Tyler was in his office. The conference room was empty. She’d tried to center herself on the way back from NYPD, but this intense frustration remained. She knocked once on Tyler’s open door, stepped through when he looked up, then shut it behind her.
He got a look at her, then sat back. “What Bufort and Stratford did was reckless.”
“That’s not what I’m here about.”
He folded his arms. “Okay. So …”
“You’re sure it’s Blackout?”
“No. I’m not sure. Nobody’s sure.” Tyler used his palms to smooth back his already-slicked hair. One of the agents called it Gavin Newsom hair, governor of California. “But Tanzer is a hot item. He’s been recorded making threats during his firing. He’s on the guest list for the awards dinner. He’s–”
“How did Stratford connect him to Blackout? The guest list I wasn’t allowed to see? That’s it?”
Tyler glared a moment, as if incredulous she’d cut him off, or for her insolent tone. He answered, almost growling: “Tanzer did a segment on them – on Blackout – for WPXU. For Ion. I’m surprised you haven’t found that out yourself, with all of your moonlighting. He embedded with Blackout for a week. He had a small TV crew and everything.”
“Why did they let him? A group that hates the media?”
Tyler said, “I don’t know, Ames. Because they want recognition like anyone else? And Ion Networks probably loved the ratings a show like that got them.” He looked at her, cooling a little, then pushed back his chair and stood up. “We’re interviewing Paddock in an hour. Sit in on it. See for yourself. It wasn’t perfect – we lost an agent. There’s been some poor decisions – but this is how it gets done sometimes. Life in the big city.”
She felt more cynical than she could remember, and grunted a laugh. “Life in the big city seems a lot to me like pre-drawn conclusions leading the search for evidence to fit them.”
She turned, opened the door and left before he could respond.
Shit.
Ten minutes later, in her office, sitting with regret. For letting her emotions get the better of her. For being insubordinate.
But then she considered that, too. She’d been second-guessing herself this whole investigation. What it felt like sometimes was gaslighting. People telling her what she saw wasn’t there, what she’d heard hadn’t made the noise. They were gaslighting her, and then she was gaslighting her own damn self on top of it.
Enough of that. She looked up at her wall of victims and their stories. Then she logged in to the system and navigated the hotline calls database. Lieutenant Whitaker had showed her how to work it a few days before. She entered keywords – Blackout, Tanzer, media, and others, and came up with little.
When it was time for the Paddock interview, she went down one floor and stood in the viewing room with several others. Moray was there, along with some unfamiliar faces. Agents from the National Security Branch with somber, flat expressions and dark suits. They watched through the glass as Tyler grilled the suspect.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paddock said.
“You don’t … Then why were you at Raymond Tanzer’s house yesterday morning?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You don’t get a lawyer for terrorism, James.” Tyler was having a moment, showboating a bit. Oh well.
“I told you, I’m not a fucking terrorist.”
“Tell me about Blackout.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Okay. Okay. Then how about we talk about why you picked these particular victims?”
Paddock just turned his head away. He was a solidly built man, balding on top, tattoos on his arms. He looked into the mirror on his side, which on Shannon’s side seemed as though he was looking right at her.
“I’m done talking,” he said.
An hour later she was back in her office, chewing painkillers. Paddock hadn’t admitted anything. Tyler remained focused on making it fit – finding the undeniable connection between Blackout and the murders.
“This is your chance,” Tyler had said. “This is where you can tell me that Tanzer was on his own. Maybe starting his own terror cell, modeling it on what he’d learned from Blackout when he embedded with you six months ago, to do his story.”
Paddock had made no response.
The next move was to round up anyone else associated, now or in the past, with the anti-media group. Question them as well. Wait for Tanzer’s brain to stop swelling; wait for him to wake up. Shannon went to the hospital where he was being treated, showed her ID to be let through. She didn’t know why she was here, what purpose it would serve, but felt drawn nevertheless. Maybe just to look at him and see.
Tanzer’s eyes were closed, a tube stuck in his mouth. He was a smaller man than Paddock; a few too many cheeseburgers had expanded his midsection. She watched his chest rise and fall. The window beyond his bed was dimming, specks of rain hitting the glass.
Outside, she sat in the car in the hospital parking lot as a thunderstorm bore down, the rain hitting the roof like a dumped bag of dimes. No insights from visiting Tanzer. No epiphany.
When her phone buzzed, Caldoza calling, she ignored it.
For a few seconds.
“Hey,” she said.
“This weather, huh? We needed it. Break the humidity.”
“What can I do for you, Luis?”
He made a tsking sound. Then, “Come on. Just dinner. Just talk.”
She sighed. “Okay. Where?”
She knew the word prego was Italian and probably meant, in this case, “have some more,” but the name of the Italian restaurant nevertheless made her grin, thinking of the euphemism for being pregnant. When she realized she was smiling, she decided this had been the right choice. She’d needed to take a step back.
The night was wet after the storm, and still warm. Inside the place, with its burgundy and navy blue color scheme, it was cold enough to refrigerate beef. Having anticipated it, she pulled on the zip-up hoodie she’d brought. “Sorry,” Caldoza said. Then he lowered his voice and said, “You want to go?”
