Hostage Taker (16 page)

N
ow that Haddox knew Cassidy Jones was an actress, finding her was a breeze. Cassidy shared an apartment with two other actresses in Astoria, Queens, above a Greek diner. She’d moved here from Georgia five years ago, searching for her big break. She was still waiting for it to come. But she had secured an up-and-coming agent at William Morris to represent her, putting her in a better place than most.

Cassidy wasn’t home, but her roommate was. She gave her name as Chloe, and judging from the slow way she drawled her vowels, she was a Georgia transplant just like Cassidy.

“Cass is out,” she told Haddox. No offer to take a message.

“Listen, I’ve just gotten off the phone with Bob at WME,” Haddox improvised. Cassidy’s agent, Bob, hadn’t wanted to be bothered—and had actually hung up on Haddox. But strictly speaking, Haddox was telling the truth. “I really need to reach Cassidy, but she’s not picking up her cell.”

He heard the crackle of chewing gum. “That’s cuz she’s at work. She’s not allowed to take calls during her shift.”

“When does she finish her shift?”

“Six tonight.”

“Listen, I’m with a crew at Rockefeller Center who wants to bring her on down, but six tonight is too late. Could you give me her work number?”

“You mean NBC?”

Haddox glanced at the building that soared to the sky behind him. “I’m in front of their studios right now.” The most believable lies were actually half-truths. When you offered a small detail that could be interpreted several different ways, you could count on your listener to imagine what she wanted.

Chloe was silent. Haddox imagined her battling feelings of jealousy. Wondering why Cassidy was getting interest from NBC but the phone wasn’t ringing for her. It was always tough on a friendship when one career took off and the other didn’t.

Haddox scanned the files of both girls. Cassidy was a five-foot-eight platinum blonde, full-figured à la Marilyn Monroe with a Heidi Klum smile. Chloe was a five-foot-one former gymnast with short, dark hair—more of a ringer for Mary Lou Retton.

“There aren’t many tall blondes like Cassidy available right now,” he said. No reason, he figured, for Chloe to get bent out of shape over nothing. He also laid his brogue on thick. In his experience, women responded to musical Irish vowels.

This one was no exception.

“I can find the number if you give me a second to look.” Another snap of the gum. Fourteen seconds passed; then Chloe was back, rattling off a 718 number.

“And where is this?” he asked.

“The Utopia,” she replied. “It’s a diner—and it’s actually downstairs. If you have trouble reaching her, I can walk down and give her the message.”

With memories of
good times with Sweet Pea still dancing in his head, Mace strode up the steps of the squat brick station house on Thirty-fifth Street near Ninth Avenue. Midtown West Precinct. Still known informally as “the Busiest Precinct in the World,” even though a few years ago some official made them take down the banner that advertised it. After all, these guys policed Times Square, the tourist traps and hotels, and all three transportation hubs: Port Authority Bus Terminal, Grand Central Terminal, and Penn Station.

They had another reputation besides being busy: These were the NYPD’s bad boys, the black sheep who’d gotten caught doing everything from trading favors at the local strip clubs to going shopping at the trucking bays in the garment district. Where valuable stuff sometimes just happened to fall off the truck when the cops showed up. In Mace’s book, that made them slightly more interesting than the average cop.

He walked up to the receptionist. She was a no-nonsense woman who met his infectious grin—the same one most women couldn’t help but respond to—with a frosty glare. She was going to be a challenge.

He kept his broad smile pasted on and said, “Think you could help me locate somebody?”

“You know how many people come through these doors every day?”

“More than I can imagine, I’ll bet,” Mace answered earnestly. “But I don’t mean a
particular
officer. I just need you to point me toward someone who knows what’s going on. Who has his fingers in all the cookie jars.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“You must know an officer who could help a brother out?” His smile broadened.

“I ain’t nobody’s babysitter.”

