Angel’s Tip

by Alafair Burke

  “It has to belong to Eckels,” Ellie said.

  Rogan removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Where was the car?…Thirty-eighth and Madison?”

  “That’s half a block from my apartment,” Ellie said as Rogan flipped his phone shut. “He must have taken Eckels on the street when he came to see me, which hopefully means Eckels is still alive. We’re going to find them at Kittrie’s cottage.”

  “We’ve got ESU officers on the way with a truck and tactical weapons,” Donovan said. “They’re almost to the end of the LIE. They will take him down.”

  “That’s still an hour away from East Hampton, and we’re another hour behind them. If we have any chance to save Eckels, Kittrie is going to want to see me there. I need to be there.”

  Rogan was dialing again. “We can be in a chopper in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER 47

  IN HER BRIEF TIME as Rogan’s partner, Ellie had never felt a sophistication gap between them. That all changed, however, when they pulled up to the helipad at Thirtieth Street and the West Side Highway.

  She wasn’t even sure whether it would have ever dawned on her to request a department helicopter, but the idea certainly hadn’t come to her as quickly and as effortlessly as it had for Rogan. He had immediately called the borough commander, who approved the request and gave the necessary orders. Given her partner’s familiarity with the process at the Westside heliport, Ellie got the impression that Rogan had prior experience with helicopter travel, and she wondered if perhaps her partner hadn’t seriously understated the extent of his outside money.

  Rogan badged the officer waiting for them at the gate. “We’re heading out to East Hampton.”

  “The Bell 412 just arrived from Floyd Bennett Field.”

  “The ten-million-dollar beast, all for us?”

  “Nine-point-eight,” the officer corrected. “They weren’t sure how big of a team you’d have. The 412 holds the crew plus seven men. Excuse me, ma’am, seven people.”

  Rogan pulled the car to the edge of the concrete, and they scurried across the pad. Rogan helped hoist Ellie into the cabin, and then climbed in himself. He reached behind him to give Donovan a hand.

  “You sure you want to come? This isn’t part of your job description.”

  “I’m going,” he said, joining Ellie on a bench seat running the length of the chopper. Rogan began distributing Kevlar vests that had already been piled into the back for their use, while Ellie unwrapped the gauze from her hand.

  Wasting no time on introductions, the pilot asked if they were going to the East Hampton Airport.

  “Suffolk County police will be waiting for us,” Rogan confirmed. “We’ve got what? A forty-minute ride?”

  The helicopter’s entire body shook from the power building in the four-blade rotor.

  “More like thirty in this bad boy,” the pilot said. “Whatever you’ve got planned out there, I’d start getting yourself ready for it.”

  GEORGE KITTRIE’S COTTAGE was on a narrow strip of road called Gerard Drive, surrounded on both sides by water—Accabonac Harbor to the west, and Gardiner’s Bay to the east. By the time their Suffolk County cruiser pulled onto Gerard Drive, the road was lined with police vehicles—a black NYPD Emergency Service truck, three other Suffolk County patrol cars, two ambulances, and four cars that were probably the entirety of the East Hampton Police Department’s fleet.

  They had decided on the way to the helipad that there was no point in trying to conduct a stealth takedown of Kittrie. Eckels hadn’t reported to work, and neither had Kittrie. He would know they were coming for him. A massive show of their presence was warranted.

  Rogan pointed to the ESU truck at the side of the road, and the Suffolk County officer pulled his cruiser behind it. Rogan was out of the car first and homed in on a man dressed in all-black tactical gear. “J. J. Rogan. My partner, Ellie Hatcher. ADA Max Donovan.”

  “Jim Foreman,” the officer said with a nod.

  “How are we doing on evacuation?”

  “I’ve got officers knocking on doors at every house along this inlet. We’ve got about fifty percent of them confirmed clear.”

  “And the others?” Ellie asked.

  “The local PD says this road’s popular for vacation houses. They could be empty. On the other hand, they tell me nine a.m.’s considered pretty early around here.”

