Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  Mace chortled. “Besides, he probably already figured out that Frankie Senior is no high roller. Can’t get blood from a stone.”

  “Enough,” García snapped gruffly.

  “Sorry, Frankie, bad choice of words.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you: Don’t call me that!”

  “We have what we need,” Eve reminded them. “A ransom demand with a drop-off point. If we handle this right, it’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for to retrieve not just one—but hopefully two—kidnap victims.”

  “I repeat, he wants two million dollars. Cash,” Eli said, exasperated.

  “The FBI keeps an emergency stash,” Eve reassured them.

  “No way,” García insisted. “It’s marked bills. The bastard notices? He gets mad, which puts my son in harm’s way.”

  “So NYPD, then. We’ll involve Donovan, just like he asked. NYPD’s the largest and most sophisticated law enforcement organization in the world, with a budget running into the billions of dollars. That’s some pretty deep pockets,” Haddox said reasonably.

  “Not an option.” García glared at Haddox. “NYPD marks bills, too.”

  “Can’t law enforcement invent a mark nobody can decipher?” Haddox glanced over at Eve. “And if you don’t use Agency money or NYPD money, either marked or fake, then what exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I repeat: Beyond going to the Bureau or NYPD for help, how do you get any money, other than a few hundred bucks from an ATM, the night before Thanksgiving?” Eli demanded. “I couldn’t lay my hands on two thousand dollars if I wanted to. So two million? Forget about it!”

  “The fastest way will be to involve Donovan,” Eve decided.

  She dialed the commissioner’s private number again. There was still no response.

  “There’s something squirrely about the guy.” Eli found a toothpick in his pocket. Began trying to clean something stuck between his teeth. “Maybe there’s some truth in that talk about blood money.”

  “I think we just heard half of a story,” Eve said.

  “What’s the other half?” Haddox looked intrigued.

  Eve didn’t hesitate. “The side the commissioner’s not telling us.”

  “He’s like Jekyll and Hyde,” Eli continued. “He’s nice to Eve, but with us, he’s a son of a bitch.”

  “Can’t say I blame him. I like Eve better than you any day,” Mace said.

  Haddox found himself counting how many times he’d caught the top cop’s eyes lingering on Eve—specifically, on the curve of her hips or the neckline of her sweater. He drummed his fingers on the table. One, two, three, four.

  “Big men have big personalities.” Eve’s eyes wrenched toward Haddox.

  He thought he understood what she was asking. “My cursory review of his NYPD classified files looked clean.”

  “And you’re able to monitor the NYPD chatter, right?” she asked.

  “So little faith.”

  “Your Level One hacker skills aren’t infallible. The kidnapper just called. We didn’t get a trace.”

  “That’s Manhattan cell traffic for you, luv. Has nothing to do with my skills.”

  “I’m just saying: Things happen.”

  “I slip in and out of NSA on a daily basis—and they never know what’s hit them. I think I can handle eavesdropping on a little cop talk.”

  “Assuming you can stay out of a fight.” Eve shot a pointed look at his bandaged thumb.

  Haddox shrugged. “Some things are worth fightin’ for, luv.”

  “Things?” Eli raised an eyebrow. “Or people?”

  “Or women.” Mace grinned.

  “Okay, now the important details,” Eve said, ignoring them. She reiterated the various tasks they each needed to accomplish, finishing with, “We need the identity of the fist-pump guy at the riot—the one who appeared to signal the kidnapper. But no need to reinvent the wheel on that one. The NYPD’ll be all over him. We just need to loop in.”

  “Got it.” Eli drummed his fingers on the desk, impatient to get started.

  “We also should requisition sufficient fake paper money as a failsafe. Access the area’s security cameras. Confirm what police surveillance is already in place. Mace should handle the drop—then make his way to Eighty-first and Central Park West, where he’ll remain on alert. Haddox, you take the area immediately in front of the natural history museum. I’ll take the area opposite the garbage can drop. Eli, you can be the point person from here, and García should monitor the west side approach to Seventy-seventh.”

