88 Killer (37 page)

Chapter One Hundred and Twelve

Brooklyn

March 15, 10.45 a.m.

H
arper had seen the truck leaving and caught two numbers on the license-plate. It was an orange Dodge, but he didn’t catch its tail. By the time he was out on to the street where Denise’s car was parked, the orange truck had disappeared.

Harper and Denise called backup, but it was already in the street. They heard the sirens getting closer. Harper pulled back the bolts and moved across to Lucy.

Denise rushed to the exhausted body of Abby Goldenberg. She knelt at Abby’s side, stroked her face and looked down at her. ‘You okay?’

Abby managed to nod, but the last few minutes had left her reeling, her eyes closed.

Harper helped Lucy to her feet and walked her out of the brick cell. He looked across to Denise. ‘You want to get her out?’ he said.

‘We need a gurney, Tom, she’s very weak.’

‘We got to get on Carney’s tail, Denise. Soon as backup gets here we go, right?’

‘Okay,’ she said. Denise looked at Abby’s eyes. She was still the girl in the photographs, the beautiful, bright teenager, but the experience had left her gray and gaunt. ‘You’re going to be just fine,’ said Denise. ‘If I can do it, Abby, and I’m half as willful as you seem to be, then you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

Abby’s eyes flickered open. ‘Where’s my daddy?’

Denise held her hand. ‘We’ll get him for you, dear. He’s fine. He never gave up. He’s been helping all this time, helping the cops find you.’

‘I knew he wouldn’t let anything happen,’ said Abby. ‘I felt him here the whole time.’ Then the girl’s face contorted and Denise tried to calm her. The noise of the squad cars and ambulances broke in from behind.

Denise turned as the uniformed cops entered with two paramedics. ‘Let’s get you to hospital, Abby. You need a little attention first.’

Denise let the paramedics take the girl. ‘You ready?’ she said to Harper. She steeled herself. It wasn’t over, not yet. The predator had ousted the victim once and for all, but the prey wasn’t down.

Harper ran for the exit, Denise followed. They jumped into a squad car and Harper started to drive.

‘Where we going?’ said Denise. ‘Carney’s got nowhere to go. He’s going to do something bad. We just have to try to get to him first. Every cop in New York will know about him by now.’ Harper called Lafayette as he drove. ‘What have you got set up?’

‘We’ve got all the bridges in Manhattan covered. Ditto all routes in and out of New York. He’s circled, Harper. An orange truck won’t go unnoticed. We got hundreds of men out there. It’s going to show up. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘He’s going to do something,’ said Harper. ‘You alerted Counter-Terrorism?’

‘All Hercules squads are live and active. If we get one sniff of him, he’s ours.’

‘That’s good,’ said Harper. ‘I’m worried about it, though. He’s known this day is coming for a while now.’

‘I know,’ said Lafayette. ‘We’re doing what we can.’

‘Parkways and expressways covered?’

‘Yep, like I said, we’ve got patrols on all major routes in and out.’

‘I don’t think he’s leaving. I think Carney knows this is over.’

‘He’s a dead man walking,’ said Lafayette.

‘No,’ said Harper, ‘he’s a ticking bomb.’

Harper hung up and continued to drive. He felt the frustration of being unable to do a goddamn thing. Denise had been trying to make calls on her cell phone.

‘How was Abby?’ he asked.

‘She’s pretty messed up, but the light’s still in her eyes,’ said Denise. ‘I guess she’ll be okay. I tried to call Aaron. He’s not at home and his cell went straight to message. He’s going to scream.’

‘He’s a lucky man. Down to you, Denise. You did good. Real good.’

‘
We
did good. What did Lafayette say?’

‘Nothing seen or heard yet, but roads are covered everywhere.’ Harper cast his eye down another side street. ‘I need something on Carney,’ he said. ‘What’s he going to do?’

‘You want my analysis?’

‘Yes. You got anything?’

‘He’s going to make a final gesture,’ said Denise. ‘He’s a cornered animal now, there’s no way out.’

‘I know, but what’s it going to be?’

