I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 (43 page)

The legs were improving, but they would never be there again. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger?
Nope
.

Before, when it was just about having the one kidney, he could prove to the Physical Evaluation Board comprised of officers in his United States Army that they were wrong. Now, it really was over. Nothing in the world was going to give him the tools, not now, not ever again.

Now, it was about Captain Sam. And XMercy and Mouse.

“Finish it,” he told himself over every trudging step back. “Finish.”

At the seventh floor rooftop doors he set down the load, closed his eyes, holding them closed until his mind had cleared the pain. He wiped tears out of the corners of his eyes and lifted.

“Get your head straight,” he reminded himself.
Limitations are load-factors; you don’t whine, you calculate for them. Get right. Mission mode.

Thirty minutes later he had the full-height green tent tied off on one side against the railings along the southeast corner of the rooftop; on the interior side, he knotted the sandbags to the stake lines then added additional bags inside the tent to keep it in place. The flap doors opened to the rooftop.

Spencer opened the zipper window at the back of the tent and set his feet in firing position, then stretched his empty arms before bringing them back into firing position; the fat of his thumb fit just below his right cheekbone. The webcam was three feet above him and ten inches forward; he had the scene imprinted into his memory.

He sighted the invisible weapon at the side door of Park Avenue then rotated his shoulders ten degrees right in a compact movement that required no change to foot position. His left forefinger pointed straight at the brass-and-glass front door. Again and again he lifted and sighted the imaginary weapon. BRASS. Shift to the front door. BRASS. Every shot inside a twenty-degree lateral motion, three degrees rise and fall.

Satisfied, Spencer unzipped the tent, emerged, and hung a laminated sign on the side of the tent facing toward the building. It read: Maintenance in Progress. Thank You for Your Cooperation. We Deeply Apologize for any Inconvenience.

*****

Owen was still putting the pieces together. West Virginia made sense to him. Spencer was laying low, recovering, and avoiding trouble. But now that the trouble had come to him, he wasn’t returning to Yonkers to fit into the crowd. “He knows his identity is out. He has no more cover,” he said. “He’s back because there is nowhere to hide. He’s back to finish what he started.”

Owen watched the techs with their fingers flying over keyboards. Stephen had the wall projection set up with a separate corner window flashing the micro-analysis on Spencer’s face and alternately scrolling through the array of cameras scanning for convergent data points.

Miller had seen Spencer in action. He explained Spencer’s meticulous approach. “He will scout his target, pick his location, know his exit strategy; he did it in Afghanistan, he had done it in every other attack. Master Sergeant Jonathan Spencer is always thorough.

“Your partner stepped right into the middle of Spencer’s preparations,” Miller told Owen. “We’re going to take him down that same way.”

He looked up, addressing their foe: “Only this time nobody is underestimating you, Spencer. You never hear the shot that kills you.”

“We’ve got a hit!” Stephen yelled from the bullpen. Dale immediately shifted the live camera feed onto the big screen while Kip and Dilip applied mapping overlays for physical location, public transportation, events and fixed targets.

Spencer was up on live video, covering the long wall. Dilip boxed a street map into the corner showing his location, direction, and the camera icons around him.

“He’s on Madison,” Stephen called. He looked like any other New Yorker: a baseball cap hid his eyes and he had his collar was upturned, but the software gathered enough data from his jaw, cheekbones, and partial sections from Spencer’s nose to trigger a match-alert.

“The Whitney,” Owen and Stephen shouted in unison.

“Tomorrow night,” Stephen continued. His fingers raced along the keyboard, highlighting the event site at Madison and E. 75th.

“Fundraiser for Whitney Museum of American Art,” Dilip read excitedly, cutting in on Nussbaum, who looked annoyed. “Live auction of Mid-Century Masters including notable works of Andrew Wyeth, Grant Wood, Edward Hopper, Man Ray.”

“That’s it!” Miller shouted. “That’s five thousand dollars for each one of you!”

Miller studied the satellite photo put up by Dale, one of the twenty-something techs. The Whitney was smack in the center. “Give me an attendance list and cross-reference it for Forbes 400 attendees,” he ordered. “I want daily calendars, maps, public transportation, and camera coverage. All right, Lieutenant. Now we call in the heavy artillery! I’m putting a blanket over the Whitney Museum. A dozen military-trained snipers are going to be waiting there to blow Spencer’s head off. Satisfied?”

Miller watched Spencer’s steady pace as he maneuvered through the pedestrians around him.

“Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, Spencer,” he told the screen image.

“You overreached, Jeffers, but I’m preserving your career,” he whispered under his breath. He moved stridently toward one of the private offices. “Get my next two-and-half-million dollars ready, Jeffers.”