He sighed. “Just looking for a little interagency cooperation.” Mace pulled his old FBI ID out of his wallet.

No luck. The no-nonsense woman was immune to both his charm and his badge. She pawned him off to the nearest warm body. “Go see Sergeant Rodriguez over there.” She stabbed a finger toward a weary-looking young man sitting at a desk buried in paperwork. “He handles general inquiries.”

Mace almost agreed, figuring that was the best he’d manage to do. Besides, maybe Sergeant Rodriguez only
looked
like a dweeb who never broke the rules.

Then he hesitated—because something important had occurred to him.

How could he have missed the solution to his problem? It had been staring him in the face as he walked into the precinct house.

So he said “Maybe later” to the ice queen—and turned to leave.

Two down. Three
to go. Blair Vanderwert—the next name on the Hostage Taker’s list—was a cakewalk to locate. He was a New York City realtor who specialized in Upper East Side properties.

Haddox didn’t think he would like him much. Vanderwert’s website profile was the picture of a man who seemed far too pleased with himself. Bleached white teeth. Fake smile. Perfect hair. Tweed blazer and cotton plaid shirt. The man was probably incapable of killing a cockroach who invaded his kitchen, but he had dressed like he was going hunting with the hounds.

Still, Blair Vanderwert was nothing if not easy to find. He maintained an office with a receptionist. His email and cell number were posted all over the Internet. His latest tweet was eleven minutes ago.

Haddox didn’t bother trying to call him now. Vanderwert would be there for the taking when he needed him.

At least, so long as Haddox played the perfect cover. And reading about Vanderwert’s record-setting sales in twenty-two buildings and $150 million yearly sales volume, Haddox knew that wouldn’t be a problem.

F
our hours, thirteen minutes to go.

A security camera on the northeast corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-second Street had picked up the image of a cop matching the description given by Angus MacDonald. The cop was walking in the general direction of Saint Patrick’s at 6:49. His head was turned—but the footage was being circulated throughout every NYPD precinct all the same.

Eve dialed the leader of Omega Team—an interagency SWAT team—on a secure line. Henry Ma had authorized a search-and-discovery mission. In the event that Eve failed to negotiate an acceptable outcome with the Hostage Taker, they urgently needed to devise a plan that would minimize casualties and damage. Both to any hostages and to Saint Patrick’s itself.

Eve knew that this was the right move. While there had been small victories in her dealings with the Hostage Taker, she was very far from understanding who he was and what made him tick. Absent a breakthrough on her end, they desperately needed information. To know any vulnerabilities and possible entry points. The number and location of potential hostages. The position of the Hostage Taker or Takers.

But there was no question that this was high-stakes poker. A massive roll of the dice. If the Omega Team blew their cover, they would be back to square one—or worse. The fragile thread of trust between Eve and the Hostage Taker would be broken—and the lives of all hostages would be at terrible risk.

The Omega Team planned to approach from the roof of the Rectory at the rear of the Cathedral. They hoped to be out of sight of the sniper who had already killed two innocent victims.

“Heat seekers, cameras, microphones, anything you can use covertly,” Eve explained to the Omega leader. “But if you blow our cover, we’re screwed.”

“You got it, Agent Rossi,” the lead man promised. “Just hope what’s up above is different from down below. We’ve never been stalemated like this before. The Hostage Taker’s got every access point we can think of either locked down or loaded up with explosives.”

“You had no luck with the sewers?”

“No, ma’am. We talked with Church officials and used the incomplete blueprints on file with the city. Checked every single drain and supply line listed. But he’s poured concrete down every damn pipe. Didn’t miss even one.”

“So let’s keep looking for something the Hostage Taker hasn’t thought about,” she told him. “The main thing is to figure out what’s going on inside. In particular, we need to confirm how many people he’s holding. And to your point, how many bad guys we’re going to have to take out.”

“Acknowledged. I’m sending the men up in groups of two—Team Alpha and Team Delta. Twenty minutes to green light order for Team Alpha.”

