Gwen checked her own contacts, rattled the number off.
On the opposite side of the rotunda, Detective Michaels’s pizza delivery had arrived. It attracted cops like bees to honey—and suddenly the tech work area was deserted.
Gwen watched as Morris focused his attention on his laptop monitor and called up a new search. It yielded a screen covered with numbers. Even if a cellphone was turned off, so long as its battery was present, it emitted a signal looking for base stations within range. That signal—a “ping”—lasted less than a quarter of a second. But it contained both the mobile identification number—the number assigned by the service provider that was similar to a landline number—and the ESN—a thirty-two-bit binary number assigned by the manufacturer. The latter was what Morris tracked; unlike mobile numbers, it could never be changed.
The screen’s string of numbers began flashing fast, blurring into green and yellow psychedelic lines as Morris went back in time, tracking Allie’s movements from the moment she had arrived with Donovan at the balloon inflation.
At 1:46 p.m., Allie had been at the corner of Eighty-first and Central Park West. She had wandered around, checking out the balloons. And returned to the corner of Eighty-first by 2:09 p.m.
“The pings go silent,” Morris pointed out. “Right here—at two-eleven p.m.”
In other words, right when Donovan was giving his speech, Gwen thought. Just before he was shot. Poor kid probably panicked.
“Here’s what I think happened. At two-eleven, I believe she sees the commissioner—hurt,” Morris explained. “She drops her phone. And in the chaos and confusion, somebody grabs it. Maybe the battery’s fallen out. If not, the person finding it knows enough to remove the battery. Finders keepers is the name of the game. Within twenty-four hours, Allie’s phone’s going to be nothing but a bunch of parts for sale on the black market.”
“That’s a great story to explain the missing phone,” Gwen said evenly. “But not the missing girl.”
The techie looked at her sharply. “Right now it’s all I can give you. Look, the commissioner’s right not to worry prematurely. In the meantime, we’ve covered all the bases. As part of the shooting investigation, we have people checking official surveillance. Interviewing civilians with smartphones. We’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. If there’s a problem, somebody will catch it. But the most likely scenario is that the kid got spooked. Got caught in the chaos of the crowds. Lost her phone.”
Gwen nodded, but she couldn’t shake the gnawing sense in her gut: Something was not right. But what was her responsibility, really, to a child who wasn’t her own?
WJXZ REPORTS
This is WJXZ News with Gwen Allensen reporting from the Upper West Side.
For viewers just tuning in, we’re bringing you Mayor Kelly with an update on the city’s response to the protest at this year’s annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon inflation ceremony—a protest that unexpectedly turned violent.
MAYOR KELLY: Today is a difficult day for me as mayor of this city. My friend and colleague—Commissioner Logan Donovan—was brutally attacked on what should have been a day of celebration and thanksgiving. While the commissioner’s prognosis is excellent—and we expect him to make a complete recovery—I do want to update you on the city’s response and additional street closures in the area.
UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER #1: Have the police identified the shooter or shooters?
UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER #2: Do you believe the commissioner was attacked in retaliation for Stan Smith’s death while in police custody? Can you comment on reports that Smith was beaten by officers and repeatedly bitten by a police dog—after he had been subdued?
UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER #3: Is there any remaining threat to public safety?
MAYOR KELLY: This is an ongoing police investigation, so we cannot answer questions that may bear on the evidence. But I want to assure you: The public’s safety is my number one priority. Tonight and tomorrow, you will see a significantly heightened police presence both in the parade zone and throughout the city.
UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER #4: The balloons are still not inflated. Will the Macy’s Parade go forward as planned?
UNIDENTIFIED REPORTER #5: Have you received specific terrorist threats targeting the parade?
Chapter 8
American Museum of Natural History
Logan Donovan stood in front of the museum’s circular membership desk in the middle of the rotunda, jiggling his foot impatiently, and watched the laptop screen on the counter. Behind him, footsteps pounded, phones trilled, and cops shouted orders.
Donovan was oblivious to all of it.
Five segments of video footage had been loaded onto the computer: three by tourists, one by a Macy’s worker, and one by a resident at the Beresford.
He had now seen himself shot four times over—though no footage seemed to have captured an image of the two people he most wanted to see. The shooter. And his daughter.
“Commissioner? May I have a word?”
Donovan groaned silently as he allowed the woman known as Mo to pull him aside. A tall woman with dirty-blond hair, cut fashionably short, she was the last person he wanted to see right now.
“Tough day all around, huh?” She looked at him with a mixture of respect and pity, but her voice was typical Mo.
He flashed Mo a smile that he hoped would appear warm and friendly.
George had once diplomatically called Mo an acquired taste. But Donovan had been dealing with her for almost a year, and he’d yet to acquire even a basic ability to tolerate her. He was beginning to accept that he never would.
It didn’t matter that she’d kept him in his job. He owed her no favors there; she’d have replaced him in a heartbeat, if she could. But with crime rates down twenty-two percent across all five boroughs, Donovan had been far too popular to force out.