*****

“I’m looking at your guest list,” Jeffers told Miller. “A Rothschild, a Rockefeller.”

He read, scanning for associates. Not one APA member was on it. “Take him down afterward,” Jeffers instructed.

“Say again,” Miller responded.

“Let him get off some shots, then kill him,” Jeffers reiterated.

“He kills anybody and that brings in every cop in Manhattan,” Miller argued. “I’m going to have twelve men with rifles on rooftops, in windows. How do you explain that away? Pretty far-fetched for a coincidence.”

“That’s my piece. That can be handled. Nobody questions heroes,” Jeffers said. “Let him get off two shots, then take him down.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Miller slapped two bundles of bills against his palm. “Heads up,” he told Dale, before tossing them underhand.

Dale’s arms shot out and missed the catch. He had the cash trapped against his stomach before it slipped out onto the floor. Dilip, Stephen, and Kip stared at it, frozen like dogs looking at a treat and not sure if they would get scolded for eating it.

“Divide it between you,” Miller told them to their communal relief. “Great job.”

Owen followed him back to the office and shook his head in disgust. “Sunset is 7:42,” he protested. “They start seating at 6. What if he attacks afterward? He’ll be shooting from darkness. Everyone he targets will be lit up like Christmas.”

“We’ll handle that,” Miller countered calmly.

“Cameras,” Owen grumbled. “Ok, what is near the Whitney? Get me every visual and every means of transportation. Taxis, ride-shares, subway. We need to cover every angle. He’ll have to carry a large satchel or duffle, something that conceals his weapon.”

“And night vision,” Owen realized. “Tell the snipers.”

“Chill,” Miller responded. “Cullen, this is your own plan. It’s an exact parallel to Citi-Field; we draw Spencer out and take him down.”

“This is nothing like our plan,” Owen protested. “No way. We had Major Gonzalez, our sniper team leader, with a practiced team in place. At Citi-Field we had police officers behind bulletproof glass. 

“We had a controlled environment with acres of open buffer. We could hit a switch and light everything. Gonzalez spent days planning and training until they had every conceivable wrinkle worked out. He still killed Tremaine. Don’t tell me to ‘chill’!”

Miller wasn’t deterred. “I have that piece under control. These men aren’t Bishop’s rejects. They don’t miss.”

“We can’t dangle eight or nine hundred private citizens as bait. Don’t bullshit yourself. There’s traffic. Darkness. Things don’t go as planned!”

“All right, fine,” Miller conceded. “I’ll ask for drone feeds along with the cameras. Let me contact the client.”

“The client. Right! We know the client is the government!” Owen shouted back. “Why not say so? One look at these systems says it all. We were just watching The Donald in his bathroom, for God’s sake.”

Miller leaned back then squared his intense focus straight back at Owen’s comical freckles. He was obviously enjoying peeling back the curtains from Owen’s eyes.

“I listened to your position, detective. I made my call. Get this, loud and clear. We’re not giving up our best shot to bring in your precious NYPD. Spencer worked for me, remember? I know how he thinks, how he plans. You apply your standard police procedure and you get a lot of your officers killed.

“Now, I have assets to put into place and building plans and response models to work through. Have Stephen set you up with a tablet and run you the live feeds. When the drones are online, we’ll jump them in, too,” Miller said. “Get in close to the Whitney. Keep running through the exterior camera feeds. The minute he’s spotted, our assets get the green light.”

Miller turned back toward the techs, announcing, “I’m setting aside a hundred grand for the man who takes Spencer down.

“You too, detective,” he told Owen. “A hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. That’s a long way from bankruptcy for ten days’ work.”

Miller tossed his car keys at Owen, who snatched them out of the air. “Now get moving!”

Owen looked down on Miller’s bald spot while Miller walked away. “Asshole,” Owen grumbled after him. “That bankruptcy had nothing to do with you. You weren’t there. You don’t know a fecking thing about that.”

But a hundred thousand dollars.
Owen was afraid to repeat it out loud, like he might jinx it and make it go away. A hundred thousand dollars would mean a fresh start.

*****

Spencer searched the websites for something simple and flashy, one quick, low-exposure strike where he could get in and get out safely, something with enough visibility to stir the pot, to get the city on edge. Unless the residents believed the bomb threat was real, Park Avenue wouldn’t succeed.

He also knew that he had to be sure Vince was working the door at Terraza; the second “Walter” wouldn’t let him through without a search. He could sink the scope and magazines inside five gallons of roofing sealant. He needed the ladder to hide the rifle and the 4Runner to transport the ladder, but there was no foolproof means to conceal the five-foot-long Barrett rifle.

