Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “Of course, who’s keeping count?” Haddox teased.

  A bright red flush spread over Jackie’s face.

  “I just always expect to leave, so I can do something else,” she offered feebly. “Like write the great American novel. Backpack around the world. Or maybe go back to school.”

  “So why do you stay, counting down the days? Why not leave now?”

  She tugged nervously on her wristband. “First it was because Jill was sick. I guess now it’s because of Allie.”

  A lie.

  “Or maybe because you’re in love with the commissioner,” Haddox commented.

  “What?” Jackie looked mortified.

  He’d touched a nerve, so Haddox laughed like he’d just made a funny joke. “Only kidding. Had to think of some reason to explain why you’re still here.”

  And why you lingered by those photos. I bet he has no idea.

  “I already told you; I stay for Allie.” She sped away on deft barefoot feet. Maybe she’d liked Haddox at first—but he’d ruined the moment. Now she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

  That was fine. He had work to do.

  Chapter 34

  Near the Parade Route

  I fumble awkwardly in my pocket. My fingers find her letter, and I continue reading:

  Page Two.

  The question that kept tormenting me was: Why?

  I came to know different officers, call some of them friends.

  How could the same officers who regularly performed selfless, heroic acts—delivering the baby at the side of the road or saving the shooting victim—also behave like monsters?

  The problem was more than a couple bad seeds.

  I remember the day I figured that out. It was years ago, before I met you, outside the natural history museum. The crowds were thick and security was tight because the president was in town. I was making my way down Central Park West, fighting my way through a crush of blue uniforms. The thin blue line was fat and wide.

  Two cops were yelling at a homeless guy who was rifling through garbage cans. “Hey—you! What are you doing?”

  The homeless man pulled a half-open pizza box out of the trash. He shook it. Something rattled inside. “I’m hungry.”

  If I close my eyes, I can see it all again, just like a movie reel.

  “What’s your name?” the cop on his right said. He had tufts of gray hair sticking over his ears, and moved as stiffly as DeVito in Batman, so I nicknamed him Penguin.

  “I dunno.” The guy watched warily as Penguin snatched the pizza box out of his hands.

  “I’ve seen you before. Hey, Logan—haven’t we picked up this guy before?”

  “Yeah. His name is Jones, right? Ain’t that your name?”

  The homeless man only mumbled. “I forget.”

  “Yeah, I forget, too. But it makes sense if I forget, since it’s not my name. You got any ID to tell us your name?”

  “No. You wanna search my bag?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  A shrug. “I don’t care.”

  “Okay. Go stand over there, will ya?” Penguin stopped. Reconsidered. “Actually, have a seat right there. Right there on the curb.”

  They didn’t sound angry. Not yet, anyway.

  But twenty feet away, I could already feel the crackle of tension in the air. I had a sixth sense for these things. I wasn’t born with it—but sometimes life forces you to develop skills you don’t want to have.

  Chapter 35

  West 81st Street Subway Station—B/C Line

  García renewed his search at the last place he had known Frankie Junior to be: the B/C subway station underneath the Museum of Natural History. He knew as well as anyone that had Frankie caught an uptown or a downtown train, it could have whisked him anywhere throughout the city. On the B train, he could’ve gone as far as Bedford Park in the Bronx or Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. On the C, he could’ve hopped on a Brooklyn-bound train to Euclid Avenue or a 168th Street–bound train to Washington Heights. And hundreds of places in between.

  But now—knowing the commissioner’s daughter had been taken—García asked a different question. What if Frankie Junior never got on a train?

  He walked the length of the platform, quickening his pace as he approached the opening to the tunnel. He was already feeling uncomfortable. It would feel even worse if a train passed through before he cleared the narrow ledge.

  He knew two things about his son: Frankie Junior liked to explore, and he was curious if he saw anything—or anyone—who interested him. It was possible these impulses had got the better of him, leading him into trouble.

