Apprentice in Death (18 page)

When they reached the drop-off point, McNab gave Peabody a finger wiggle and slipped out with Callendar.

Didn't look like cops, Eve thought, in the bright coats, patterned airboots. They walked briskly, as anyone would on a windy night in January.

Eve ran through check-ins from her men, from Lowenbaum and his as Roarke and Feeney got to work.

“He's got it barricaded,” Feeney told her.

“What do you mean, barricaded?”

“Shields on the doors, on the windows. Stun deflectors. He's put some work in here, and some serious moola.”

“Can you get through them?”

“Not with a stun or a laser on anything under five. He's got some jammers set up, too, but give us a minute here.”

“Last stand,” she murmured. “He figured he had more time, time enough to finish the mission, hoped to get out with his daughter. But if and when it came down to it, he'd take his last stand here. Are they in there?”

“Working on it,” Roarke muttered while Feeney coordinated with
McNab and Callendar. “The place may be a pile of shite, but he invested well in his bloody moat. There now, nearly there now. Feeney?”

“Yeah, I got you. McNab, you following?”

“Right behind you, Captain. It's wobbling, it's sputtering, and . . . we got it. Several heat sources popping, but . . .”

“I don't think so,” Roarke said quietly. “Another minute here.”

“He's set them up. Counterfeits—it's false imaging,” Feeney explained. “We can survey and eliminate.”

“First floor's generated. No warm bodies there,” Roarke said.

“Surveying second level.” Feeney nodded at the small screen. “And it's clear.”

“We're on three,” McNab announced. “Knocking down the bullshit.”

“And that's one.” Callendar's satisfied voice came through. “Single heat source third floor, north corner facing west, behind shielded window.”

“That's not the girl.” Eve hunkered down for a better look. “Too tall.”

“She could have gone out for food,” Peabody suggested, “supplies.”

“I don't think so. He's on duty. He's waiting for us. We'll give it thirty, in case. If she went out for food, that's enough time. Baxter, Trueheart, split off, take a walk, check takeout joints, 24/7s, delis, any market still open within a three-block radius. If you spot her, don't let her make you.”

“Peeling off now.”

“If she's outside, bringing home some egg rolls, we take her down—fast, hard, done. We may be able to bargain Mackie into surrendering if we have her as weight.”

“But you don't think so.” Feeney turned to her. “He sent her out, stay covered, stay safe so you can finish the mission. He's the distraction.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that's my gut on it, but we have to see it through. She could be anywhere. Lowenbaum, we need him alive. He can be hurting, but we need him breathing. Have you got a shot?”

“He knows how to keep covered, Dallas, and that's what he's doing. We can punch some holes in the barricades, but right now, we can't take him out.”

“Battering ram would take down the door,” she considered, “but give him time for whatever he has in mind by the time we get to the third floor. Taking out as many of us as he can, taking himself out. Worse, targeting civilians.”

She closed her eyes a moment, held up a hand so nobody spoke and interrupted her thoughts. “Lowenbaum, does Tactical have anything handy that'll cut through those crappy walls—the common wall?”

After a beat of silence he answered. “Yeah. Yeah, we've got something.”

“Stay where you are. I'm coming to you. Can you spare Roarke?” she asked Feeney.

“I think the kids and I can handle things.”

“You're with me. You don't look like a cop.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Peabody, give me that stupid coat.”

“My coat!”

“Pink coat, snowflake hat.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “I don't look like a cop.”

“Beg to differ,” Roarke murmured.

“I know how to not look like a cop. I need like a . . .” She gestured.

“Purse?”

“Yeah, yeah, a bag thing. Tool or tools can go in that. What've we got in here?”

Feeney pulled open a drawer. “McNab's old satchel.”

The old satchel was a wild green just short of fluorescent, with a jagged lightning bolt pattern done in Peabody pink.

“Christ, it's nearly as bad as one of Jenkinson's ties.”

“I heard that,” Jenkinson said in her ear.

“It's not a secret. Okay, give me your coat.” Eve took off her much-loved coat, put on Peabody's girlie pink coat, and dragged her own cap onto her head. “The scarf, too.”

Eve wound Peabody's bold, brightly colored scarf around her neck.

“It actually looks really good with the bag.”

“Don't ever say that again.” She hitched the bag on cross-body like a sensible New Yorker, and slipped out of the van.

“We need to circle the block, come around from the south, hook up with Lowenbaum. Then we're going to walk fast, hold hands, laugh and talk, straight to the connecting duplex.”

“So I assumed.” And, though there was no need to do so at this point, he took her hand as they walked west. “There are heat sources in the attached house—three of them. One would be a small dog, possibly a large cat.”

“We'll deal with that.”

“I don't doubt it.”

