Eve was thinking aloud.

“It’s like he thinks he’s being reasonable.” Eli shook his head.

“That’s always the key,” Eve said. “It doesn’t matter if someone’s reasoning would seem preposterous to ninety-nine percent of the world’s population. When you understand how that single person justifies their actions, then you’ve taken a major step toward understanding their motive. Haddox, was there any evidence of this in Sean Sullivan’s email accounts—either as sender or recipient?”

“None whatsoever,” Haddox confirmed. “I think we can assume this was a personal delivery.” He clicked over to his diagnostic report. “The time stamp is accurate. The file was generated from pictures uploaded from Georgie’s own computer via the public Wi-Fi at Bryant Park.”

“Where, with the Christmas shops all over the park, they get several hundred thousand visitors every day,” Eli remarked sourly.

“Let’s focus on what we can assume.” Eve pushed her hair behind her ears. “If Sean Sullivan
did
receive this message, how does that explain his actions—from around fifteen-fifty-three hours, day before yesterday, when Georgie disappeared from school?”

“We assume the flash drive was delivered to Sullivan almost immediately,” Eli said.

“So what does he do?” Eve thought aloud. “He searches frantically—but can’t find her. Then he receives instructions. He had no choice but to follow them. With his daughter kidnapped, he is completely under the Hostage Taker’s control. Doing whatever he’s told—even before he shows up at Saint Patrick’s. Starting day before yesterday, the instant he learned Georgie had been taken.”

“First things first,” Haddox said. “I’m putting out an Amber Alert for Georgianna Murphy now.”

But there was no separate bulletin issued for her abductor. He was still unknown.

“Why Sean?” Haddox
wondered. “If you’re the puppetmaster pulling the strings, why not handle things yourself?”

“Because you might end up dead,” Eli pointed out.

“Because your real goal is something else,” Eve said. “And the hostage-taking is just the means to an end.”

“He was also the perfect scapegoat—for the hostage-taking and the weapons theft,” Eli added. “Problems at home. Problems at work. A history of theft. Everyone would believe he’d done this because he was desperate and losing control of his life.”

The alarm on Haddox’s computer station beeped. It was eleven o’clock.

Outside, snow was falling fast, and church bells were tolling. It sounded like the Angelus. Had someone on staff been allowed back inside the Cathedral? Or was one of the Feds a good Catholic?

Haddox watched as Eve followed the sound over to the window, apparently lost in thought. The bells were ringing the Siren’s song of normalcy. A promise that the world was right again—or as right as it ever could be. Floodlights once again bathed the Cathedral in hues of magical yellow and blue. Saks to the South was a fairy-tale concoction of red and gold, lit up again by seventy-one thousand lights. The Olympic Tower to the north shone a brilliant white.

The bureaucratic show where credit and blame would be sorted had already begun. A press conference was slowly taking form. A select few news organizations had been invited to return to Rockefeller Center. The mayor was standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue, microphones in his face and news crews trailing him with a camera. Traffic was still blocked within a two-mile radius, but forensics was working double-time to process the evidence. The mayor had already announced that he intended to reopen traffic by morning rush hour. This was the holiday season in New York, and that meant opening access to the thousands who flooded the city’s sidewalks and shops—and the cabs and buses who shuttled them down Fifth Avenue.

The mayor walked over to the rescued hostages, who had apparently received their medical clearance—standard procedure after a crisis. The mayor paid particular attention to Penelope Miller, whose arms never left her son, Luke. Cops and security personnel surrounded them all. Doing their jobs, eyes alert for anything amiss.

Not fifty feet away, NBC had set up a tent where any of the witnesses who wished would be interviewed, together with a police officer who had to be the designated NYPD spokesperson.

It always amused Haddox how spokespeople were chosen based on who was the most media-savvy. Rather than who actually understood the information to be conveyed.

Eve turned back to the computer station. “Tell me again about that case—the one tangentially linking Sean Sullivan with the witnesses.”

“Not much to tell. It was July. The Bryant Park subway station. A woman was mugged. She suffered injuries and died. They never caught the guy responsible.” Haddox clicked on the keyboard, pulled up the file. “Three witnesses on our list are confirmed to have been present. Each was interviewed. Based on the officer’s notes, we believe Cassidy and Luis were also there. But they either gave false names or the interviewing officer made a mistake taking their names down.”

“Why were two ambulances sent to the scene?” Eve asked.

“Where do you see that?” He squinted.

“Down here.” She pointed to a scribbled sentence in the
Notes
field.

“Why don’t you see if the main investigating officer remembers?” Eli piped up.

“A thirteen-year-old girl is still missing,” Haddox reminded them grimly. “You really think this old case leads us to her?”

Eve slid her finger down more of the fine print on the computer screen. “I think it’s all we’ve got. If she’s not hidden inside the Cathedral, identifying the mastermind who used Sean as a pawn is our only chance of finding the girl.”