Then Eve heard him talking to his Special Ops units. “Ready? This is terminal countdown: five, four, three, two, one…mark.”

T
he whole point of Mace’s visit to the Midtown West Precinct had been to find out who they suspected of stealing that mother lode of explosives that had gone missing from the evidence locker. The same mother lode that—just maybe—had been used to booby-trap Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

Then he realized: He didn’t need one of New York’s Finest to tell him about it. In fact, better to avoid the precinct house altogether—since his own odds were about fifty-fifty whether he would end up dealing with a standup guy or a total prick. And he didn’t have time for bullshit. The deadline was going to expire. There were only four hours, two minutes to go.

It just so happened a better option was waiting for him outside.

Mace had noticed the girl sitting on the stoop of the plain squat five-floor building next door. She looked about ten years old.

All alone.

Just her and a deflated basketball that had lost its bounce.

Mace hadn’t made the connection before. But then the lightbulb had gone off—and the timing couldn’t have been better. The kid was the daughter of Vernon Brown. A guy the fellas in the Bronx called “the merchant of death” because he controlled virtually all arms deliveries to rival violent narcotics gangs in Morrisania. Mace made it a point to know the family members of all the kingpins of NYC. Never know when that connection could come in handy.

The girl watched Mace approach, tracking him carefully.

“Hey, kid. What’s up?” Mace kept his tone casual.

“The sky.”

Mace stopped. Made a show of looking up into pewter-colored clouds that threatened snow. Then looked down with a delighted grin. “What d’ya know? You’re right. You play?” He pointed to the ball.

A scowl. “No.”

“How come? ’Cause that ball don’t work no more?”

The girl was quiet for a second. “No. ’Cause I’m too short. And I’m a girl.”

Mace nodded. He’d gotten it wrong. The kid’s face and voice were about fourteen. It was her body that had gotten stuck at ten. “Short don’t mean you can’t play ball.”

“Means I can’t play
well.
”

“You kiddin’ me? Tell that to Muggsy Bogues. You know who he is, right?”

The girl looked down.

“He’s only five-foot-three. Shortest player ever in the NBA. But he was the number-twelve draft pick his year out, and he played point guard in the big leagues for fourteen seasons.”

“How’d he do that?”

“He was lightning fast, with great instincts. A ball hawk. Maybe you could learn to play like him. Your name’s Ashley, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve heard your dad talk about you. There a court nearby where I could show you a few things?”

“Maybe.” The girl flushed. “You any good?”

“I ain’t LeBron James—but I can hold my own. Couldn’t live without it, if you know what I mean.” Mace pointed to the precinct house. “Your dad in there?”

“Yeah.”

“When did they come for him?”

“Early this morning. Like they always do. Before sunup.”

“He told you to come wait?”

“Nah. I just wanted to.”

“School?”

The girl looked down. “I missed all morning anyway.”

Mace lifted an eyebrow. “Guess you didn’t wake up early enough, huh?”

“Dad needed me to do stuff.”

“Who’d he tell you to call?”

“Snoopy.”

That changed Mace’s view of things considerably. If Vernon was guilty of what they’d brought him in for, he’d have wanted the message to go to Juice Gomez. Juice knew how to tidy things up. Essentially do damage control. But Snoopy? He was the guy whose job was to dig up dirt. Calling Snoopy meant Vernon had no intention of doing time for somebody else’s crime. “How ’bout we play some ball—then you take me to Snoopy? I might have some info that would help him out with your dad.”

For the first time, the kid’s eyes lit up. “Cool. But Snoop’s supposed to come here. In another”—she scrunched up her face, checked the time—“twenty-five minutes.”

Mace nodded, then reached for the ball. He picked it up like a grapefruit, in the span of his right hand. “Just enough time to put some air in this baby and teach you a cool trick or two. Why don’t you text him? Tell him to come to where we’re playin’ hoops.”

