Apprentice in Death (21 page)

The back of Eve's eyes burned, the inside of her throat, too. She could only nod. Then on a deep breath, she crouched, looked Summerset in the eye. “Turn on your 'link.”

“What?”

“You need to turn your 'link back on, in case I need to contact you. I'm going to need to talk to you later, in depth, but right now, just turn
on your 'link, and keep doing what you're doing. You're in good hands,” she told the bleeding woman, who stared at her with eyes glassy from shock. “Good hands,” she repeated and pushed to her feet.

She turned, sucked in a good, steady breath. “You—you,” she snapped, snagged two uniforms at random. “I want a detail escorting ambulances and medivans to this location. I want a clear path for the medicals, in and out. Nothing, repeat, nothing and no one gets beyond Sixth, beyond Eighth, beyond Thirty-Sixth, beyond Thirty-Second who is not NYPSD or medical. Move it, do it. Now. And you.”

She whirled on two more. “You think gawking's helping these people? Get inside, establish some order. No one comes out until I clear it. Move your asses.”

“The sergeant said to hold,” one began, and Eve sliced him with one sharp look, tapped her badge.

“What does this say?”

“‘Lieutenant.' Sir.”

“The lieutenant just gave you an order.” She moved quickly toward an MT she recognized. “Can we move some of the minor injuries inside?”

“We could,” the MT said as she treated what appeared to be a broken leg. “But they've blocked it off.”

“I'm unblocking it. If you can spare a couple medics, they can handle the minor injuries inside. We're working on clearing a path for transport.”

“Say hallelujah.”

“Do you know how many?”

The MT shook her head. “I counted a dozen dead, twice that injured. Could be more.”

“Dallas.”

She glanced over, shocked to see Berenski limping toward her, one eye swollen and bruised.

“How bad are you?”

“Just got banged up some in the panic. Came with a couple buddies
from the lab. We're all okay, but . . . People running, screaming, trampling each other trying to get out. They thought it was going to blow again.”

His breath short, his eyes a little glazed as he looked around. “Christ, Dallas, fucking Christ.”

“Do you need a medic?”

“No. No. I got some basic medical training, but I don't know if I've got enough to do anything here.”

“There's Feeney coming through. You're with him and EDD. Work the program.”

“Yeah, I can do that. I can do that,” he repeated, limping toward Feeney.

No way to preserve the scene, she thought, and she'd done what she could to secure the area for now. So she took another breath, cleared everything else out of her head, and looked.

Wait for the concert to end—probably being streamed, probably a way to watch it on screen or at least get updates.

Was a target here? A name from the list? Or was this just a way to show how much you could do?

Doors open, people start streaming out. Did you wait? How long did you wait until you gave yourself the green?

She walked back to Summerset, noted he'd stopped the bleeding and was carefully tending the more superficial head wound.

“You're drafted as an expert consultant, medical.”

“I—”

“You see that MT over there?” She gestured. “She's solid. You're going to work with her to arrange for the minor injuries to be taken inside. I want them comfortable but contained. One of my people will talk to them, and they'll be released when cleared. More severely injured will be triaged where they are, and transported asap to a medical facility. I need to tend to the dead, you get that? You can help tend to the living.”

“Yes, all right.”

“I need a running list of names of anyone you treat or move. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“I'll tap you when I need you otherwise.”

She saw Roarke and Feeney going inside, with Berenski limping behind them.

“See that guy, the one with a head like an egg, limping?”

“Yes.”

“When you have time, look him over. He got banged up. He'll be with Roarke and Feeney.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“If you see Mavis, tell her . . .”

“That is also understood.”

“Okay.” Shifting her field kit, she walked away to begin tending to the dead.

—

S
he'd identified two, had begun her work on a third when Peabody rushed to her.

“I'm sorry. Jesus, Dallas, we couldn't get through. It's damn near a riot behind the barricades. Whitney called out every cop in the city, or it seems like it, to get people off the streets. Do you want me to start on IDs?”

