by Dan Mahoney
McKenna walked over to the female cop rocking the baby carriage. Another cop was standing next to her. “Do you have any children?” McKenna asked her.
“Three.”
“Perfect. What’s your name?”
“Mary Anne Rutelege.”
“And you?” McKenna asked her partner.
“Kenny Dulberg.”
McKenna took his apartment keys off his key ring and gave them to Mary Anne, along with his address. Then he pointed out their new charges. “This is Shane and he gets the Similac. This one is Sean and he gets the Enfamil. The formula is in the cabinet over the sink. Don’t mix it up or they’ll make you really miserable. Both of you stay there until I get home and don’t let anyone in but me.”
“What time do you think that’ll be?” she asked.
“Lord knows, but it won’t be before I get their mother and sister back.”
“You can count on us,” Dulberg said.
“I know I can. Thank you,” McKenna said, then watched Rutelege and Dulberg wheel his kids from the park.
“What now?” Sheeran asked.
“Mulrooney’s gonna contact me and we have to be ready for that. But first I have an important call to make.” He called the radio shop and got Gaspar on the line. “You got the Paddy Poofer together yet?”
“Just finished. I was just about to test it out.”
“Don’t do that!” McKenna said. “He’s got my wife and daughter with him.”
“Sorry to hear that. Complicates things a bit, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, quite a bit,” McKenna said before cutting the connection. “Are any of the Brit places we’re guarding near a park?” he asked Sheeran.
“None I can think of.”
“Then it has to be something along the parade route, maybe alongside Central Park from 59th to 86th Streets.”
“Yeah, but there’s nothing to blow up there and I can’t think of another park along the parade route.”
McKenna took a mental ride up Fifth Avenue, searching the parade route for another park. He couldn’t think of one, either. Then he noticed Joe Walsh and his Crime Scene Unit team standing outside the shed, taking photos of the interior. “What’s going on in there?”
“Another body,” Sheeran answered. “The guy who usually works this park.”
“Sam?” McKenna asked.
“Yeah. Sam Goldman. You know him?”
“Sure I know him. Nice old guy, worked here for years. Ambery is wearing his clothes.” McKenna walked over to Walsh with Sheeran following. Stretched out on the floor of the shed was Sam, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He had been killed by a single bullet to the head and there was no exit wound, so McKenna knew Mulrooney had used his silencer when he had shot him. The shed was sparsely furnished with two wall lockers, a work bench with drawers underneath, a small table with two chairs, a cooler, and a large wire trash container. Garden tools hung from pegs on the wall and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the shed.
“Has this place been searched yet?” McKenna asked Walsh.
“Not yet. We’ve only begun processing the crime scene, but it has to be photographed first.”
“Forget the pictures, Joe. We don’t have time.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Two parkie uniforms,” McKenna answered, gratified that, for once, he knew more about a crime scene than Walsh did. Both of the wall lockers were locked, so McKenna searched Sam’s body for the keys. They weren’t there. “They took Sam’s keys, the uniforms are in lockers,” he said, then searched for tools to break the locks. Sheeran found a hammer and a chisel in one of the drawers under the workbench and did the honors, breaking both padlocks.
The first locker was a bust, containing only one of Sam’s clean and pressed blue work uniforms and a blue jacket. The two green Parks Department uniforms were rolled up at the bottom of the other locker.
“How did you know they’d be here?” Sheeran asked.
“Easy. When Pao told me Mulrooney was wearing a green parkie uniform and I saw Ambery in Sam’s blue uniform, I figured the other two stashed their parkie uniforms in here after they changed into Sam’s clothes.”
“He was killed for his clothes?” Walsh asked.
“More than that,” McKenna said. “Mulrooney can’t show his face, so he killed Sam for the clothes and so he’d have a place to hide and watch while Ambery and Crowley were doing their raking act outside. Sam usually starts work around six, so that’s when they ambushed him here, probably just as he was opening the shed.”