  “So we don’t know how much exposure we have,” Rogan said.

  “My men know to make as much noise as necessary.”

  The houses on the water were packed closely together. The last thing they needed was to have neighbors hurt in a shootout or for Kittrie to take the battle onto someone else’s property.

  “You ready?” Rogan asked.

  “Ready to do what?” Ellie said. “If we storm the house, he kills Eckels.”

  “I’ll tell him later that you cared.”

  “If there’s a later,” she said. “I say we call Kittrie. He obviously knows we’re here.”

  Her cell buzzed at her waist. She checked the screen. “That fucker. He’s calling from Eckels’s phone.” She flipped her phone open. “We’re here.”

  “I noticed.” Kittrie’s tone was breezy, almost singsongy in its inflection, as if he were a kindergarten teacher feigning artificial patience with an antsy child. “And I assume you know this isn’t your lieutenant.”

  “Send out Eckels, or we’ll have twenty police officers storming that little shed of yours within two minutes.”

  “Nice try, Detective, but if you’re anywhere near as good as I think you are, then you know that death threats won’t go too far with me. I can’t say the same about Lieutenant Eckels. I think that means I get to set the rules. Since you like the sound of two minutes so much, let’s say you have exactly two minutes to come to my front door. Alone. Unarmed.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Two minutes, Detective. And get rid of the vest. If they take a shot at me, they need to know they might kill you instead.”

  The line went dead.

  He had known about the vest. He was watching them. She pulled off her Kevlar and threw it to the ground.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Hatcher?”

  “This is what he wants. Me at the front door in two minutes. No weapons. No vest. Otherwise, he’ll kill Eckels.”

  “No way,” Donovan said.

  “You don’t get to have an opinion on this.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Rogan said. “Shit. We should have brought a fucking hostage negotiator.”

  “I don’t need a negotiator. We know enough about this guy to know he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “Except his leverage. If he kills Eckels, this is over.”

  “And if he doesn’t kill Eckels, it’s over because we’ll know he’s a bluffer. I’m going in.”

  Officer Foreman interrupted. “I can’t let you go in there, Detective, as much as you want to. You don’t even know he’ll let his hostage go. His hostage could be dead by now.”

  “‘His hostage’ is one of us, and he’s our lieutenant.”

  Foreman tried to block her way. She dodged him. Rogan grabbed her arm, but she pulled it away. “Damn it, J. J. If either of you tries to fucking stop me one more time, I am going to physically hurt you.”

  She ducked behind the ESU van, and Rogan followed her. “Give me your weapon,” she said, holding out her right hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Just give me your Glock.”

  He unholstered his gun and handed it to her. “You can’t do this.”

  “I have to do this. Don’t you see that? I did this. I found Chelsea Hart. Those were my initials carved into Rachel Peck’s forehead with a knife. I was the one who had all the information we needed—his cancer, the timing of that book, the knowledge he had about the cases, his fucking picture, for Christ’s sake, before I went and cropped it into the ether. It should be me in there, and I swear to God, I am not going to let you
stop me.”

  As she spoke, she ejected the magazine and let it fall to the ground, then slid out the chambered round and tossed it aside as well.

  “He will kill you.”

  “He’ll kill Eckels faster. Me, he wants to brainfuck first. Take any shot you get.” She tucked Rogan’s unloaded weapon in her waistband beneath her coat. “Do you hear me?”

  Donovan was next to her now with his hand on her elbow, but Rogan pulled him away. “We’re going to get you out of there, Hatcher. You’re not alone in there, you understand?”

  She swallowed and nodded, hoping that he was right, and stepped out from behind the van. She rushed toward the house, stopping in the middle of Kittrie’s yard to unholster her own service weapon and toss it onto the grass.

  CHAPTER 48

  ELLIE STOOD on the porch for thirty seconds before Kittrie’s front door opened, a tiny gap at first, then another few inches, until she could see the terrified eyes of Dan Eckels peering out at her. His mouth was wrapped with silver duct tape. His hands were taped in front of him, and his legs were bound together at the ankles.

