Eve, on the other hand, had never learned how to play the game. She was superb at her job but bad at office politics, so her career shot up and down in perfect alignment with her failures and successes. She certainly hadn’t developed the Bureau allies who would protect her no matter what.
But recent successes—and her inheritance from Zev—had given her both security and freedom from the bureaucratic bullshit. She’d moved her work out of their former office in the basement of Federal Plaza to this house on Riverside Drive that had once served as a CIA command center. It made perfect sense, given the top-secret and unconventional nature of her unit. And Henry hated the arrangement, because it made her less dependent on him.
“I didn’t bother calling,” he said wearily, “because I need you to come with me.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” she repeated. “I’m busy.”
Henry looked up in surprise. “You’re not cooking.”
“I’m supervising a feast.”
“You rarely socialize.”
“I mind my own business. You ought to try it,” Eve said tartly. She was not in the mood to get into any of this right now. Besides, she’d had a few relationships in recent months. No matter that they’d lasted a few weeks at most—or that she’d ended each before it really started. Entanglements got in the way of her work; she accepted that now. She wasn’t like other women who felt supported in a relationship; she only felt dragged down. Because of her job? she wondered. Or was it that fierce independence that made her so good at her job?
She wasn’t sure she knew—or cared. The gift of being half a decade from forty was that she no longer felt a need to apologize for the way she lived her life.
“You heard what happened this afternoon at the balloon inflation ceremony?”
“It was all over the news,” she replied warily. “Hard to miss. I also saw the report saying it was just a paint gun—and the commissioner is unhurt.”
“That’s only partly true. Mo called me. She’s got concerns.”
That meant Maureen Kelly, the newest mayor of New York City. Eve had yet to meet her, but she knew her by reputation: a brash woman with the kind of take-no-prisoners attitude that didn’t win her many supporters down at City Hall. The city loved her.
“Concerns about the commissioner,” Eve hazarded, “or about the parade?”
“Both. You know how important the parade is to this city, Eve. It has to go forward tomorrow without a hitch.”
Eve studied Henry’s face. “That sounds like something Mayor Kelly and the commissioner can handle. Not sure how we come in.”
“The commissioner is not himself,” Henry insisted calmly. “But he’s too popular to remove from duty. Deputy Commissioner Kepler is doing what he can to mitigate potential damage. You come in because of the commissioner’s daughter. It seems the girl disappeared in the aftermath of the shooting. The commissioner isn’t particularly worried; apparently, she’s run off before. But someone should be looking out for her interests, as the commissioner won’t—or can’t. Since Donovan’s like the proverbial captain who won’t abandon his ship, Mo, George, and I decided a more unorthodox approach is needed.”
“Vidocq,” Eve said flatly.
“Exactly.”
“So are you asking my team to find the commissioner’s daughter? Or to confirm her disappearance is unrelated to the parade?”
“I won’t lie to you. It’s probably a little of both.”
Eve opened her mouth to say something she probably shouldn’t—and was saved when her cellphone trilled.
She answered. Listened.
“Eve,” Henry continued over her phone call, “I know you take pleasure in challenging me at every opportunity, but you really don’t have a choice this time. I’ve got a car waiting to take us to the parade’s staging ground.”
She slipped her cell in her bag and grabbed her coat. “That was one of my guys.” Her smile was merely polite. “Turns out I’m desperately needed at the Museum of Natural History—for reasons of my own. Guess your ride will be faster than hailing a cab.”
VIDOCQ FILE #W19767588
Current status: ACTIVE
Henry Ma
Age: 56
Race/Ethnicity: Asian (Chinese American)
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 211 lbs.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Current Address: 152 Hester Street (Chinatown).
Criminal Record: None.
Expertise: Behavioral analyst.
Education: Georgetown University, B.S.
Personal
Family: Daughter Julie, age 15. His large family—including four brothers, one sister, and nine cousins—still resides in Hunan, China.
Spouse/Significant Other: Divorced from wife, Caroline, following twenty-seven-year marriage.
Religion: Active member, First Chinese Presbyterian Church.
Interests: Deep knowledge of modern Chinese history. Model train enthusiast.
Profile
Strengths: A political animal always seeking out the next opportunity or promotion. Succeeds because his ambition is backed up by his ability: He’s adept at solving complex scenarios, always thinking multiple steps ahead. Can be relied on to execute, even in the most difficult situations.
Weaknesses: Inspires little loyalty in those he supervises because he shows them none. He treats them as pawns in the larger game that he plays—and should he find himself back in the field, he will discover few allies willing to support him.
Background: Entered duty as a special agent with the FBI in 1981. After completing training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, VA, he was assigned to the Los Angeles division, where he investigated organized crime, drugs, money laundering, and gang matters. In 2001, he returned to FBI HQ as assistant special agent in charge of the FBI Critical Incident Response Group, National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Henry joined the New York Division in 2009, serving as head of the Vidocq Team until his promotion in 2010 to assistant director in charge.
*Assessment prepared by Special Agent in Charge Paul Bruin. For internal use only.
