A solitary old man was snoring on a bench along the path.
The Ramble wasn’t on most tourist agendas this time of year. And within the next few hours, the cops would erect twenty-four-foot-high metal gate barriers at every entrance of Central Park to keep people out during the parade.
Twigs snapped behind him.
García stopped often—turning, checking. The tangle of trails was twisted and the trees were dense. Eventually he reached the top of a small incline.
Where did you come from, Frankie?
He shone his Maglite into the trees. No surveillance cameras to help.
He scaled a steep trail. Here, he was surrounded on both sides by Manhattan bedrock; it created a narrow gorge heading east. The air was wet and dense.
He kept going. Passed through the gorge and circled a small pond.
Climbed another hill. The trail twisted left and right and then left again.
Arrived at a clearing above the Seventy-ninth Street Transverse. García turned, surveying the land in each direction. Searching desperately for anything out of place. Realized that he had lost Frankie Junior’s trail.
There was a muddy track to the side, weaving until the path surrendered to leaves and undergrowth and crumbling tree stumps.
García forged ahead, moving solely on instinct. His Maglite illuminated what looked to be a stone shed behind a chain-link fence that had collapsed in places, thanks to felled trees and overgrown vines. It was a single structure—though a series of vents and exhaust pipes suggested that the foundation might continue a few feet underground.
The door? Locked.
He took his pick out and considered this deadbolt’s personality. It was a high-security lock with six pins. And it appeared to be new—no scratches. Inside the lock’s cavity, everything was still set at factory standard—with nothing altered because of the temperature or humidity or moisture.
It was also out of character for a Central Park outbuilding. This kind of lock was rated as a twenty-minute pick job by insurance underwriters. Never mind that people like García could manage it in seconds; it was far too sophisticated for the contents it surely protected.
He applied the right pressure, measured the pins’ resistance, and worked his magic to each pin in succession.
He felt the click and turned the deadbolt. Pulled the door open, its hinges surprisingly silent, exposing a small room filled with supplies. Gardening supplies, yes—plenty of mulch and wood chips and wrapped-up hoses for watering. But other disturbing things, too.
A wooden bench, bolted to the floor, had a quarter-inch-thick chain looped around one leg. Four pairs of zip ties littered the floor.
There was a thin blue blanket.
A bedpan.
Tins of food. Protein bars. A couple bottles of Gatorade.
He saw recent disturbances on the dirt floor, where something heavy had been dragged.
He smelled bleach—like the walls and floor had been thoroughly doused with it.
He also smelled a scent that took him back to hours-long Sunday afternoons at his aunt Maria’s apartment, where everything reeked of that pungent, old-sock smell. Mothballs.
He took a hard look. Etched it all in his memory. Then closed the door, desperate to be away from there.
What stayed with him was that mothball smell. And it stirred memories of a time and place he only wanted to forget.
Strange fragments of images flashed into his mind.
This wasn’t just about the commissioner and his daughter. Not anymore.
He reached for his phone and dialed Eve.
“I’ve found where he kept the kids. We need tech support to handle fingerprints. DNA. Full chemical analysis.” García gazed out at the west side city skyline, twinkling over the dark canopy of wet trees.
He knew a small army of workers was scurrying to ready the floats, fill the balloons, organize the bands.
All of them blissfully unaware of what threatened them.
Chapter 56
Security Tent—Parade Zone
Eve had reason to be unnerved. Though she was used to missing puzzle pieces, something was significantly wrong here. She didn’t know why Allie’s kidnapper was targeting the commissioner. She didn’t know why the commissioner was not more affected by his daughter’s kidnapping—never mind the demands of his job. She feared she could not trust him.
So she asked herself, Who am I doing this for?
Not the FBI. Not the commissioner. Only Allie—a missing thirteen-year-old girl.
In that case, the only question that mattered was: How do I help her?
Eve reviewed the information she had on the commissioner once again. Recognized that he was tough and smart and perceptive. But everyone had an Achilles’ heel. She just had to exploit it. Even if it made her feel cheap and manipulative to do so. There was too much at stake here to quibble over matters of conscience.
Including a global threat to the parade.
It was helpful that she and Logan had established a bond of some sort. Their conversation in the library when he had allowed himself to show some emotion—and when she had opened up to him about Zev—had forged the most fragile of connections between them. It might be as delicate as a spider’s web—but delicate strands were sufficient to ensnare a spider’s prey.
She focused on the ethical lapses in the commissioner’s file. A number of trips paid for by others had generated formal censure six years ago—though it was clear that they were personal journeys, motivated by friendship, with no political advantage. Still, Donovan had been gun-shy afterward, separating his public and private business. It was immediately afterward that he had hired Sam to provide personal security for his family—initially through the Paid Detail Program, in which uniformed NYPD officers could provide protection when off duty, and later hiring Sam full-time after Jill had received a series of threats.
What this told Eve was that the commissioner would bend a rule he believed to be stupid or unnecessary. She could use that.
