Whistleblower

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “But he’s no Superman,” Eve replied. “He can’t do it all.”

  “If he can’t do it personally, he finds somebody to help. Just like he found me. Just like he found you,” Sam pointed out.

  —

  Eve next spoke with Jackie Meade in the living room downstairs. She was far less helpful than Sam had been.

  Still, Eve knew how to compensate.

  She just listened, watching, letting Jackie reveal herself in hundreds of different ways. Hands. Eyes. Gestures. Expressions. Movements. Eve knew her observation skills were her most powerful tool. To be a good listener, she worked to understand more than words. She paid attention to what excited people—as well as what frightened them. She noticed where they hesitated and where they raced ahead. Until she could figure out almost exactly what someone was really saying. Even if that person never uttered the right words.

  What Eve figured out was that Jackie was saying the same things as Sam—even when she was lying. For example, she claimed that the Donovans had been Disney-family happy; her body language practically screamed a different story.

  And it only took a slightly different angle to reveal the truth.

  “Allie is a good kid,” Eve summarized, “but not particularly invested in the real world. Her head’s always in the clouds. Actually, in the cloud. She was happier online than in real life. That was why she didn’t want to go to her father’s speech at the balloon inflation ceremony—”

  Jackie interrupted her. “I wouldn’t say that. She didn’t want to be around Gwen. Gwen was always the issue. More than how much time Allie spent on the computer or why she didn’t hang out more with her friends or couldn’t have a puppy.” Jackie picked at her fingernails, finding some flaw with her cuticles. Embarrassed that she’d said so much.

  But nothing Eve hadn’t already figured out.

  She opened her mouth to ask more but stopped when she heard the racing of footsteps. Haddox burst into the room.

  “You found something?” she hazarded.

  “Kidnapper’s on the line. You need to talk with him.”

  —

  Eve couldn’t help it; her heart trip-hammered as she took the phone.

  “This is Eve. We spoke earlier, when you made your ransom demand.” She forced a note of intimacy into her voice that she did not feel. But she wanted to attempt making a connection.

  Except it wasn’t the kidnapper who replied.

  It was Allie, her voice high-pitched and scared. “He wants me to tell you that he will not walk into your trap. You have exactly six minutes for your assault teams to vacate the roof of the natural history museum. And the buildings on West Seventy-seventh Street.”

  “Will you ask him to talk with me, Allie?” Eve urged.

  The girl was sobbing. “If you don’t do what he says, he’s going to kill—”

  “Hold the phone so he can hear me—”

  Click. The line went dead.

  Chapter 47

  Donovan Family Brownstone

  Eve pulled out her own phone and dialed Donovan. He picked up on the second ring. “Allie called with a message from her kidnapper. You have exactly three and a half minutes for your rooftop assault teams on West Seventy-seventh Street to reverse course.”

  Donovan didn’t answer her, but she immediately heard him on his radio. “Stand down! Stand down! I repeat, Cerberus, stand down! Hydra, stand down! Typhon, stand down!”

  There was a crackling noise on the secure radio.

  “Do you copy?” Donovan asked.

  “Roger that.” In the background, the Cerberus Team leader repeated the order.

  “Copy that,” Typhon leader echoed.

  “I need confirmation, Hydra,” Donovan insisted.

  No response.

  “Hydra?”

  “Egress, Hydra. Egress.”

  More crackling noise in the background, and the pop-pop-pop of gunfire.

  Eve heard shouts. Curses. “Officer down! Officer down!”

  “Cover them. Mind innocents,” Donovan barked.

  Another crack as the connection dropped.

  —

  Seven minutes later, it was over. The shooter had been in an apartment window of the building one block behind. Its residents were away for the Thanksgiving holiday. Now forensics was combing every inch of the apartment, the building, the block.

  The shooter had escaped. His target had suffered non-life-threatening injuries. And Donovan had made the only decision he could in a dense urban environment: He had ordered his men to retreat, as fast as possible.

  Eve, hearing all this, exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  She had tried to reverse the call from Allie’s phone, but of course it did not work.

  Still, she could only assume that the kidnapper knew the retreat had been effected.

  That the original plan for the ransom drop was still in place.

  And something more. That hurting Commissioner Logan Donovan—personally and professionally—was the real goal.

  Chapter 48

  Garbage Can Graveyard

  At precisely three minutes ’til midnight, Mace began to stroll down the museum side of West Seventy-seventh Street.

  The vendors weren’t an issue. They were gathered in a circle, bored, shooting the shit.

  Wearing his white-man threads, Mace didn’t attract much attention. Still, he waited until he was certain no cop was looking.

  Then he circled to the rear of the garbage can graveyard and shoved his New York Knicks duffel bag into a can at the back.

  The can with a yellow smiley face painted on it.

  —

  Eve held her breath when she saw Mace make the drop.

  He’d been right on time. Now he was walking briskly away.

  At the corner of West Seventy-seventh, he looked like he was about to stop, spin, and play defense. But he kept going, crossed Central Park West, and went north along the perimeter of the park until he reached West Eighty-first Street.

  Playing his part.