WJXZ REPORTS
This is WJXZ News with Gwen Allensen, reporting from the parade staging area at the American Museum of Natural History. Right now, I’m talking with Deputy Commissioner George Kepler.
GWEN: Deputy Commissioner, is there a real concern that more violent protests like today’s may endanger the parade?
KEPLER: This city and the NYPD will not tolerate, under any circumstances, efforts to disrupt the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. This is a national event of historic proportions—not to mention a special family day that kids of all ages enjoy. I’m here to reassure the public that they should come on down and trust that New York’s Finest are going to ensure their safety.
GWEN: I understand a number of arrests have been made?
KEPLER: Yes. Most have been charged with disorderly conduct or unlawful assembly. I’m also pleased to report that we’ve arrested one of the ringleaders responsible for the attack on the commissioner himself. His name is Brock Olsen, a well-known radical anti-police activist from New Jersey. Since this is an ongoing investigation, no further details are available.
Chapter 10
Parade Staging Area—West 77th to West 81st Street
Central Park West was empty except for the police and a team of Macy’s balloon handlers, who were attempting to patch Spider-Man’s puncture wound. The balloons would still inflate. The parade would go on.
It had to—because it was too important to New York City. Sure, it ushered in the holiday season and plenty of tourist dollars. But it also symbolized something magical—something larger even than the city itself. Donovan loved being part of that.
For now, the crowds had been sent home—giving him a few hours to regroup and reorganize the troops. He had pulled in an extra eight hundred officers from counterterrorism-related units. Nothing reassured the public like seeing boots on the ground, ready to se
rve and protect. He would station officers from his elite Emergency Service Unit along the parade route in full uniform—and on its periphery in plainclothes. The air would be filled with not just Snoopy and Spider-Man, but police cameras and helicopters. This would boost the morale of his own officers as well.
What was he going to do about Allie?
A mixture of rain and sleet poured down. Guilt and anger darkened the commissioner’s thoughts. He needed to focus. Too much—specifically, three and a half million lives—was at stake. Not to mention his own reputation, as fifty million eyes watched live from the safety of their living rooms.
Allie still didn’t pick up her cellphone. She’d not been in touch with Jackie or Sam. Damn it: While she’d always turned up later, safe and sound, right now he didn’t have time to wait.
Where could she have gone?
In the past, she had run to the Egyptian room at the Met. Once, to the old FAO Schwarz on Fifth Avenue. A bench at Riverside Park with a view of the river.
It was a matter of figuring out what she liked: what sort of places appealed to her this week. As opposed to last week or last month.
Has Gwen noticed? Keenly observant, little was lost on her.
He saw her by the WJXZ News van, interviewing a crew of Macy’s workers. From the edges of their conversation, he gathered they had successfully cleaned Molly the Mongoose of the offending paint that had sprayed the balloon when he was shot. Next up was an officer who handled specially trained police dogs.
Gwen’s voice was sweet as honey when she called out, “Commissioner, do you have a moment to tell our viewers about the different kinds of security measures in place to ensure everyone’s safety during tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?”
Damn. No time for this.
Donovan had never been a patient man, but he was a charmer—and he knew it was the key to his success. All he needed to do was offer the camera a few polite words and his trademark smile—which was not a politician’s Cheshire Cat grin but one that put everyone around him at ease. “People should know they’re in good hands with Officer Colecchia and his specially trained partner Caesar on the job,” Donovan explained, indicating the eighty-pound German shepherd at his side. “Colecchia’s a sixteen-year veteran of the force, and he’s been partnered with Caesar for the past seven.”
It was a gift to be able to remember details like that. Most people couldn’t—and it impressed the hell out of them that Donovan kept such facts at his fingertips. He decided that, despite the lost time, this second interview had been a godsend. Mo now had zero ammunition to oust him. He defied her—or anyone—to claim that he was unfit for duty.
After giving a few more sound bites for the camera, he scrambled back onto the street. He would check in with Gwen later. He planned to devote the next half-hour to locating Allie and sending her straight home. That should be sufficient; then he’d be free to devote one hundred percent of his efforts to his officers and his city.
His only child had always been a mystery to him. But he’d better figure out how to find her. Now.
Desperation seemed to thicken his words as he yelled at a group of cops, asking if they’d seen his daughter. He felt a flash of anger when they responded only with questions and confused looks.
When he neared Eighty-first Street, he saw a senior detective he recognized. He and John Williams had gone through training at the Academy together. They had been drinking buddies ever since.
“John! Got a sec?”
“You okay, Chief?”
He wished the damn noise in his ears would stop. “My daughter’s missing. I can’t find anyone who’s seen her since…” He found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Since I began my speech. Since I got shot with paint. Since I got this damned concussion and started hearing things. None of these were facts he wanted to dwell on.
“Slow down and start from the beginning,” John urged, his voice laced with concern.
Donovan’s ears were ringing and his body was shaking and he felt dizzy. His words tumbled out faster than he wanted—but he managed to explain it all.
“So did you finish reviewing all the video footage?” John asked.