  García went in deeper. Grit and debris crunched underneath his feet. Concrete turned to steel.

  Then—just as he felt the whoosh of air that would announce the next train’s arrival—he reached an opening to the right, with access to a room beyond. Within seconds, he was through it and inside the switch and electric system, surrounded by steel.

  He gulped. Felt too much like he was in a metal cage.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. He was going to keep a tight lid on the PTSD-induced panic attacks that always threatened, just below the surface of his resolve.

  He had no choice. Not today. Frankie Junior needed him to be strong and in control.

  His footsteps echoed loudly as he kept moving.

  No sign of life. No sign of Frankie Junior.

  Just a lot of stray electrical wires that construction workers had dropped.

  He must be getting close to the end.

  —

  The noises weren’t far now. Maybe twenty feet.

  It was darker just ahead. García was approaching a sharp corner. There were stairs. And an all-too-familiar object at their foot.

  Then the realization: Someone was there. Could it be the man who’d taken his son?

  García sprinted toward his target. He bent low and grabbed hard. Caught his target around the waist and brought him down. Slammed him against the wall.

  Looked the guy square in the face.

  He was filthy, his hair slicked with grease. He didn’t smell good. He had the gaunt face of someone malnourished.

  “What are you doing?” García demanded.

  “I hang here. It’s my turf.”

  “You see anyone else here today?”

  “I ain’t been here all day.”

  “You haven’t seen a boy? Thin. Dark hair. Eleven years old.”

  “You don’t want to be here,” the street bum said, wiping blood from his chin. “It ain’t a great space. It leaks water. There’s no heat. Plus, we got thousands of rats. Nasty little bastards.”

  “You’re right,” García agreed. “I don’t want to be here. And I’ll leave the second you tell me how—if you haven’t seen my son—you ended up with his backpack?” García pointed a finger at the navy blue North Face pack.

  “That thing?” The bum chuckled. “Found it right here. More or less exactly like you see it. While I was out hustling this afternoon, some other squatter was using my turf.”

  Chapter 36

  The Donovan Brownstone

  Allie’s room was all done up in shades of purple and blue. There was a low bed with three drawers tucked into each side, its duvet perfectly made, not even a crease. There were two bookcases, their contents neatly stacked and books arranged alphabetically by subject.

  It had to be Jackie. Unlikely a thirteen-year-old kid was this anal-retentive.

  Maybe it was Jackie’s job, or maybe just her personality, but she kept Allie’s room organized and spotless.

  There were plenty of stuffed animals. Fuzzy bears, bunnies, elephants, and dogs lined the window shelf—with the apparent favorite of the day given a spot of honor on the bed. Not to mention other kid stuff. A stack of cards, with Uno on top. Board games, including Clue, Apples to Apples, Harry Potter Monopoly, and Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit. A few scattered dolls.

  The remnants of Allie’s childhood.

  A birthday
party invitation had been tossed into the garbage. Gemma was turning fourteen; there would be pizza and movies at her building’s party room on West Fifty-fourth Street. Allie either couldn’t make it—or just didn’t want to. The invitation was lodged next to a movie ticket from the latest Bond flick. Friday night’s showing.

  Her desk had an algebra book on top. Otherwise, it was littered with pencils of all shapes and colors scattered over papers filled with doodles. There was a box filled with gum—a dozen flavor varieties, from strawberry and fruit punch to spearmint and bubblegum. Judging from scattered photos on her wall, Allie’s braces had recently come off and she was making up for lost time.

  He walked over to the window, which overlooked West Eightieth Street through a trio of maple trees. Glanced outside. A few red leaves dangled precariously; the rest of the branches were bare. The trees would provide a nice privacy screen in summer, but this time of year, nothing was hidden. It would be easy for someone to watch this room—either from the street or from one of the many brownstones that lined the opposing sidewalk.

  Who are you, luv?