Mace knew Eve would probably think he was playing around in the middle of a crisis. Not doing his job.

He liked to call it networking. It was important work.

Guys with suits did it at places like the Yale Club or Jean-Georges.

He did it with a basketball and a fifteen-foot jumper on the court.

Before Eli placed
the call he’d been putting off, he popped a Tums into his mouth—hoping it would remedy the indigestion his pastrami and corned beef had given him.

“Principal Grady’s office.” The voice that answered was flat and uninterested. Definitely not wanting to be bothered.

Eli got straight to the point. Rattled off his name and FBI credentials. Then said, “I’m conducting a welfare check on one of your students.”

“Name?”

“Name’s Murphy. Georgianna Murphy.”

“You got a warrant?”

“I just need to know that the kid showed up to school okay this morning.”

“We don’t share information about our students. Period. Not without a court order or a warrant.”

“Perhaps I could speak with Principal Grady,” Eli offered.

“She won’t tell you anything different.”

“Maybe not. But if this student is in trouble, she’d probably like to know. Sooner rather than later.”

Eli watched the second hand sweep around the clock. He knew managing a school was one of the most important yet completely thankless jobs in the world. Administrators were overburdened, underpaid—and yet still keenly invested in the success and well-being of their students. Otherwise they couldn’t do what they did every day.

Problem was: This receptionist was taking a helluva long time to remember that.

The second hand revolved seven times around the clock face. Then Eli heard a series of beeps as the transfer went through.

Three witnesses down.
Two to go.

Haddox was grateful for small things. In this case, the fact that the Hostage Taker had been proactive in telling Eve that the Luis Ramos he wanted had a middle initial,
J,
and worked as a window washer at Trump Tower. Based on that, Haddox had his records in seconds. It seemed Luis had been caught committing a minor traffic violation. The problem was: Luis was an illegal immigrant, so he had been formally charged and threatened with deportation. Which had sent the window washer underground, where his trail went ice cold.

Three hours, fifty-two minutes left until deadline.

Haddox knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But that was just the way he liked it.

The principal was
named Julie Grady. Second-generation Italian, married to an Irish cop. Fourteen years on the job.

“Thanks for talking,” Eli said, repeating his FBI credentials and emphasizing that he was calling on behalf of the Murphy family. Specifically, the mother.

“Mrs. Murphy needs to call me herself,” Julie Grady said. “Student records—and that includes attendance records—are confidential. I’m sure you understand. I’m not authorized to talk with you.”

“I know that,” Eli said, “but she’s already panicked. Listen, this isn’t really about the child—or her record. It’s about her mother. Just tell me she has no reason to worry.” Eli explained about the ex-husband having custody, which blocked all official intervention until his custody period ended. How cops needed a better reason than “my daughter won’t call me back” to issue Amber Alerts and warrants and take other preemptive action. “Do you have kids?” he asked the principal.

“Three. Where’s this going?”

“Well, imagine we’re talking about your daughter—and one day she just didn’t check in. Even though she
always
made a habit of it.”

“How about we trade some information?” Julie Grady said without hesitation, to Eli’s surprise. “An answer for an answer. But
completely
off the record.”

“Deal. We never spoke,” Eli vowed. “You first.”

“I’ve got reason to believe that Georgianna’s home life is causing her difficulty. Am I correct?”

“Both parents appear to be facing some personal and professional challenges. To say that in English, Mom and Dad had a bitter divorce, Mom’s unemployed, Dad’s been suspended from work. Now my turn.” Eli doodled with the pen on his desk. “Is Georgianna in school today?”

“No. However, Georgianna has a history of cutting class. In recent weeks, quite frequently. We left another message this morning with her father.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t worry?”

“I didn’t say that. Her teachers have been concerned.
Very
concerned.”

“When did she go missing?”

“Day before yesterday. Sometime between lunch period and her two-o’clock history class.”