“How’d they get in the park? Climb the fence?”
“I guess so. I bet Crowley climbed over and let the other two in.”
“Bastards,” Walsh said. “Mulrooney could’ve just tied the old guy up. He didn’t have to kill him.”
“Not his style,” McKenna said. He took the parkie uniforms from the locker and unrolled them on the ground, front up. Both uniforms had a smeared line of dirt across the top of the jacket and the upper leg part of the pants.
“Looks like they were doing some kind of heavy work in a park somewhere,” Sheeran observed.
“Maybe digging to plant a bomb?” McKenna asked no one in particular.
Walsh ran his finger across the dirt smear on one of the pants legs until he had gathered a small sample. He rubbed the dirt between his fingers, then brought the sample to his nose and sniffed it. He had that wondrous, good-thing-I’m-here look on his face, so McKenna and Sheeran knew he was on to something. But Walsh wasn’t ready to divulge his secret, yet. He took his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and searched the dirt smear on the pants legs until he found what he was looking for. He smiled again, took a tweezer from his pants pocket, and picked a small, light-colored thread from the pants leg. He held it to his eyes for a second, then nodded knowingly.
“For Christ’s sake, Joe! What?” Sheeran implored.
“The men who wore these uniforms have recently been working hard planting trees.”
“That’s a burlap fiber and some topsoil you’ve got there?” McKenna guessed.
“Not entirely correct, but please don’t take all the fun out of this for me. The fiber is burlap, a piece of the burlap bags the roots were wrapped in. However, the dirt is a mixture of topsoil and peat moss that seeped out of the burlap bags as these men carried the trees to wherever they were planting them.”
“Now just tell me what kind of trees they were,” McKenna said, not really expecting an answer.
“Certainly.” Walsh turned the pants pockets inside out and picked up a few green needles clinging to the pocket fabric.
“Pine trees?” McKenna asked.
Walsh examined the needles with his magnifying glass. “Hemlock needles, to be more precise,” then he rolled the needles between his fingers. “Still full of moisture,” he observed. “They planted their trees sometime last night.”
But where, McKenna wondered again. Once again, he retraced the parade route in his mind. Then it came to him. “The library,” he shouted. “Bryant Park is right behind it and I think the library might even be on Parks Department property. That’s what he was doing on 41st Street, scoping out the location.”
“You’re right. It’s gotta be the library,” Sheeran shouted back. “Do you know what’s going on there today?”
“No.”
“We’ve got ILGO there, demonstrating on the steps.”
McKenna was sure that was the target. Mulrooney hated gays, and ILGO, the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization, had been the center of controversy for years. The Loyal Order of Hibernians ran the parade, and every year ILGO applied for permission to march in the parade under their own banner. Every year the Hibernians denied the request and the issue had run its course through the courts, going first one way and then the other as it progressed through the system.
The majority of New Yorkers saw no harm in letting ILGO march as they liked, but not the Hibernians. One year when it looked like ILGO was go
ing to prevail in the courts, the Hibernians had threatened to cancel the parade. Finally, the court of appeals had decided the issue in the Hibernians’ favor.
ILGO and many politicians, including the mayor, had publicly disagreed with the court’s decision, but there was nothing they could do about it. So every year ILGO was allowed a place along the parade route for an organized demonstration, and this year it was on the steps of the library. “Is the mayor gonna speak with them to show his support?” McKenna asked.
“I guess so. He does every year.”
And Brunette’s with him, McKenna thought. With one action Mulrooney wipes out ILGO, the mayor who supports them, and the police commissioner of the department that fired and arrested him. “Do we still have the surveillance going on 41st Street?”
“No. With so many places to surveil, it seemed pointless,” Sheeran said, shaking his head and smiling wryly. “I cut it last night. It’s a shame, because that’s where Mulrooney’s going.”