Behind her, police in flak jackets and ballistic shields, alert for signs of protesters gathering in the area, kept a close watch on the few stragglers out at this hour.
A siren wail sounded from elsewhere in the city. Overhead, a news helicopter made a wide circle.
The police were watching. Waiting. The crowds would begin to gather by daybreak. Seven hours, twenty-six minutes until the parade would start its march down Central Park West.
Under a security tent ten feet away, Donovan was leading a meeting; at least a dozen other officers surrounded him.
She caught his eye, motioned that she needed to speak with him.
Four minutes later, he broke away to speak with her. “I will not swap that killer for my daughter.” Donovan’s brow tightened with concern, but then he took a breath and the taut lines relaxed. He was never one to let his stress show. “Burke’s a bastard who represents everything that’s broken in our society. More to the point, he may be the source of the threats targeting the NYPD. His release may be the trigger that fires the weapon.”
“Gregg Burke is also the next task of the personal challenge that’s been issued you,” Eve reminded him. “How far will you go to save her? He said that specifically.”
“Just means we find another way. Even if I wanted to, this guy’s a scourge. He’s being held under our most secure lock and key.”
She pulled out her phone, checked the time. “I’m thinking there’s a way we can use Burke to draw Allie’s kidnapper out into the open and apprehend him.”
“You’re not listening to me!” he thundered—or tried to. After hours of bluster and volume, now his voice was failing him. “Gregg Burke is being held at an undisclosed location downtown near One Police Plaza. In a maximum-security cell block with some high-ranking al-Qaeda operatives and drug traffickers from the Los Zetas cartel. And even if I wanted—which I don’t—I couldn’t give permission for him to just walk out of there.”
“This is for your daughter.�
�
Something snagged in his throat. “Even for her, I can’t put the lives of my officers—and millions of paradegoers—at risk.”
Something inside Eve shuddered. It was one thing to say that the lives of the many took priority over the few. “Of course Burke will not walk. But he could be moved. Under secure guard, of course.”
“No. Let’s give the kidnapper a decoy.”
Eve stared at him, amazed. “We can’t. For the same reason we didn’t risk fake money for the ransom. You know he’s monitoring the news. He expects to see reports of a breakout.”
“The ransom didn’t involve a cop killer. I draw the line there.”
“We’d use Mace and García,” Eve continued briskly. “They would provide an armed guard at all times. You like García—I think you even trust him. For once, think like a father, not a cop.”
The commissioner stared at her for a long moment. “As both a father and a cop: What if it fails? I’d never forgive myself.”
Those blue eyes again that had seen too much. What she saw in them electrified Eve—even if she didn’t trust him. “You and I both like getting things done and taking decisive action. We can do this, together.” Eve felt the heat in his gaze—and knew she had him, even before he finally agreed.
“Only because I trust you.” He placed his hand on her arm, a solemn gesture.
“No flattery, remember?” There were so many layers to his personality, she couldn’t help but be intrigued.
“I’m trying to be honest. I have no agenda. At least, not a political one.”
“I’m not looking to make new friends, Commissioner.”
“Bullshit. I have friends, and I’m just as much of a workaholic as you.” He noticed his deputy frantically waving at him. His head snapped up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Custody transfers happen all the time. That’s how you should view this,” she explained. “Because it’s our best chance to flush out the kidnapper. And save not just Allie but potentially thousands of paradegoers.”
“It’s a complete cluster,” he muttered. He signaled one minute to George.
“Which is exactly why my unit—Vidocq—was founded. To do the impossible in moments of crisis.”
“Or failing that, to shoulder the blame?” he challenged.
Before she could reply, Donovan steeled himself, took out his phone—and dialed as he walked.
WJXZ REPORTS
This is WJXZ News with Gwen Allensen, reporting from Columbus Circle, where despite the events from yesterday evening, parade preparations are going full-speed ahead throughout the night! I’m talking with Manuel Vega, an electrician who works for the city. He’s part of a crew that is systematically removing every street lamp along the parade route. Manuel, can you tell our viewers at home why this is happening?
MANUEL: Well, when high winds are a problem for the parade, there are two things that parade organizers do to protect the public. First, the balloons will fly just a little lower. And, my crew and I, we take down all the lampposts. We’ve done it every parade since 1997, when the Cat in the Hat ran into a lamppost and injured a spectator. And when the parade’s over? We’ll put ’em right back up!
GWEN: Better safe than sorry, that’s for sure! Stay tuned right here for even more coverage as we get closer to our nine o’clock start time.
Chapter 57
350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
QuestingForJustice. SolveAColdCase. WebJusticeForUs.
One hundred and seventy-five dollars later, Eli was a fledgling member of each. He signed up with the username Mookie Wilson. After one of his favorite Mets baseball players—because who couldn’t love a guy who battled through life with a name like that?
First, he worked to get a sense of what the different sites were all about. All were devoted to crimes. Missing persons. Cold cases. Conspiracy Theories. Crimes Against Children. Crimes Against Women. Black Lives Matter.
