“Can you connect to the secure channel and pass it back here?” Donovan popped a piece of Allie’s gum in his mouth. Cinnamon. He chewed vigorously.
“Don’t remember how, Boss, but I expect you can figure it out.” Sam tugged on the radio mount. It dislodged—and he passed it back to Donovan. The wire just managed to reach.
Within moments, Donovan had remotely rejoined the meeting he’d just skipped out of.
His deputy, George Kepler, was making noises of frustration. “Who the hell knows? We’ve got a man in custody, but he’s just one of a passel of cop haters—each of them a threat to tomorrow’s parade. I’m gonna have an ulcer before this night’s over.”
The cop was a damn drama queen.
“Time to man up, George.” Donovan broke into the conversation. “What’s the status on surveillance and tactical?”
A different voice answered. Donovan recognized it as Graham, his best tactical officer. “I’ve got one team combing area footage. Another is positioning a team on every rooftop along Central Park West.”
“Snipers?”
“Our best.”
“What if the media notices?” George fretted. “We don’t want to publicize any threats.”
“The media already knows we’re amping up security for this year’s parade,” Donovan said. “They also know I was assaulted. No one’s going to question a forceful display of security.”
“And the public?” George asked. “How are they gonna feel when a sniper’s got his rifle trained on Little Susie, who just wants to watch Dora the Explorer passing by?”
Donovan laughed. “If anything, it makes them feel better. Like nothing bad’s gonna happen with a cop standing next to them. Besides, their eyes are going to be on the balloons and the floats. Not the members of New York’s Finest who are working their asses off. The only people we’ll piss off are the residents along Central Park, when they realize their rooftop box seats to the big event will be off-limits.”
Satisfied the situation was under control for the moment, Donovan clicked off the radio. His eyes fell on another packet of Allie’s gum. Watermelon.
Under control professionally, he corrected with a pang of guilt.
Sam pulled up outside a house on the corner of Riverside Drive and 107th, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. A large white van was parked outside; two uniformed men were carrying metal boxes inside through gaping doors.
“You need me again, just call,” Sam said when Donovan ducked out of the backseat. “Otherwise I’ll see Allie at eight o’clock Monday morning. Back to school as usual. I’ve got faith.”
“Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Sam.”
“You, too, Chief.”
Donovan strode up the steps toward the main door, checking his watch. He’d give this fifteen minutes—twenty at the most. Never mind that his own reality had tilted askew. NYPD business—and the parade—both had to go on.
Chapter 20
350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
Mace took the stairs at headquarters down to the lower level two at a time. He dumped his wet and dirty clothes in the corner, and stepped into a long, hot shower in the living space he periodically shared with the other members of the team—using extra soap and plenty of shampoo to scrub away every trace of the afternoon. Afterward he shaved, brushed his teeth, and started to pull a lucky No. 17 jersey, a bright blue T-shirt, and warm-up sweatpants out of the closet where he kept clean versions of the exact same clothes he had at home.
He checked himself out in the mirror. Let his eyes take in what he saw. The small gold hoop earring. The fact that his jet-black hair, shaved tight to his scalp, had not even a hint of gray. The ropes of muscle, honed by hours in the gym and high-stakes ball, that still drew most ladies’ eyes. Including Céline’s—and she was one damn fine woman. Smart enough to dominate the boardroom, with a body made to play in the bedroom. The kind to hang on to, if he could. He might be the wrong side of forty, but he was driving hard, making up for the lost time his dumb-assed younger self had squandered.
Maybe his new lease on life ought to have put a permanent shit-eating grin on his face, but there was something wrong that still bothered him. More than his tough guy exterior would ever admit.
Mace knew who and what he was: a troublemaker with two standout talents. One for hoops and one for dealing. He’d made a fortune trading whatever was hot on the black market until a weak link betrayed him—and he’d ended up doing time in the state penitentiary. Being behind bars was no picnic, but the worst thing about it was that he couldn’t play ball. Mace was a raw talent who’d enrolled in gangbanger university before he was a teenager. Never had a real chance to polish his skills. Otherwise he’d be sporting championship rings for the Bulls or the Cavs—not winning Benjamins off pickup games down at the Cage.