As they walked they passed Baxter, who kept going as he spoke in her earbud. “No sign of her yet. Trueheart?”

“I've hit two places with previous sightings—pizza joint, deli. Nobody's seen her today or tonight.”

“Finish the sweep, then retake your positions. Without her as a bargaining chip, odds are slim to nada on talking him out.”

As they rounded the next corner, Lowenbaum hopped out of the big armored van. “Got battering rams, sledgehammers, torches, but I figured you didn't want to make that much noise.”

“Not if you've got something else.

“Laser cutter. She'll go through those interior walls like shit through a goose. Not as noisy as the other options, but she hums. If he hears it, he'll know what it is.”

“We'll make sure he doesn't hear it.”

“I can go in, create an entry.”

“I need you out here, Lowenbaum. The chances of me taking out a trained sniper most likely in body armor with my sidearm? Low. We're the distraction, and believe me, we're going to duck and cover when necessary. I need you to take him down—that's on you. We'll get him to move—you tell me when and where—and we'll make it happen so you can take him down.”

“You can count on that. Do either of you know how to work a laser cutter?”

“I do, yes.” Roarke took it, studied it. “And a fine one it is,” he added as he put inside the satchel.

“I'm going to call Trueheart and Baxter in. Make sure everyone's aware there are civilians in the attached house. We'll get them to a secured area, but stay aware.”

She started to walk again. “Baxter, Trueheart, back to post. Roarke and I are heading for the corner of Third and Eighteenth, about to move into suspect's eyeline.”

“In that case.” Roarke wrapped an arm around her, glued her to his side. “Could we look less concerned about murderers?”

When they stopped at the corner, she tugged him down to her for a kiss, studied the target location, and murmured against his mouth, “He's scanning the street, so he's seen us. But he hasn't moved to cover the back. Might have some sort of early warning system set up for that.”

She snuggled in against him as they crossed at the light. “We're going straight to the neighbors, like we're expected.”

“Jan Maguire, Philippe Constant. I looked them up while you were changing coats.”

“Jan and Phil, got it. Do you want to tell me how come you know how to work a laser cutter?”

He grinned down at her. “Not at this time.”

She grinned back, let out a laugh she hoped carried. “Thank God we're here. I'm freezing! We're springing for a cab on the way home.”

“Let's see how it goes.”

They walked up the steps and, with their backs to the target, pressed the buzzer.

Roarke shifted his body to block any possible view from the adjoining duplex when Eve palmed her badge.

“First trick is to get them to open the door, fast. After that, just move in. We'll deal with the rest inside.”

She didn't need a trick, as the door opened.

The man, mid-thirties, wearing a gray Mets sweatshirt and jeans with holes in the knees, frowned at the badge.

“What?”

“Hey, Philippe!” With a blast of a smile, Eve moved forward. Roarke closed the door at their backs.

“Wait just a—”

“There's trouble next door. I'm Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and this is my consultant. I need you to call Jan—just call her from wherever she is.”

“But I want to know—”

“Philippe,” Roarke said in a smooth, easy tone. “The quicker you
follow the lieutenant's instructions, the quicker we'll explain. How's your soundproofing?”

“Our—well, we're working on it. Why—”

“I see you're doing some renovations,” Roarke continued in that same conversational tone, then glanced at Eve. “Handy.”

“Yeah, should be. Call her, get her down here.” As she spoke, Eve stripped off the pink coat because it made her feel like an idiot, tossed it on a seriously old-fashioned hall rack someone had painted bright blue.

“Let me see that badge again.”

Eve held it closer, waited while he studied it, and her. And, still watching her, he shouted out, “Jan! Come on down here.”

“Phil, I'm in the middle of—”

“Come on, Jan.”

Moments later a tall woman in paint-splattered overalls, blond hair bundled up under a Yankees cap appeared. A mop head of white scurried down after her, yipping all the way. “I was just putting another coat of— Oh, sorry. I didn't know there was anyone here.”

“They're the cops.”

“The—”

Jan stopped when Eve put a finger to her lips, then scooped up what had to be a dog, continued down the stairs.

“Let's take this back there.” Eve gestured. “Have you got a music system? How about you put on some music, like you would when friends come over. There's trouble next door,” she repeated. “You share a wall, and your soundproofing's iffy. Put on some music, we'll go in the back, and I'll tell you what's going on.”

As the dog wiggled to get down, Jan groped for Philippe's hand. “Behave, Lucy! I told you something was off with the new people, Phil. What did they— Okay.” She shook her head, sucked in some air. “Let's go back to the lounge. You won't believe how great it looks now.”

Eve gave her a nod of approval. “Can't wait to see it.”