  “It’s okay, sir. Come on out.”

  She pushed open the door slowly until she heard a voice from farther inside the house. “That’s far enough. I saw your SWAT bus.”

  Eckels turned sideways to slip through the crack in the door. He looked into her eyes intensely and gave her a slight shake of his head. He was trying to tell her something. He was telling her not to go inside.

  Is…this…a…trap? She mouthed the words silently. Eckels responded with the same intense stare and a harder shake of his head.

  “This is a trade, remember. You get in here before he gets out.”

  Ellie turned sideways as well and pressed herself past Eckels. As the two exchanged places, she saw him blink back tears.

  “Go,” she whispered. He looked at her one more time before hopping down the porch steps. She saw Foreman running to meet Eckels on the front lawn before she heard the voice behind her again.

  “Shut that door.”

  She closed the door, only to be slammed immediately against it. She could feel George Kittrie’s body pressed against hers, his hands groping beneath her jacket. The weight of Rogan’s Glock left the small of her back.

  “That was quite a show when you dropped your weapon in the yard, Detective. I’m not that stupid.”

  He yanked off her coat and threw it to the floor. He stepped away from her and moved farther into the house. Ellie turned and took in the layout.

  At the front of the house, the living room shades were drawn. The vertical blinds that covered a set of sliding doors off the dining area in the back were pulled shut. He had positioned a wood-framed dining chair in the entry to a small hallway that broke away from the living area. He was smart. The entry to the hallway gave him cover from any incoming bullets.

  “On the couch.” He gestured toward a beige sofa against the living room wall as he took his own protected seat in the hall, placing the gun in his left hand on the floor beside him. She tried to keep her eyes on his, but they automatically leapt to the glint of the silver blade on the knife in his right hand.

  On another day, in a different context, the image should have scared her. But instead Ellie felt emboldened. He had been holding a police lieutenant hostage. Now he had a new captive, exchanging one source of unpredictability for another. If he was at all comfortable with guns, she would be looking down the barrel of one—either his own or the one he’d just taken from her.

  Her instincts had been right. Only one of Kittrie’s victim had been shot—Darrell Washington—and, as Ken Garcia had said, whoever killed Washington had been a lousy marksman. He also used the same weapon Washington had wielded to rob Jordan and Stefanie, then left that gun at the scene. Kittrie’s current location in the hallway ruled out immediate access to any place where another gun might be hidden.

  She knew now what Eckels had been trying to tell her—Kittrie didn’t have a gun. Kittrie had apparently managed to restrain her lieutenant before Eckels had established that critical fact. She wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to her. She was a good, strong fighter. If the only advantage Kittrie had on her was a knife and Rogan’s unloaded gun, she might just walk out of here alive.

  She took a seat on the sofa as instructed and saw for the first time a pair of orange-handled sewing shears on a glass end table. Kittrie must have noted the movement of her glance, because he said, “Unhunh. Not yet. Later. I want to look at you here. Left hand into the cuffs.”

  Only then did she notice a pair of handcuffs dangling from the same glass table where the scissors rested. One end was hooked through the table’s wrought iron base. The other hung open. Ellie slid across the sofa, crossing her left leg in front of her, and closed the cuffs around her left wrist.

  “So I would ask you to tell me about your father, but I know how you feel about men who’ve watched Silence of the Lambs too many times. I don’t want to be a cliché.”

  He was reciting from her Dateline interview. Ellie stared at him as if he were a lizard on display behind glass.

  “Tell me about William Summer instead.”

  “What about him?” she said.

  “Why are you so convinced you would have found him earlier?”

  “I found you, didn’t I?”

  “I was waiting to be found.”

  “So was William Summer,” Ellie said. “It’s another thing you two have in common.”

  “Tell me more about that.”