“We've got the target here. Rothstein, Jonah, age thirty-eight, attorney. This is going to be the lawyer we couldn't nail down. This gut shot wound? He'd have bled out before anyone could do anything for him, but he'd have had a few minutes of agony first. He tried to crawl—see the blood smears. And see his legs. Gut shot, then she put two more strikes into him, one in each leg. It's the first I've seen where she hit more than once. This is the target.”

Eve sat back on her heels. “He comes out, moving with the crowd, probably juiced from the concert. Maybe he's with somebody—he's divorced—and she's watching for him. This time, yeah, I say this time, she puts him down first. Wouldn't want to lose him in the crowd when the panic starts. Then she just picks at random. That's not for cover now, no need for cover now. That's for fun.

“Contact Morris.”

“I already did. He's on his way. He might have beaten us here.”

“I haven't seen him. We need this victim transported first. Have Rothstein bagged and tagged, tagged priority.”

“I'll coordinate with Morris. Dallas, do you know how many dead?”

Eve got to her feet. Medicals continued to triage the wounded, but many had been taken inside, the uninjured were cleared and released.

It looked, she thought, like a battlefield after combat, bodies strewn over the cold and bloody pavement. She could count fourteen down, beyond help. There could be more.

“Let's take it one at a time.”

In the end it would be sixteen dead on scene, two others who died of their wounds within hours. Another eighty-four injured.

They would weigh on her, every one, as in the cold, cold hour before dawn she left the dead to go inside. To do what came next.

She looked around the huge sweep of the lobby, the marble floors under the brilliance of the lights. Crossed to Jenkinson.

“Fill me in,” she said.

“Conflicting reports. Most people don't know what the hell. The bulk of them never got outside, got banged up, knocked down, trampled in here. Somebody started yelling about a bomb and that lit the fricking fuse.”

Face grim and tired, he, too, looked around the lobby area, cleared of wounded now, but with smears of blood still on the floor, and scattered belongings dropped and forgotten in the panic.

“Same deal outside, from what we're getting. Conflictings on the first strike, but I got a security guard who kept his head, and he's firm the first couple went down around one-fifty, one-fifty-five. Say ten minutes after people began crowding out.

After rubbing the back of his neck, Jenkinson checked his notes. “A male, black topcoat, blond medium-length hair—that's who the guard says took the first hit. Then a female, black or gray coat, red hair, but he says the first victim took a second hit, and maybe three hits. He's not sure if it was after the second vic went down or the third. Things started to get crazy.”

“Was this guy ever on the job?”

“Funny you should ask. Put in twenty-five, most of it in Queens.”

“He's still got it. First vic, male, black coat, blond hair, was the lawyer. Rothstein, Jonah. Three hits. Keep the guard on tap in case he remembers more details. DBs are in the morgue or on the way. Still some injured being treated outside, but it's under control. I need this sector blocked off until we clear it all. You and Reineke can switch off with Carmichael and Santiago, get some crib time.”

“I hear that. You need more of us down here, Loo, we're good for it. Took a booster.” He scrubbed his face. “Hate those bastards.”

“I hear that. A little crib time, because you won't get much more today. Where's EDD set up?”

It took her a full five minutes at a brisk stride to make it to the impressive security area where her geek team was working. She glanced at the screens, tried to block out the e-chatter, and saw the beams striking the Seventh Avenue area of Madison Square from Lexington and from Third. The Murray Hill area, she noted.

“We're narrowing it,” Feeney told her, “or Lowenbaum and Berenski are.”

Dickhead, she thought, watching him hunched over a monitor with Lowenbaum.

“If she's using the same weapon as her asshole father had, we think we got it pegged down to a couple blocks.” Berenski rolled his shoulders, swiveled on his stool. “You add the weapon factors in, range, velocity, calculate full power because why the hell not, and—”

“You can save the formula for now, and just give me the most likelies. Maybe later I'll have you give me a lesson on the rest.”

He blinked, rubbed his excuse for a moustache. “Yeah, sure. Could do that.”

“We're leaning here.” Roarke highlighted three buildings. “Two on Lex, one on Third.”

