“Why don’t you see if the main investigating officer remembers?” Eli piped up.
“A thirteen-year-old girl is still missing,” Haddox reminded them grimly. “You really think this old case leads us to her?”
Eve slid her finger down more of the fine print on the computer screen. “I think it’s all we’ve got. If she’s not hidden inside the Cathedral, identifying the mastermind who used Sean as a pawn is our only chance of finding the girl.”
—
Eve made the call to a lieutenant named Oliver Pryor. He was working, stationed at Rockefeller Center. One of the hundreds of officers pulling overtime duty in Midtown that night.
No-nonsense and plain-speaking, Pryor had two blunt questions for Eve the moment she identified herself. “Is it true the guy inside was one of us? A dirty cop?”
“It’s complicated—but that’s a working theory,” she answered. “Did you know Sean Sullivan?”
“That’s the guy? No way. No fuckin’ way.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not well. But he never struck me as a wacko. Jesus…”
“I need to ask you about a case you investigated with him.” Eve explained the details of the subway incident. “The NYPD file states that Captain Sullivan provided general support and crowd control.”
“If it says so, then sure. I don’t remember him.”
She heard the doubt in his voice. “So safe to say he wasn’t an integral part of the case?”
“No. And to be honest, there really was no case. Some street punk robbed a woman. Things escalated. She got hurt bad. Punk got away. We didn’t have enough evidence to catch the bastard. End of story. I could tell you a thousand of ’em, just like it. Your own New York City fairy tale.”
“I saw a notation that the victim suffered a traumatic brain injury.”
“She got shoved onto the tracks,” he informed her. “Train came into the station and ran over her. Didn’t kill her right away, but she later died.”
“Sounds like more than a routine mugging.”
“Yeah. I’d forgotten about it ’til now, actually. There was even some crazy eyewitness on the platform who tried to fight off the mugger. Failed, of course. That was how the victim got shoved around. She would’ve survived the mugging just fine. What she didn’t survive was her rescue.”
“So the second ambulance was for her rescuer?” Eve pressed.
“Yeah. Think the eyewitness got beat up pretty bad. Don’t recall what happened after.”
“I don’t see a name in the report. Just a notation: J.D.”
“That means your basic John Doe,” he explained. “We go easy on those types. They don’t give their name because they don’t have health insurance.”
Or, in this case, because they’re ashamed. Embarrassed. Disappointed. Because they wanted to be the hero—but discovered that no good deed goes unpunished.
You bring headlines, Eve. Sean had been a convincing liar. He’d had to be, with his daughter’s life on the line and the real Hostage Taker listening in on his every word. And like the best of them, Sean had known: The best lies always contained a shard of truth.
“There’s no report of the case in the papers—not even the Post. Any idea why?”
“We didn’t squelch it, if that’s what you mean. But no one was a hero, no one caught the bad guy, and the victim’s family requested total privacy. As a story, it missed all the key elements reporters pee in their pants over.”
“There’s no other file that might give the name of the would-be rescuer?”
“You want me to call the hospital?” Pryor offered. “They’ll have records.”
“It’s okay,” Eve told him. “I can figure out the rest from here.”
Chapter 86
Not long ago, I read about a man who was mugged at the Port Authority Bus Terminal during early-morning rush hour. There were dozens of people around.
The man screamed for help as his mugger chased him through the station.
No one summoned a security officer.
No one dialed 911.
No one intervened to help.
The mugger caught up with his victim, knifed him, and robbed him.
Later, police were dumbfounded by how many videos of the incident appeared on YouTube. People were watching…recording…witnessing.
But not helping.
—
Around the same time, I heard about a woman in Liverpool, England, who was attacked at 4:30 in the afternoon on a busy street. She fought off a man who tried to drag her into his car.
She screamed loudly for help.
There were dozens of people around.
But not a single person came to her aid or called the police.
—
Nothing has changed since 1964, when Kitty Genovese was attacked outside her apartment in Kew Gardens. Thirty-eight neighbors heard Kitty’s screams as she was stabbed multiple times—and raped—over the course of thirty-two minutes.
No one called the police. Not until it was too late.
—
News reporters have a name for this indifference. Psychologists call it the Bystander Effect. When I think about these things, I can’t sleep. I lie awake at night and think of Stacy. I worry that all sense of morality and justice has disappeared from this world. That’s what happens when no one gives a damn.
When not just your enemies look at you and wish you harm.
But when the decent people among us are at fault.
Are we all nothing but a lost cause?
What are we guilty of?
I am about to find out. This is my gift to the world.
Chapter 87
The official response had been immediate. In a show of interagency cooperation, the FBI, NYPD, FDNY, and Homeland Security had dispatched their Bomb Squad and Hostage Rescue and Antiterrorist Units to clear Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Everyone remained on high alert.
When the all-clear message finally arrived, it was tempered with bad news: There was no sign of Georgianna Murphy.
