by Eric Bernt
Agent Raines kept his eyes on her. “Where are the suspects?”
“They’re on their way here.”
“They should have been here by now.”
“Yes, they should have.” Her face gave away nothing.
The veteran agent studied her. Somehow, he just knew he was being played. He spoke into his headset microphone as he moved toward the door. “Search the building top to bottom. I have reason to believe the suspects are in the building.” He joined the other agents as they fanned out through the building with experienced coordination.
The deputy inspector glanced at Daniels. “You better have one hell of a story to tell.”
She placed Nataro’s pocket recorder on his desk. “The doctor’s boyfriend was the victim thrown in front of the subway train.”
“The professor?”
She nodded. “Her boss apparently had him killed for snooping into Parks, who is her patient. The professor stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have.”
“What’s the big deal with this patient?”
“It’s something you need to hear.”
He looked down at the small recorder in his hand. “Whatever’s on this tape will back that up?”
“No judge will ever hear it, but yes.” Victoria Daniels then began to explain science that she herself was only beginning to grasp.
CHAPTER 53
Hudson Street, New York City, May 27, 4:39 p.m.
Butler led Skylar and Eddie away from the station down Hudson Street, toward a park named after James J. Walker, the two-term New York City mayor in the 1920s—known as “Beau James” because of his flamboyant lifestyle—who resigned amid scandal in 1932 and fled to Europe with his movie-star lover. The park featured an elaborate playground, bocce courts, and a synthetic-turf soccer field, which caught Eddie’s attention. He had never seen artificial grass in person before. He stared at it through a fence surrounding the play area, slowing down considerably. “That’s not real grass, is it?”
“No, Eddie, it’s not. It’s called artificial turf.” She could see that he was fixated.
“Can I touch it?” He stopped to reach through the fence.
“We don’t have time for that right now.” She gently nudged his shoulder, which caused him to suddenly recoil.
Eddie looked around nervously, rotating his head from side to side as he tried to become comfortable with these new surroundings. He clutched the backpack containing the echo box and laptop supercomputer tightly to his chest. “Are you sure this is the way to Philadelphia?”
Skylar reassured him. “Yes, Eddie.”
“Do we have to walk all the way there?”
“We’re only going to walk a little farther.”
Butler gave them some advice. “If you do walk anywhere, find the largest group of tourists you can and stay in the middle of them.”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“Deal with it.”
Eddie looked around for tourists, but there were none to be seen. “Why should we stay in the middle of tourists?”
“So no one sees you.”
“The tourists would see us if we were walking in the middle of them.”
“They’re not the ones trying to take your box away.”
Eddie paused suddenly, clutching the echo box and laptop tightly to his chest. “Who is trying to take the echo box from me?”
Butler floundered. “The people looking for you.”
Eddie turned to Skylar, desperate for reassurance. “Does Dr. Fenton want to take the echo box away from me?”
She wanted to lie to him. But she also knew she couldn’t. Skylar glared at Butler briefly before reluctantly answering Eddie. “Yes, Eddie, I think that is what he intends to do.”
“The echo box is mine!” Eddie attempted to slap himself, but both his hands were mercifully occupied with clutching his devices. He could not strike a clean blow. “I have to hear my mother’s voice! I have to!”
Skylar grabbed his arms and clenched them tightly. She spoke to him in a voice that was soothing but matter-of-fact. “I’m afraid the echo box is property of Harmony House.”
Tears welled up in Eddie’s eyes. “It’s my property. It’s mine!”
“They’re the ones who paid for it.”
“It’s mine!” Eddie started to cry. Butler looked anxious, because they didn’t have time for this.
Skylar had to think quickly. She knew what the echo box meant to Eddie. And what it would do to him if it were taken away. Skylar looked him squarely in the eyes. “Eddie, I promise I will do everything in my power to stop anyone from taking the echo box away from you.”
Eddie took several long breaths, wiping his tears on his sleeve. He believed her. After several more moments, she released him, and they continued through the park.
Butler stopped abruptly as they reached the park’s south side. “This is as far as I go.”
Eddie looked around them to see if there was any kind of physical barrier preventing the detective from going farther. “Why?”
“Because I’m in enough trouble as it is because of you two.” He pointed east toward Varick Street, where dozens of taxicabs were passing in both directions. “Catch a cab uptown. After that, you’re on your own.” He took out his phone.
“Thank you, Detective. For everything.” Skylar’s gratitude was apparent.
He nodded, dialing Detective Lieutenant Daniels as he turned and raced toward his car.
Eddie struggled to keep up with Skylar as they walked quickly to the corner. “Do we have to walk so fast?”
“You don’t want them to catch us, do you?”
Eddie clenched his hands tightly and managed to walk faster, staying by her side. “Why is Detective McHenry in trouble?”
“Because he helped us.”
“Isn’t that what police officers are supposed to do?”
“In this case, it was against the rules.”
“So why did he help us?”
“Because sometimes, to do what you think is right, you have to break the rules.”