“She likes the East Side,” Eve noted. “Knows that area best.”

“Apparently. Having our weapons experts add to the program has narrowed it considerably. These three are all low security, rental units or flops.”

“We'll start there. Can you apply the same to the Times Square hit?”

“Doing that,” McNab said. “We'll be able to give you most likelies, with these factors.”

“Peabody, send the results to Baxter and Trueheart, get them and Uniform Carmichael and his picks working them.” She checked the time. “Be ready to leave for Central when I tag you.”

She had one more stop to make, wound her way back down, asked directions, and made her way backstage. It was unlikely she'd gather any information that would add to the manhunt. But she couldn't leave, just couldn't leave, without seeing the people she cared about.

The people the dream Willow had threatened to kill.

She heard Nadine before she saw her, the voice thick with fatigue. She sat on the floor, back to the wall, outside one of the dressing rooms. Face and hair unsurprisingly still camera ready, a bold blue leather jacket over a sleek black skin suit.

She sat hip-to-hip with a man with purple-streaked black hair that curled madly past the collar of a black T-shirt and a studded, sleeveless
black vest. He wore black jeans, scuffed boots that laced up his calves. He rivaled McNab for ear hoops.

He met her eyes—his a heavy-lidded, sharp crystal blue. His mouth curved a little, deepening the creases in his cheeks.

“Here's your cop pal, Lois.”

“What? Oh, Dallas.” Nadine shoved to her feet. “What do you know? What can you tell me? I'm cued in to the station, and we need more details.”

Best, probably best, Eve thought, that she hadn't known Nadine was here. Hadn't had one more person to worry about.

“What do you know?” she countered. “What did you see? What did you hear? My job's priority.”

“I didn't see or hear a damn thing. I was down here, in Mavis's dressing room, when security rushed in, said there was an incident. They won't let us leave the area. Summerset's friend was brought down. She's in there with Mavis and Leonardo. Trina's in there, too.”

Nadine gestured to the facing room with Mavis's name emblazoned on it. “Come on, Dallas, spill. I'm having to feed things in crumbs to my producer.”

Eve just looked at Nadine's companion. “Who are you?”

Nadine let out a quick laugh. “Told you.”

“Refreshing,” he said. “I'm Jake Kincade.”

“That won't click, either. Dallas, Jake's a rock star, literally. Avenue A? His band's been rocking the charts for about fifteen years.”

“Give or take. Doesn't really apply right now, does it? Anyway.” He rose on long legs, stood about six-five in his boots, offered a hand. “I'd say nice to meet you, but well, hell.”

“How many dead?” Nadine insisted. “Will you confirm that? It matters, Dallas.”

“Yeah, it matters. Sixteen at this time. A couple more aren't likely to make it, but sixteen confirmed dead on scene.”

“Jesus.” Jake stared down the corridor. “My band's piled up in dressing rooms, and we've got roadies flopped out like puppies. They're all safe. All of them are safe, but . . . I've got names of some people we got tickets for, about a dozen people. Can you check to see . . .”

Eve pulled out her notebook. “Give me the names.”

She checked as he reeled them off from memory.

“None of them are on the dead or seriously injured list. I don't have all the names, yet, of minor injuries.”

“That's good enough. More than. Thanks. They, hell, they won this contest, got to hang with us at rehearsal, come backstage before the performance.”

“It's been eating at him that any of them got hurt,” Nadine said. “Or worse.”

“I'm going to clear it so you can go home, all of you. It may take about thirty to have someone come down, escort you out.”

“I'm not going anywhere without a one-on-one,” Nadine insisted. “They can do it by remote.”

“Go get 'em, Lois,” Jake murmured, and had Nadine shooting him a sparkling look.

“The city's going to be waking up,” Nadine continued, checked her glittering wrist unit. “In fact is. People need to know, Dallas. It's their city, and last night was important. Someone smeared that with a lot of blood. It's your job to stop them. It's mine to let people know, not only what happened here, but that you're doing whatever it takes to stop them.”