Eve moved fast to the rear of the Cathedral, where the mayor and his entourage were smiling for the cameras in front of the Cardinal’s Residence on Madison Avenue. Snow was falling lightly, and someone had placed an evergreen wreath with a red ribbon on the door behind him, making for the perfect photo op. It was as though the mayor had rescued the holiday season itself.
Eve pressed herself against the concrete barricades that still protected the perimeter. She felt their icy-cold smoothness through her jacket.
She saw the rescued hostages some thirty-five feet away, talking with an officer to the mayor’s left. One of them pointed to the slope of gray slate shingle that covered the back roof of the Cathedral.
Where are the witnesses?
She finally saw them, clustered with a group of photographers. Except for Sinya Willis, all appeared to be enjoying the attention.
Vast numbers of news personnel swarmed the scene: journalists and television crews, flanked by their news camera and photographer teams. It would be so easy to fake a press pass—and gain complete access to this event.
Eve scrutinized them carefully. But right now, everyone seemed to be doing his or her job.
“What’s the plan?” Haddox stood at her elbow.
“I don’t know yet,” she answered, eyes scanning the gathering crowd.
“You? Without a plan?” He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that like peanut butter without jelly? Laurel without Hardy?”
“Fred without Ginger? I actually agree with you. They balanced each other’s strengths. Like the two of us. Now look at the people in front. What do you see?”
“I see your mayor, no doubt taking all the credit for averting a larger crisis. I see Monsignor Geve and the Church contingent, looking a wee bit less dour now their precious Cathedral is secure.”
“Does anyone in the news corps look unengaged?”
“Um…no.”
“What about the hostages?”
> “They look tired. Like they’ve been through a long ordeal and just want to go home.” He peered at Eve. “Why are we looking at these people? They’re just politicians and journalists. Witnesses and hostages.”
“Because something isn’t right. So I have to look at everybody.” She pressed forward. Studying the faces of those in front of her. Knowing her own powers of observation were good, but not infallible.
Penelope Miller looked flushed and exhausted, but relieved. She had not yet let go of her son, Luke. The boy was half-asleep in her arms.
Ellen Hodge hung back. Like she wanted to be anywhere but here.
Father DeAngelo seemed frail. Eve thought she saw him trembling slightly.
Ethan Raynor seemed to be enjoying the attention.
The mayor turned toward the front door. The TV crews and press photographers leapt into action, gathering their tripods and lights. They were going into the Cardinal’s Residence.
Eve clicked on her headset. “García—have you cleared the Parish House and Cardinal’s place?”
Yeah. Mace caught up and slowed me down, but it all looks clean. We’re returning through the Sacristy now.
“A group of people is coming inside. Take a look—and be alert for anything that seems off.”
Eve dodged a news crew, then a cluster of photographers, jockeying for position as they made their way inside.
“I thought we had to find the girl. Sean’s daughter,” Haddox whispered.
“We do. That’s why we’re here.” She began moving to the front of the line.
He kept pace with her, ignoring the protests of others. “How do I help you?”
“Look at those in front of us. Help me find someone who seems okay on the outside, but is completely broken up on the inside.”
“Sounds pretty abstract to me.”
“Then let me make it concrete. Why do you think a kid like Sullivan’s daughter hurts herself?”
“Because she’s gone mental?”
Eve shot him an admonishing glance. “Because she’s in pain. She has more pain bottled up than she can bear, and she’s searching for a way to release it.”
“Are we still talking about Sean’s daughter?”
Eve’s eyes widened. “You’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Not to mention a handsome devil. But damned if I know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s similar, isn’t it? Sean’s daughter takes to the most public of stages, the Internet, to deal with her pain. Because she needs people to notice, because they don’t in real life. I believe what we’ve seen here today is the flip side of the same coin. Played out on the most public stage in the city.”
—
Everything is proceeding according to plan. I still have a Cathedral and multiple souls under my control, and America’s largest city under my thumb.
Only they don’t know it.
I blend into the crowd. We all follow the mayor and his entourage into the dining room of the Cardinal’s Residence. The room is designed to accommodate large state dinners, but that’s inadequate for the number of people here tonight, anxious to hear the mayor’s remarks.
Still, I make it through. I have no choice.
I am hidden among the masses of people. I lean down, as if to tie my shoe. I drop my gym bag.
Then I straighten and walk tall.
Since I was last here, someone has lit votive candles along a console on the right side of the room. Their glow casts a pink warmth onto the walls; every part of the dining room seems to glow. It is beautiful—for now.
I see Agent Rossi across the room. She looks confused.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“We need her,” Sullivan had pleaded. “She’ll get headlines for you.”
Later, he’d had another request. “Let the boy go. If your moves are unpredictable, they’ll have a harder time figuring you out.”
Yes, I chose the right man from the many officers listed in that police report. Captain Sullivan served his purpose with honor. From the moment I framed him for the weapons and explosives I stole—to the instant he took his last breath, doing my work—I could ask for no better assistant.
The time has come.
