Exposure to Soman, Jan continued, could lead to paralysis—or respiratory failure and then death.
There was an antidote available—but it had to be used within minutes to be most effective. Most of it was held in military storage—and it would never make it to New York City in time to be of help.
A man from Homeland Security with a shaved head raised his hand. What about the guy under arrest for shooting the commissioner? Or the guy in custody who had been linked to threats targeting NYPD officers?
Eve accepted the cup of coffee she was offered. It was hot and black, and it steadied her. “Brock Olsen is a well-known anti-police radical. But we don’t believe that he’s connected with the threat we face this morning; his strategy is to use social media and take to the streets. The man we’re after likely has access to the social network that Olsen organized—and used what he learned to orchestrate the kidnapping of the commissioner’s daughter—but we believe this perpetrator has greater sophistication. It’s not easy to obtain a chemical weapon like Soman—not to mention to weaponize it. So we’re looking for someone with the ability to access the high-security storage sites maintained by the U.S. military.”
Maybe the real question is: Should we stop the parade? A man with a rasping voice spoke up.
“Absolutely not.” The commissioner stepped forward. “We have three and a half million people jammed into a two-and-a-half-mile stretch. If people panic—and stampede—there’s a risk of significant harm and injuries. Not to mention that the greatest city on earth will look like it can’t face down a threat.”
“Soman isn’t an ordinary threat,” Jan disagreed.
Donovan shook his head. “You found what—a trace amount? In a storage shed? With no real indication how long it had been there.” He let that sink in.
His eyes seemed to drift beyond Jan’s to meet Kepler’s—and Eve noticed something pass between the two men. It was a communication that might have been disagreement.
George Kepler turned, stepped outside the tent.
Donovan pretended not to notice. “We have the finest law enforcement team in the world—not to mention the technology to handle this. The parade must go on.”
“If we stop the parade,” Eve added, “we may force the perpetrator’s hand. He could release the poison immediately.”
Jan picked up the thread. “All officers have been issued tactical response hoods to protect them from chemical attack. Given the evidence of a specific threat, we’re also going to dispense additional biohazard detectors. As most of you already know, this tool is the size of a contact lens case—and it can detect any agent released in its vicinity within two minutes.”
She continued with the briefing, answering more questions.
Then it was over. Tasks were assigned. Everyone dispersed.
“You guys are clear what to do?” Eve asked Eli and Mace.
“Clear as mud.” Eli shot her a grin.
“It’s all part of his message,” Eve cautioned. “We already know that symbols are important to him—and he’s using them to make a point. He asked for money. He asked for a dangerous cop killer. He was like a damn ghost when he attacked García; not even the video cams in the area picked up a decent image for ID.”
“And now he wants to stick the commissioner in a Santa sleigh. What’s that symbolize?” Mace challenged.
“That he’s not done with the commissioner. Not yet,” Eve answered grimly.
—
Santa’s sleigh would be leaving the museum area, starting its journey down the parade route, within twenty-four minutes. Commissioner Logan Donovan would be on board.
Donovan insisted that he had no choice; he would follow the kidnapper’s final demand. There was no swaying him; no chance of convincing him otherwise.
“Impossible,” Eve retorted. “You’ll be too exposed.”
“Aye,” Haddox added. “You know it’s a trap.”
Donovan shrugged. “Anything on the parade route is exposed. My security detail will be close by.”
“Didn’t protect you during the riot.”
“I’m willing to trust in the wall-to-wall security protecting the Frozen Zone.”
“Didn’t protect García,” Eve reminded him.
Empathy flared in those disconcerting blue eyes again. “I’m sorry about your man. I know what it’s like to lose one of your own.”
“You’ve been shot once already,” she reminded him tartly. “Next time, they could use real bullets.”
Chapter 69
Parade Route, Inside the Frozen Zone
The Phantom of the Opera float began its journey. Strains of “Point of No Return” filled the air. Noisy spectators were corralled by police officers into sections of metal barricades. And there was now litter blowing everywhere on the streets. A discarded pizza box scuttled by. Empty plastic water bottles rolled. Candy wrappers danced.
People are pigs, Haddox decided.
Then he thought about the dangerous threats that those same people were blissfully unaware of. People are vulnerable.
He walked toward Logan Donovan, who was waiting by Santa’s sleigh.
“Hey, mate. Looks like you have a couple minutes before this thing takes off—and we need to chat,” he told Donovan. Then he guided him past the museum, toward the quieter space of Columbus Avenue.
“I’ve been learning about you,” Haddox began. “I dug in deep, trying to figure out how and why your daughter was targeted.”
“You’ve found something. And you disapprove.”
“Listen, mate—I’m no priest. I’m the last person who’ll ever judge you. Unless, of course, you break the only two rules that matter. Always treat your lass with respect. And always give thanks for a well-poured Guinness.”
The older man offered him an empty smile.