  There was a limit to what he could learn poking around her room. What he really needed was Allie’s computer. Between that and her iPhone, he’d have the modern version of a teenage tell-all. Because what most people thought of as a cellphone was actually a tracker; what most people thought of as a computer was actually the ultimate spy machine. An archive of all past activity, where files could be deleted and browser history erased, but in the right hands—his hands—no information ever truly disappeared.

  The fact that it felt a little weird applying his investigative tactics to a thirteen-year-old kid didn’t mean they wouldn’t work. They’d just work differently.

  Haddox peeked into the purple backpack at the desk’s edge. No computer there. Only a smattering of notebooks, a half-eaten bag of PopCorners, and a pair of headphones.

  He checked the main desk cabinet. Came up empty. Just an assorted mess of papers had been stuffed inside. Most of it schoolwork, judging from the algebra test on top with a 97 written in red—and the Latin verb conjugation worksheet poking out from the bottom.

  Where is that computer?

  His eyes scanned across the room. Fell upon the drawers underneath the bed. The first contained sweatpants and fleeces. The second contained heavy sweaters, not yet in use. The third and fourth had summer clothes—neatly folded, stored for the season.

  What now? She had to have a computer. Schools required it these days.

  He ought to just ask for help. Given Jackie’s organizational prowess, it was impossible that she wouldn’t know.

  But there were two reasons he didn’t—at least, not yet.

  First, Haddox never liked getting help when he could do for himself.

  Second, the place Allie kept her computer was a choice that would reveal something about her personality. Specifically, what she valued—and what she feared. When he found Allie’s hiding spot, he’d also begin to understand a thing or two about the lass.

  Haddox was a Level One computer hacker—someone with expert coding skills, an intuitive understanding of how machines operated, and a unique ability to pierce impenetrable targets. But he hadn’t gotten where he was solely because he understood technology so well. He was a rare breed because he also understood the human element—IQ combined with EQ.

  When he wanted to crack the toughest program, infiltrate the strongest firewall, he always remembered that it had been created by a human being—someone flawed, with likes and dislikes and bad habits. That principle had served him remarkably well, so he applied it here, too.

  “If I were Allie, where would I keep my computer?” he asked himself.

  He scanned the room. Let his eyes settle on the closet.

  The double doors to a large walk-in revealed a California closet organization system. He began searching.

  He lifted up a folded quilt. Found nothing underneath.

  He ran his hands behind a row of coats. Still nothing.

  As long as he was there, he checked the coat pockets. Gum. Mints. Loose change. Raspberry-flavored lip gloss.

  He slid open three built-in drawers. One for socks. One for underwear. One for scarves.

  Think.

  He remembered the backpack, with its random assortment of papers and jammed notebooks and candy. The cabinet, with past homework stuffed every which way. Haphazard. Reflective of Allie’s personality.

  There was a built-in hamper at the base of the closet.

  Not a natural place to find anything other than dirty clothes. But he thought: Allie’s personality.

  He pulled open the bin. It was half full, with a towel, washcloth, and what Allie must have worn yesterday: a graphic tee, a pair of jeans, and a sweater.

  There you are. He saw the telltale silver gleam of Allie’s laptop, half hidden under the rolled-up pair of jeans.

  Haddox grabbed the device—it was an eleven-inch MacBook Air—and settled in at Allie’s desk. He slid her iPhone out of his pocket. Then he popped a piece of her bubblegum in his mouth, reached into his bag for his own laptop—and started to focus.

  Who are you, Allie, luv?

  He flipped open the screen and her computer hummed to life, revealing a map of Tolkien’s Middle-earth. Emblazoned across it was a message: KEEP OUT! YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND, ANYWAY.

  But Haddox thrived on navigating a world of information. One hour, thirteen minutes to deadline—and he had everything he needed.

  Chapter 37

  350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters

  One hour and twelve minutes to deadline.