“You feeling okay?” Mo looked him over. He felt like a horse being evaluated before the big race.
“Sure,” he lied. “Nothing wrong that a shower, a few hours of beauty sleep, and a whole lotta shampoo won’t cure.”
“That’s not what I hear.” She started ticking his problems off on her fingers. “I spoke with Medical. You’ve got a concussion. You have issues with balance. Your hearing has been compromised.” She let it all sink in before she added, “And I just heard from George that your daughter’s run off.”
He felt his body stiffen. “It’s been a rough day. But I defy anyone to say I can’t handle problems. That’s what I do.”
“My point is: You’ve got more problems than usual. And the situation with your daughter?”
He bristled. “Since when is my family anybody’s business?”
“You’re the top cop in charge of this city, Logan. If you have a runaway situation—”
“Which is pure speculation on your part.”
“You would—understandably, of course—be distracted. Unable to focus on your responsibilities to this city.” Mo’s gray eyes locked onto Donovan’s.
He felt as though he was being stalked by a predator he’d underestimated. Now, with his back up against the wall, he needed an exit strategy. One certain to best Mo, who had a clear agenda—and was poised to push it through.
“What’s happened to you this afternoon is something no public servant should be asked to deal with,” she was saying. “You were representing the citizens of New York—and particularly those of us who want to resolve the tensions that divide our community. The NYPD’s taken some real heat these last few months. I want you to know I’ve got your back on this. On everything.”
“I appreciate that, Mo.” He found another smile, because it was what she expected.
“We need to keep working together to keep this city safe. And to do that, I need you in top form. Which is why you should take some time off.”
“Can’t. Not with the parade tomorrow. Not with my own men and women under threat. This is my city, and it’s my job to protect it. My daughter wil
l turn up soon—and in the unlikely event that she doesn’t, I have good people to help me find her.” Donovan just barely held his fury in check—but he kept his voice at a normal volume.
“You’ve had a rough time since your wife’s death. You took barely any leave then. I’d say you deserve a break. And we deserve one hundred percent of your efforts.”
He couldn’t believe she was trying to use Jill’s death—and now Allie’s disappearance—to justify forcing him off the job.
“I give one hundred percent of myself every day.” He kept his voice even. “Every single day. Including today.”
“Except you can’t, Commissioner. Not when you have so many issues. A lot of people are worried. The medical personnel who’ve treated you. Deputies who’ve worked with you for years. The consensus is clear: They say that you’re not yourself.”
George. And after all he’d done for the stupid ingrate.
“You’re known for having nerves of steel,” Mo continued, “but today, people tell me that you’ve repeatedly flown off the handle.”
They were in the middle of a conversation, but he found himself struggling to keep up. Too many problems competed for his attention. His pounding head. The infernal ringing in his ears. Allie. He forced his eyes to meet Mo’s.
“The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is a big event for our city,” she was saying. “And like every big event, it generates attention from those who want to disrupt it. As you know, this year in particular, we have a number of credible threats to safeguard against. Your injuries—as well as your concerns about your daughter—make you a liability. Given the political climate, we can’t take chances.”
Donovan’s ears were roaring. His head was pounding. But through it all, he realized that Mo was making a power play. She had waited patiently until the moment he was at his most vulnerable. Now she was moving in for the kill.
“Stop right now. I’m no liability. In fact, the security plans that we’re implementing—plans that have been in place for months—are my plans. And I have the finest police force in the world supporting me.”
“Take some time,” she insisted. “You’ve earned it. This is my city—which means the buck stops with me, for the credit or the blame. So I’m taking charge of all preparations for tomorrow’s parade. Together with George Kepler.”
“Excuse me?”
She was talking nonsense. George was not assuming his job. Donovan shook his ocean-filled head, trying to clear it.
“I’m not asking you, Logan, I’m telling you. It’s an order. Go home. Take care of your health. Take care of your daughter.”
He’d just been played—in a more effective way than he’d thought Maureen Kelly, mayor of New York City, was capable of.
Like hell would he stand for it.
Behind Mo, Donovan saw the deputy commissioner, the deputy mayor, and a host of high-level political officials coming toward him.
He also saw the various news organizations represented, with multiple camera crews in place.
And Gwen.
He drew a breath and ran his hand across his red-flaked hair, pointed to her cameraman, then motioned her over. Suddenly there was a great commotion as reporters and news crews charged toward him, practically stumbling over their equipment.
Before Mo could say a word, he introduced himself and seized control of the situation.
“This is your police commissioner. At one-forty-seven this afternoon, during the annual balloon inflation ceremony, there was an unfortunate incident of violence. A small group of protesters incited a riot—and I was assaulted.”
He paused—the cameras flashed—and the questions came rapid-fire.
Commissioner, who are the perpetrators responsible?
Commissioner, is it true that you have the shooter in custody?
Commissioner, are you uninjured—and able to continue leading the largest, most sophisticated police force in the world?