“It’s got to be hard work, raising a kid. The world’s crazy complicated these days, and they get all their information from the Internet—whether it’s social media or instant messaging or online forums. Then you’ve got porn and cyberbullying and online grooming. You have to worry about their virtual friends as much as their real-life ones.”
Donovan didn’t seem to be listening. He’d disappeared into his phone again. Where his daughter was concerned, he had the attention span of a two-year-old. What is wrong with this git?
Finally, he looked up. “Things used to be all right before my wife got sick.”
Haddox wasn’t looking for a confession. He neither needed nor wanted to know any of this.
“I get it. We’re talking about a rough time in your life. But Allie—or someone posing as Allie—suspected you could be responsible for your wife’s death.”
“Allie?” He shot Haddox an incredulous look. “No way.”
“Or someone posing as her,” Haddox repeated. “She posted about it online. Asked for help investigating you. No names, of course. But given what’s happened today, it’s possible somebody figured it out all the same. One of them peppered her with questions. He made her feel important. He didn’t treat her like a child. He took her concerns seriously. He believed her.” Haddox passed Donovan his smartphone. He’d taken a photo of the relevant chat.
—Hello. My name is The_Crusader. What’s yours?
—Hi. It’s Monique.
—Pretty name. You said he had a bad temper. Has he hurt you?
—It’s not like that.
—Good. But he hurt your mom?
—I’m scared he killed her.
The commissioner stiffened.
“That gives you the sense of it,” Haddox said.
The commissioner wouldn’t look at Haddox now. His head was bowed.
“He listened to her,” Haddox persisted. “Got inside her head. Took her allegations seriously.”
“And this is our man?”
“The thing is, even if he’s not, he raises some legitimate questions.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I figured your wife’s death certi
ficate would lay the question to rest, once and for all. But Hawaii listed no cause of death. Highly unusual, wouldn’t you say?”
Donovan was silent.
“I guess that was a pretty treacherous hiking trail you were on, Commissioner. But you can see how it might raise a few questions that your wife fell to her death. Especially since it had been awhile since the two of you played happy family.”
“This is none of your business.”
“Did you kill your wife?”
“You bastard—”
“Allie’s missing. I’m asking you a legitimate question. It needs an answer.”
“That’s enough.”
“Not for me.”
“When I say enough, I mean it. Go back to your computer and let real men handle the tough issues.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Wrong again.”
“What is your relationship with Jackie Meade?”
“Jackie’s my employee.”
“She was more than that, once. Any chance she bears a grudge? Because she had access to Allie’s computer. She could be the poster Monique. It might not be Allie at all.”
Something flickered in Donovan’s eye. Definitely not shame, since Haddox didn’t think the wanker was capable of feeling any. Discomfort? Maybe. The commissioner had been seen through—and he didn’t like it.
“You don’t make many wrong moves,” Donovan muttered.
“Can’t afford to, mate. Neither can you. You ought to stay away from Eve.”
“I like Eve. I intend to do something about it. No matter what you say.”
“I don’t intend to say anything. Eve’s smart. She’ll see you for what you are.”
“She’ll see a fellow officer of the law. A man who cares about this city and the cops who work for him.”
“Or maybe she’ll see a powerhouse type with plenty of ambition but no soul. A philanderer with charm but no heart.”
The commissioner swung a punch from the left with a straight right.
It would have landed square on Haddox’s jaw if he hadn’t ducked two split seconds before it landed. He wasn’t one to back away from something worth fighting for. But most arguments weren’t worth it—so it paid to have a good exit strategy.
The commissioner spun around like a scarecrow, his elbow whipping back.
Haddox stepped aside with a shrug and a grin. “Enough playing around, Commissioner. You’ve got a ride to catch with Santa.”
WJXZ REPORTS
This is continuing WJXZ News coverage with Gwen Allensen, and I’m talking with Lieutenants Jay Jones and Michael Gabriel of Midtown North Precinct, who just helped one couple celebrate a very special Thanksgiving this morning. Officer Jones, what can you tell us?
JONES: I was on patrol near Columbus Circle, just before the parade got started, when a group of spectators on the bleachers started waving their arms. Turned out there was a woman whose baby just couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving! We moved her under the bleachers for the delivery, getting her comfortable on some blankets spectators had brought to keep warm—and I called for Officer Gabriel, who’s also a trained paramedic. I delivered the healthy baby boy—and Mikey here arrived just in time to clamp the umbilical cord.
GWEN: And have you heard how mom and baby are doing?
GABRIEL: They’re en route to the hospital and doing well. Baby Joseph is seven pounds, five ounces—and he’s arrived just in time to enjoy his first Thanksgiving.
Chapter 70
Parade Route, Outside the American Museum of Natural History
Mace picked up Melo, the rescue puppy that Céline had just dropped off.
“So you’ll ride the Ace CyberDog float with your rescue dog, as originally planned,” Eve told Mace. “Eli will be right behind you, marching as one of fifty official handlers of the Molly the Mongoose balloon. Molly’s corporate sponsor, the Wholesome Minds float, will be immediately after, followed by Santa’s sleigh, where the commissioner will be riding.”
