Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “I’ve got full details,” he confirmed. “No help from the commissioner. And I still think it’s fishy he doesn’t use his own resources to find his daughter. It’s like he doesn’t even care.”

  “And that attitude,” Eli burst in. “I mean, who died and left him in charge?”

  “He’s got his hands full, between threats to the city and threats to his own officers,” Eve said. “It’s never easy balancing family and career in moments of crisis. I get it.”

  “Maybe we oughta call in a psychic,” Eli grumbled. “Be more helpful than the commish, I’d bet.”

  “Maybe we ought to learn everything there is to know about Allie,” Eve replied. “Her likes and dislikes. Her friends and frenemies and habits. Did she dance or play soccer? Did she do her homework with friends or alone? Did she like movies—and what did she do for fun? Whoever took her spent significant time learning all about her.”

  “We’ll want to talk with Jackie Meade,” Haddox said. “She’s been Donovan’s housekeeper for years—and a de facto babysitter for Allie. And he’s got a personal driver for family business. Sam has driven Allie to school and lessons and playdates for the last couple years.”

  Eli’s eyes snapped up as the door opened.

  Mace walked into the room. Sized up the situation within seconds. “Everybody’s just standing around, waiting for that damn phone to ring, huh?”

  “Shut up, Mace,” Eli said.

  “Well, I’ve got a theory why it ain’t ringing. ’Cause the commissioner’s kid ain’t the only game in town.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We don’t have one kidnapped kid. We got two.”

  Chapter 26

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  There was no sound, except for the hiss and clang of the steam radiator—and the clatter of pots and pans that drifted up from the kitchen below.

  All eyes warily focused on García.

  He held himself perfectly still, hands balled into fists in a stance that made Eve imagine an unexploded grenade sitting in the middle of a minefield: highly charged and ready to detonate. Any misstep would be dangerous.

  “So you’re saying this is a double kidnapping?” Eli stared at García over the can of Dr. Brown’s celery soda he was drinking.

  “Mace said it, not me. I’m just saying that Frankie Junior’s missing,” he replied coolly.

  “And I said it ’cause I’m smart enough to know: We got two related kidnappings,” Mace put in. “Second kid disappears from the balloon inflation area. Not too long after Allie disappeared from the same area. Just think: What are the odds?”

  Eve tended to agree with Mace. She didn’t like coincidences. And when something didn’t make sense, she knew they didn’t know the whole story.

  García proceeded to bring them up to speed. How he’d sent Frankie Junior underground into the subway to escape from the riot. How he hadn’t returned home. And how neither he nor Teresa had heard from their son since.

  García had been angry, then concerned, and then outright desperate.

  “Frankie Junior’s phone has stopped transmitting,” Haddox confirmed, looking up from his screen. “I traced its last signal to the underground area beneath the Museum of Natural History—which was hours ago.”

  “Just so we understand,” Eve said, “Is Frankie Junior usually on time? Does he answer your texts right away?”

  García didn’t hesitate. “Yes. He knows the rules.”

  “He’s familiar with the subway?” Eve asked.

  “Frankie’s taken that line dozens of times. This is the only time he’s ever gone off the grid. Something’s wrong.”

  There was a loud crash downstairs in the kitchen. Then a tinkling of metal as more items fell to the ground. A few choice words soon followed. Eve had almost forgotten entirely about the Thanksgiving prep under way.

  García sucked in air through his teeth. “Have you heard from the kidnapper?”

  Eve shook her head. “Not yet.”

  García’s eyes lit on Allie’s phone. Still in the center of the table. Still silent.

  He picked it up. Checked the timer still counting down on the screen: 15 hours, 18 minutes, 57 seconds.

  “Is that a deadline from the kidnapper?” García demanded.

  “We think so,” Eve said.

  “That timer’s counting down until twelve noon tomorrow? I can’t wait that long. Not with Frankie’s medical condition. What if he got separated from his backpack, which has his medication? If he gets hurt, then he’s at risk.”

  Eve nodded. “It’s a blood-clotting disorder, right?”

  “Von Willebrand disease—scary as shit. Whenever he bleeds—and he can bleed spontaneously, even if he’s not injured—it’s life-threatening. Unless someone gives him the injection he needs to help his body produce clotting agents.”

  “If his medication’s with him, can he self-administer?”

  “We’ve taught him how. He’s never actually done it.” Desperation trembled in his words. “So I need you to do what you do. Get inside the bastard’s head—and find my boy. While I join the team that’s searching the area.”

  Eve didn’t give an answer. Not then.

  Because at that very instant, Allie Donovan’s phone rang once again.

  Chapter 27

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headuarters

  When the phone trilled, it was 8:43 p.m.—and Allie had been missing for six hours and thirty-two minutes.

  This time, Eli snatched the phone off the table. In his best imitation of the commissioner, he said, “Donovan speaking.”

  Eve heard a faint voice on the other end. She signaled to Eli to switch the connection to speakerphone. Meanwhile, Haddox’s fingers danced across keys, initiating the process that would record the conversation with the kidnapper as well as run a trace on his location.