Donovan looked directly into the cameras. He kept his answers to the point. His voice at normal volume. He reassured the public about his health—about security at the parade—and thanked the mayor and every other public official in the city for their confidence in him.
In other words, he ignored the infernal ringing in his ears—the tinnitus that was a temporary symptom of his ear injury—and did what he had to do to save his job.
—
After he ended the impromptu press conference, Mo Kelly, her brows knit in a tight V, sat shivering with anger. He got up and charged across the room, leaving her behind, cursing her with every step that he took.
She wasn’t an acquired taste. Just a bad one.
So sour and unpleasant that he wished he could spit it out.
Chapter 9
350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
At 107th and Riverside Drive, the white marble mansion with the sea-green slate roof was one of the city’s last freestanding houses. It was imposing at more than twelve thousand square feet, and was guarded by two lion statues. Passersby approached it like it was a rare unicorn sighting—completely unexpected in the urban jungle of Manhattan. Eve, who had inherited it from her stepfather, Zev, simply called it home.
Inside, she had created a work-life space. One where she could work with her team downstairs, in offices outfitted with state-of-the-art technology—or, alternately, escape them altogether on the top floor, where she maintained private living quarters.
That was where she retreated now to take a fast shower. A cake of Swedish salt soap transported her to the sea, and coconut-scented shampoo erased all remaining traces of Tony Falcon. Manipulating people was sometimes part of the job. The fact that she was good at it didn’t make her like it any better.
Then she dried herself with an oversized white plush towel and dressed quickly in her normal clothes. A cashmere sweater. Loose-fitting black slacks. Fashionable shoes with a low heel. She towel-dried her curly hair and didn’t bother to straighten it.
At last—she was herself again.
Bach—the German shepherd that she’d also inherited from Zev after his death—waited for her patiently, gazing up at her with adoring brown eyes. Eve still wasn’t used to Bach’s unwavering, unconditional love, but he had certainly made the last year a lot easier. He never judged her. He slept at the foot of her bed each night, then made sure she got up early each morning. He motivated her to exercise, ate her leftovers, kept her kitchen floor clean of crumbs. And since he was a handsome dog, he was constantly attracting attention, introducing her to new people.
She leaned down to pet Bach and unexpectedly the memory of Zev washed over her. The pain of losing him was sharper whenever a holiday or a birthday approached. She blamed the fact that her efforts to investigate his murder had thus far failed. Without closure, she was still figuring out the best way to deal with the fact that—all these days, weeks, months later—she felt alone.
The dog helped.
Work also helped.
Which was one reason why she went to her office now, Bach trailing close behind. She wanted to make sure no questions had surfaced on the Falcon case; then she’d write up her report. Check on her under-the-radar investigation into Zev’s murder—and whether any of her discreet inquiries had returned leads. Anything to avoid focusing on Thanksgiving—though even three floors up, she could smell the aroma from the kitchen. Her kitchen, which normally was littered with nothing but cartons of takeout. Today it was filled with the scent of apples and cinnamon and some kind of bread baking. It was mouthwatering—and enough to feed a small army.
Tomorrow, she’d deliver the feast to Saint Agnes and join volunteers who fed the homeless—not only serving them, but also sitting down and eating with them. Zev had explained that it was about making a connection that could last beyond the meal. Frankly, she couldn’t see the point. There were so many homeless. Shouldn’t the goal be about ending hunger permanently, not just on Thanksgiving Day?
She would be turning thirty-five next month. Half a decade fro
m forty. Maybe it was because she was getting older. Maybe it was because she was still working to survive Zev’s death. Suddenly doing things that seemed worthwhile was important. And Zev had believed Saint Agnes’s efforts were important, so she would do this in his memory.
Her train of thought fizzled the moment she saw the visitor in her office.
Unwelcome. Sitting awkwardly on her cream sofa, taking in the plants and the view of the Hudson River. Waiting—with a cup of coffee in one hand and his ever-present smartphone in the other.
“Henry, what are you doing here?” she demanded—and felt she had every right to. This was a holiday—and he had invaded her personal workspace. It didn’t matter that Henry Ma, the assistant director in charge of the New York FBI office, was technically her boss.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“You didn’t startle me. But really, Henry—don’t you have someplace better to be the afternoon before Thanksgiving?”
They both ignored the fact that he probably didn’t. As a matter of principle, Eve never asked about Henry’s private life. But she’d seen the transformation over the past year: He’d put on at least thirty pounds, his crisp-ironed shirts had become crumpled, his wedding ring had disappeared from his finger, and most nights he stayed late at the office.
“I need a favor,” he began.
“It’s the day before Thanksgiving,” she repeated firmly. “You should have phoned first.”
But that was never Henry’s style. Just like he would never offer a word of gratitude for the Falcon bust, even though the art thief’s arrest had eluded scores of other agents for months. Henry was an “I” guy. A political schemer who had already moved on to his next challenge, looking for—and taking—any conceivable advantage. It was the strategy that had led him to one plum assignment after another—and now, finally, a corner office at 26 Federal Plaza.
Whistleblower Page 6