Hostage Taker (28 page)

E
li was at his computer, tracing the details of Sean Sullivan’s fiscal life. He was Haddox’s technological equal when it came to following the ins, outs, and potential hiding spots for the U.S. dollar. Or any other currency, for that matter. His grandmother had always said
People spend their money how they want to spend their money.
She punctuated the statement with a huge shrug and an eye roll—as if to say she might not agree with their choice, but who was she to judge?

So what if the Kaufmans never managed to save a dollar in the bank but kept a Cadillac on the curb? Why should she care if the Mandels sent their three sons to private school uptown, not the highly regarded public down the block? And if miserly Mrs. Green played the penny stocks, made a small fortune, and couldn’t bring herself to spend a dime of it, then that was her own business. We were all different people who valued different things. This was the science of the mind that Eli understood—where such small details and individual choices spoke volumes about personality, behavior, and values.

In other words, people might lie—but their money never did.

So what did Sean Sullivan’s financial choices say about him?

He had joined the NYPD right after graduating from Saint John’s. Over his twenty-plus-year career with New York’s Finest, he’d earned promotions and raises at a rapid clip, suggesting that as a young man, Sean was a go-getter, just plain lucky, or both. He’d joined the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve and been deployed to join the War on Terror. He’d learned weapons expertise and interrogation techniques. His deployments had been his undoing. They had destroyed his first, brief “starter marriage” and then wrecked his second marriage to Meaghan. Which maybe wasn’t a bad thing—since financially, Meaghan had been his undoing. First when he married her, spending much more than he could comfortably afford on a fifteen-thousand-dollar engagement ring and a sixty-thousand-dollar wedding. Again when he divorced her and she took half of everything he owned.

Now he had thirty-four thousand dollars in credit card debt, was more than two months in arrears on his apartment rent, about to bounce his next alimony check, and his car had been repossessed. That was the big picture. It wasn’t pretty.

Eli ripped open a bag of chips, popped a handful in his mouth as he stretched his aching back. Several vertebrae cracked. The sound was ugly, but it relieved his tension. He resettled in front of the computer, opening a new screen filled with credit card and bank debit data.

He scanned the details. Sean Sullivan had spent most of his money on groceries and beer. He wrote checks to Con Ed and had paid his rent on time until he started struggling nine weeks ago. Every other Friday there was a charge at the Peking Kitchen, followed by Dusty’s Alehouse. Eli guessed it was a regular guy’s night out. A tradition no different than poker night. Sean must’ve participated whenever Meaghan had their daughter. Because other weekends his spending looked very different. Movies. Broadway shows. Lunches at Serendipity 3 and ice-skating in Wollman Rink. A typical dad trying to do fun things with his daughter.

He didn’t make any charitable contributions. There was nothing left over at the end of the month.

There were two incident reports in Sean’s history. Both had resulted in cash outlays for attorney’s fees.

In the first, Sean Sullivan had been named the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation into evidence-locker theft. Cash and ecstasy, taken from a series of busts his precinct had been responsible for.

Eli checked Sean’s bank account again. It was basic checking at Citibank. It had plenty of debits. But only a handful of deposits—all payroll ACH transfers initiated by the NYPD. If Sean had taken the money or sold the drugs, he’d put the proceeds under his mattress and left it there. His financial life showed no sign of a sudden infusion of cash.

Eli flipped to a new screen, searching for the investigation’s outcome. As of yet, there wasn’t one. He made a note of Sean’s police union representative. It would be worth giving the guy a call.

The second incident involved a complaint from his ex-wife, Meaghan, who had accused him of harassment and making threatening phone calls. She alleged that he broke into the home of the first man she dated seriously after the divorce. He rifled through the man’s emails and credit card bills, bookshelves and medicine chest. Then he’d dialed Meaghan and informed her that her new man liked girlie magazines and needed Viagra.

No outcome there, either. The date was five months ago. It appeared to have been a onetime incident that never repeated. More the result of poor judgment and too much alcohol than a bad pattern of behavior.

Eli felt a tap on his shoulder. Looked up, blinking into the lights.

Haddox was standing behind him, a grim expression on his face. “Hey, mate—we need to talk.”

“Those words are usually reserved for someone breaking up with me. Didn’t know there was a thing between us,” Eli said.

“You’ve been looking into the financial part of Sean Sullivan’s life. I’ve been learning the rest of it. Picking out the details of his background that might be relevant for Eve to know about. I’ve been studying his religious background and talking to his friends, learning as much as I can about his feelings toward the Church. About the sex abuse he suffered as a child. Not fun reading.”

Eli wasn’t sure where Haddox was going with this. “Sullivan’s also got major money issues. Running through them is no picnic, either.”

“Sullivan’s got a long case history.” Haddox pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shot a dismissive glance at the
NO SMOKING
sign before he lit up. “I’ve been looking, but I can’t find a connection to Eve in his past, anywhere. There’s nothing remarkable in his arrest records. Only Luis Ramos has ever had a brush with the law, and it didn’t involve Sullivan. But I did find one thing
really
interesting. Know what it involved?”