God, he was such an idiot. Maybe the paint gunshot actually had messed up his brain. “I got interrupted.”
“They’re adding more footage, all the time, as they recover it. They’re looking for more evidence on the rioters.”
Donovan didn’t wait for John to finish. He ran into the Homeland Security tent and commandeered a laptop. Opened the NYPD system.
Typed in his passcode. Waited.
Six seconds later, he was rewarded.
Three new amateur videos of his aborted speech had been uploaded. Two were useless. But the third showed his daughter.
It had been taken by someone standing almost immediately behind Allie. It showed her standing. Then being swept into the crowd.
The crowds seemed to half carry, half push her toward the entrance for the B and C subway lines.
At the last second, Allie was near a man in a yellow raincoat. A Macy’s raincoat. Was she with him? Was he embracing her? Carrying her? It almost seemed that way—before the two figures disappeared belowground. Lost in the throng.
Stunned, Donovan asked aloud, “Am I seeing straight?”
Nobody was listening. He took off running until he reached the very spot.
He glanced around. First left. Then right.
Searching.
Almost believing that any moment Allie would be visible, legs moving fast, a bright spot of purple raincoat on a dreary, dull day.
Had the man in the yellow coat been helping her? Had she simply gotten caught up in the general panicked exodus? Was she lost now, aimlessly riding the subway rails? Because she knew nothing about the subway. For security purposes, he’d hired Sam to drive her when she traveled in the city.
He raced down the subway steps, two at a time. When he reached the uptown platform, he saw one of his captains trudging toward him. Taking annoyingly slow steps.
Gonzales. That detective seemed to put on more weight every year. He also wore his hair a little too long, just above his ears—and forgot to shave, at least twice a week. Donovan had begun to suspect this was all a sign of trouble at home.
“HAVE YOU SEEN ALLIE?” Donovan asked him. “I saw video footage of her; she was headed down here.”
Gonzales cringed.
A dead end. Donovan started toward the stairs to the downtown platform.
“Chief!” Gonzales stepped in front of him. Holding something in his hands. An offering.
A phone.
“WHAT?” He was still talking too loud. He needed to fix that.
“We found it under a bench on the downtown platform, Chief.”
Not just a phone. Allie’s phone. Impossible to mistake her iPhone, in its pink case with purple hearts.
Equally impossible to imagine Allie without it. Her iPhone was permanently attached to her body. Like a second skin.
“WHERE?” Donovan demanded. “I need to see,” he added, more softly. He could barely make out his words over the ringing, but this time Gonzales didn’t wince.
“Down the stairs. Under the last bench.”
Donovan stalked toward the spot. What was her code again? She used Tolkien’s birthdate. He’d have to Google it.
Turned out he didn’t need it. Allie’s passcode had been turned off.
And the moment he pressed the power button, he saw: The picture was wrong.
This wasn’t Allie’s usual home screen. It wasn’t the brilliant rainbow she’d photographed their last vacation on the Cape.
It was Allie herself—looking small and frightened and wet, her hands bound together in front of her with plastic zip ties.
But the picture wasn’t the only thing that made Donovan’s heart wedge in his throat.
There was a message that read: How far will you go to save her?
He sucked in his breath. If this was one of Allie’s wild stunts—j
ust a play for sympathy and attention—then it was far more elaborate than anything she’d done before.
Then he focused on the numbers. Under the current day/time stamp—superimposed right above Allie’s head—another clock was counting down fast. It read 18 hours, 12 minutes, 53 seconds. Then 52, 51, 50…
Is this real?
He did the math in his head. That was noon tomorrow. When the parade was supposed to end.
45, 44, 43…
A ticking clock.
Chapter 11
American Museum of Natural History
Eve Rossi stood in the rotunda of the American Museum of Natural History and let her eyes drift up to the south mural—the one illustrating how Teddy Roosevelt had negotiated the treaty that ended the Russo-Japanese War.
Roosevelt had won the Nobel Peace Prize because of it.
But the man she’d been observing—a police captain—wasn’t going to earn any prizes. This man was a bully; she saw it in his body language. It was clear from the way he swung his arms, like he wished he could throw a punch instead of a question. It was signaled by the rise of his blood pressure, which had settled in his hot, flushed cheeks.
He was also a poor interrogator. He was questioning a group of men—her own agent among them. Rounded up as a suspect in firing the paint gun that had injured Commissioner Logan Donovan earlier that afternoon. He was also moving too fast, taking no time to observe. He hadn’t learned that getting information from people wasn’t a test of wills—or even a matter of intimidation. You had to be smart about it—which involved much more than words. People revealed themselves in hundreds of different ways. Hands. Eyes. Gestures. Expressions. Movements.
It was even easier when they were in trouble. Because then you could see what frightened them. Nothing laid human motives bare more effectively than fear.
She wished she didn’t have to deal with the bully. She’d prefer to simply show her badge, flash some paperwork, retrieve her agent, and go. Normally it wouldn’t be an issue. In this post-9/11 world, the FBI and NYPD coordinated and cooperated and basically got along.
Whistleblower Page 7