—
Working out the oral report in her head, Eve headed to Commander Whitney’s office. Whitney’s admin gave her a nod, held up one finger to signal for her to wait. Then tapped her ear-link.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Commander. Yes, sir. Go right in, Lieutenant.”
He sat behind his desk, a big man with broad shoulders that carried the weight of command. His wide dark face was set in sober lines as he watched Eve come in.
“I’ve kept you out of this morning’s media conference, as you were in the field. Tell me you have something.”
“I have the nest, I have a description of two suspects, and Detective Yancy is working with the witness.”
Whitney sat back. “That’s more than something. Details.”
She gave them all, quickly, to the point, and on her feet.
“A teenage apprentice,” Whitney murmured. “It wouldn’t be the first time. The D.C. snipers,” he told her. “Early twenty-first century. The Ozarks snipers, 2030 to ’31. Brothers, the younger barely thirteen when they began.”
Eve made a mental note to research both cases.
“When we have the sketches, we’ll release them, and this time you’ll need to participate in the media conference. Stand by while I contact Kyung. We want to set this up carefully.”
She wanted to work, wanted her board, wanted to think it through, but she stood, as ordered, and waited.
—
While Eve waited, so did the apprentice. Mixed with the cold blood was a hot thread of anticipation. This time it would be different. This time the knowledge of how it felt, how that power pumped from finger to target colored all.
The flop smelled of piss and roaches. But it didn’t matter. The sight line straight up Broadway to Times Square was unobstructed. The thinning sleet, even the occasional sky tram winging by didn’t distract.
“I have the target.”
The trainer nodded, picking out the target himself through a scope. “You have the green. Take your time. Take the target out.”
“I want more than three this time. I can do six. I want six.”
“Speed and accuracy, remember. Three is enough.”
“It sets a pattern, and I can take six.”
After a moment, the trainer lowered the glasses. “Four. Don’t argue. Do the job. Argue, we abort.”
Pleased, the apprentice watched the people thronging the streets of Times Square, watched them walk and gawk, snap their pictures, run their videos, haul their bags of worthless souvenirs.
And began to do the job.
Officer Kevin Russo patrolled with his friend and fellow cop, Sheridon Jacobs. They’d just grabbed a couple of loaded dogs off a cart on their break, and his sat warm in his belly.
He liked his beat—always something happening, always something to see. Of course, he’d only been assigned to Times Square the last four months, but he didn’t see it getting old anytime soon.
“There’s Grabby Larry,” he said to Jacobs as he watched the aging street thief casing the tourists. “Guess we’d better run him off.”
“He’s showing the miles.” Jacobs shook her head. “There ought to be a retirement home for old street thieves. Guy has to be pushing the century mark.”
“I think he passed it a few years ago. Jesus, he doesn’t even see us coming.”
They didn’t hurry. Grabby Larry wasn’t as nimble as he’d been in his prime; and the week before, his mark had beat him to the ground with her purse—the one he’d hoped to steal.
Russo started to grin at the memory, then today’s mark—a woman of about seventy, with a bright red purse dangling from her arm—dropped like a stone.
“Ah, shit, call the MTs, Sherry.” As Russo darted forward, a kid on an airboard in a small pack of kids on airboards went flying, took out a trio of pedestrians like bowling pins.
Russo saw blood bloom on the back of the kid’s bright blue jacket.
“Get down! Down! Take cover.”
Before the first scream, the first realization of those around him, Russo pulled his weapon. He leaped toward the kid in hopes of shielding him from another strike. But the third hit Russo in the center of his forehead, a scant inch below the brim of his cap. Russo was gone before he hit the ground, before the fourth body fell, and a fifth.
While chaos erupted blocks away, while screams ripped the air and tires squealed, the apprentice sat back, smiled up at the trainer.
“Five was a compromise.”
The trainer lowered the scope, aimed stern disapproval. But pride shone through it. “Pack it up. We’re done here.”