“A connection with the witnesses?” Eli asked, hopeful.

“Sullivan’s family.”

Eli froze. The truth hit him like a ton of bricks. He suddenly knew what Haddox was going to say, but he couldn’t manage to intercept it.

“That mobile phone number you gave me to track? The one whose last known whereabouts, best I could tell, were at the Hirschfeld Theater on West Forty-fifth Street enjoying a performance of
Kinky Boots
?”

“Yeah.” Eli blinked again, struggling to focus. He had no desire to lie to Haddox. He equally had no desire to have this conversation.

“Were you ever planning to tell me that Georgianna Murphy is the daughter of Sean Sullivan—the man holding all the hostages inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?”

W
e’d always heard that interpreters carried an extra risk of danger in case of capture. They’d be treated the roughest—tortured in ways an ordinary soldier never was—because the Afghans considered them traitors.

Even if, like Stacy, they’d grown up in Sacramento, California. And had no personal connection to the area by family or culture—just a gift for languages discovered while in college.

It happened in broad daylight, in the middle of the village square near the bazaar.

One minute everything was normal: A jittery walk through a crowded market. Looking for someone suspicious among reports of a suicide bomber.

Everyone’s attention was consumed by those men and women in long robes who might be concealing Christ-only-knew-what underneath. And all the villagers were jumpy and distracted. It was only natural when a unit of Marines with twitchy, nervous fingers was passing through their midst.

They entered the bazaar a unit of six plus an interpreter.

They exited a unit of six minus an interpreter.

I had to imagine what happened in the chaos of the moment—and I did. I helped my imagination along with plenty of solid evidence.

I took months to piece it together.

I understood what it’s like walking among people who want to kill me. I am familiar with the chaos that follows the firing of submachine guns. I understand the politics when Marines put civilians at risk. I even know why those jarheads with Stacy froze in the chaos—and didn’t act. They were twentysomething-year-old kids who just wanted the same thing we all did: to get back home safe.

I understand it. I just don’t accept excuses.

Didn’t then.

Don’t now.

Why couldn’t just one soldier go above and beyond the call of duty? Make a sacrifice to merit a commendation in his bureaucratic file? Just enough to busy some politician with a medal ceremony, and add a shiny gold badge to his uniform sleeve.

Sure, I was to blame. I’d encouraged Stacy to apply for the damn tour. I stupidly thought we were safer together than apart.

But why didn’t someone who was actually there step up? How hard was it to say, LISTEN, YOU COCKSUCKING RAGHEADS, GIVE US BACK WHAT’S OURS OR WE’LL RAPE YOUR PRECIOUS WIVES AND DAUGHTERS BEFORE WE BLOW THEM TO BITS?

Because goddamn it, we’re Marines.

That’s when I thought again about batty old Mrs. Brescia’s murder on Queens Boulevard. And decided most people are fucking sheep.

E
ve had only enough time to give Blair Vanderwert a few hasty words of advice before he had to answer the Hostage Taker’s call. She stared at the projection of the realtor’s image. He was sweating and had a stricken expression on his face.

“I don’t want to do this,” Blair said into her earpiece.

“I know,” Eve replied evenly. “But your conversation with him may be our first real clue to what he’s after. I’ll be right on the call with you. And if you’re unsure what to say, all you have to do is echo him. Do you know what I mean by that?”

Blair’s image shook its head. “I have no clue.”

“It’s a negotiation technique. It shows him you’re listening, but mainly just keeps him talking. So if he says,
I love summer at the lake,
and you don’t know how to respond, just mirror the thought. Come back with
Summer’s great,
or
The lake’s nice.
Don’t introduce anything new, like how you prefer winter or always get bitten up by mosquitoes at lakes. The goal is to follow whatever direction he takes.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“ ’Course you can. Tell me: What’s the highest listing you’ve sold this quarter?”

“In October, my client went to contract on a twenty-three-million-dollar townhouse on East Seventy-eighth.”

“If you can negotiate that, then you’ll do fine here.”

There was a buzzing in Eve’s ear.

“Go ahead and answer,” she directed Vanderwert. “It’s just like call waiting. Except it’ll generate a three-way connection, so I can stay right with you.”

She heard Blair take a raspy breath; then a
click
established the connection.

“Am I speaking with Blair Vanderwert?” Sean was using his best manners—and his best speaking voice. Eve thought that was a positive sign.

“This is he,” Blair answered.

“The realtor?”

“Yeah.”

“Know any good realtor jokes?”

“Uh…”

“I’ve got one. My realtor just sold me a two-story house. One story before I bought it. A different story after.”

“That’s a good one,” Blair managed.

“First, I need to check your ID. Is that image really you?”

“I-I think so,” Blair stammered.

“Kick your left leg up high, like you’re a Radio City Rockette.”

“Seriously?” Blair gave a halfhearted kick.

“Try again—and if you don’t do a better job, that hostage on the steps is going to get a bullet. And Eve won’t be able to stop it. You
are
still on the call, right, Eve?”

“Of course; I wouldn’t leave you all by yourself.”

“Meaning you don’t trust me alone with Blair.”

“Do you really want him to dance, or do you have something to ask him?”