  “Commissioner Logan Donovan?” The caller’s voice boomed loud—though it was also robotic, distorted by a machine to shield the true voice of the kidnapper.

  “Put Allie on the phone.”

  “We have business to discuss.” No inflection. No tone. No energy or urgency or panic. When the voice was a robot’s, all that projected was steady and calm.

  “Now,” Eli insisted. “Or this conversation’s over.”

  “I expected you would want proof of life. I have arranged to provide it.”

  There was a seven-second pause. Then a girl’s voice came on, high-pitched and panicked. “Help me! Come get me, please!” Then an ugly scream.

  Eve watched the blood drain from Eli’s face. He opened his mouth, but his confidence—and his words—had deserted him.

  Eve’s hadn’t.

  What they’d just heard was too choreographed. She was pretty sure it was a recording, not a live sound.

  She closed the distance between herself and the phone in five steps. “My name is Eve,” she said. No mention that she was with the FBI. Not even a last name.

  Just Eve. Because it made her sound easy, more approachable, willing to help.

  “I’m here with Commissioner Donovan,” she continued. “He only wants to bring his daughter home safely—”

  The robot voice interrupted her to bark its instructions.

  “This is a test, Commissioner. I’m wondering: How far will you go to save her? I have three demands you must satisfy before the end of tomorrow’s parade. The first is a ransom; you have until midnight. You will place the money in a marked garbage can by the natural history museum on the northwest corner of West Seventy-seventh and Central Park West.”

  Even though the line was being recorded—even though all five people in the room were hanging on to the caller’s every word—and even though there was no chance of her forgetting what she’d just heard—Eve jotted it all down. Looking at the words steadied her.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “The commissioner knows how much.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ask th
e commissioner if his daughter’s life is worth as much as his wife’s.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Tell him this is old-school justice. He’s gotten away with things, and now it’s time to pay up. That is, if he wants to see Allie again.”

  “You’re not making sense—”

  The robotic instructions interrupted her. “Commissioner Donovan must obey these instructions to the letter. If he wants his precious snowflake back.”

  Eve tried a different angle. “Once we put the money in the marked garbage can, how do you get us the girl?”

  “The money must be in cash. Hundreds, packed tight. Unmarked bills. This may be blood money, but I want it pristine.”

  “We’re talking about a cop. Cops don’t have much cash in hand.”

  “You have exactly three hours, thirteen minutes, and counting.”

  “One more thing. If you’re also holding a boy, you need to know: He’s got a serious health condition. He needs medication.”

  There was no response.

  García snatched at the phone and shouted into it, “YOU SICK, SICK BASTARD!”

  The words echoed back at them. The line had gone dead.

  Chapter 28

  Near the Parade Route

  The ransom call was a success. My darling would be proud.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out her letter.

  Page One.

  My dear, she writes.

  To understand what I’m asking, you should know how I realized there was a problem.

  When I first came to New York, I worked with a woman named Holly, a blond former cheerleader from South Carolina who kept a goofy smile on her face all the time.

  It wasn’t an act. She truly believed that the glass was always half full. That there was good in everybody. That, given the chance, they’d do the right thing.

  She begged me to pick a Saturday and show her around the city.

  I did. We settled on the “real” Little Italy in the Bronx. And since this was before the Android and iPhone era, she brought her brand-new Sony camcorder. Walking beside her, I felt like a damn tourist.

  So best I could, I made sure we hung back from the crowds that mobbed Arthur Avenue that morning—shopping for oysters and cherrystone clams, pork and sausage, fresh pasta, and what were arguably the city’s best Italian pastries.

  We crossed over to the east side of the street.

  I admit it: I let Holly move a little ahead of me. Frankly, I was embarrassed to be with her, since she couldn’t stop looking around, filming everything. It was like after spending a lifetime thinking New York City was nothing but Broadway marquees and neon lights and skyscrapers that blocked out the sun, she couldn’t get enough of a real neighborhood.

  Everything she saw interested her. The old men smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Women in floral dresses haggling for bargains. And hustlers hawking parking spots to tourists.

  One of those hustlers was African American, stocky, with solid-cut muscle, wearing a T-shirt that said DAMN RIGHT I’M SOMEBODY. He was built like a linebacker and gave the impression that he’d been born to play ball; standing at least six-foot-one, he made rough, jagged moves like he was about to flatten whoever got in his way. It was intimidating, but the effect was broken the moment a silver BMW crawled by—and he flashed a rehearsed smile at the driver. “Hey, nice wheels you got there. Car like that deserves a special spot, like this sweet one I’ve been saving.”

  At the same time, two beat cops turned the corner. Security, working to keep the neighborhood safe.

  They gave the hustler a sour look.

  He stared back, just as displeased.

  Holly was filming.

  “What are you doing?” The cop on the left glanced at the hustler’s scruffy jeans and mud-stained sneakers. “Harassing tourists again?”

  The BMW driver wanted no part of whatever was happening. He closed his window. Slowly, carefully, began driving away.

  The hustler put his hands up in the air. As if to say Who, me? “Just minding my own business.”

  He turned and started walking.

  “Stop!”