“You’ll have to leave the Barrett behind afterward,” he told himself. That hurt.

The 4Runner had to be abandoned, too. NYPD would box down the whole city after Park Avenue.
Public transportation. Blend in.

This is for you Captain Sam, and for XMercy and Mouse.

He looked at his hands and in the craggy palm lines he saw the kid, the red Manchester United t-shirt. His dark head moving into line with his mother’s burqa when he shot. One shot, two heads.

“You did that,” he murmured.
One great shot for Man, one fucked up evil for Mankind.

All the training, all the conditioning and planning and proficient execution. A hundred and sixty-five dead people. Not targets, people. One hundred and sixty-six, he corrected; he missed counting Stocky.

“Killing fifty or eighty or a hundred snakes might give the whole country a new start, Captain, but I’m one man. I can’t set a Controlled Burn, not alone,” he said aloud. “The rich can keep squeezing. I can’t change that. But I just might shut Vision Partners down. That’s something, Captain. I can try.”

*****

After Stephen walked him through a short tutorial, Owen left the tablet screen set on the coordinates surrounding the Whitney and familiarized himself with the program. Each icon represented a different camera view.

Stephen tapped one of the buttons along the control bar. “This scrolls through all the cameras on the map view,” he explained. “Up here is the speed function to make it scroll faster or slower. If you move the cursor to a tighter area then hold down on the right click, you can spread whatever radius you want.” He demonstrated twice until Owen nodded.

“Got it.” Not that it lent him much confidence. He knew the area; too many places where Spencer could be.

“We need to narrow the field,” he told Stephen.

“Working on it,” Nussbaum replied. “You’ll have a lot more capability coming out of that tablet than anyone could ever have with feet on the ground.”

Owen was already focused on a slow scroll. He glanced into the corner of the screen and noticed that the icons on the map lit up to coincide with the camera feed.

Stephen picked up on Owen’s attention.

“I set it up so you can tie the view to the location,” he explained to Owen. “Not always easy.” He took the tablet and scrolled to a larger map scaled out to a mile radius, then pointed to a number at the lower left of the screen. “There’s 72,136 live feeds in that mile. I can handle looking at twenty before they all start to blend together. Fortunately, most of those are interiors. You can pull those up by going to the toolbar. They’re listed under References.”

“Take me back to the Whitney,” Owen snapped.

“No worries,” Stephen responded. “Move the cursor to the back arrow and tap. Or you can also shift to a street view; just put the cursor into the map and right-click.”

Owen cupped his hands beside his eyes to concentrate as the scroll moved through eighty exteriors. The shots didn’t blend together so much as they broke repeating categories. Most of the views were obviously set above doorways; the people moving in and out were dead giveaways. Others were on the transit grid, set above traffic. Owen stopped the scrolling and concentrated on an odd, brightly lit motion view. He watched for two full minutes before realizing he was viewing the inside of the New York City Sewer System.

He moved the cursor to the ticket office directly in front of the Whitney and restarted the scrolling from there. More doorways. Alleyway shots looking at dumpsters. More traffic along Fifth, Madison, Park, and Lexington. Owen stopped again, holding the feed on an odd down angle looking diagonally across a corner with a blurry visual onto the corner of a residential building. There was no other view quite like it. He shifted to the map to identify the location right when Miller shouted at him.

“Why are you still here? Traffic is going to be brutal. Get going!”

Owen moved out of the inner office toward the door, and then stopped before opening it. He reached up underneath the back of his jacket and came out with the 9mm in his hand, looked at it and dropped the clip, confirmed it was a full ten, then slid it back up into the magazine, where it seated with a reassuringly solid click.

One clip was not enough.

“Guys,” he called out to the four techs, “where’s the nearest gun store?” Then he realized he already knew a gun store nearby. He and Tremaine had gone through half the gun stores in North Jersey.

“The tablet is set up as its own mobile hotspot,” Stephen called behind him. “If that goes down, go to the toolbar, scroll down from Network, and select 4G.”

*****

Owen bypassed the ticket lines by flashing his gold medallion. It felt good to be back on familiar streets, good to have his medallion hanging from the pocket of his jacket. He felt right, useful, a lot better than he had felt in months. The contrast startled him, showing him from the inside-out what a bitter pill he had been. Everything wasn’t on Callie; he knew that all along. But now he could feel it; he was back on the job, back to his old self. The billion cells throughout his body were renewed.

He trotted through the Whitney Museum carrying the GoPro camera that Kip had lent him. At the entry and every door in and out of the cavernous room where the auction was going to be held, he photographed outward, looking through the entry doors and out every window until two security guards walked toward him and quickly held up their hands to signal for him to stop.