Eddie nodded—not because he understood, but because he wanted Skylar to think he did. “Detective McHenry gave me graham crackers and milk at his mother’s house. He shouldn’t get in trouble for that.”
“I don’t think he should, either.” That was when Skylar saw him. Lutz. On the hunt. He was only a block away, frantically scanning the area. Skylar concentrated, trying not to let panic seep into her voice. “Have you ever ridden inside a taxicab, Eddie?” She waved at passing cabs, praying one would stop.
Eddie nodded. “Yes, when I was younger. I have ridden inside twenty-seven taxicabs, except for the ones I can’t remember as a baby.” He imitated her actions, waving at the passing cabs. It wasn’t subtle.
That was when Lutz spotted them. The former special operative started running toward them with impressive speed.
Skylar could see Lutz closing in from behind Eddie. A shark locked on its prey. Fortunately, Eddie could not see him.
A cab quickly stopped in front of Skylar and Eddie. “Would you like to ride in your twenty-eighth cab?”
“No. Twenty-seven is three squared, which makes it a much better number than twenty-eight, which is four times seven, or two times two times seven, and not nearly as interesting.”
Lutz was closing in. He was less than half a block away.
“What if I said please?” Skylar pleaded.
He shook his head. “The answer would still be no.”
She was on the verge of losing it. “Would you get in the cab if I asked you to do it for me anyway?”
Eddie stared at the sidewalk. “Yes, I would do it for you anyway, Skylar.”
Thank God. She quickly opened the door and helped Eddie get inside the cab. Skylar rushed in the other side and gave the driver a very simple command: “Drive!”
The Afghan driver may not have understood much English, but he did understand this particular instruction. His passengers’ heads were thrown back into th
e seat as he stepped on the gas.
Lutz came within eight feet of the rear bumper as he ran after the cab. He did not give up the chase for another two blocks. The man was incredibly fast. But man versus automobile was never much of a contest. Whoever had the better technology would always win this race, or any other.
Through the rear window, Eddie watched Lutz fade into the distance. Surprisingly, Eddie was not concerned. “This is kind of a game, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Like tag?”
“Like tag.”
“I don’t like tag, because people touch you when they tag you, and you’re it.”
“Then I’ll try to make sure no one tags you.”
Eddie stared out the windows, marveling at the many tall buildings all around them. “What if someone tags you, Skylar?”
“I won’t like it, either.”
“Then I will try to make sure no one tags you, either.”
CHAPTER 54
Varick Street, New York City, May 27, 4:47 p.m.
Lutz and Hirsch had split up when Homeland began their search inside the Sixth Precinct. Hirsch had remained by the precinct entrance while Lutz searched the perimeter, which was how he had come upon Skylar and Eddie. As the cab waded into a sea of others, Lutz focused his gaze on the vehicle’s license plate. It was a combination of four letters or numbers, as opposed to the usual seven required on passenger vehicles. These four letters or numbers also appeared on the vehicle’s top light, which was mounted on the roof beneath a Nautica advertisement featuring a nicely tanned man on a boat.
Unfortunately, Lutz could only make out two of the four identifiers on the license plate: 5E. He quickly punched the letter and number into his phone; he would later transmit them to Barnes, with the full knowledge that without at least one more digit, those two were practically useless, because they led to 1,296 license-plate possibilities. There was barely enough time to narrow it down from thirteen cabs, much less thirteen hundred.
Lutz quickly ducked into a Popeyes and waited in line as Homeland Security agents and NYPD officers rapidly expanded their perimeter around the station. The other customers all turned toward the street to see what the commotion was about. The agents and officers paid no attention to him or the other customers, or to the particular cab containing Skylar and Eddie, among the hundreds of others in view. It was just one of many other yellow metal fish swimming toward Midtown. Lutz may have only had half of the cab’s license plate, but it was still more than they had.
CHAPTER 55
Deputy Inspector Nataro’s Office, Sixth Precinct, May 27, 5:03 p.m.
Detective McHenry had just finished giving his fictionalized account of the suspects’ escape to his superiors and DHS Agent Raines inside the deputy inspector’s office. Butler knew the agent wasn’t buying a word of it, but he had no intention of offering any more than he was asked to.
Raines looked amused. “Is that it?”
“That’s all I can tell you.” Butler glanced calmly at Nataro and Daniels. Poker players at a table, except that they were all standing. Nobody was giving away anything.
“And this recording they played for you. You believe it’s legitimate?”
“I do.” Butler had to restrain himself from clarifying that what they had heard was not a recording.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she risked a great deal to bring it to me.”
“Skylar Drummond isn’t the only one who risked a lot today.” Agent Raines paused, allowing the threat to sink in. “What I don’t understand is why you helped them flee.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Butler’s voice didn’t waver. He was a better liar than Victoria was.
“No?”
“What I did was hear evidence I thought my superior officers should also hear, but as I was bringing in my witnesses to this station, you idiots had to issue federal warrants and scare them off.” Butler eyed Victoria and Anthony, just to make sure they were all clear on the story. “Agent Raines, some asshole out there single-handedly paralyzed the city for the last three days, and killed an NYU professor who had a great future ahead of him. This investigation may not be your primary concern, but it is mine. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it.”
