Now there were other names.
Ethan Raynor. A sous chef at Café Bonne Nuit—reported missing by his coworkers.
Aiko Tanaka. A grad student in art history at New York University, doing a paper on Saint Patrick’s—and reported missing by her roommate.
Jason Chitov. A priest from Vermont—reported missing by his mother, who lived on Staten Island.
One priest—DeAngelo or Chitov, pending official ID—was now dead. Plus the hostage cop—though no precinct had yet come forward with information to identify him. And when the workday ended—and others didn’t return home—even more people might be reported missing.
Still, at least five hostages were now presumptively identified.
Eve was determined not to think about it. The weight of that responsibility would only distract her.
First, she delegated the lower-priority work to agents outside of Vidocq. She asked them to focus on identifying that cop—who, if not disabled, could be a potential ally. She directed Haddox, Mace, and Eli to tackle the higher-priority list. In their case, she expected quick results. Failure was not an option.
Springing Frank García from his hospital bed was squarely on her shoulders. She called the medical director in charge of García’s treatment. Dr. Roger Albin had spent most of his career in private practice, treating those patients wealthy enough to afford his staggering hourly fees. His specialty had been women, particularly those with eating disorders.
Then his son Mike came home from a tour of duty in Iraq—completely unraveled. Where the doctor saw a familiar row of brownstones across the street, Mike saw a haven for sniper fire. Where the doctor saw ordinary garbage cans, Mike saw an IED receptacle. Where the doctor saw beautiful fireworks over the East River, Mike saw explosions.
Six months later, Mike’s wife had left him, protesting that the separation was necessary to protect their four-year-old daughter from his explosive bursts of fury. Mike moved back into the doctor’s basement. Fast-forward another nine months, and Mike was in the ground—having hanged himself in his grandmother’s garage.
Roger Albin had determined to help others, as he wished he had been able to help his son. He’d given up his lucrative private practice and joined a special VA program servicing soldiers and veterans. He took his job seriously.
“It’s important work we do here, Agent Rossi,” he told her. “We help heroes who have served their country. And any disruption in treatment impedes our progress.”
“Of course I understand,” she assured him. “In any other situation, I would never interfere with a patient’s treatment plan. But this situation is urgent. I need someone with Frank García’s expertise.”
“Find someone else, Agent Rossi. He’s at a critical point right now. Even a temporary release could undo all the valuable progress he’s made.”
“I understand. But it’s a risk we have to take.”
“Mr. García suffers from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He’s frequently disoriented. His body may have left the battlefield, but his mind remains there. His custody issues—his ability to continue seeing his son—depend on successful completion of this treatment program.”
“Which is why he will return immediately upon completion of this mission.”
“Surely someone else—”
She cut him off. “There’s no one else. If there were, I’d call them. The director’s office has faxed over the paperwork. An agent will be by to pick Mr. García up within the half-hour.”
His voice crackled with anger. “I don’t actually have a choice, do I?”
“No, Dr. Albin. Today you don’t.”
Chapter 37
Eve was desperate for air. Unable to stay inside the MRU another minute. And almost frantic to reestablish a dialogue with the Hostage Taker. Rebuild the trust the Omega Team had broken.
The secured perimeter was teeming with cops, firemen, Feds, and forensic techs. Eve brushed past them all, stumbling into a cop whose right hand was bandaged in gauze, thick and round as a boxing glove. She mumbled an apology, then found a space in between the statue of Atlas and Banana Republic. A singing, dancing Santa doll was on the ledge beneath Atlas’s left foot, spitting out a tinny rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock.” A poor replacement for the block’s lavish holiday displays, now gone dark. Eve normally would have found it cheesy, bordering on ridiculous. Today she saw it as a small act of defiance—some first responders keeping alive the holiday spirit that the taking of the Cathedral had all but squashed.
She tried each of the numbers Haddox had rounded up after analyzing the Hostage Taker’s lonely calls.