“I don’t think so, not with Angelita and Janine with him and not with everyone knowing his face. He’s gonna be watching the parade on TV somewhere or listening to it on one of the Irish radio stations. He’ll set his bomb when the mayor and Ray get there.” McKenna looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen, they were out of time. The parade started at ten o’clock at 28th Street and Fifth Avenue. Only twelve blocks to the library, so the parade should be just about there. It had to be stopped.
Sheeran was way ahead of him, already on his phone to the office. He ordered the parade halted, the library steps cleared of demonstrators, and Fifth Avenue evacuated from East 40th to East 42nd Street. He also wanted the Bomb Squad at the library in force.
“Has O’Reilly still got the kids at the fountain?” McKenna asked Sheeran after he had finished his call.
“Yep, they’re all there. I’ve got six men watching them.”
I wish we would’ve had six cops watching my kids, McKenna thought. Or, better yet, two Johnny Paos.
Thirty-Eight
Thor was standing next to the car on Second Avenue when McKenna got there. “There was only one bomb, the one that went off,” he said.
“How are the cops?”
“One dead, one critical. Serious head injuries.”
“Damn!” McKenna said. He got behind the wheel and unlocked Thor’s door. Before starting the car, he told Thor what had happened in Gramercy Park and his suspicions about the library.
“He’s got the two best hostages he could possibly have right now,” Thor commented.
“But what’s he gonna do with them in the end?” McKenna asked, dreading the thought.
“You’re luckier than me, because right now they’re valuable to him. I think he will keep them safe until he’s clear.”
“And then?”
“Then he’ll make a deal. He’ll exchange them for his two kids.”
How can he do that? McKenna wondered. He’d have to know we’d grab him after the exchange. Unless … “He’s got to have another big bomb planted somewhere else. He’ll threaten to blow it unless we let him get away.”
“No, he just has to say he’s got another bomb planted. He figures that after he blows up the library, you’d be ready to believe him.”
Would that work for him? McKenna wondered. Then the same transmission came over both radios. “Base to all Manhattan units. Subject just called 911 from the area of the South Street Seaport. Sixteen-second call. Manhattan units to respond?”
McKenna listened as two ventriloquists in the office answered up on the PD radio for Mulrooney’s benefit. One reported his team’s location as Broadway and Houston Street and the other said they were at East 19th Street and Third Avenue. Both were about a mile away from the South Street Seaport and McKenna thought that their reported locations should give Mulrooney some comfort.
Meanwhile, Sheeran was out there somewhere busy, directing units to the Seaport over the FBI radio. Six were close and one was actually there, but McKenna was sure that Mulrooney had already moved on.
“What would he be doing at the Seaport?” Thor asked.
“There’s loads of open parking lots there under the East River Drive. He just stole another car,” McKenna answered. He took an earpiece from his pocket, attached it to the FBI radio, and waited for his phone to ring.
It did, seconds later. “His call to 911 was for you,” Eddie Morgan said. “He wants you to call him, says you have his number.”
“I do. Get everyone out here ready,” McKenna said.
“Okay. Keep him talking, give our teams a chance to get close,” Morgan said, then hung up.
“Base to all Manhattan units. Stand by. The subject will be on the phone soon,” came over on both frequencies.
McKenna put the earpiece in his left ear so that he could monitor the teams’ progress as he talked. Vernon had been right on the money so far, so McKenna quickly reviewed the points he had made: Mulrooney will sound friendly, but don’t believe anything he says; he won’t keep any promises he makes, but will make good on every threat. McKenna resolved that if Mulrooney sounded friendly, he would reciprocate to keep him on the line. Reading Winthrop’s phone number from his notebook, he dialed.
Mulrooney answered at once. “Hello, Brian. How you feeling this fine morning?”
“Very poorly, considering.”
“You know who I have here with me, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know. Please don’t hurt them and I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
“Base to all Manhattan units. He’s on the East River Drive, heading north. He just crossed 14th Street,” McKenna heard on both radios, but it also came over his phone. He had been right—Mulrooney was monitoring their radio.