  He stopped. Didn’t turn around. The two cops closed the gap between them.

  Suddenly one put his hand on the hustler’s arm.

  He yanked his arm free. Snapped, “Don’t touch me like I did something!”

  The other cop stepped behind the hustler. Pulled his head back. Hard.

  Holly’s jaw had dropped so low that I worried the flies swarming the nearby fish market scraps would make themselves at home. But she was transfixed. She couldn’t stop filming.

  The other cop doubled the hustler over with a savage punch to his gut.

  The hustler lurched over a storm sewer.

  The cop delivered another bone-crunching blow as his partner gripped the hustler tight around the neck.

  There were great, gulping, rasping breaths.

  The hustler went limp.

  “Let’s take this piece of shit in,” the first cop said, wiping the sweat that dripped from his brow. “Book him on disorderly conduct. He threatened us, right? That menacing stare. The way he brandished those fists.”

  The hustler looked to be unconscious as they dragged him away.

  Had they choked all the life out of him?

  Holly’s camera dropped to her waist. “I didn’t see any threat, did you?” she whispered.

  Later, Holly called the Forty-eighth Precinct to report what she’d seen. To let them know that there were two bad seeds in the Big Apple, hiding in the ranks of New York’s Finest.

  When they weren’t interested, she took it to the media. The big three—CBS, NBC, and ABC—all aired her footage repeatedly.

  She went on Oprah.

  Those cops went to jail. The hustler’s family went to court.

  Later, the experts called Holly’s video one of the first examples of sousveillance. That’s a fancy word for when somebody in the community records something that turns out to be significant.

  Who fixes something wrong by making sure it’s public.

  Because sometimes that’s the only way.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  THE DROP

  Fourth Wednesday of November

  9 p.m. to Midnight

  Chapter 29

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  The tension in the room was stifling. García was shaking like a leaf—though not from fear. From anger.

  Haddox watched as Eve opened the window another inch. Cold air drifted in like strands of smoke—and revived him almost as effectively as a jolt of nicotine.

  “The commissioner knows how much.” Eve repeated the kidnapper’s words as Haddox dialed the commissioner’s secure line on speaker. Its ringing filled the room.

  No response. Even though Haddox dialed three times in succession.

  “We’ll keep trying. We know he was called away by an emergency. Now, what data did you manage to collect from the ransom call before it dropped?” Eve asked him.

  The location of any caller was now easy to trace, thanks to an FCC order requiring all cell networks to track GPS locations to aid 911. Any disguise would say volumes about the sophistication of the criminal they were dealing with.

  “It was made from a 347 number belonging to a Donna Galtrow.” He pointed to his computer screen. “Ms. Galtrow reported it stolen five days ago from an outdoor café in Chelsea; she had her phone on the table and someone swiped it.”

  “Not a surprise: He’s smart enough to disguise his ID. But can you triangulate the signal?” Eve asked.

  Haddox’s monitor was a virtual map, covered in numbers and dotted with triangles. Each corresponded to the signal strength and location of the kidnapper’s call, relative to the cellphone tower picking up its signal. From the series of pings it regularly emitted, looking for cell towers within range, someone like Haddox could pinpoint the phone’s location, right down to the block.

  “Not tonight.
” Haddox shook his head. “Not reliably. There’s too much traffic.”

  “Thought New York City was built to handle traffic.” Mace was looking over Haddox’s shoulder, trying to make sense of the screen. Strings of numbers were flashing by fast in a psychedelic yellow blur.

  “It’s built to make sure you always have cell reception, not necessarily to fix your location. When there’s too many users, the nearest local cell tower will overload—forcing your cellphone to find a tower somewhere else. Or sometimes a tall building blocks your signal. If either of these things happen, then a call in Manhattan might cross the Hudson River and get picked up by a tower in New Jersey. Which is exactly what’s happening tonight. Not just for Ms. Galtrow’s stolen 347 phone—but for the huge population of phones that are on the West Side of Manhattan to celebrate Thanksgiving. Sure, it’s possible the kidnapper did indeed call from the Jersey side of the river. But it’s equally possible that he didn’t. Tonight, we just can’t tell.”

  No one said anything until Eli spoke up. “So this is just an educated guess, but looks like the commissioner magically got two million dollars richer shortly after his wife’s death. Probably her life insurance payout.”

  “And you think that’s the payment the kidnapper wants delivered by midnight? Impossible!” Haddox moved his left hand—the one with the bandaged thumb—more gingerly.

  “Can’t be sure, but it’s the only thing I see that makes sense. And it raises a big problem: Where are we going to get two million dollars cash? In just three hours, no less? Two million dollars wired into an account, no problem. But cash? No chance.” Eli scrunched his eyebrows into a deep V.

  Mace shrugged; then something else occurred to him. “How come nobody’s mentioning Frankie Junior?”

  “We know now: This is a kidnapping for ransom,” Eve answered. “It’s about money. Frankie Junior’s medical condition is probably more than he bargained for. Maybe he decides Frankie is a huge liability and just releases him. Kidnapping is one thing, but felony homicide is a whole ’nother issue.”