No luck. The Hostage Taker’s cellphones—past, present, and presumed future—had been bricked. No way to reach him—unless she embraced the old-fashioned technique of the bullhorn, or shattered a priceless window and deployed a throwphone. She hated both options. One-sided conversations were never particularly effective, in her experience. To have a dialogue, you needed both parties.
Her cell chimed with an incoming text from Henry Ma. Attached was a file on Jason Chitov—now positively identified as the latest victim. Chitov had been a priest. Specifically, a defrocked priest.
Chitov had been convicted in 2008 of molesting an altar boy—one he had befriended while assigned to Saint Mary’s Catholic Church in southern Vermont. He had been released on parole in 2013 after serving eighty percent of his sentence.
The file stressed that Jason Chitov had been remorseful. Two days after the accusations against him were lodged, he leapt from the balcony of Saint Mary’s in a suicide attempt. He was hospitalized and taken into custody following his recovery. He had accepted the plea deal that was offered him.
No additional details were available.
But it certainly raised the question: Did the Hostage Taker know?
Chapter 38
Another MRU was brought in to house the witnesses as they arrived. They put this one in front of Façonnable, the high-end clothing boutique on the southwest corner of Fifty-first and Fifth Avenue. Like the first, this MRU’s space was technologically equipped, linked to the FBI’s secure network. But its original purpose had been the transport of cartel drug lords by the ATF—the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. That meant the van was also bombproof and bulletproof, and offered small enclosed cubicles where each witness could wait—or be interviewed—with some degree of privacy. There was even an ample-sized central area where they could meet as a group.
All that remained was bringing the witnesses to this secure location.
There was the sound of boots on concrete pavement. Then Eve watched as the three agents she’d summoned filed into the room, dressed for maximum protection, wearing full body armor.
“This is a search-and-secure mission,” she explained to them. “You’ll need to dress the part. Exchange your Kevlar vests for sport jackets and ties; you don’t want to scare your targets. As far as we know, none of these five individuals did anything wrong. You need to use your wits, not your muscle.”
The man to her left, Agent Morgan, was a short man with a large bald spot in the middle of his head. “What if they don’t wanna come in? Are we authorized to use force?”
“As a last resort. Explain what’s at stake first. At least five lives.”
Haddox joined the conversation. “And one of the greatest landmarks in New York City,” he reminded them.
“Agent Morgan, you will pick up Cassidy Jones of Astoria, Queens. You’ll find her at work. A Greek diner named the Utopia. Ditmars Boulevard near Thirty-third Street.” Eve turned to Hayes, the next agent in line. “You’ll head to the Upper East Side. Blair Vanderwert will be waiting for you in the lobby of his real estate firm at Eighty-sixth and Lexington. Oh, and he thinks you’re looking to drop ten million dollars on a new condo.”
Turning to the third agent, Eve explained, “I need you to make two stops along the West Side. Alina Matrowski will be waiting for you at the Starbucks on Fort Washington Avenue and 181st St
reet. Next you’ll find Sinya Willis in the lobby of her boss’s building at West End Avenue and 104th Street. Take it easy on Ms. Willis. She’s a bit jumpy.”
“That’s it?”
“Each of you has been sent an electronic file with your target’s photograph. Remember, this matter is urgent. We need them here ASAP.”
As the last of the three agents left the MRU, Eve turned to Haddox. “That’s four of our witnesses. Where are we with Ramos?”
“Turns out he requires a delicate touch—and probably a bit of thinking on my feet.”
“Thinking on your feet? Time is critical.”
“Relax, I’ve got this.”
“Sure, why worry? An illegal immigrant hiding in the shadows of Harlem—and only two hours, forty-seven minutes for a cocky Irishman to find him.” Eve handed him a file. “Everything Immigration has on Ramos is in here. Unfortunately, there’s no photo.”
“Don’t worry, luv. I’ll be back before you’ll get a chance to miss me,” Haddox said as he walked out the door.