—
In Whitney’s office, Dallas’s communicator buzzed almost simultaneously with Whitney’s ’link signaling a breakthrough communication.
“I’ll get back to you,” he told the media liaison. His eyes met Eve’s as they both answered.
“Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Officer down, Broadway and Forty-Four. Multiple victims. Four confirmed dead. Wounded unverified.”
“Acknowledged. On my way. Sir.”
“We have a dead cop. I’m coming with you. Let’s move.”
She tagged Peabody on the way. “Garage. Now. We have another strike, Times Square. He got a cop.”
Automatically, Eve turned toward the glides. “They’re faster, sir.”
If anyone thought it odd the commander rushed to keep pace with her, weaving through bodies on the glides, they were discreet enough to keep it to sidelong looks—and most just quickly made a hole.
Halfway down, Whitney grabbed Eve’s arm. “Elevator. I’ll bypass from here.”
When Whitney muscled onto the jammed elevator, cops, not so discreetly, came to attention. And no one bitched—out loud—when he swiped his ID card and called for the garage.
“What level?” he snapped at Eve.
“Level One.”
After ordering it, he glanced at her. “Your rank rates higher.”
“I like Level One.”
“The way you like an office the size of a broom closet.”
“I guess. Yes, sir. Commander, it’s going to be mayhem.”
He pulled a black scarf out of the pocket of the coat he’d yanked on as they’d rushed out of his office. “I’ve dealt with mayhem.”
Eve decided to be discreet, and said nothing.
They shoved off the elevator into the echoing garage. One glance told Eve they’d beaten Peabody, and that gave Whitney time to survey her ride.
“What kind of vehicle is this, and why in hell don’t you have better?”
“It’s my personal vehicle, and better than it looks.” Quickly, she opened the locks, glancing back as she heard the elevator clump. “Take shotgun, sir.”
As he climbed in, she sent a warning stare toward Peabody. “Take the back. The commander’s riding with us.”
Eve slid behind the wheel. “Speed’s key. We’re going hot.”
As Eve turned on the engine, screamed into reverse, Peabody leaned forward and murmured toward Whitney’s ear, “Lock down your safety, sir. Trust me.”
Sirens blaring, Eve burst out of the garage, barely hesitating to make sure traffic had cleared, and zipped around knotted cars, hit vertical to take the turn north.
“What is this thing?” Whitney demanded.
“It’s a DLE, Commander,” Peabody told him, strapped in, gripping the seat with both hands. “It’s not even on the market yet.”
“When it is, I want one.”
So saying, he yanked out his ’link, made his first contact with Chief Tibble.
Eve blocked him out, zigging, zagging, leaping, and shoving her way through knots of traffic.
Multiple strikes on one of the busiest sectors of the city, the eternal party that was Times Square.
And
a dead cop.
Mayhem would be putting it mildly.
She needed the scene secured, needed any potential wits quarantined and interviewed. She needed the dead protected, and the wounded, if any, out of harm’s way.
She’d expected another strike, but to have it hit under twenty-four hours from the first . . . A pattern, an agenda. Maybe a fricking mission.
Killers on a mission didn’t stop until they’d completed it.
“Peabody, tag Yancy, put a fire under his ass. I need those sketches. Get out of the fucking way! Do you hear the sirens?”
She went up, fast, skimmed over a couple of Rapid Cabs that appeared to be playing Chicken on Eighth.
As she’d suspected, when she nipped across Seventh, bulled onto Broadway, mayhem reigned.
A small platoon of uniforms fought to control hundreds. Panicked pedestrians, crazed vehicles, people with cameras and ’links trying to shove in for a better look, shopkeepers, waiters, street thieves—those seeing a bounty of profit in a small window of time.
The noise was amazing.
She stopped the car, flipped up her On Duty light, more to stop some overenthusiastic uniform from having it towed, and pushed clear.
“Commander . . . Sorry.”