‘Josef Sturbe was there on the last day of the ghetto.’

‘And what happened on the last day?’ said Harper.

‘The Nazis blew up the Great Synagogue of Warsaw.’ Harper’s mind raced. ‘God help us, if that’s what he has in mind.’

Denise nodded to herself. ‘He might. It’s symbolic – a final action. I remember reading the reports by one SS officer. He said: “What a wonderful sight!” when looking at the burning synagogue.’

Harper called Lafayette immediately. ‘He might be going for a synagogue. Send the word out, get the patrols to every single one.’

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 15, 10.48 a.m.

I
nside the lobby of the Museum of Tolerance, Carney stopped and took out a handkerchief. He wiped his brow and leaned down to feel his leg with a grimace. He tried to move on his metal crutches. The two security men stared across. One of them said something to the other. Carney’s training told him two things about getting through security – get noticed and then get the guards themselves noticed. Guards don’t like to be embarrassed.

Carney acknowledged their look and started over to them. His right leg slipped from under him and he sprawled to the floor, his leg lying straight as if injured. Carney yelled in pain. He tried to push himself to his feet but he couldn’t get up. One of the beefcakes moved slowly across.

‘Help me!’ Carney shouted.

The guard looked awkward as he crossed the marble floor.

‘Sorry, man, this is real embarrassing,’ said Carney. ‘I can’t get this attached without a seat.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll fix you up.’ The guy put his hands under Carney’s arms, picked him up and helped him across to a bench seat.

‘God, I hate these injuries. Humiliate the life out of me at every moment,’ said Carney.

‘How’d you hurt the leg?’

‘Afghanistan,’ said Carney.

‘You in the service?’ asked the security guard.

‘Yeah, until the IED blast. You’re a soldier too, right?’ said Carney.

The security guard showed his tattoo. A Marine. Carney nodded.

‘Those bastards bombed the fuck out of us and what did our government do? They withdrew troops.’

‘It’s too bad.’

Carney shook his head. He felt close to tears. Sincere tears. He pushed down his jeans and stood up.

‘I gotta thank you, fella.’

‘Not a problem. Good to help a soldier.’

Carney stood up and, with the aid of his crutches, hopped towards the gate with the security guard. ‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you.’

‘Not at all. War wound is something to be proud of.’

‘You’re a real gent.’ Carney pointed at the metal detector. ‘You don’t want me to hop through there without these babies, do you? I’ll be flat on the floor again if you do.’

‘No, man, that’s cool, just walk through.’

Carney walked through. The machine beeped. He stopped and turned.

‘Am I all right to go on?’

‘Sure, man, take it easy.’

Carney walked slowly down the corridor away from the gate. He could feel the sweat soaking his shirt and his hands shaking, but he was smiling now, not that they could see it. He found the elevator, pressed the button and waited.

The problem was that Lucy was about the only person he’d ever felt safe with. Why was it? Why was he so complicated? A Jew who was not a Jew, who hated Jews, who was betrayed by a Jew. He had felt safe with hatred. Hatred silenced all his self-loathing.

Carney walked into the bathroom on the second floor. He felt warm and flushed. He threw water over his face. She’d remember him after today, wouldn’t she? In the mirror, a worn-out man stared back at him. Older than his years. He was tired, red and looked mad as hell. In his head, he’d felt like a hero. He turned his face away quickly.

He took out a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and opened it up. On it, the words looked small and hazy. He couldn’t focus, even in the bright fluorescent lights of the toilet. He recited the words. One powerful paragraph. Only eighty-eight words.

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Crown Heights, Brooklyn

March 15, 11.02 a.m.

H
arper made a judgment. Crown Heights had the largest number of synagogues in the area. He picked up Denise from the hospital. He needed someone with knowledge of Brooklyn. They drove towards the first on his list. He stopped and got out of his car, stretched his neck to get a good look up and down the street. Denise got out beside him.

‘Anything?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Harper. ‘Let’s try the next.’