  “You both have an ability to control the pace of your killings more than most profilers believe is common. You both stopped when something else in your lives brought you satisfaction, a feeling of accomplishment. You both resurfaced when your lives started to feel weak again—him because a newspaper article made him sound like an irrelevant relic, and you because there’s cancer metastasized in your brain.”

  “So would you say that I, like Summer, have an ‘insatiable ego’?”

  “I don’t purport to know you, Mr. Kittrie.”

  “Neither did Rachel Peck or Chelsea Hart. Go ahead and pick up those scissors.”

  Ellie wiggled her restrained left arm.

  “Cute, Detective, but I’m sure you can manage.”

  She raised the scissors with her right hand.

  “Your hair, Detective. Is it naturally blond?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. And is that the length you usually wear it?”

  Ellie’s hair was well past her shoulders, longer than it had ever been since she became a cop five years ago. There had been no time for a haircut in the past two months. “No,” she said. “I cut it this short a few months ago.”

  For reasons she would never be able to explain, she took comfort in the small lie.

  “Please go ahead and cut the rest of it off for me now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You saw Chelsea Hart, I believe. Go ahead. Not too quickly,” he said, unbuttoning his pants. Ellie suppressed a gag reflex.

  She tilted her head and held the scissors up to the lock of hair that fell forward, but could not force herself to bring the blades together.

  “Would you like to put the scissors down and find another way to do this, Detective?”

  She clenched her jaw and clamped the scissors shut. Six inches of her hair fell to the floor. She reached forward to pick it up, but he stopped her.

  “Leave it wherever it falls. It looks good that way.” He was beginning to slowly pleasure himself. Ellie desperately wanted to avert her gaze, but knew that would disrupt the choreography. She opened the shears around another section and snipped again. Then a third section, and a fourth. She tried to stop thinking of the movement of his hand against himself.

  She picked up the pace of her cutting and willed herself to look at Kittrie’s pinched face, starting to color. She told herself she had to do this. She had to do this for five girls who had suffered far worse.

  She saw the musc
les in Kittrie’s body begin to tense and she knew she would have only seconds to respond. She cut away another two clumps, feeling stronger with each lock that fell to the floor.

  When Kittrie lurched forward, she was ready. She dropped the scissors and reached for the top of the left ankle boot crossed in front of her. She unsnapped her Kahr K9 and pulled the trigger softly to disengage the striker block and cock the weapon.

  Kittrie opened his eyes and spun from his chair, dropping the knife as he reached for the Glock on the floor. She continued to press against the trigger, locking her elbow and tightening her forearm muscles to absorb the recoil.

  She heard the blast of the pistol as her arm jerked against her will and searing pain tore through the wound in the back of her hand. A magenta stain slowly blossomed across the left sleeve of Kittrie’s white shirt. She had clipped him in the shoulder.

  Kittrie winced as he moved his left hand to support the Glock. Even through the pain of the gunshot wound, he managed a slight smile as he looked down at Ellie, handcuffed on the sofa, and pulled the trigger. Realizing his mistake, his smug expression changed to one of confusion, then anger. He threw the gun at her and lunged for the knife he’d discarded next to his chair.

  Ellie fired again, this time a pair of quick shots, compensation for the lack of control that came with one-handed shooting. One bullet through the screen of Kittrie’s television, one in his left side. Kittrie barreled toward her, the handle of his knife clenched in his fist.

  She threw her body to the floor and drop-rolled in the direction of the end table. Using the leverage of her cuffed wrist against the wrought iron, she pulled herself up to a forty-five-degree angle. She leveled the butt of the K9 on her left forearm for support, and popped off three rapid-fire rounds.

  All three shots landed in center mass. Kittrie’s mouth formed a large O as he stumbled backward, then collapsed to the floor. Ellie allowed her own muscles to relax as the convulsions in his body subsided.

  The sound of a thousand cars crashing at once broke the silence. A helmeted ESU officer emerged from the shattered sliding glass door just as Rogan burst through the front door at the head of a battering ram. They must have coordinated the simultaneous entries with the first shot fired. What had felt like an eternity to her had taken place in just seconds.