“Sir, still photos only. I’m going to have to ask you to stop filming,” one said.

After Owen showed his shield a second time, the museum’s Chief of Security rushed out to give him the royal treatment. Owen’s back cracked as he straightened up to his full height.

The man seemed delighted to walk the Detective Lieutenant through their security arrangements; theft deterrence systems in place for every item on display, along with multiple cameras in each gallery. Special events? In addition to the chief and the full-time security staff, they supplemented with off-duty officers, all NYPD and Parks Police. Most of them had worked their events for years.

“Why do you ask? Is there something I need to know about?”

Owen deflected his response with another inquiry. He wanted to know about parking.

“We offer valet parking for evening events through a service,” the Chief of Security explained. “The formula is one valet per eight cars, roughly a valet for each thirty arriving guests. There is some foot traffic, then some multi-passenger cars and some solo-drivers, and guests arriving with drivers, of course. There’s guesswork, but the formula serves us well. We’ve used the same company for nearly three years; that allows us to add valets or subtract, as needed. More are needed after events since the guests all tend to leave at about the same time.”

Owen made a mental note of that disturbing observation. The entire guest list would be stacked up outside, under the lights like sitting ducks. He looked at the slender security manager and bit his tongue. The other man’s slim fit suit was definitely not hiding any weapon.

“Where do they park the cars?”

“68 East 80th or 35 East 75th. We contract with both garages.”

“Show me your roof.”

“The roof?”

“You hard of hearing? The roof.”

They accessed the roof by interior stairwell; the door to the stairwell was tied to an alarm that could be bypassed only by entering a code onto an electronic pad. The security chief showed the security fob clipped onto the inside pocket of his jacket then discretely placed himself between Owen and the pad to keep the code from Owen’s view. He had to repeat the process at the top of the stairs to get onto the rooftop.

Both buildings from across Madison looked directly onto the Whitney’s street-level entrance. Owen scanned the exposure. “How do you secure this?” he asked himself. At least half a dozen buildings offered a direct line-of-sight.

As the security chief scrambled to answer, Owen realized he needed Gonzalez. Gonzalez would shoot a dozen holes through Miller’s thought process.

Looking over the edge to the ground level, Owen pictured a crowd being channeled into the narrow entryway down below
like cattle going to a slaughterhouse
.
He looked up and immediately spotted six-dozen windows, all easily within Spencer’s proven attack range.

Counting them one by one, it suddenly occurred to him that at least half the windows were fixed windows that couldn’t open. That was something. Miller’s assets needed night vision.

Would Gonzalez’s thermal imaging machine be able to tell at night when a window was open, he wondered?

Gonzalez had had his men out at Citi Field drilling and practicing for hours. What the hell was Miller thinking, that he could pick up snipers like day laborers and everything was just going to work out? Miller wasn’t a sniper. He didn’t get it. Look at what just happened in West Virginia. Bishop sent in commandos and Spencer killed them all.

Owen thanked the Whitney’s security chief then jogged outside at a fast trot, looking toward the highest point that he could see from the entrance. At the door to 23 East 74th, the fiftyish balding doorman looked apprehensive about opening until Owen pressed his medallion against the glass. “Roof,” was all he said, looking to the ceiling for emphasis.

The doorman swiped Owen into the elevator and swiped his identification again, pressing 18. “Sixteen floors, but no thirteen,” he explained. “Eighteen is the roof access. Hold on.” He ran back to his desk and returned with a rubber wedge. “You’ll want this. Don’t let the door close behind you.” Before the elevator doors shut, he reached inside to make them open again, asking Owen, “Should I dial 911 or do anything?”

“No. I need to look at your roof. That’s all.”

From the rooftop, Owen looked right down at the Whitney. From that acute angle he could only see the tops of heads. It didn’t feel right, not for shooting at anyone on the street. His eyes ran to rooftops lower, better placements for visuals on the Whitney entrance. Nearly every rifle shot he had made in his life was with a BB gun, but he found himself lifting as though he had a rifle in hand and aiming to one roof, then another, and another, and another, every single one a possibility. One of Millers’ snipers needed to be positioned exactly where he was standing. More had to be on the roof of the Whitney, scanning outward.

He came out shaking his head. “
Jaysus. Who ya trying to kid there, boyo?”
he could hear Eamonn calling him on this. Hundreds of targets bunched together under lights and Spencer in the dark with the choice of dozens of places.

It was overwhelming. Impossible. Like scanning an ocean for a single swimmer. He went into Via Quadronno to use the tablet to catch up with Miller and Nussbaum and absently ordered a coffee and the first sandwich on the chalkboard.