  Eli made a note of it all. He gave the impression of sucking down the information faster than one of his favorite celery sodas.

  “You know,” Eve warned, “the ransom drop will be our best chance to catch this bastard. Otherwise, we’re going to be stuck playing his game, with his rules, for several more hours. Especially since this guy is telling us that the ransom is only his first of three demands.”

  “I only like playing by my rules,” Haddox agreed.

  “García, why don’t you go back to the parade zone?” she continued. “Scope out what you can on Frankie’s disappearance. Get ready for action. The rest of us will join you by eleven-forty-five p.m. sharp.”

  “Hey, what am I? Chopped liver over here?” Mace interrupted. “García doesn’t own all the moves. I think I may know a way to get our hands on a few million dollars cash. And, Eve, I’m gonna need a get-out-of-jail-free card for this one. May need to cut a few corners.”

  Eve merely nodded. It was all the affirmation Mace needed. He bolted out of the room, right on the heels of García, before anyone had a chance to ask him what his plan was.

  Haddox thought it was probably better that way. Plausible deniability.

  —

  Haddox went into the hall and pulled out one of his cigarettes. Rolled it between his fingers. Suddenly Eve was at his side, saying, “I need another favor.”

  “I only do one a day, luv.” He found his lighter.

  “Can I get an advance on tomorrow’s?”

  “It’s your lucky day.” He held the lighter still.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—”

  “I know. You want the commissioner checked out. More than just what’s in his file. You want his secrets laid bare.”

  “Since when do you read minds?” Inside the tech room, Eli had turned on some music. Ella Fitzgerald, crooning about Paris.

  “It’s the obvious question. Most people don’t get to his position without leaving a trail of bodies behind.” He lit his cigarette, hoping his expression betrayed none of his concern.

  Her eyes temporarily clouded. Then she said fiercely, “He’s a cop. A professional who believes in the law. Which is more than I can say for you.”

  Haddox could only shrug. “I’ll get you the facts, but I’m telling you now: He’s not a good guy.”

  There was a bark of warning downstairs. Something had spooked Bach—and Haddox thought that he had more in common with Eve’s German shepherd than he ever expected. He’d also been set on edge by a stranger—one who raised his hackles with suspicion.

  She set her jaw. “Why are you doing this? To make sure I dislike him?”

  “How about ‘professional distance’?”

  Eve glared at him. “That’s a given. I’m still going to help him find his daughter. Because somewhere there’s a frightened thirteen-year-old girl whose life is in danger. And whose kidnapping may signal a larger threat to tomorrow’s parade.”

  “Save the girl. ’Cause he’s so busy keeping the city safe. I understand.” He blew a ring of smoke. “To do that, though, I think you need to answer the even more obvious question.”

  “Motive. The reason why someone took her.”

  “Wrong answer, luv. Maybe you ought to ask: Why doesn’t he care?”

  —

  Haddox watched her go, trying to read the woman he had not quite gotten over. To intuit some explanation from the lift of her chin or the tone of her voice.
It was like trying to read tea leaves in a cup, or divining the future from a set of tarot cards.

  He gave up.

  All he knew was that she was a smart, strong woman. And he wished that she’d let him protect her. Because he had a bad feeling: This bastard of a commissioner was going to be trouble in more ways than one.

  VIDOCQ FILE #N356239

  Current status: SUBJECT

  Logan Patrick Donovan

  Age: 55

  Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian

  Height: 6'2"

  Weight: 217 lbs.

  Eyes: Blue

  Hair: Gray

  Current Address: 132 West 80th Street (Upper West Side).

  Education: John Jay College of Criminal Justice, B.A. Criminology.

  Expertise: Seasoned law enforcement officer. Relevant job experience:

  New York City Police commissioner—current

  New York City Police (NYPD)—patrol officer, Sergeant, Lieutenant

  United States Air Force

  Personal

  Family: Mother, Deirdre, and Father, Sean, deceased. Daughter, Alison Rose, age 13.