  Trying to keep a kidnapped kid or two alive.

  —

  Haddox waited in the shadows of the press van, just by Teddy Roosevelt’s statue at the front of the museum.

  He noticed the commissioner across the street. The lying git was finally taking a personal interest in his daughter. Probably wanted to be there for the news cameras the instant she was recovered.

  He saw García amble down West Seventy-seventh, covering the rear approach from Columbus.

  Each one of them: Watching. Waiting. Ready.

  —

  At the southwest corner of West Seventy-seventh, Eve kept her eyes on the garbage can with the smiley face.

  As soon as Mace was out of range, someone would make a move.

  It wouldn’t be long. Two million dollars was too much money to leave lying around.

  Eve kept her distance, but she watched every shadow. Never took her eyes from the can.

  No one approached the garbage can graveyard.

  Cops came and went, carrying cups of coffee. The street vendors chatted among themselves. The floats were beginning to line up, north of Eighty-first Street.

  Five minutes stretched into eight, then twelve.

  Eve asked herself: Could we have missed something?

  “García,” she murmured into her headset. “Do you see anything?”

  Nothing. Too quiet, he replied.

  “Haddox—what about you? Anybody unusual?”

  Nothing here, luv.

  Mace had the same response.

  Nothing happened. Not a damn thing.

  Eve gave up after nineteen minutes. She raced across the street. To the can with the yellow smiley face.

  It was empty.

  No money.

  No message.

  Nothing.

  —

  “What the hell?” the commissioner fumed. “You had multiple sets of eyes on the can.”

  “Man, he must have figured o
ut a way to go fishing. Did it like this.” Mace knelt on the pavement. The garbage can access door had been turned to the rear, left ajar. The interior bin had been removed already, to accommodate the size of Mace’s bag. A sidewalk paver had its leaves disturbed. A path tunneled through them. It led to a small area behind the fence, obscured by a hulking tree.

  A good hiding spot for squirrels, chipmunks—or stalkers.

  “I see where the leaves are crushed,” Eve said. “Somebody was lying here. What I don’t understand is how we missed him.”

  Her gaze was caught by an odd shape stuck in a mesh of leaves and branches. A sturdy pole with a hook on its end. “Let’s hope when he went fishing, he left us with fingerprints and other trace evidence,” she muttered. Locard’s principle—that with every crime, there was a transfer of material between perpetrator and scene—had solved thousands of otherwise hopeless cases.

  Haddox let out a low whistle. “Two million dollars, gone—right from under our noses.”

  “Task One complete. Total fail,” Mace grumbled. “Now we gotta keep dealing with this asshole.”

  Only the commissioner wasn’t complaining.

  Eve turned to follow his gaze.

  “Allie!” Donovan shouted.

  She saw a small figure emerge from the shadows of the park.

  A child. Wearing a bright purple rain slicker.

  Donovan shouted “Allie!” again—and exploded into a sprint.

  Eve was right behind him. Thinking: Not a total failure. A ransom had been traded for a life. The exchange had worked, even if the culprit wasn’t yet caught.

  Now Allie was walking toward them. And she was carrying something in her arms.

  Chapter 49

  I see the commissioner’s been making friends.

  Blondie was keeping a close watch on the ransom can.

  Rambo was right behind; he circled that block more often than a sick dog with the runs.

  And Knicks fan wanted me to think he left the area after dropping the money, but he didn’t go far.

  Who are these people? Muscle for hire? Definitely not fans of authority. It’s fun watching them scatter when a real cop comes near.

  Now I’m watching the boy.

  He’s stiff with fear, locked in a statuelike stance. I feel bad, since after all, how many times have I been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Life’s a bitch that way.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve been rereading her letter, but I flash back to a time when I was his age.

  I was eleven when I met Josh Geller. He was a year older than me, in seventh grade, not sixth. He had whitish-blond hair that he gelled so it stuck straight up. He was thin, but he walked as though he was a sumo wrestler. He was a kid who acted bigger and tougher than he really was.

  He was class president, and on the debate team, and poster boy of the principal’s FAB program. Friends Against Bullying.

  I still don’t know why Geller and his friends picked on me. I didn’t have red hair or bad acne. I didn’t wear glasses. My parents hadn’t saddled me with a silly name.

  I remember the day I met Josh. He was looking around the cafeteria, expecting to see somebody else. Then he slouched loose. Pulled a paper bag out of his pocket. Walked over to me, flanked by two girls and a boy.

  “Got anything good for lunch today, moron?”

  It was my first day at a new school. I was sitting by myself.

  “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

  “No. Leave me alone.” I could feel my jaw tightening. I’ve never liked bullies. I despise the way they have a sixth sense for those with shaken confidence and bruised egos. They target the vulnerable to make themselves feel more powerful.

  “Hey, just answer the question: yes or no. Unless you’re so dumb, you think this is a multiple-choice quiz.” Josh pulled my ham-and-cheese sandwich closer to him. Inspected it. I thought he was going to spit on it.

  Instead, he pulled a bottle of hot sauce out of his own bag. Proceeded to empty it onto my bread, until the plate was nothing but a sodden, sorry red mess.