“KICK!”

This time, the realtor kicked his left leg so high he nearly lost his balance. The image teetered and wobbled, then, finally, righted itself.

A cold gust of wind briefly turned falling snowflakes into a whirling tornado. For a moment, the neon projection dimmed. Vanderwert faded into a ghostly shadow of himself.

“Thank you. Now, one more test to make certain you’re who you say you are. Do you remember the closing you handled on July ninth?”

“In general, I remember my July closings. But you’d have to give me specifics to jog my memory. That’s around the Fourth of July. I had several clients close deals around then.” Vanderwert’s projected image brightened again.

“This was the Chung family. Family of four. Husband is a banker with Paribas; wife stays home with their two girls.”

“I-I remember,” Blair managed. “They bought on Park and Eighty-ninth.”

“Who was the lawyer who handled their closing?”

“It was Toby Blaine. He’s the attorney I always recommend when the buyer is experienced and doesn’t need a lot of handholding.”

“And they had an issue at closing. What was it?”

“The bank wire took forever to come through. We all sat there forever, waiting for the money to hit the account.”

From deep inside Rockefeller Plaza, music was playing again. “Silver Bells.” A couple of cops added their talents to the recording, offering plenty of spirit as they yowled off-key. Their noise would distract unwelcome onlookers—but Eve strained to hear the conversation she desperately needed to follow.

“Good. So let’s get down to business. Before you can truly witness the event to come, you must confess.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what a witness is, Blair?”

“In court. Where someone testifies about something they’ve seen or heard.”

“Excellent. That’s what will be required of you today. But to do it well, you need a clear head and a focused mind.”

“Sure, my mind is focused.”

He was echoing. Just continuing the conversation—conveying interest but no judgment—which was exactly what was needed. Eve allowed herself a quick sigh of relief.

“You don’t understand, Blair. You confess in order to
have
a focused mind.”

“You mean like in Church?”

“Less formal, but similar.”

Blair hesitated. “But I’m not Catholic. And I’m pretty sure you’re not a priest.”

So much for echoing. Eve’s heart sank.

“Is this really necessary?” Blair challenged. Eve realized the question was for her.

“How about I go first?” she answered.

“Sorry, Eve,” Sean interposed. “You’ve got a role to play here, but you’re no witness. C’mon, Vandy. It’s not so hard. Just tell me: What are you guilty of?”

“Umm…I regret not visiting my mother more before she died.”

“Yes, sins of omission are often the worst. Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Visit her more.”

“I was busy. She was sick. It scared me.”

“Good. What else?”

“I waste money. Last year, I threw out a six-hundred-dollar pair of shoes because I stepped in dog crap and wanted to vomit every time I thought about cleaning them.”

“C’mon. You can do better than that. What are you
really
guilty of?”

“I don’t know what you want,” Blair responded, exasperated. “Do I make mistakes? Sure. Everybody makes mistakes. But I’m not a bad person. I don’t steal. I don’t kill.”

Eve winced. Forget echoing. That last comment was going to take the conversation in the wrong direction. She was losing control.

“So what does that make me, Blair? A bad person? Since I
am
responsible for people dying.”

“As am I,” Eve broke in. “Maybe I didn’t intend it, but people have died or been hurt because I made a mistake. Too many people.”

There was a pause. Sean seemed to be processing the information.

Eve wondered: Had she said enough to deflect Sean’s attention? Her heart was racing.

“Eve, I don’t really care about the times you’ve screwed up,” Sean said. “You’re dealing with assholes most of the time; it’s bound to happen. I want you to tell me something you’re scared to tell. Tell me more of your story—the one about the man with the tattoo?”

Eve shivered as a gust of wind caught the edge of her jacket. She blinked the flurry of snow out of her eyes. And reminded herself:
The content of these stories is never the important thing. What is important is to distract—to further the connection, build the illusion of trust.

“The man who wears that number on his arm has only been captured once in his life—by the Germans. Bureaucrats at heart, they kept complete files. It took some digging, but I was able to find his records.”

“You personally?” Sean sounded intrigued.

“With a translator, of course.”

“The FBI helped?”

“No. This was personal—and I was on leave. I got help from a German tour guide, a young woman who spoke eight languages.” She was on tenterhooks, aware of the rhythm of her blood, pumping through her heart.

“Europeans are impressive that way. What did you learn?”

“I learned that the number had been tattooed onto the man’s arm when he was still a boy, not yet turned thirteen. Based on the records, I found the name he was born with. I found the names of his mother and sister, both now dead. Then I went to France. I found the family home, the place he went to school; I even talked with people who remembered him. They were used to questions; plenty of others had passed through their town before, asking the same ones. But none of the questions led to the right answers, and I think I’ve figured out why. The boy died in the camps. An entirely different man was born there. The boy and that man have just one thing in common: the blue number tattooed on their forearm.”

“Why do you care so much about this man with the number on his arm?”

“That’s another part of the story, for another time.” Eve said it lightly.

“Guess we’ve wasted enough time on stories. Let’s put the next witness on the line, shall we? I’m ready to talk with Cassidy Jones.”