  Spouse/Significant Other: Jill, deceased.

  Religion: Catholic.

  Interests: A workaholic with little free time, he passionately follows the Jets and the Yankees.

  Profile

  Strengths: A team-builder and master manipulator—skills developed after a demotion early in his career. Under his tenure, crime has dropped for the seventh straight year.

  Weaknesses: Has a hair-trigger temper. Charges of ethical lapses ranging from responsibility for instances of police brutality to his acceptance of unauthorized gifts.

  Notes: A lifelong New Yorker, he feels great responsibility for his city. Strong advocate of community policing. Details still being gathered on suspicious circumstances surrounding Jill Donovan’s death.

  *Assessment prepared—and updated—by Corey Haddox for SA Eve Rossi. For internal use only.

  Chapter 30

  The Parade Staging Zone

  Frank García was back in the Frozen Zone. He made his way down West Eighty-first Street, surrounded by deafening sounds. Officers barked orders through megaphones. Motors revved. Directly overhead, a chopper was circling.

  The area had been reopened to non-police personnel. So much activity, so many vehicles, so many people put his normally wound-up nerves into overdrive.

  Thank you, Uncle Sam, he thought. Four tours overseas and this was how he’d ended up: a changed man. With his hair-trigger temper and paranoid nature, he had no tolerance for crowds like the one growing around him now.

  And so far, only the vendors and true locals had arrived. A boy wearing a green Jets sweatshirt, maybe six years old, whined for hot chocolate. His sister, a few years younger, was throwing a full-fledged tantrum next to Hello Kitty.

  In an unprecedented show of force, there were just as many cops as civilians. Men and women in uniform—NYPD and FDNY and Homeland Security—were all standing around, waiting and jumpy. Covering each inch of the parade zone tighter than the New York Giants defense—even if that wasn’t saying a lot these days.

  García stayed hyperalert for whatever might lead him to Frankie Junior. That was his primary mission, but he figured his best chance of finding Frankie was through the bastard who had taken the commissioner’s daughter. So, he began his surveillance of the area, prepping for the ransom drop in a few hours.

  He sniffed. Detected an unpleasant odor that seemed like a cross between grease and transmission fluid.

  Not explosives, he decided. Just unpleasant.

  He breathed in the mix of smoke and exhaust from the generators that powered multiple street vendors—and had just recently been restarted to meet the demand of hungry crowds. He felt bad for the street vendors, knowing they only had a few major holidays to make much of their income for the year. And, thanks to the hit on the commissioner, they’d be lucky not to lose money today.

  He noted the familiar guys. The ones he’d already vetted and checked earlier in the day. The pretzel and hot-dog stand that normally occupied this corner was joined by a handful of traveling food vendors, here just for the evening’s festivities. The popcorn and cotton candy cart. The drinks station.

  On West Seventy-sixth Street, there was a toy vendor. Selling crappy plastic figurines of Snoopy, SpongeBob, and Molly the Mongoose. She was next to the cart where Jews for Jesus were giving out hot chocolate.

  On West Seventy-fifth Street, the popcorn cart had been joined by the hat-and-noisemaker crew. Bazookas, party hats, and giant sunglasses—the junk he normally associated with New Year’s Eve—had Thanksgiving-themed varieties for sale. All catering to the thousands of tourists expected to choke the streets starting at about six o’clock the next morning.

  Less than eight hours away.

  Cops manned every street corner—at both the Central Park West and Columbus Avenue sides. The message was meant for the public, and it was clear: a visible show of force that said these streets were safe.

  The most significant law enforcement presence surrounded the museum. They’d even assigned one officer to stand behind a concrete blockade on the West Seventy-seventh Street corner. His sole job was to guard a collection of about thirty-five empty garbage cans, all harvested from street corners along the parade route. A garbage can graveyard. They had to be removed and contained; the NYPD couldn’t risk their being used to house a bomb.