And Mace didn’t just lack skills. His problem was more basic. He might get a thrill from the game, but he was never part of the team. He didn’t join things. He never hung out with the guys. He might talk trash with the best of them playin’ ball—but he didn’t have the patience for the small talk off the court.
Lies. Disrespect. Nothin’ he hated more.
Mace shoved the No. 17 jersey back into the closet. Time to man up.
He passed by a checkered orange shirt so old that the stitching was frayed and bleached-out stains had faded certain areas pink. Had to be Eli’s.
He found three old army-green T-shirts next to a camouflage vest—originally thick and stiff, but now so well worn it was soft. These were lined up next to silk shirts that were red and purple. García’s shit.
Behind all that, he found a long-sleeved shirt that was pale blue. The fabric was a hefty grade and it was monogrammed ZB. Meaning it had once belonged to Eve’s stepfather, a man who stood well over six feet like himself. Mace hadn’t known him except by reputation—but he was told Zev Berger had inspired the full range of emotions, from fear to awe to loyalty. And most important of all: respect.
He put the shirt on, hoping Eve wouldn’t mind, rolling its sleeves up to his elbows. Since it was tight across the chest, he left the top buttons undone. He didn’t bother tucking the tails in after he put on a pair of jeans. Faded but no rips or tears.
Next he pulled on a new pair of Nike socks and a dry pair of Air Jordans.
He looked all right now. Like a guy who had his shit together.
He dumped his wet, stinking clothes in the bin for the laundry service, left the room, and started up the stairs for the kitchen.
Thanks to the commissioner and the cowboy culture he’d created in the NYPD, Mace had missed dinner—and he could eat a horse.
—
The guy in the kitchen had platinum hair and enough tattoos to rival the look Dennis Rodman had sported with the Bulls back in ’95. He was all over the six-burner Wolf, where each flame was contributing to the insane smells in the room. He reached his left hand to grab the handle of a deep sauté pan, giving it a good shake.
Mace stepped into the room involuntarily. Raised a suspicious eyebrow. “What’s that you’re making?”
The chef grabbed a spatula. Flipped the golden concoction. “Potato latkes. Just practicing for the big day. Want one?”
“More than that. I’m starving, man.” Grinning, Mace grabbed a plate, spun it around on his fingers. Stopped it right when four crispy potato pancakes landed on it. He devoured two before the other guy spoke.
“You with the police?”
Mace scowled. “Why’d you think that?”
The cook shrugged. “Maybe you look the part.”
People and their stupid-ass assumptions.
“If I was with the police, don’t you think I would have asked who you were? Even though you look like you had a narrow escape from some punk-rock band. But since the only tune you’re playing has forks and knives, I’m guessing you’re the chef.” He downed another latke.
“Sorry—let’s start over. Name’s Ty.”
“Mace.”
&nbs
p; They shook hands. Mace could smell the different herbs Ty’d been chopping.
“I know the police commissioner just arrived. I thought maybe you were with him.”
Mace rattled his now-empty plate as he put it down on the table. His hands turned into fists, with his knuckles pressing so hard that circles of pale white formed against ebony black skin. “Now why’d you have to ruin a perfectly good fried potato with a reference to that bastard? You better stick to cooking. Don’t put your nose where it don’t belong.”
Ty ignored Mace’s orders and smiled. “Chopping vegetables can get boring. Been here only a few hours. Seen more action than I have the past month.” He let his eyes wander out of the room, across the hall to where Eve was talking with the commissioner.
Mace followed his gaze. Had the big man been made any smaller—any more humble—now that he’d been wounded? Mace didn’t see it.