News reporters and sociologists blame the Internet, movie violence, and video-game culture for creating this out-of-touch generation. A generation with the moral sense of a baby killer.
Now is the ultimate test. Let’s see what these people are made of.
Let’s see if anyone—besides me—can step up and be the hero this godforsaken world so desperately needs.
Chapter 88
Eve’s team made it in and fanned out. Eli snuck in first; he took a seat front row and center. Eve went to the left. García went right. Haddox and Mace stayed deep inside the crush of people.
The room was overflowing, packed beyond capacity. The mayor walked to the center of the makeshift stage and gripped his hands on the lectern. An audience of exhausted faces clapped. This wasn’t exactly a victory celebration—but the crisis had ended. The collective relief was palpable.
Who are we looking for? Mace’s voice crackled in Eve’s headset.
“Anyone who might disrupt the moment,” she replied. “We need to cover all the angles.”
Henry Ma joined the mayor on his right, all smiles and handshakes. He was accompanied by Monsignor Geve and another Church representative Eve had not met.
You sure something’s about to go down, Eve? Mace demanded.
“Believe me, I hope I’m wrong,” she replied tersely.
More political officials walked to the front of the room, taking their positions near the mayor. She recognized the deputy mayor. The NYPD police commissioner. An interpreter for the hearing-impaired. The five former hostages—the four they’d rescued, in addition to the boy who’d been released—were in the place of honor to the mayor’s left. The witnesses filed in, finding space to the mayor’s far right.
Again, Eve tried to build an image of the person she was looking for. The demand for witnesses had been bizarre. Had he really wanted only to shame the men and women that he’d summoned? And the selection of hostages was worrisome. With little or no provocation, he had killed those who had sinned the most. The hostage-taking had involved a huge risk—and tremendous planning—but with no real reward.
Since the end game still didn’t make sense, she couldn’t relax.
Every seat was taken. The walls were lined with people who spilled into the parlor room next door. The camera crews had muscled their way to the front, taping microphones and recording equipment to the front edge of the dining room table. All the usual suspects were represented: NBC. CBS. ABC. CNN. Fox. Not to mention the local stations.
The lights turned on and cameras flashed.
A junior face initiated the briefing—a young official in uniform with spit-shined shoes. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. This is a briefing from the mayor’s office, not a press conference. That will come later, after the governor arrives.” He began stating the facts, but was immediately interrupted with a barrage of questions.
He answered none of them—merely nodded and smiled and sidestepped the issues in a slightly patronizing manner. Then he introduced the mayor.
There were murmurs that went silent the moment the mayor started talking. He thanked everyone involved. He reiterated how Albany and Washington, D.C., were grateful, too.
Candles flickered. Too many people were cramming themselves closer to the mayor. Trying to see better, hear better, feel more part of the gathering.
A group of people in the parlor room next door had knelt down and appeared deep in prayer.
“See anything yet?” Eve asked.
Nothing here, Mace drawled.
Or here, Eli said.
Haddox concurred.
Eve started tapping her foot, her earpiece pressed so hard against her ear that it ached.
How long was this going to take?
The mayor was certain to ta
lk for at least fifteen minutes—and that was assuming he didn’t turn the microphone over to Henry, or the Tactical Ops director, or someone from the Church. Or all three of them.
She couldn’t just stand there, helpless. Not while a teenage girl was being held captive—and a final threat loomed.
She studied the faces in the front rows. Then those crammed by the walls. What did she see?
There were clear-skinned, attentive faces. Lined, weathered faces. Bored faces—stiff as a piece of cardboard. Not one of them suspicious.
She felt for her Glock, confirmed it was in position, and backed up toward the parlor room door. She was about to retreat through it, search the overflow room, when she stopped short.
She’d heard a noise. A chirp. Someone had received a text.
It was followed by a second.
A third. A fourth.
Then more than she could count. A roomful of incoming texts, creating a burst of noise.
She reached for her own phone. Pulled it from her pocket.
Read: Do I have your attention NOW?
The sender was a five-digit number. 183-45.
A gasp sounded.
“Haddox! What’s going on?” she demanded.
He’s managed to text every single person in this room. Haddox’s voice came over the wire. I’m gobsmacked.
“How’s that possible?”
Through the carrier, by manipulating location data. I’ve seen it before. When I visited Jordan, the instant we crossed the border, everyone on the bus received a text message saying “Welcome to Jordan.”
Another chirp. Followed by another. Then a whole chorus of them.
Every person there had received a second text: No one leaves. If anyone tries, we all die.
“We need to stop this,” Eve snapped. “Who’s typing?”
Her eyes scanned the faces around her again. The attentive faces and the weathered faces and the stiff faces. It was even harder this time. Every single person in the room was hunched over his or her phone.
Watching. Waiting. Frightened.
Even the mayor.
The members of his security detail formed a protective barrier around him. NYPD officers did the same for the other officials and political dignitaries and former hostages.
Hostage Taker Page 33