“Eli’s marching?” Mace’s face spread into a dazzling grin. “Hope they’ll let me stay in back of the Ace float. Don’t want to miss that.”
“Meanwhile, Haddox and I will continue to search out this suspect’s identity. As soon as we have anything concrete—about him or his ultimate target—you’ll be the first to know.”
“You mean his target ain’t the commissioner and the Santa sled?”
“Just in case something even bigger’s at play, we have to be alert. Make sure you have your protective gear.” Eve was thinking how much she missed García right now. Can’t lose anybody else.
Mace tugged a soggy, mustard-, ketchup-, and dirt-stained napkin out of the puppy’s jaws. “How come nothin’ but shit goes in this little guy’s mouth?” He nodded to a growing crowd of anti-police protesters, who’d formed a line going down Eighty-first Street, west of the parade. They were matched by nearly as many police officers, keeping them behind the security cordon. “Those guys part of the plan?”
“Maybe. You could check it out. Didn’t you used to be one of them?” Eve reminded him.
“I used to be lots of things I’m not anymore. I’ve given up trying to change the world. I just want to be left alone.” Mace rumpled the puppy’s head.
Someone had tied one of García’s red bandanas around the dog’s neck. Couldn’t have been Mace. Or could it?
She wondered as she watched him, pup in hand, push past the media and police, flash his ID, and hop onto the waiting float.
As she walked back to the Incident Tent, she thought: Maybe Mace was now too world-weary to fight the good fight, but Allie’s kidnapper—now also García’s killer—wasn’t. They were looking for someone who cared deeply about—what?
Something that the parade symbolized. Something that the commissioner symbolized.
She needed to know Allie’s kidnapper. To see the world through his eyes. To understand what excited him—and also what made him most afraid. But with only ninety minutes until the deadline, could she even scratch the surface of this guy’s mind?
Her phone buzzed.
Eve read Haddox’s message and shivered—as all sense of reality shifted once again.
She closed her eyes. Fought the overwhelming sense of helplessness and disappointment.
Then she opened her eyes and messaged back: I’m already on my way.
—
SpongeBob had joined the parade route—together with fifty-five handlers, two utility vehicles to help anchor the giant balloon, and the solitary police officer who marched beside them.
Inside the security tent, Eve found Haddox pouring a cup of coffee. It was the NYPD’s standard swill—so he improved it with a dash of Bushmills.
Eve raised an eyebrow. “Ever consider that you drink too much?”
“Java?” He took a noisy gulp. “Nectar of the gods.”
“Whiskey. Bane of alcoholics.”
Haddox’s eyes lit, amused. “Because of a drop of the hard stuff? Don’t think so. Besides, alcoholics are people like my da who take steps, make confessions, and go to AA meetings. I don’t do that. Plus, there’s the fact that I’m Irish—born with a liver of steel.”
“Just like your da,” Eve deadpanned. “Now tell me: What did you learn?”
He filled her in with everything he had found online, his conversation with Logan Donovan, and what he’d learned speaking with the commissioner’s security detail, made up of rotating three-member teams responsible for his personal security. “They all agreed on one thing: Jackie Meade was sixteen kinds of crazy, and the commissioner was a fool for trusting his child with her.”
“Are you still trying to convince me he doesn’t care about Allie?”
“You said it, not me.” Haddox drained the last of his coffee. He was sorely tempted—but he refrained from mentioning how Donovan had done his damnedest to land a punch on Haddox’s perfect white teeth. “I did ask his security detail for their opinion. One of the officers, Casey, goes back a long way with the commi
ssioner—having grown up with him, gone to the Academy with him, served overseas with him. Casey says the commissioner used to have a soft spot for strays. Seems he attracted them by the dozens, kept quite a menagerie at one point.”
“Are we talking abandoned dogs and cats?”
Haddox shook his head. “People. The ones who are hurting, damaged. Like Jackie. And don’t forget that he felt guilty,” he added. “Donovan’s Catholic, which means he was weaned on guilt.”
Eve began thumbing through a marble notebook, looking for something she’d jotted down earlier.
Haddox put his empty coffee cup down. “Something else. According to Donovan’s security team, the man gets over thirty death threats a week—and they’re stretched pretty thin trying to keep up with them. One recent threat stands out for its weird factor. Some whacko sent what was basically a manifesto to the commissioner, titled The Antidote. The writer said Donovan and the NYPD were a symptom of everything wrong with our society—and that, come Thanksgiving, he was personally going to deliver a cure.”
“Did Security ID a suspect?”
“They’re looking at Brock Olsen, the same political activist who shot the commissioner with the paint gun.”
“So a closed case, in their view. Unless they got it wrong.” Eve flipped through the remaining pages of her notebook. Located the profile she’d put together.
❑ Physical: five-foot-eleven, medium build
❑ Probable age: forties or fifties (planning and confidence indicates maturity and experience)
❑ Intelligence: above-average IQ with high verbal intelligence
Whistleblower Page 26