Harper saw a huge flock of starlings rise in a single movement from the rooftops. He looked up. It was a moment, that was all. He didn’t have time to wonder. A second later, a massive explosion ripped through the morning air with a horrifying shriek of violence. In a heartbeat, the world had changed once again.

At the shock of the explosion, Harper dived. His knees bent, and almost instantly as the first soundwave rushed by, he darted towards Denise with an outstretched arm, using his body to shield her. His mind was still taking in the noise, his body in adrenalin production, as he held Denise close to his chest. Time slowed. The blast lasted under a second, but the soundwave continued, lessening, widening like a gunshot disappearing over a plain, ricocheting off tall buildings.

A second after the blast, the treetops rushed with sudden air. Then the air was still.

And for a fragment of a second, it was so quiet. Maybe it was longer. It seemed longer. The silence seemed to hang in the air. Then someone took off the pause button and the scene burst to life with the shriek of car alarms and children crying.

Harper and Denise stood up. The blast had been close. Close enough for them to feel the shockwaves. Close enough for them to hear the raw burst of force and pressure. Maybe half a mile away, or less.

They watched a plume of black and gray smoke rise above the rooftops.

Harper’s ears rang and he saw the people all around dash into huddled groups. Taking Denise by the hand, Harper raced back to his car. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. They pulled away, turned and drove towards the center of the explosion.

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen

Crown Heights, Brooklyn

March 15, 11.18 a.m.

H
arper and Denise abandoned their car a street away. The traffic was too bad. Hundreds of cars packed tight. They got out and ran hard towards the scene. There was no telling what the bomb had done or how many were injured. The priority for the team was to get the injured out of there and to secure the scene. His priority had to be to stop Jack Carney.

Harper moved through the crowds at the end of the street. He slowed as he came across the scene. A gray New York street spread out from the center-point of chaos. Scattered, twisted, smoking metal. The wasted hulk of an exhumed truck, quietly breathing gray-black smoke. The spread of debris. Dazed victims, some staggering at the edges of the blast, some moving on the ground, others still. The whole front wall of the museum blasted to pieces. Carney hadn’t targeted the empty synagogue but a museum full of people. What’s more, like some final insult, he’d chosen Aaron Goldenberg’s workplace. Harper’s mind raced.

He stared at the devastation in a civilian street. Blood on concrete. Torn clothes. Papers and shoes. Body parts against fast-food wraps. The pressure wave had been enough to crush the closer victims. Their bodies were hit by an impenetrable wall of high pressure and had been thrown against the buildings. Further out, the shrapnel had caused carnage. The mix of bright red blood and black soot was smudged across the entire frontage of the museum.

Harper made for the makeshift Incident Command. He scanned the scene quickly.

There was no one in the bomb zone except the essential medical services and the Bomb Squad. There were two Bomb Squad detectives in big green EOD 8 Bomb Suits, fifty layers of Kevlar shielding them from any potential explosion. Thank God that they’d put the city on red alert. Every team had been up and mobile. The response time was astonishing and it meant that lives were being saved. The bomb crew were on all fours looking under cars along the street with a mirror.

A great phalanx of injured bodies lay at the entrance of the Museum of Tolerance. It was the epicenter.

‘There’s too many. Far too many bodies,’ said Harper.

Denise was in shock. She turned. ‘What?’

‘Something’s wrong. A street scene at this time wouldn’t have been this busy.’

Harper watched for a moment as the paramedics continued the pre-hospital triage – a hell of a thing to be doing in a New York street: tagging each of the wounded red, amber or green depending on how long they’d live. The red-tags were already being moved to the ambulances. Amber and greens would have to wait in the street in horrible agony.

As soon as Harper and Levene entered Incident Command, they spotted Sergeant Luce Colhoon, who called them across.

‘Just got here,’ Harper said. ‘You have anything on the bomber?’

‘Listen, we’ve got emergency services taking care of the wounded. Three dead already in ambulances. We got the utilities on it – there’s a burst gas main somewhere down the street, but they’ve closed off the gas already. I’ve got no idea about the bomber. What we got to know, Detective, is this: what the hell happened?’