  That was just the beginning.

  I never stood up to them. Didn’t have the stomach for conflict. But every day they played their stupid games, making me more and more miserable until I wished they were dead.

  Josh Geller got his karmic payback. After high school graduation, he went out drinking with one of his birdbrained friends. They decided to go subway surfing on the back of a 6 train bound for Parkchester.

  I can imagine it now: him clinging onto the outside edge of a closed door, his face pressed against the window, his horror as he slipped and fell onto the tracks.

  I think of him every time I see that MTA ad: Surf the Web, not the train.

  And I smile.

  I’m pretty straightforward. I’ve learned that things are simple if you think about them. That the situation is always the root of the problem. That people are so stupid they need to experience something big to understand a point.

  Like the equivalent of a neon sign in Times Square.

  PART FOUR

  * * *

  THE BREAKOUT

  Fourth Thursday of November

  Thanksgiving Day

  Midnight to 9 a.m.

  Chapter 50

  Corner of West 77th Street and Central Park West

  Streetlights shone on her bright purple rain slicker. The hood was tight across her head. Logan Donovan could make out a backpack in the shape of a plush bear slung over her right shoulder, with ears and a goofy grin.

  He took off, running in tandem with Eve, sprinting toward Allie.

  He had worried after that last phone call. But in the end, it had been easy.

  That was how it worked when you had nerves of steel—and were determined to get your own way through sheer force of will. That was how he had orchestrated the meteoric rise that was his career. How he had won over Jill as his wife. And how he had secured his daughter’s release today.

  He’d be hailed as a man who took care of business. A hero.

  “Allie!” he yelled. “Over here!”

  He could feel his hands shaking as he reached for her. He stared at her through thick tears of relief that didn’t fall—but blurred his vision, refusing to be blinked away.

  He reached for her. Crushed her into his chest.

  And knew the instant his touch registered: This is not right!

  He blinked hard and focused. The child was Allie’s height—and had Allie’s slim build. The child wore Allie’s purple raincoat. Carried Allie’s panda backpack.

  But when Donovan pulled the hood off the child’s head, even his tears and desperation couldn’t disguise the truth.

  This child was not Allie.

  This child was unwell.

  He was pale. Blue in the face.

  And Donovan caught a whiff of the sickly sweet scent of blood before the child collapsed into his arms.

  What have you done, you sick bastard? he whispered into the shadows.

  And knew the fault was his. Because he’d been nothing but a damned fool.

  Chapter 51

  Southeast Corner of West 77th Street and Central Park West

  The shock and silence lasted for three long heartbeats.

  Eve called for help. Two paramedics joined them from the first-aid tent that had been set up in advance of the parade.

  She and Donovan helped them lift the boy—who was bleeding profusely from an injury to his arm—and carry him to the nearest metal bleachers.

  There was an angry howl behind her. García was pushing through the growing crowd. Stopped short—and looked at the boy lying on the bleachers. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he whispered. Then he knelt down beside his son, and in a stronger voice, he said, “Hey, Frankie, Dad’s here. You’re gonna be okay.”

  Mace and Haddox fanned out to search for any sign of the kidnapper. Any trace he might have left behind or any witness who might have seen him.

  The blond paramedic looked Frankie Junior over. Seem
ed concerned that his skin was so blue, his body temperature so cold.

  García fumbled in his vest; then shoved a plastic packet toward the medic. “He needs this injection! He’s got a blood-clotting disorder—Von Willebrand.”

  The vials came out of the packet. The injection was administered.

  The paramedics’ hands lifted up Frankie Junior’s thin frame. They carried him into the light and placed him on a stretcher. Everyone’s flashlight shined on him, making his body appear a ghostly silver.

  “How bad?” García clutched the panda backpack that had dropped, like it was the most precious treasure he’d ever recovered.

  “Pupils dilated. His abdomen is cold. Pulse is weak!” the paramedic yelled to her partner.

  “How long until the injection works?” García demanded. “Until the bleeding stops?”

  “It’s not that easy. We have to get him to a hospital.” The blond paramedic was working to create a tourniquet. It wasn’t helping. “His heartbeat is erratic.”

  García reached down, grabbed Frankie’s hand tight. His lips moved, and Eve thought he might have been praying. Or bargaining. Or maybe just hoping that the sheer force of his own will could stanch the endless bleeding.

  Frankie Junior wasn’t shivering. He wasn’t moving at all. But his eyes fluttered.

  Donovan didn’t let the opportunity pass. “Did you see a girl? Her name’s Allie.”

  Frankie Junior tried to say something.

  “What was that?” Donovan demanded, leaning over him.

  “Give him some space!” García growled.

  “My daughter’s still out there—with the monster who did this.”

  “I’m sorry, Commissioner, but this man’s right,” the paramedic agreed. “The boy should not be talking—”

  “No!” Donovan shouted. “Look. He wants to say something.”

  Eve stepped between him and the boy. “He’s suffered a deep cut. He’s lost a dangerous amount of blood.”

  Frankie Junior’s head moved from side to side.

  García leaned down close. All Eve heard was a faint, “Papa.”