“No. This is great.”
The waitress was quick to bring them water and bread. They ordered a calamari appetizer and declined the wine list and settled back.
“So how are you doing?” he asked.
“I don’t like it. I really don’t think Blackout is behind this.”
“I meant you. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.”
“Still got the cane.”
“Yes, thank you. It was very nice of you.”
He swept his hand through the air. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, how’s it going? You doing the PT?”
“I haven’t been.”
His eyes stayed on her, and then he nodded and looked away. After a moment, he asked, “So you’re from the Adirondacks?”
“I grew up near Westport. That’s where I went to school.”
He nodded. “Westport. I’ve actually heard of that. It’s a stop on the train, right? There’s a train you can take out of Penn Station? Takes a long-ass time. Takes like nine hours or something.”
“Yeah, but that’s all the stops,” she said. “It’s not nearly that long by car. It’s like four, four and a half hours.”
“So you been back? Recently?”
She hunted for his agenda, staring him down. Finding none, she said, “Not for a little while.”
“How long’s a little while?”
“Three years,” she said.
“Yeah. Okay. I feel you.”
“Everything’s okay. It’s just, you know, work. I’ve been on this probationary period, so working holidays, trying to make good. Before that I was finishing up in Stafford, there was training at Quantico … So it’s been a bit.”
He studied her. “Yeah, sure. I get it.”
She cleared her throat, feeling like she’d just rambled. “How about you? Ah, are you close with your family?”
“Sure. My ma. Two sisters. Lots of cousins.” He re-situated himself so he had his back to the wall, one of his feet up on the bench seat on his side of the booth. “I’m from Philly, originally. But my parents divorced, and my dad took a job in the city. Here, I mean. Working for the MTA, actually, as a transit cop.”
“No kidding.”
He bobbed his head. “Yeah. And then, you know, years later, my dad had squirreled away a little bit of money and he bought some property up there.”
She forgot about her nerves. “Really? Where?”
“Port Kent?”
“Sure. I know right where that is.”
“So I was in school – maybe seventh grade – and my dad would go up there, sometimes for a couple of days, and he was messing around with this little piece of property. One time, I took the bus up there and met him. Bus was worse than the train. I told him. So the next time, I took the train. I remember Westport because I was terrified I was going to miss the stop for Port Kent, so I paid attention, and as soon as I heard Westport, I was like this …” He put his feet down and sat up rigid-straight and widened his eyes in mock alertness, making her laugh.
“And the land?”
“Yeah. It’s still up there. See …”
They were interrupted when the waitress came with their calamari. “Ready to order?”
Shannon picked up her menu. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t even looked.” She glanced up at Caldoza. “Should we … do you have anything you recommend?”
“One chicken piccata,” he told the waitress, but then asked Shannon, “You eat meat?”
She nodded.
“One chicken piccata, one roast beef au jus.” He handed the waitress the menus and said to Shannon, “We’ll share.”
When the waitress left, Caldoza sipped his water and said, “My dad had these ideas. He thought everyone is going to leave the city. Not necessarily in his lifetime, but in mine. By the end of mine. People would be leaving the cities and getting back to the land.” Caldoza looked at her then frowned and shook his head. “It wasn’t like a climate thing. I don’t think my dad thought about sea level rise or storms or anything. He just thought people wouldn’t be able to keep it up. Society was going to be breaking down, and it was going to be this mass exodus back to the land. So he wanted a little piece of property, a little peace of mind.” Caldoza shook his head and shrugged. “Something like that.”
She waited. “And? Does he live there?”
“My dad lives the same place my grandfather lives. Rosebush Cemetery. The property is still sitting up there. I’ve got the paperwork at my house. I haven’t been back up there since he died. So, eighteen years.”
“Wow. So your grandfather outlived your dad, huh?”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah, you said fifteen years.”
“That’s right.” He nodded and had some more water. “Dad was a drinker. Grandpa was not. They say sometimes it skips a generation. But just to be on the safe side, I steer clear of that stuff. Plus, I’m kinda always working.”
He gave her a big smile, genuine, and she realized she liked Luis Caldoza. She respected him, found him genuine.
“You?” he asked. “Got family up there?”
She thought about her brother John first. Always first. She saw him in her mind the way she saw him the last time in life, beneath the water. Ice all around. John in the middle of it, through it, in the blackest of water, his skin white in the lights that the cops were shining in. Cops who knew him well. Cops who were his own men.
But she didn’t need to tell Caldoza about any of that right now. She could talk about the good things, about her living brothers, about her father. She could even talk about her mother. And she opened her mouth to start when her phone buzzed.
At the same time, Caldoza lifted his waist to grab his own phone.
“No, it’s mine,” she said, pulling it out of her hoodie.
But he held his up, looking at the screen. “It’s me, too.”
Shannon answered, “Hello?”
25
Josie’s phone chimed with an incoming email. She picked herself up off the floor and opened it.