‘You speak to any witnesses?’

‘Nobody who can hear me. They’re all deaf.’

Harper went back to the street. He looked again at the mass of bodies outside the museum, and then across the street. Debris, smashed car glass. Walls full of shot. Dazed and wounded people sitting where they could, receiving treatment. The ground scattered with nails. A sickeningly barbaric device aimed at maiming the maximum number of people.

But there were too many dead and wounded. That’s what he saw again. Normally at this time, the street would’ve maybe had a dozen or so people on the sidewalks, but this looked like someone had let off a bomb in a crowd.

Harper edged forward, mentally totting up the numbers. He put his hand on the shoulder of a cop trying to clear a path for the paramedics.

‘You get anything from any witnesses?’

‘I don’t know. There was a guy on the second floor of the building opposite the museum who said he was watching the street. Saw a crowd streaming out of the museum – and then the blast shot his window out. He’s in one of the ambulances. Maybe he’s gone already.’

‘They were coming
out
of the museum before the bomb went off?’

‘That’s what the man said.’

Harper thought for a moment and looked up at the museum. There was a window out on the second floor. Not unusual given the scene, but it was the only one out. Maybe there had been a smaller blast first. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe someone had set off an alarm.

Harper pulled Denise across to the entrance and in through the shattered glass doors. Two security officers were helping set up a temporary hospital area in the foyer.

‘We got to find out what happened,’ Harper told Denise. ‘Talk to people.’

‘This is where Aaron Goldenberg works. I need to find him. He might be hurt.’

‘Okay, try to locate him,’ said Harper. He went up to a security guard. ‘Detective Harper. I need some information fast.’

‘Okay, sir, I’ll tell you what I can, but you gotta speak up.’ The guard tapped his ears by way of an explanation.

‘Okay. Listen, did something happen prior to the blast, anything you see from in here?’

‘Yeah, something, but I don’t know what it was. The fire alarm went off and people began to walk towards the exits, then this crowd started down the stairs from the upper floors, in a panic, caused everyone to stampede. We couldn’t stop them. They got out of the doors and then, BAM! The device went off.’

‘The alarm went off first? You sure? Sometimes it can get confusing.’

‘It went off first. That’s why the blast hit so many. Like they were running right into it.’

‘Can you show me where the alarm was set off?’

‘We didn’t get a chance to look. The control is in the back office. I’ll take you.’

The security guard took Harper inside the main office and through a back corridor to the security unit. It was empty. The security officer stood in front of a bank of lights. ‘It’s flashing in Area 8B, I got to look it up, give me a second.’ Harper gazed at the TV screens as the guard looked up the code. Two screens were blank, but the two screens on the outside of the building were still working.

‘8B is up on the second floor in the exhibition room.’

‘And these two cameras that are out?’

‘Shit, I didn’t see. Okay. Maybe something happened. They’re both from the exhibition room. Shit. That’s bad news. You don’t think someone’s set off something to . . .’

‘To what?’

‘To create a diversion and steal the artefacts?’

‘If that’s what’s going on, it’s the most fucked-up theft I ever heard of.’ Harper was already out the door, his Glock 19 firmly in his hand as he leaped up the stairs to the second floor. The security guard followed.

The second floor was quiet. Harper stopped. The big wooden doors at the end of the corridor were closed. He waited until the security guard caught up.

‘They should be open, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, let’s take this nice and slow. We don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Nice and slow.’

Harper made his way down the marble corridor, his reflection perfect in the freshly polished floor. At the door, he stopped and sank to his knees. He put his eye to the large old-fashioned keyhole and stared for a moment. It was enough. He turned and pulled out his radio.

‘Sergeant Colhoon, it’s Detective Harper,’ he whispered. ‘I’m in the museum up on the second floor.’

‘So what have you got for me, Detective?’

‘This is worse than we thought. The first blast happened up here. We’ve got several casualties on the second floor. And you’re going to need to call a SWAT team. Maybe two. The bomber is in the building. And he’s got hostages.’