“Put on some tunes, Phil, and let's crack that wine. I don't know how much they can hear over there,” Jan said quietly as they headed back, past dingy walls, spaces where dingy walls had obviously been torn down. “We can sort of hear them—their screen noises, and on the third floor some thumping around. That's where our workshop is, so we spend a lot of time up there.”

When they reached what Jan called the lounge, Eve noted it was pretty great. They'd transformed the space into a cozy, retro-style kitchen with warm gray counters and a lot of plants thriving under dull silver gro-lights. It spread into a lounge space with big cushy furniture, floor pillows, funky lamps on one side, and a long table with eight mismatched chairs under a trio of wire balls that served as pendant lights.

In the corner sat another pillow with three short sides, and a bone-shaped toy in fluorescent blue.

“Isn't this charming.”

“Thanks.” Jan offered Roarke an uncertain smile as she set the dog down. It scurried—Did it have feet under that hair? Eve wondered—grabbed the bone, and scurried back with it clamped in its teeth like a bright blue cigar. “We've been working hard on it. Month fourteen now.”

Roarke tapped a finger on the kitchen island. “You're doing the work yourselves?”

“With some friends as slave labor. We wanted this area done first, and the powder room down there. We're nearly finished with the master suite now.”

“Great.” While she understood Roarke's line of conversation served to calm the civilians, time mattered. She tapped her earbud. “Feeney, where is he?”

“Still third level.”

“Let me know if he moves. This is an NYPSD operation,” she began
as the dog stared up at her—she could just see its eyes. “The individuals next door are suspects in an ongoing investigation. We know the adult male is currently stationed on the third floor of the adjoining building. Have you seen the second individual?”

“The boy?” Philippe frowned, looked at Jan. “I don't remember seeing him today, but I was at work, didn't get back until around six.”

“I worked here today, third floor. I was painting. I saw him head out, maybe about four, four-thirty? I'm not sure of the time, it could've been a little later. He had his backpack and some sort of big case. I don't know if he came back. They're dangerous, aren't they?”

“Yes, they are. We need your cooperation,” Eve continued as Jan scooped up the dog again, held it like a baby in her arms. “Let me assure you, there are police stationed outside, and our first priority is your safety.”

“Oh man.” Philippe pulled Jan against his side. “What did they do? We've got a right to know.”

“They're the prime suspects in the strikes on Wollman Rink and Times Square.”

“I'm going to sit down.” Jan's color drained away as she pulled out a counter stool. “I'm just going to sit down a minute.”

Scared, Eve noted, but not surprised.

“Have they approached you?”

“The opposite,” Jan said. “Both made it clear they didn't want any neighborly interaction. The boy's only here half the time.”

“Actually, it's a girl.”

“Really? The man calls him—her—Will. I heard that a few times. He—damn it, she goes off every other week. I figured it's a custody deal, and would've felt a little sorry about it, but
she
gave me the creeps. Something about her just had the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.”

“She's just a kid,” Philippe murmured.

“Who, along with her father, is responsible for the deaths of seven people. We could wait him out, but other lives are on the line. In the case she carried away with her is, we believe, a long-range laser rifle. We need to capture her father and learn her location and the name and location of her next target. The quickest, cleanest way, we feel, is to do that from inside.”

“Inside what?”

“Phil.” Jan shook her head at him. “Inside here to inside there. Common wall.”

“Go through our place to his? He's armed, isn't he?”

“He is. So are we. There are twenty cops, armed, ready to move in. If we take the building by force, there will be injuries, possibly fatalities. This way lessens.”

“You have to get Jan out, get her to safety first.”

“We can work with that.”

“No.” Jan pushed to her feet again. “No, because first I'm not going without you, and if we both go and he sees us, the whole thing falls apart.”

“We could walk Lucy.”

“Phil, you walked Lucy right after you got home. It wouldn't look right if we went out again with her, and we've got . . . well, company.”

“We can keep you safe inside,” Eve told them. “My word on it. Do you do any renovations in the evenings like this?”

“Sure. We knock off anything that's annoyingly noisy around ten, but most of this is done in the evenings and on weekends.”

“We need to see the second floor. You're just taking your friends upstairs, showing them the work. Okay?”

“Jan?”

“We're going to be okay, Phil.”

“I'm not letting anything happen to you, so yeah, we're going to be okay. So let's get married.”

“You said—what?”

“I love you, you love me. We adopted a dog together. We're building a home together, and I'm taking this as a sign. Let's get married.”

“I . . . yeah.” On a half laugh, Jan threw her arm around Philippe's neck, pressed with the little dog held between them. “Let's get married.”

“Congratulations, but maybe we could hold off on the wine and applause until
after
we've taken the killer next door into police custody.”