  Eli sat at his desk for a moment and looked out the window of his office in Vidocq’s unmarked headquarters. Through the darkness, he could see the fog rising over the Hudson River. He stared at Riverside Park in front of him. The ghostly mist mingled with the shadows, infiltrating it like an invading army. Creeping through a mini-forest of trees, wrapping around their thinning branches. Sandwiched in between was the Henry Hudson Parkway—still packed with bumper-to-bumper traffic heading north out of the city.

  He didn’t know why everybody was so desperate to leave. Home was nice during the holidays. Your own home. Where you didn’t have to satisfy or disappoint anybody else’s expectations.

  His eyes returned to a scrap of paper on his desk. An Amtrak ticket stub that he’d discovered in the pocket of his jacket—exactly where he must’ve absently tucked it a year ago. Last Thanksgiving. Which was probably also the last time he’d worn this particular coat. He’d found both this morning—a memento of a whirlwind trip to Vermont with John during the crazy, head-over-heels beginning of their doomed relationship. In other words, the last thing he wanted to be reminded of.

  He wheeled back his chair. Kicked on the shredder to his left. Stuffed the ticket stub into the opening; let it transform into confetti.

  With a feeling of satisfaction, he opened his laptop. Watched it come to life. His glasses—already secured on one side with a safety pin—slipped down his nose, and he didn’t even bother pushing them back up. His computer wouldn’t care. Not for the first time, Eli thought how he actually got along much better with computers than he did with people. Computers responded to codes and data, never complaining that he was overweight. Or that his socks didn’t match. Or that he’d just said the wrong thing—for the third time the same night.

  So he settled in with his laptop and refocused exclusively on getting to know Commissioner Logan Patrick Donovan.

  Eli was nothing like Eve. He couldn’t read personalities and get inside people’s minds. And he certainly couldn’t touch Haddox’s ability to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of people’s digital fingerprints. Couldn’t create a compelling narrative of their habits, desires, and secrets.

  Still, Eli had a few skills. He was an expert at following the ins and outs of financial transactions—and figuring out what they revealed. You looked at the numbers. You figured out the pattern of what somebody did and what i
t said about his values. This was the science of the mind that Eli understood—where fiscal details and monetary choices spoke volumes about personality, behavior, and values.

  So what did the commissioner’s fiscal life reveal about him?

  A lifelong New Yorker, Logan Donovan had joined the NYPD straight out of John Jay College, rising from police cadet all the way to police commissioner, with a short stint in the U.S. Air Force along the way. After he came home from Operation Desert Storm, lauded as a war hero, he’d skipped over a few ranks. Some people called it a “meteoric rise.” Donovan hadn’t spent enough time on the streets, his critics alleged. Hadn’t put in the time as a beat cop that was necessary to learn how the city really worked.

  But no one really complained. Crime was down in the city. Donovan unveiled a new community-policing program, grounded in his belief that it was important for the community and the police to respect each other. Some people called him the Great Humanitarian because of his approach to outreach: He attended minority church services in order to recruit new policemen—and he put extra cops on the streets, telling them to get to know the local residents.

  Then came a particularly shocking incident of police brutality—especially for the Big Apple, which, under Donovan, had redoubled its efforts to recruit diverse officers. And that was followed by a series of unarmed police shootings. What was happening throughout the nation was happening in New York City, too.

  People blamed the commissioner. All of his accumulated goodwill dissipated overnight. They called for his ouster. Alleged that he’d sanctioned racial profiling, stepping up stop-and-frisk. That he had violated people’s civil rights. He’d received death threats—though Eli noted that he’d also refused extra security. An odd choice for a widower with a thirteen-year-old child. Did he feel that invincible?

  The commissioner’s personal history followed a similar trajectory. He’d married a journalist immediately after returning home from the Gulf War. Jill had been a feature reporter assigned to write about his dramatic pilot rescue in Operation Desert Storm—how he’d swept out of the sky to pick up the stranded airman, just as Iraqi trucks raced toward them.