Eve made the
call to a lieutenant named Oliver Pryor. He was working, stationed at Rockefeller Center. One of the hundreds of officers pulling overtime duty in Midtown that night.

No-nonsense and plain-speaking, Pryor had two blunt questions for Eve the moment she identified herself. “Is it true the guy inside was one of us? A dirty cop?”

“It’s complicated—but that’s a working theory,” she answered. “Did you know Sean Sullivan?”

“
That’s
the guy? No way. No fuckin’ way.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well. But he never struck me as a wacko.
Jesus…
”

“I need to ask you about a case you investigated with him.” Eve explained the details of the subway incident. “The NYPD file states that Captain Sullivan provided general support and crowd control.”

“If it says so, then sure. I don’t remember him.”

She heard the doubt in his voice. “So safe to say he wasn’t an integral part of the case?”

“No. And to be honest, there really was no case. Some street punk robbed a woman. Things escalated. She got hurt bad. Punk got away. We didn’t have enough evidence to catch the bastard. End of story. I could tell you a thousand of ’em, just like it. Your own New York City fairy tale.”

“I saw a notation that the victim suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

“She got shoved onto the tracks,” he informed her. “Train came into the station and ran over her. Didn’t kill her right away, but she later died.”

“Sounds like more than a routine mugging.”

“Yeah. I’d forgotten about it ’til now, actually. There was even some crazy eyewitness on the platform who tried to fight off the mugger. Failed, of course. That was how the victim got shoved around. She would’ve survived the mugging just fine. What she didn’t survive was her rescue.”

“So the second ambulance was for her rescuer?” Eve pressed.

“Yeah. Think the eyewitness got beat up pretty bad. Don’t recall what happened after.”

“I don’t see a name in the report. Just a notation:
J.D.
”

“That means your basic John Doe,” he explained. “We go easy on those types. They don’t give their name because they don’t have health insurance.”

Or, in this case, because they’re ashamed. Embarrassed. Disappointed. Because they wanted to be the hero—but discovered that no good deed goes unpunished.

You bring headlines, Eve.
Sean had been a convincing liar. He’d had to be, with his daughter’s life on the line and the real Hostage Taker listening in on his every word. And like the best of them, Sean had known: The best lies always contained a shard of truth.

“There’s no report of the case in the papers—not even the
Post.
Any idea why?”

“We didn’t squelch it, if that’s what you mean. But no one was a hero, no one caught the bad guy, and the victim’s family requested total privacy. As a story, it missed all the key elements reporters pee in their pants over.”

“There’s no other file that might give the name of the would-be rescuer?”

“You want me to call the hospital?” Pryor offered. “They’ll have records.”

“It’s okay,” Eve told him. “I can figure out the rest from here.”

N
ot long ago, I read about a man who was mugged at the Port Authority Bus Terminal during early-morning rush hour. There were dozens of people around.

The man screamed for help as his mugger chased him through the station.

No one summoned a security officer.

No one dialed 911.

No one intervened to help.

The mugger caught up with his victim, knifed him, and robbed him.

Later, police were dumbfounded by how many videos of the incident appeared on YouTube. People were
watching…recording…witnessing.

But not helping.

Around the same
time, I heard about a woman in Liverpool, England, who was attacked at 4:30 in the afternoon on a busy street. She fought off a man who tried to drag her into his car.

She screamed loudly for help.

There were dozens of people around.

But not a single person came to her aid or called the police.

Nothing has changed
since 1964, when Kitty Genovese was attacked outside her apartment in Kew Gardens. Thirty-eight neighbors heard Kitty’s screams as she was stabbed multiple times—and raped—over the course of thirty-two minutes.

No one called the police. Not until it was too late.

News reporters have
a name for this indifference. Psychologists call it the Bystander Effect. When I think about these things, I can’t sleep. I lie awake at night and think of Stacy. I worry that all sense of morality and justice has disappeared from this world. That’s what happens when no one gives a damn.

When not just your enemies look at you and wish you harm.

But when the decent people among us are at fault.

Are we all nothing but a lost cause?

What are we guilty of?

I am about to find out. This is my gift to the world.

T
he official response had been immediate. In a show of interagency cooperation, the FBI, NYPD, FDNY, and Homeland Security had dispatched their Bomb Squad and Hostage Rescue and Antiterrorist Units to clear Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Everyone remained on high alert.

When the all-clear message finally arrived, it was tempered with bad news: There was no sign of Georgianna Murphy.

Eve moved fast to the rear of the Cathedral, where the mayor and his entourage were smiling for the cameras in front of the Cardinal’s Residence on Madison Avenue. Snow was falling lightly, and someone had placed an evergreen wreath with a red ribbon on the door behind him, making for the perfect photo op. It was as though the mayor had rescued the holiday season itself.

Eve pressed herself against the concrete barricades that still protected the perimeter. She felt their icy-cold smoothness through her jacket.