She shoved into the melee, leaving Whitney to Peabody, grabbed a megaphone from some hapless uniform. Bellowed into it.
“Get these people back. Now! I want the barricades up. Three uniforms to each DB, now! You.” She grabbed another uniform by the coat sleeve. “Get this area blocked of any vehicular traffic other than official or emergency vehicles.”
“But, Lieutenant—”
“Screw the buts. Do it. And you—” She grabbed another screen, all but heaved it at another uniform. “Privacy screens for the DBs. Why the hell are they still out in the open? Contain this crowd, do your goddamn job, and do it now. Peabody!”
“Sir!”
“I want fifty uniforms, asap. I need some fucking crowd control. Tag Morris. I want him on scene.”
She snagged a thief by the collar of his oversized overcoat, shook him hard enough to have wallets and bags raining onto the ground. “You motherfucker. Show some respect. Get your ass out of here, or I’ll personally see you rotting in a cage for the next twenty.”
Maybe it was panic, or maybe he was pissed his payday got cut short, but he took a swing at her. The move surprised her enough—for God’s sake, the place was swarming with cops—he actually glanced his fist off the side of her jaw.
More in fury than pain, she kneed him hard enough in the balls to flatten him, resisted—barely—kicking him for good measure. “Cuff him, haul his ass in. Now, fuck me, now! Are you cops or morons? Get me any and all security feeds on this area.”
She shoved her way toward the body of Officer Kevin Russo, and the clutch of uniforms surrounding it.
“Give me room, move back. Give me his name.”
“Officer Kevin Russo.” Jacobs fought back tears. “I was with him. He’s my partner. I—”
“Stay. The rest of you clear this crowd. Secure the goddamn scene. Backup’s coming. Officer?”
“Jacobs. Sheridon Jacobs. We’d just come back from lunch break, sir. We were . . .” She took a hard breath, tried to steady herself. “We were moving toward a known street thief, and a woman went down—his mark went down. Hard and fast. I thought she’d fainted or had a medical issue. Then . . . it was a kid next. On an airboard. Kevin rushed toward him, shouting for people to take cover, to get down. And he went down, sir. I saw the strike take him, in the head. I—I moved to assist, and everything went crazy. I’m sorry, sir, it all went crazy, and I—we—couldn’t control it. There weren’t enough of us to control it.”
“Which way was he facing?”
“Sir?”
“Pull it together, Jacobs. Which way was your partner facing when he was hit?”
“South, I think, south. It was so fast, Lieutenant, it all happened so fast. People dropping, people running, screaming, knocking each other over, trampling on them, on the bodies. I called for assistance, but it was a stampede.”
“Okay. Stand by.” Eve started to call for her field kit when Peabody pushed it into her hand.
“Dallas,” Peabody said, gesturing.
Looking up, looking out, Eve saw that she was on every jumbo screen, coat flapping in the wind, face grim. The news ticker under her larger-than-life image, along with the dead cop at her feet, on the screen of One Times Square read:
LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, ON SCENE AT TIMES SQUARE MASSACRE.
“For fuck’s sake, kill that feed. Kill it!”
“I’m dealing with it.” Whitney, his ’link at his ear, stared at the screens. “Do what you need to do. I’m dealing with it.”
“He’s ID’d by his partner,” she told Peabody. “COD is pretty damn obvious. Get TOD. Make sure he gets a privacy curtain.”
With her kit in hand, she crouched by the teenager Officer Kevin Russo had tried to shield.
She knew at a glance he was no more than seventeen, and would never see eighteen.
“Victim is mixed-race male, ID’d as Nathaniel Foster Jarvits, age seventeen. Today. Happy goddamn birthday. TOD, thirteen-twenty-one. ME will determine COD, but on-scene observation indicates laser strike, mid-back. Nearly the same hit as Ellissa Wyman.” She paused. “Peabody, call the parents.”
“Dallas, TOD on Officer Russo is thirteen-twenty-one as well.”