  García was all too familiar with the practice. Since coming home from Iraq, he hadn’t been able to break the habit of keeping a six-foot radius before passing by a trash can. Even now, seeing this can collection that he knew to be empty, he could feel his heart rate accelerating.

  The cop gave García a sour look.

  “I’m with the Feds,” he said, producing his ID. “Searching for a missing kid.” He fished his phone out of his pocket. Cleared the latest round of unanswered calls and texts with a swipe of his thumb. Pulled up a recent picture of Frankie Junior. It was one they’d taken during the subway series at Yankee Stadium last summer—Frankie grinning from ear to ear, a blob of mustard on his cheek.

  “Haven’t seen him.” The officer peered at the photo. “Looks like you.”

  “No shit. Except he’s better looking.”

  The officer chuckled. “You can say that again. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Chapter 31

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  “Everything is under control. I’ll have Gwen get in front of the media announcement. She can make clear this is a separate incident, unrelated to tomorrow’s parade.” A pause. “Of course not. She’s putty in my hands—”

  “Commissioner?”

  He hastily ended his phone call. Slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. I was just in the kitchen—and heard you talking.” Eve Rossi was standing in front of him, carrying a thick manila folder stuffed with paper and coffee in a fat hand-painted mug.

  He hadn’t heard the library door open. He hadn’t heard footsteps. He wasn’t used to being surprised—no, not even when he was in the midst of a conversation. No doubt the incessant roaring in his head was the culprit. The noise was a tremor constantly vibrating inside him.

  Eve offered him the mug. “Have some coffee. Do you good.” She set it down on the table beside him, and took the opposite seat. Clearly expecting a conversation.

  Not now, he thought. I have decisions to make. A job to do.

  “Do you happen to know a six-letter word for conundrum?”

  “What?” His head was pounding. He couldn’t deal with this nonsense.

  She pointed to the daily New York Times crossword puzzle that was folded into the side of his chair. He was practically sitting on top of it.

  Not that he’d noticed.

  “I tried puzzle,” she said. “But the z—the fourth letter—doesn’t work.” Then, without warning, she changed the subject again. “I thought you’d left. Had an em
ergency.”

  “I’m dealing with it from here, until my security detail arrives. They’re stuck in Thanksgiving traffic—but they don’t want me to leave. Bunch of worrywarts.”

  “Because something else is wrong.” She made it a statement, not a question.

  What, exactly, did she overhear? For a split second, he couldn’t think what to say. He was normally master of the polite truth and the white lie, but for some reason he was struggling to manage it around Eve. There was something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. As though she could see right through him. Still, he was coming to like her, he realized.

  He settled on what was mostly the truth. “I just lost a cop in Brooklyn. Gunned down while on patrol. No suspect in custody.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Normally, I’d be with his family right now.”

  “But you have other challenges,” she acknowledged, then made the transition into business. “Speaking of family, there’s something I need to discuss with you—”

  “Everyone means well.” He picked up his coffee, slurped thirstily. “One friend called to tell me to check myself into a hospital. One told me to eat something. The third said he’d pray for me. But I don’t want anybody’s prayers or thoughts or good wishes. I just want Allie home.”

  “We heard from her kidnapper. He’s made a ransom demand.”

  “Is she all right? What did he say?” The commissioner’s hand shook as he set his mug back on the table.

  “He asked if you valued Allie’s life as much as your wife’s.”

  He stared at her. “I don’t know what the hell that means.”

  She opened her manila file, shuffled through the top pages. “We thought it probably referred to her life insurance policy. You know, the one that made you two million dollars richer? But that you didn’t bother telling us about?”

  How the hell did she learn about that? “That’s private,” he said flatly.

  “But relevant. In fact, he called the ransom blood money.”

  “Jill and I had two million dollar policies on each other,” he admitted, after a moment. “Got them right after we married. I never share personal information—so I don’t see how Allie’s kidnapper could have known.”