—
Haddox could have asked for an official escort uptown. A car with a siren and driver with credentials to ease him past roadblocks and through bottleneck traffic. But being chauffeured around had never been Haddox’s style—so he walked west, past the concrete blockades and the crush of rubberneckers and cops. Through snarled traffic and men in uniform who carried ballistic shields and had suspicious eyes. He passed through Rockefeller Center, where this year’s tree awaited its lighting. Next was Radio City Music Hall. He went by the Time-Life building and Bobby Van’s Grill and Barclay’s with its three-line neon-blue ticker. Reaching Broadway, he opted for the surest way of getting around Manhattan in a traffic jam: the subway. Even if it was crowded tighter than a sardine can.
Haddox took the 1 train uptown and began his search for the elusive Luis J. Ramos by spreading Franklins through the remittance houses clustered on Broadway in Lower Harlem. He asked for the Luis Ramos who sent money each week to Oaxaca.
There were lots of Mexican men doing similar things. But Luis had been regular. A man of habit. Showing up every Friday after finishing work at four o’clock.
It was a habit he hadn’t broken—until just before Thanksgiving. He had sent no money since mid-November. He hadn’t been seen working his usual jobs—cleaning windows at Trump Tower or Gladstone Properties.
He could’ve gotten sick.
An injury or argument could’ve put him out of work.
It was now 4:47 p.m. Haddox canvassed the men smoking outside the bodegas. Men who wore exhausted faces and stained clothes after a hard day’s work. Haddox told them who he was looking for. Not a single man asked why. Their sole interest was in the hundred dollars that was promised the man who gave Haddox Ramos’s location.
That man was named Jesus. His middle kid had recently taken a job delivering Chinese food at the Happy Panda. Jesus’s son got bored when it wasn’t busy. He liked it better when orders came flying in, just so he’d have something to do. Because he was bored, the boy had noticed the man who moved into the restaurant’s basement shortly after Thanksgiving. He also noticed the woman and little girl who later joined the man. Neither of them spoke any English. In fact, they never spoke a word of Spanish, either. But the girl had plump red cheeks and big round eyes that stared.
The Happy Panda was busy with kids out of school. A gang of seven bunched at a table in one corner, joking around, hanging out, ordering lo mein and Szechuan beef. Three clustered at the checkout register, two boys horsing around, playing keep-away with the girl’s backpack.
Haddox headed for the dingy bathroom in the rear, but cut to the stairs before he reached it. The stairs were narrow, decrepit, and sagging in the middle from decades of shoes tracking down grime, grease, and supplies.
Haddox poked his head into the room opposite the stairs. It contained only utilities—the hot water heater, oil tank, and boiler. Another room—more of a closet, really—held reams of napkins and paper products. He found what he sought in the cramped rear basement room behind the stairs. A single sixty-watt lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. The walls were soot-stained and the room stank of damp and grease. Someone had put linoleum on the floor decades ago; it was now yellowed and cracked with age. There was a metal table in the center, surrounded by three folding chairs. Two makeshift beds had been created by placing blankets on top of boxes. Only the girl’s corner was halfway habitable: Pink blankets, a teddy bear, and a row of cheap dolls were the sole bright spot in the dank living space.
Haddox stepped inside.
Three people looked up in surprise when he approached. Luis Ramos was a compact man with hard, suspicious eyes, wearing a rumpled denim shirt and jeans. His wife was very slim and long-limbed, almost disappearing inside the oversized yellow shirt she wore with her jeans. Her hair was glorious, wavy, reaching just past her shoulders. The little girl was a pint-sized copy of her mother, except she still had the round baby fat.
Each of them fixed Haddox with a stare—one terrified, one distrustful, one openly paranoid.
The woman reached for her daughter instinctively. Haddox noticed Luis’s right hand slide into the pocket of his jeans.
A knife?
“Take it easy, mate.” Haddox spread his arms wide. “I’m only here to talk. My name’s Corey Haddox.”
Luis set his jaw in a square line, as if his life was full of problems he was tired of having to tolerate. “You with Imigration?”