Eve looked up, infuriated to see her own face still flashing on all the screens. No more respect than the street thief, she thought, then rose and moved to the next.
She didn’t look up at the screens again, didn’t rail that she still had to raise her voice to get her findings on record. Quick glances showed her extra uniforms were swarming in, barricades were going up, and arrests were being made—loudly—as some refused to move back or to stop their attempts to record the horror.
She’d worked her way to what Jacobs reported was the first victim when Whitney crouched beside her.
“Feed’s killed, but we can’t stop the media from playing it on bulletins.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your scene is now secured. This victim was with a friend who’s been treated for shock, and can be interviewed. The minor was airboarding with five friends. They are all secured for interview. One other victim was unaccompanied at the time of the assault. And we have a survivor.”
Her head whipped up. “A survivor?”
“Female. Office worker, but works downtown, doesn’t usually come up around here. The strike hit her mid-body, left side. She’d been transported by medicals, is going into surgery. It’s fifty-fifty, best.”
“That’s better odds than the other four. He won’t like not making five for five. That’ll piss him off. Sir, I need her under 24/7 protection—”
“Already done, Lieutenant. I’m a cop, not a moron.”
“Apologies, Commander.”
“No need. You pulled this together as quickly as anyone could.” He looked back toward the curtained body of their fellow officer. “I don’t think his partner’s misremembering. Officer Russo gave his life protecting and serving.”
“He may have been the target.” She kept talking even when Whitney’s eyes went hard. “Or the fourth vic, the advertising exec on his way to a lunch meeting. Not the kid—at least, it doesn’t play right now. The first vic was a tourist. But Officer Russo? He was assigned this beat, he could be expected to be here at this time and place. The exec does work in the area, so maybe. None of the others, Commander. All the others were random hits. It’s the cop, that’s my lean. The cop who’s connected. I’m going to find out why and how. They don’t take one of ours and walk away. They don’t take some harmless kid on his damn birthday and walk away.”
She pushed to her feet. “Commander Whitney, I need to know every
thing there is to know about Officer Russo—personally and on the job. Everything. You could help with that. You could push that forward.”
“Consider it pushed.” His face stone, he looked toward the privacy curtain again, toward the uniforms ranged around it like an honor guard. “No, they don’t take one of ours, not like this, and walk away.” He, too, got to his feet. “Whatever you need, manpower, OT, it’s yours.”
“To start? I don’t have time for a media conference.”
“I’ll cover you.”
“I need Mira on tap.”
“Done.”
“I could use Nadine Furst—for media spin, for research.”
He hesitated only a moment. “Tread carefully, but do what you feel needs doing. You’d be wise to coordinate with Kyung.”
She nodded, and thought: Not an asshole. “Roarke. If he’s available.”
“Without question, and with appreciation from the department.”
“Commander, if I’m on track, and Officer Russo or one of the other victims is connected to Michaelson—because it damn well has to be Michaelson, someway, somehow—this isn’t over. It can’t just be two. It’s some sort of mission, and their connection will connect with someone else. Someone will know one of the shooters. Someone will recognize them. I need Yancy’s sketches four-walled. You can push it out everywhere.”
“Believe me, when we have those faces?” He once again glanced up at the jumbo screens, now unprecedentedly blank. “They’ll be everywhere.”
“They might dive into a hole once that happens. But the hole won’t be deep enough.” She looked around at the four bodies, curtained now from the gawkers. “I swear it won’t be deep enough. Excuse me, sir, Morris is here. I need to speak with him.”
As she walked away, Whitney stepped over to the fallen officer, pulled off the NYPSD lapel pin he wore, and laid it—reverently—on the shielded body.
7
Morris’s topcoat flapped as he stood over the body of the first victim. He pulled a can of Seal-It out of his own field kit, lifting his gaze to Eve as he coated his ungloved hands.
“I’ll take them in order. Do you know if this is how and where she fell?”