Mulrooney didn’t answer at once, but McKenna heard one of the base ventriloquists report on the PD radio that he was leaving the Seaport and getting on the drive. He was happy to also hear that transmission come through his phone. It was only the PD radio that Mulrooney was listening to, and according to the other transmissions coming over from nonexistent units, nobody was close to him.
But that was very wrong. The transmissions from units coming over McKenna’s earpiece told him that many units were close and getting closer. Team Thirty-one was eight blocks behind him on the East River Drive.
“Now that you mention it, there is something you can do for me,” Mulrooney said at last. “Are my kids still at the fountain?”
“Yes, they’re there.”
“Good. Get over there right now and tell them that all that stuff about me killing those girls was a lie the Brits put you up to. Would you do that for me and make it convincing?”
“I’ll get right over there. I promise that I’ll make them believe me,” McKenna said.
“Base to all Manhattan units. Subject’s still on the drive, just crossed 25th Street.”
“Thank you, Brian,” Mulrooney said. “Give me your number so we can chat whenever I want to.”
McKenna gave him the number for the cell phone and Mulrooney cut the connection.
“Base to all Manhattan units. Subject’s off the phone. Last location was the drive and 30th Street.”
“Squad CO to Base,” Sheeran transmitted on the FBI radio. “We got any units available to cut off the drive at 42nd Street or 63rd Street?”
There were three units who could possibly make it in time, but then help came from another quarter. “Aviation Two to Squad CO. We can land on the drive at 60th Street in thirty seconds. If he sees us coming down, he’ll think we’re landing at the 60th Street Heliport.”
“Ten four, Aviation Two. Do it,” Sheeran ordered.
“On the way down.”
McKenna wasn’t sure if he liked the plan, but any plan was better than no plan. He waited and listened. The helicopter was down and northbound traffic on the drive was stopped. Then his phone rang. “Traffic’s slowing down a bit and I think you’re responsible,” Mulrooney said. “If it doesn’t clear up in thirty seconds, I’m gonna shoot this little girl in
the arm.”
McKenna’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Please, don’t do that,” he pleaded, but Mulrooney had already cut the connection. He grabbed the PD radio and screamed, “Aviation Two, this is McKenna. Get back in the air now or he’s gonna shoot my daughter.”
“Ten-four, McKenna. We’re taking off now.”
“Base, where was he for that last phone call?” McKenna asked on the FBI radio.
“The drive and 43rd Street.”
“Team Thirty-one, what’s your location?”
“Stopped in traffic on the drive and 39th Street.”
Oh God! Please don’t let him shoot my little girl, McKenna thought. “McKenna to Team Thirty-one. Let me know the instant traffic starts to move.”
“Team Thirty-one. Looks like it’s starting to move up ahead.”
Thank you, God, McKenna thought as he started the car.
“Where are we going?” Thor asked.
“To tell some lies to some kids. Gonna have to convince them that their father is still a wonderful man.”
“What about the library?”
“We’ll stop there on the way.”
“Team Thirty-one to Base. We’re involved in a collision on the drive at 42nd Street. He dropped some bombs on the pavement and set them off after he left. It’s about a block ahead of us, three separate explosions. Get as many ambulances as you can to the drive and 43rd Street, there’s cars laying all over the place up there.”
Wrecking cars and killing people to keep the cops far behind him, McKenna thought. How are we ever going to get this guy? He turned on the siren and headed for the library.
The Bomb Squad was there and so were many television crews, all set up, when McKenna and Thor arrived at the library at ten-thirty. The head of the parade was halted one block away at Fifth Avenue and 40th Street. They had stopped marching, but they hadn’t stopped playing; the sound of bagpipes filled the air. The Bomb Squad was on the scene at Fifth Avenue and 40th Street, but nothing else had been done. The sidewalk across the street from the library was still thronged with spectators standing behind the barriers and facing a line of uniformed cops and at least two hundred ILGO members were still demonstrating on its steps.