The subject heading read: Influencers get influenced. The body of the email contained a livestream link. She followed it and waited for the video to load, or buffer, whatever it did, with her heart beating a little faster.
She didn’t know who CrazyEights88 at Gmail was. She didn’t know why she was so quick to follow the link, not worrying about viruses or anything, instead acting on automatic pilot. Or acting like someone controlled by fate. Like she’d always known this was coming.
Like she’d just been waiting for it.
The video revealed two people, a man and a woman, both attractive and in their thirties, and both with nooses around their necks.
Josie covered her mouth with her free hand. She started sucking air through her fingers. Too fast, she was already breathing too fast …
The couple were alive. She knew who they were. Half the world knew who they were. The nooses around their necks were slack. The camera – cell phone or whatever it was – widened out just enough to show them standing on stools. A second later, the person with the camera moved in, focusing on their faces, on the strips of duct tape covering their mouths.
Oh God oh God oh God …
The cameraman then moved around behind the couple, first showing how the woman’s hands were tied behind her back. He kept the shots tight, revealing little of the surroundings. The man’s hands were tied too.
Oh God, I know what this is …
Josie finally dragged her eyes away from the screen and read the text below:
‘Like’ what you see? This video is 100% real. And if it receives 100,000 likes, guess what? The stools they’re standing on will be kicked out from under them.
Her breath came harder as her heart slammed against her ribs. She mumbled, “Jesus … Jesus, this is insane,” and her phone buzzed in her hand, making her jump and scream.
It was a text from Aaliyah. Are you seeing this? Did you get this email?
The next text had a link to the same video, Influencers get influenced.
Someone had apparently abducted the most popular Instagram couple in the country and was going to publicly hang them.
Josie texted back. Yes. Watching now omg omg omg
The phone vibrated. I mean WTF? Is this real?
Says it’s real.
Maybe it’s some stunt and they’re trying to cash in likes.
Josie hadn’t even noted the number of likes on the live video yet. She went back now and checked: 13,423. Before her very eyes, it ticked up to 13,429.
What the hell was wrong with people?
Then again, this was pretty much what had happened with Charlotte, now wasn’t it? People piling on, people too isolated and desensitized to realize the real-world impact made by their online actions.
She’d been one of those people. She’d been one of the worst ones.
Aaliyah kept texting, but Josie ignored it. The strangest thing – as she watched the video, her lips went numb. As she stared into the wide eyes of the influencer couple – the cameraman was showing their faces up very close – her ears and neck tingled, felt cold. All she could do was watch. Watch as the likes continued to roll in. Up to over 14,000 now. Climbing faster.
15,000, half a minute later.
Josie dropped her phone on the carpet. She ran into the kitchen. “Mom!” In her shock, she’d forgotten her mother was still gone. She thought about calling Robbie, her older brother, but what she really needed to do was just dial 911. Forget the stupid hotline.
She picked up the house phone and hit the three numbers. She waited.
An automated voice said, “Due to a high volume of calls, your call is being redirected to a Public Safety Access Point. Please stay on the line.”
There was a click and a pause and a ringing.
Josie walked slowly back toward her phone, which lay f
aceup on the floor. She bent down, feeling tremors in her legs.
In her ear, the line kept ringing.
And ringing.
26
Moving fast. The air outside the restaurant hitting like a wall. Running again. At least her hip and leg seemed to be recovering. Caldoza opened her door, even though the date was over. She sank into his Mustang as he ran around to the other side. Once in the driver’s seat, engine ignited, growling, he said, “Get your seatbelt on.”
The tires squalled as they pulled into traffic. “Where are they?” he asked. “SoHo?”
“Yes.” She was already plugging it into the GPS.
“You called your people?”
“Computer forensics will try to trace it to an IP address. But we should go straight to their residence.”
The couple on the video were James and Evelyn Priest, married thirtysomethings whose lives were broadcast nearly twenty-four seven for public consumption. Two very beautiful people, paid millions through advertisements and product placements. Part of a new and growing market, their job was to live their lives, and people tuned in. The more people “liked” and up-voted their exploits across a variety of social media platforms such as Instagram, Twitter, YouTube, and Facebook – the more money they made.
As Caldoza navigated Brooklyn traffic, heading for Manhattan, she watched the livestream on her phone.
“What’s it up to?” He craned his neck to see.
“Eyes on the road. It’s at thirty-two thousand.” She scrutinized the image. Their faces looked horrified. Sweaty, eyes wide and crying. The nooses around their necks weren’t rope, but something else. Like straps. Shannon would bet they were made of Cordura nylon.
“Ah, God,” Caldoza said. “Why? I don’t … why are people liking it?”
She couldn’t answer definitively, but thought at least some of the people liking the video must have thought it was fake.
Caldoza took a fast turn and she had to drop the phone and brace herself.
They came into SoHo with NYPD already on the scene, Wooster Street blocked off, emergency lights stuttering red and blue against the brown brick buildings. She’d checked it out on the way over – the Priests’ lavish loft had been purchased two years before for a cool ten million.
Into Darkness Page 16