He reminded himself that this wasn’t about bad cops—or even the top cop who protected them. It was about a little girl. That the commissioner’s daughter had been missing for hours. Despite the simmer of anger still burning at his core, Mace felt a flash of sympathy begin inside of him—and it worked like a sharp knife, whittling away part of his darkness.
But not enough to dispel it. The top cop was still a bastard. The fact that his kid had been taken? That was a case of chickens come home to roost, as his momma would’ve said.
He trusted Eve about as much as he trusted anyone. More than he’d trusted even his brothers in the Queen’s Bloods. But still.
He couldn’t do this. He needed some air.
“What’s wrong?” Ty asked nervously.
“Nothin’,” Mace said, turning to leave. His eye caught the sack of potatoes next to Ty—still unprepped, unpeeled. “Hey—don’t get too fancy with these fried pancakes. ’Cause most people think it just ain’t Thanksgiving without plain mashed potatoes.”
He went down the hall, grabbed his jacket, and slipped out the door—disappearing into the darkness of the street.
He had almost made it to Broadway when a voice came out of the shadows behind him.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
WJXZ REPORTS
This is WJXZ News with Gwen Allensen, reporting from the parade staging area on Seventy-seventh and Central Park West. Right now, I’m talking with bystander Liz Newman from Washington, D.C., who came with her three kids to see the balloons inflate.
GWEN: Liz, I gather you ended up with a ringside seat for the violent police protest that erupted.
LIZ: My kids were crying. They were so scared when they saw Commissioner Donovan shot and those cars set on fire. It was horrible. We just came to see the balloons, and we ended up with the whole experience being spoiled for my kids.
GWEN: What would you say to all these people who came to protest what they see as unfair police practices?
LIZ: Well, I believe that Thanksgiving is about putting aside our differences and grievances for just one day. So we can give thanks for the good things we have.
GWEN: Maybe Delores Brown, who answered a social media call—#stoptheparade—to attend the protest, can respond to that. Delores, why target the parade?
DELORES: We’re not going to sit around on our butts and enjoy some parade when a teenage boy was just killed in a racist attack. The world is watching this parade. So when we take action, we get them to watch us—and notice how much we hurt.
Chapter 21
350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
The rain had stopped by the time Haddox reached 350 Riverside Drive. Apparently, Mother Nature had drowned her sorrows enough for one night.
Unlike the commissioner, who looked like he had sorrows to spare. Haddox wished he could give the man a pint of Guinness—or two—to take the edge off.
Logan Donovan stood at the front of the tech room, staring down at his daughter’s phone on the center of the table. Its ticking clock read 16 hours, 34 minutes to go.
He seemed to dare it to ring. When it didn’t, he returned to his own phone and began typing furiously.
Haddox started talking to Eve and Eli, since they were the only ones listening. “The footage of the commissioner’s shooting has been catalogued from half a dozen different angles. Three videos come from the Beresford’s surveillance cameras. I obtained a download of the feed from the forensic tech on duty at the museum.” Haddox moved next to the fifty-eight-inch high-definition screen that was the centerpiece of the tech room, where fast processors and state-of-the-art analytics coexisted with watercolor paintings and a plush gray-blue carpet.
It was like NSA meets HGTV. Even in a room dedicated to function over form, Eve couldn’t abide a workspace that was sterile. Haddox inserted a remote drive into the USB port in the wall.
“The first was shot from the Beresford’s Central Park West entrance.” Haddox thumbed the remote. For thirty-four seconds, they watched rapidly growing crowds transform into an angry mob.
Haddox exchanged uncomfortable glances with Eve and Eli. No one said anything.
The commissioner ignored them, typing. Eve seemed to study him, her brow furrowed.
Allie’s phone still didn’t ring.
The countdown read 16 hours, 29 minutes to go.
Another click. “The second Beresford shot was from a camera across from the Eighty-first Street subway entrance.” Twenty-two seconds of video showed the commissioner turning toward Molly the Mongoose, walking onto a small podium, and taking the microphone.
Donovan glanced up from his phone and frowned. “My men already combed through that video and came up with bubkes. Unless you’ve got something new, don’t waste my time.”