The agent studied him for a moment, then spoke with clear disdain. “By all means, Detective, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your investigation.”
Raines watched McHenry through the window as he left the station. “Where do you think he’s going?”
“No idea,” Lieutenant Daniels lied. She knew exactly where he was going.
DHS Agent Raines surprised her by asking, “May I see your phone?”
“Excuse me?” She had heard him clearly, and knew exactly why he was asking, but didn’t want him to know that.
“I want McHenry’s number. It’s the last number that called you.”
She did not hand him her phone. She scrolled through her most recent calls and read him Butler’s number. Agent Raines entered the digits into his phone and hit “Send.”
CHAPTER 56
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 27, 5:09 p.m.
In less than a second, the numeric text message arrived on a screen inside 633 Third Avenue, home of the New York State office of the Department of Homeland Security. The office, a secure beehive, was even more active than usual because of the recent subway event. In the seventy-two hours since the attack occurred, every last bit of security-camera footage from the area had been pored over frame by frame. Every witness statement had been reviewed. The personal information of every individual identified as having been in the area was checked against the DHS’s vast database, which was now integrated with the other intelligence-agency systems. Of the 347 personnel housed in the New York office, over two hundred had been assigned to the subway investigation. So far, they had collectively come up with a grand total of nothing, which explained the tension hanging over the rows of analysts’ cubicles. And the candy wrappers around the floor.
Max Garber was like many of the other analysts housed in the dozens of six-by-six partitioned work areas: he was Ivy League–educated (Penn), in his early thirties, and begrudgingly wore the uniform of a lightly starched white-collar shirt and tie because it was required for the job, just like the background checks and the random drug testing. He knew he could be making a lot more money in Boston or Northern California, but nowhere else would he have the access to systems and data that he did here.
For someone who thought of his workstation as a “data cockpit,” DHS was the mother ship. Particularly for someone like him, who had lost his father in 9/11.
He had become Agent Raines’s analyst of choice eleven months ago, when Garber had stayed up for three straight days data mining credit-card purchases in the Brooklyn area, looking for suspects in a newly discovered Islamic fundamentalist cell. Garber’s work not only resulted in the capture of two suspects, but also uncovered a sophisticated offshore financing operation that had funneled more than $27 million to ISIS.
In his current investigation, he was focusing on a promising connection with a Farsi-speaking British citizen who’d happened to be on the subway platform when Jacob Hendrix was killed. Raines’s text message containing Butler’s cell number now appeared on his screen. Garber texted back: Whose #?
Raines’s answer appeared immediately: NYPD Det. Priority 1.
Garber sat up in his chair and minimized the window of what he’d been working on. Goodbye, Mr. Farsi-speaking Brit. Hello, Detective whoever-you-are. Priority 1 was not a designation Agent Raines used often. It meant urgent. Right now. Drop everything. And a priority-1 instruction that involved tapping the phone of a New York City Police detective meant all kinds of higher-ups were going to get involved, because of obvious legal and jurisdictional issues. They would need a lot of information at their fingertips to make immediate decisions. Garber wasted no time. He texted Raines, On it, and went to work. Wit
hin fifteen minutes, they would know exactly where the detective was, and every word he spoke into his phone for as long as they cared to listen.
Which put them fifteen minutes behind the American Heritage Foundation.
CHAPTER 57
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 27, 5:16 p.m.
Jason Greers looked over Daryl Trotter’s shoulder as they watched the world’s best reality television show on several different screens. From three different angles, Detective McHenry could be seen driving out of the Sixth Precinct garage, where he had only recently parked his car. The American Heritage Foundation had been tapped into the detective’s phone from the moment they learned of the federal arrest warrant being issued. Unlike official government agencies, the Foundation needed no approval or justification. There was no oversight and no review. The terrifying reality was that there wasn’t a satellite view or surveillance angle or phone number or online account they couldn’t access faster than anyone else. “Where’s he going?”
Daryl answered like it should have been obvious. “Pine Hill, New Jersey.”
Jason was puzzled. He didn’t have a clue. “What’s in Pine Hill?”
Daryl typed in a set of longitude and latitude numbers that zoomed his satellite view to a ramshackle farmhouse built in 1931. “The home of Dr. Marcus Fenton.”
Jason nodded. Of course. “McHenry’s got no jurisdiction or admissible evidence.”
“Precisely why he’s going there now. Because he still can.” One of Daryl Trotter’s skills was to think like the players involved in any situation. “He wants to make Fenton sweat.”
“Think it’ll work?”
Daryl turned to face Jason. “Only if we want it to.”
CHAPTER 58
Sixth Avenue, New York City, May 27, 5:19 p.m.
Skylar and Eddie’s cab was approaching Fifty-Sixth Street. Its progress slowed as the cab hit construction traffic that had been snarling things for weeks and had become the bane of many Midtown residents. If there was one thing the city did not need, it was another glistening residential high-rise, at least as far as those who already lived in one were concerned.