Who Am I? was dedicated to unidentified victims. QuestingForJustice had seventy-four thousand registered members. SolveAColdCase had thirty-six thousand. WebJusticeForUs was the largest at one hundred three thousand.
Next, he delved into certain threads. A manicurist at a nail salon in Burlington, Vermont, had left her place of business two Augusts ago, intending to pick up her six-month-old son at daycare. Her car was found the next day abandoned on I-91. Purse, cellphone, and money intact. But no sign of the woman.
Another thread involved people trying to identify a child who had washed up on the beach last June. She’d been wearing a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt and white shorts, and she’d recently lost her two front teeth.
The number of people tracking both cases was nothing short of astonishing. Eli was having a hard time figuring it out: Were these people curious thrill-seekers, looking to satisfy their prurient interests by digging up more information than CNN would report? Or were they wannabe detectives who actually thought they could help solve a crime?
Knowing what he did about the police commissioner, he couldn’t help but investigate the Black Lives Matter thread. It made for depressing reading. A fifteen-year-old shot in the back. A man with autism who’d been restrained in a chokehold; he’d gone into cardiac arrest and died. A racially motivated traffic stop that led to a jail-cell suicide.
Eli punched variations of Commissioner Logan Donovan into the thread.
Came up with seventeen hits.
Kept reading.
Chapter 58
Security Tent—Parade Zone
“You’re the boss, Commissioner. But this is highly unusual.”
“Unusual times call for unusual measures,” Donovan pointed out smoothly. He had emptied the security tent before making this call to the downtown detention center. “We believe the prisoner may have information about today’s riot—not to mention an urgent threat to the parade. Are you ready for my authorization code?”
“Of course, sir.” The way he said it let Donovan know that he had secured his full cooperation.
After the necessary authorizations had been transmitted, Donovan asked, “Can you repeat back my instructions?”
“We are to prepare Prisoner number 06498-111, Gregg Burke, for immediate questioning. A man from your office is en route to speak with him now.” Another hesitation. “Commissioner, are you—”
Donovan didn’t let him finish. “Transfer him within the half-hour. Time is of the essence.” Then he clicked off.
As he walked to rejoin the meeting, a man rode past on a bicycle with newspapers slung on his back.
A woman walked her golden cocker spaniel at the edge of the park, apparently roused from bed, pajama pants peeking out from the bottom of her coat.
Two cops watched carefully as city electricians removed a streetlight, taking it out of commission before the parade.
Everyone doing their job. Just like Logan Donovan.
He quickly studied the street and the edges of Central Park. Searching for anything out of the ordinary. Anyone standing in the wrong place or wearing the wrong clothes. Anybody who didn’t belong. Or anybody trying too hard to belong.
The problem was: This was New York City inside the Frozen Zone, in the silence before the whirlwind of crowds arrived. Except for maybe the dog owner, nobody around here could exactly be described as “belonging.”
—
Eve first called Mace, then conferenced in García to explain what she needed.
Both protested and complained, listing all the reasons why it was a bad idea. The reasons they didn’t want to do it. The reasons they especially didn’t want to do it together.
Then both came to the exact same conclusion.
It was a crazy plan.
It was also their best, fastest hope of catching this kidnapper—and securing the parade route.
“How’s Frankie Junior?” she asked before closing the line.
“Stabilized,” García replied. “The doc promises he’s gonna be okay.”
—
When E
ve spoke with Eli three minutes later, she almost couldn’t believe her ears. “You—asking for Haddox?”
“Don’t get me wrong: I still can’t stand the guy. Don’t really want to work with him. Or breathe the same air as him. But he’s the only bastard I can think of who can help me make sense of something I’ve found online. Something I think is important.”
“I’ll ask him to head uptown right away.”
—
Eve fell into step alongside the commissioner. They followed the line of silver bleachers on the park side of Central Park West. Empty for now—but in coming hours, to fill with an array of people lucky enough to score reserved seats for the parade. VIPs and Macy’s employees and corporate sponsors.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to handle this, without your fingerprints all over it?” Eve asked him.
“I told you: When it’s significant, I need to be pulled in.”
“Then we need to talk.”
“Words that usually come right before it’s not you, it’s me,” he joked.
“And that’s something you hear a lot?”
“ ’Course not. Women like me.” A smile played on his lips. “Even you would like me, given half a chance.”
Cocky and full of himself. The truth was, oddly enough, she did like him. She liked his energy and strength—even if he did sometimes act as a bully. She respected his total commitment to his job and desire to make a difference. How he let her see the occasional flash of vulnerability.
They passed another crew taking down streetlights. “We need to talk again about your enemies,” she said.
“I told you already. I’ve got plenty of enemies; none that I believe hate me enough to take my child.”
“The kidnapper’s working very hard to tie the plot against you to protests against police brutality. But he’s also asked you a question—how far will you go? And his ‘tasks’ have forced you to cross boundaries. He must’ve known you couldn’t come by that much money legitimately the night before Thanksgiving.”
Whistleblower Page 21