“Sorry. This is the strangest, scariest night of my life.” Philippe dropped his brow to Jan's. “And it made me realize I want to spend all the rest of them with you.”

“Sweet. Kudos. Let's move.”

As Eve strode out, Roarke dropped a hand on Philippe's shoulder. “Love changes everything. I proposed to my wife after we limped away from a physical altercation with another serial killer. Good times.”

“Feels surreal, but I guess not so much when you're a cop.”

“She is. I'm not.”

Eyes widened, Philippe pointed at Eve, then at Roarke, got a nod.

“And trust me, you and your fiancée couldn't be in better hands.”

Eve walked straight back—rooms without doors, rooms full of building supplies—to the master suite in progress.

“This is directly under him,” she said quietly. “Anything that's not inane chatter about decor and marriage, keep it down.”

“This room's soundproofed,” Jan told her.

“All the better.” Eve looked up, imagined Mackie, then studied the communal wall.

It didn't matter to her it was smooth, clean, and the color of Irish moss. It mattered that the wall led to Reginald Mackie.

“I just finished the second coat—or nearly finished.” Jan sighed. “Does it really have to be this wall?”

“Quickest, safest. The department will have it fully repaired, and in a timely fashion. I'll make sure of it. Feeney?”

“Got you. He's maintaining position. I read four people in your location, and the dog, directly under his.”

“We're going in from here. The two civilians and the dog will return to the main level, rear—get your outdoor gear,” she told them. “And be ready to be removed to safety if necessary.”

“Copy that,” Feeney responded. “Two civilians and, ah, a dog, to be taken out when needed. How about a little distraction on the street—draw his attention while you're cutting through.”

“Couldn't hurt.”

“Tell me when you're ready.”

Eve pulled the laser cutter out of the satchel. “We're ready.”

“Jenkinson, Reineke, you're on,” Feeney announced.

“That's top-of-the-line.” Drawn to the tool, Philippe moved closer. “We invested in a good one, but that's top-of-the-line.”

“It's yours,” Eve said on impulse. “When we're done here.”

“No shit?”

“None whatsoever.” She handed the cutter to Roarke. “Get your gear, go downstairs, back to that lounge area. If we need you out, cops will get you clear. Otherwise, hold tight, keep quiet.”

Eve gave the dog—still clamping the blue bone—a steady stare. “And keep the dog quiet, too, if you can.”

Jan took one more look at the wall. “It's just paint. And new wiring. And soundproofing.”

Philippe put his arm around her to lead her out. “And every time we look at it, we'll remember the night we got engaged.”

Eve waited until they were clear, then pulled out her weapon. “Just big enough for us to get through.”

Roarke hunkered down, switched on the tool.

It hummed, but to Eve's ears Galahad's sleeping purr pitched louder.

“Curtain's up,” Feeney said in her ear.

Eve sidestepped to the window, spotted her detectives—hanging on
to each other as drunks do. Soundproofing and what she took to be new windows aside, she could hear them singing.

Top of the lungs, she imagined, in some sort of actual harmony.

Stumbling, falling-down drunks, carrying each other home.

Not bad.

She moved back to Roarke, who'd cut a thin line from the baseboard up about two feet, and began to cut another two feet away.

“Can't you cut faster?”

“Do you want it quiet or fast?”

“Both.”

“Just hold your water, Lieutenant.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Don't piss yourself,” Feeney informed her.

“Then it oughta be ‘don't piss yourself.' He's nearly through.” She angled her recorder.

“Copy that. He shifted some, but they don't have a clear shot. Your boys have his attention. Jeez, some street LC's trying to work them. You see that?”

“I can live without seeing two of my detectives getting propped by an LC. We've got a hole. Going through.”

Even as she bellied down, Roarke slid in front of her. She tugged, jerked her thumb behind her, but he just shook his head, and wormed his way through.

“Roarke's in,” she whispered. “I'm behind him.” She blocked out annoyance—who was the cop here—and slithered through into a room dark as pitch.

Roarke touched her arm, then switched on a penlight.

She followed it, scanning a room about the size of the one they'd left. She made out an air mattress, a sleeping bag, a batt-powered lamp, and a nearly empty bottle of liquor—maybe gin, maybe vodka. Folding table and chair, she noted, with a tablet and a small printer.

The door stood open to more dark.

“He's got it blacked out in here,” she murmured to Feeney. “Probably has night-vision goggles. We're moving. Stay low,” she told Roarke, and combat crawled toward the door.

He stayed ahead of her again—he was longer, and he had the light. She'd have something to say to him about that later.

“Through the door, moving toward the stairs. Going silent.”

She moved into a crouch, slowly started up toward the third floor. Halfway up, she started to tap Roarke, have him turn off even that thin beam. But he tapped her first, kept his hand on her arm, cut the light.