She saw the rescued hostages some thirty-five feet away, talking with an officer to the mayor’s left. One of them pointed to the slope of gray slate shingle that covered the back roof of the Cathedral.

Where are the witnesses?

She finally saw them, clustered with a group of photographers. Except for Sinya Willis, all appeared to be enjoying the attention.

Vast numbers of news personnel swarmed the scene: journalists and television crews, flanked by their news camera and photographer teams. It would be so easy to fake a press pass—and gain complete access to this event.

Eve scrutinized them carefully. But right now, everyone seemed to be doing his or her job.

“What’s the plan?” Haddox stood at her elbow.

“I don’t know yet,” she answered, eyes scanning the gathering crowd.

“You? Without a plan?” He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that like peanut butter without jelly? Laurel without Hardy?”

“Fred without Ginger? I actually agree with you. They balanced each other’s strengths. Like the two of us. Now look at the people in front. What do you see?”

“I see your mayor, no doubt taking all the credit for averting a larger crisis. I see Monsignor Geve and the Church contingent, looking a wee bit less dour now their precious Cathedral is secure.”

“Does anyone in the news corps look unengaged?”

“Um…no.”

“What about the hostages?”

“They look tired. Like they’ve been through a long ordeal and just want to go home.” He peered at Eve. “Why are we looking at these people? They’re just politicians and journalists. Witnesses and hostages.”

“Because something isn’t right. So I have to look at everybody.” She pressed forward. Studying the faces of those in front of her. Knowing her own powers of observation were good, but not infallible.

Penelope Miller looked flushed and exhausted, but relieved. She had not yet let go of her son, Luke. The boy was half-asleep in her arms.

Ellen Hodge hung back. Like she wanted to be anywhere but here.

Father DeAngelo seemed frail. Eve thought she saw him trembling slightly.

Ethan Raynor seemed to be enjoying the attention.

The mayor turned toward the front door. The TV crews and press photographers leapt into action, gathering their tripods and lights. They were going into the Cardinal’s Residence.

Eve clicked on her headset. “García—have you cleared the Parish House and Cardinal’s place?”

Yeah. Mace caught up and slowed me down, but it all looks clean. We’re returning through the Sacristy now.

“A group of people is coming inside. Take a look—and be alert for anything that seems off.”

Eve dodged a news crew, then a cluster of photographers, jockeying for position as they made their way inside.

“I thought we had to find the girl. Sean’s daughter,” Haddox whispered.

“We do. That’s why we’re here.” She began moving to the front of the line.

He kept pace with her, ignoring the protests of others. “How do I help you?”

“Look at those in front of us. Help me find someone who seems okay on the outside, but is completely broken up on the inside.”

“Sounds pretty abstract to me.”

“Then let me make it concrete. Why do you think a kid like Sullivan’s daughter hurts herself?”

“Because she’s gone mental?”

Eve shot him an admonishing glance. “Because she’s in pain. She has more pain bottled up than she can bear, and she’s searching for a way to release it.”

“Are we still talking about Sean’s daughter?”

Eve’s eyes widened. “You’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Not to mention a handsome devil. But damned if I know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s similar, isn’t it? Sean’s daughter takes to the most public of stages, the Internet, to deal with her pain. Because she needs people to notice, because they don’t in real life. I believe what we’ve seen here today is the flip side of the same coin. Played out on the most public stage in the city.”

Everything is proceeding
according to plan. I still have a Cathedral and multiple souls under my control, and America’s largest city under my thumb.

Only they don’t know it.

I blend into the crowd. We all follow the mayor and his entourage into the dining room of the Cardinal’s Residence. The room is designed to accommodate large state dinners, but that’s inadequate for the number of people here tonight, anxious to hear the mayor’s remarks.

Still, I make it through. I have no choice.

I am hidden among the masses of people. I lean down, as if to tie my shoe. I drop my gym bag.

Then I straighten and walk tall.

Since I was last here, someone has lit votive candles along a console on the right side of the room. Their glow casts a pink warmth onto the walls; every part of the dining room seems to glow. It is beautiful—for now.

I see Agent Rossi across the room. She looks confused.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“We need her,” Sullivan had pleaded. “She’ll get headlines for you.”

Later, he’d had another request. “Let the boy go. If your moves are unpredictable, they’ll have a harder time figuring you out.”

Yes, I chose the right man from the many officers listed in that police report. Captain Sullivan served his purpose with honor. From the moment I framed him for the weapons and explosives I stole—to the instant he took his last breath, doing my work—I could ask for no better assistant.

The time has come.

News reporters and sociologists blame the Internet, movie violence, and video-game culture for creating this out-of-touch generation. A generation with the moral sense of a baby killer.

Now is the ultimate test. Let’s see what these people are made of.

Let’s see if anyone—besides me—can step up and be the hero this godforsaken world so desperately needs.