“No. No relation to them at all.” He laid his Irish accent on thick. The less American he sounded, the more he would reassure Ramos.
It didn’t work. “You a cop?” Ramos asked.
“Definitely not.”
“What do you want?”
“I have no interest in your family. I’m just looking for you. Assuming you’re Luis J. Ramos, who occasionally finds work downtown as a window washer.”
“What if I am?”
“I just have a few questions for you. I need you to come with me to answer them.”
—
Haddox followed Ramos up the rickety staircase. Through the Chinese restaurant. Noticed that Ramos seemed to be moving with deliberate slowness. One foot went very slowly in front of the other. Left, right, left again.
Then he reached Broadway, where the sidewalks were packed with people and the road was jammed with traffic. And Ramos took off, headed uptown—running like a bat out of hell.
Haddox raced after him, shoving his way through a cluster of men drinking out of brown paper bags. Losing a step out of the gate.
Luis must have practiced his escape route, preparing for a day like today. He was small, quick, and damn fast. In contrast, Haddox felt like he was all awkward limbs.
Haddox crossed Broadway across oncoming traffic. Ignored the honking cars. Already a good two blocks behind Luis.
Luis was simply too fast. Too at ease in the neighborhood.
And in less than three minutes, Haddox had lost him.
Returning to the room below the Chinese restaurant would be a waste of time. Ramos’s wife and daughter would be long gone.
Haddox had underestimated Luis J. Ramos—and screwed up.
Chapter 39
I imagine all kinds of things.
I imagine Eve Rossi below, shuttling between the steps of the Cathedral and her temporary office under Atlas’s globe.
“She can get headlines,” I was told. And important messages need to be heard.
I imagine the woman I took hostage with the boy, unsure whether I plan to kill her or let her go. Wondering when—or if—she’ll see her kid again.
I imagine eating a cannoli from Caffè Palermo, stuffed with pastry cream, because I am hungry.
Yes, I imagine things—future, present, past.
When I was a kid, there was a crazy old woman who liked sitting on her walker in front of the bakery on Queens Boulevard, her grocery cart beside her. Now we’d say she suffered from dementia. Back then we just called her batty.
Other kids made fun of her, but I liked her all right: She kept cookies in her pocket for passing dogs. My cocker spaniel Tosca was a fan.
The day it happened was a hot, sticky July day—the kind where heat blasts from the sidewalk and swallows you whole. Ma had sent me to the bakery to pick up bread. When I got there, I saw the walker and the grocery cart. But no sign of the crazy lady.
They found her next to the dumpster. My mother and aunts whispered about it whenever they thought I wasn’t listening. She had a name: Mrs. Brescia. She had been beaten and robbed. According to Ma, if the old lady had been healthy, she would’ve recovered. She just wasn’t strong enough. The Kinser brothers—or, as the neighbors called them, “that boisterous bunch of hooligans”—were responsible. But that wasn’t what kept everyone’s tongue wagging.
It was because the attack on that batty old crone happened on Queens Boulevard at about half past nine in the morning. Broad daylight. In front of six witnesses.
Not one of them tried to help.
Not one of them bothered to call the police.
No, not until it was far too late.
HOUR 9
4:58 p.m.
Because of the sensitive, ongoing nature of the crisis at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, we have agreed to a request from the city to cease broadcasting live images from the site.
We do, however, have a guest calling in—John Roberts, an architect who is not involved with the restoration project ongoing at Saint Patrick’s, but whose expertise can maybe help us understand it.
John, what can you tell us about the project—and how the restoration may play into the terrifying events unfolding at the Cathedral today?
ROBERTS: Well, visitors to the Cathedral in recent years will have noticed that a sizable portion of the building has been covered in scaffolding—both interior and exterior. That scaffolding has facilitated everything from roof repair to stone restoration to stained-glass cleaning. The interior scaffolding structure remains extensive. The exterior scaffolding is in the early stages of removal—resulting in gaps that may not have previously existed.
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