Eli’s eyes widened. “Jeez. Seriously?”
“Commissioner, if you feel your men can do it better, then by all means, they should,” Eve said smoothly. “There’s no need for us to be involved.” She reached out, turned the video display off.
That got Donovan’s attention. Suddenly he wore a hangdog expression. He put his own phone down. His hand brushed against her arm and came to rest at her wrist. “Please.”
Haddox felt a sense of perverse satisfaction when she shook off his hand. The commissioner had made the wrong move. Eve was not the touchy-feely kind, especially with someone she didn’t know.
“Sorry,” Donovan said. “Like I said, it’s been a helluva day. My men are targets themselves, but the city’s relying on us to keep everyone safe. You know it’s never easy—which is why I need your help with my daughter.”
Eve’s face softened.
Manipulator. Haddox had met cops like him before. Blokes who thought the rules they enforced never applied to them. He could already feel his jaw tightening and his knuckles itching to punch the top cop. Bullies had that effect on him.
Haddox spoke up loudly. “Guess the NYPD is nothing but a bunch of feckin’ idiots if they didn’t find what I did.”
Eve flashed him a warning glance: Be nice.
“What did you say?” For a brief moment, the commissioner’s self-control threatened to break—but he reined it in the moment Eve spoke.
Eve met the commissioner’s gaze with a cool one of her own. “Let’s get back on track here. The faster we get through this, the faster you can return to city business.”
Donovan nodded stiffly.
Allie’s phone remained silent: 16 hours, 25 minutes to go.
Was he imagining this? Haddox watched Donovan’s eyes linger on the V-line of Eve’s sweater as she stretched to flick the monitor back on.
What an arsehole. Haddox clicked the remote again. He’d met Commissioner Donovan not half an hour ago, and he already hated the guy.
Everything about the commissioner rubbed him the wrong way. The way he looked at Eve. How his voice boomed too loud. His belief that if he snapped his fingers, then the world would follow his bidding. Most of all, Haddox hated how Eve was actually kind to the guy. What was wrong with her? She’d never been the type to be fooled by a charming smil
e or to fall for a man in uniform. Couldn’t she see the two-faced son of a bitch for what he was?
Definitely time to get through this. Fast.
“The third Beresford angle,” Haddox explained, “was shot from the mid-block camera that was behind the helium truck. Though it’s a partial view, you can see five different Macy’s workers racing to finish inflating Spider-Man. I want you to remember them; they become important later.”
The seventeen-second video played.
Unimpressed, the commissioner picked up his own phone again. Cleared his messages.
“The next two videos are from the museum itself.” Haddox skipped to them immediately. One near the museum’s western entrance to the circular driveway focused on five kids eating cotton candy and laughing at the SpongeBob balloon. The other, from the stretch of trees nearest the dog run, showed the girl: Allie Donovan, the commissioner’s daughter.
The final video captured the chaos in the crowd following the shooting. The camera had captured Allie, standing amidst the crush, bewildered.
Eli leaned forward, squinted. “That’s Allie?”
Donovan looked up from his phone. Took a step forward, craned his neck—and it struck Haddox that Donovan was standing unnaturally close to Eve.
“The image is too blurred to recognize her face,” Haddox admitted, “but I identified her from her stance. It’s the same as from the previous footage. Now, better fasten your seatbelt; you may just learn something new.” Haddox couldn’t help himself. “I’ve taken all six videos and created my own master recording.” He hit some keys and a large panorama view filled the screen—with all the players on-screen.
Every angle shot had been blended into one. And though the image was still grainy, Haddox had managed to sharpen the resolution significantly.
“There’s the son of a bitch.” A red arrow appeared onscreen, following a moving figure. He entered the area from Central Park West. He was hooded—like many others, given the rain. He kept looking down. “There’s no direct camera view of his face—and even if there was, the distance would be too great for a positive ID. But watch what he does,” Haddox directed.
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