Full Tilt (29 page)

70

New York City

A
cross the country, Kate was in her apartment when her phone rang. The number displayed was for the NYPD.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Officer Morello with the NYPD, calling for Kate Page.”

“I’m Kate.”

“Ms. Page, as you know, Newark PD has informed us that they’re unable to transport you to the hospital. I’ve been assigned to be your ride.”

“I never heard from Newark.”

“They said they’d called you.”

“No, I didn’t get a call.”

“Must’ve been a screwup. Sorry about that, ma’am, but can I pick you up in twenty-minutes?”

That was earlier than usual. Kate hesitated. Days ago, Newark police and the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance had indicated to Kate that, for security reasons, the job of ferrying her to and from the hospital might be shared by various police agencies.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for any inconvenience, but I got court duty in the morning and—”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Good. Just so you know I won’t be in uniform. My sarge said this is plainclothes duty.”

“I’ll be in front of my building in twenty minutes.”

Officer Morello thanked Kate and recited her address.

“That’s it.”

Kate alerted Nancy that she was leaving a bit early, then hurried getting herself ready. Fifteen minutes later she was downstairs standing in front of her building. Uniformed officers were no longer in sight. They’d only been posted to the street during the first days after Vanessa’s rescue. Kate didn’t mind because it reinforced Brennan’s call, that they’d found Zurrn somewhere far off.
Was it Colorado?
Kate watched the traffic until a shining black Chevy sedan stopped in front. The driver dropped the passenger window and leaned out.

“Excuse me, are you Kate Page?”

“Yes.”

“Officer Morello. I called.”

“Hi.” Kate stepped to the unmarked cruiser.

As Morello got out and opened the rear door Kate heard radio dispatches spilling out. Morello was in his forties, had a thick black mustache, thick dark hair and glasses. He wore a dark blue houndstooth sport coat, light blue shirt and dark pants.

“Watch your head,” he cautioned as she got in.

She glimpsed the butt of a gun peeking from his shoulder holster as he closed the door, then walked around to get behind the wheel.

The car was not as nice as the Newark and FBI cars that had come for her over the past week. The air was musty, the seats torn and patched with tape. A scarred Plexiglas shield divided the rear and front seats, but the sliding gap was open so they could talk.

“You could ride in the front with me if you like,” Morello said into the rearview mirror, “but our policy dictates that you ride back there for your safety.”

“Better stick to the policy.” Kate smiled. “Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

As they pulled away Kate asked the usual question.

“Have you heard of any breaks finding Zurrn?”

“Me? Naw, they don’t keep grunts like me in the loop.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“No problem, you just take it easy back there.”

As he wheeled into Manhattan traffic, Kate’s thoughts went to Brennan’s confidential tip. He’d left her on pins and needles ever since he’d told her they’d found Zurrn. She fell into her habit of checking her phone for news, searching the competition and regional wires.

Nothing.

She called Brennan and again it went straight to his voice mail.

Kate took a breath, smiling as she considered Vanessa. It had only been a week, but the psychiatrist said she was making remarkable progress and soon Kate could bring Grace to meet her. Thinking of their new future together as a family, Kate took in her surroundings and realized they were on 125th Street and had just passed Amsterdam Avenue.

“Excuse me.” Kate moved to the divider. “I think you’re going east—this is the wrong way. We should be getting on the West Side Highway, for the Lincoln Tunnel, that’s the way everybody goes.”

Morello didn’t respond.

“Officer, you’re going the wrong way.”

Morello ignored her.

Kate sat forward and thrust her face toward his shoulder. “Officer!”

Morello said nothing.

As Kate puzzled over her situation a terrible unease hit her like a cobra’s strike. Staring hard at Morello’s neck, Kate noticed for the first time how a stubbly ridge of shaved hair crept below what should have been his hairline.

He’s wearing a wig.

She questioned if his mustache was real, then the pieces—
Morello’s call, switching drivers, coming early, going the wrong way
—and in an awful instant, realization exploded.

Oh, God, Morello is Sorin Zurrn!

Kate’s pulse soared.

This is how it happened to the others! He just reaches into your world and takes you into his!

Kate had regarded his victims as young, inexperienced, vulnerable, easy prey, like Vanessa. Now, he proved that none of Kate’s street smarts or her gut instincts mattered.

Think! You have to think!

She still had her phone, her lifeline. She forced herself to be calm.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. Maybe you know a better way. Guess I’m tense today.”

Her hand trembled as secretly she reached for her phone. Fearing he’d hear the emergency dispatcher, Kate started to text an emergency message to Nancy to call 911. But her blood turned to ice.

Her phone was dead.

She met Zurrn’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“You’re fluttering, Kate.”

Zurrn held up his phone.

“As a collector, I took care of everything. I hacked your phone long ago. I just fried it.”

The saliva in Kate’s mouth evaporated.

“You told everyone it was over for me, didn’t you?” he said. “I had astounding plans, but you destroyed them! You exhumed the name I buried and shamed me! Now I have nothing—
except you
!”

Kate tried her door handle.

It was gone, so was the other one. There was no escape.

She tried waving to people in other cars for help.

Zurrn activated the siren and emergency lights, to insure she looked like a disturbed person under arrest.

“We’ll start over, together!” he said. “You’re a magnificent specimen! The rarest, most glorious! No one will ever find you! And you can’t conceive of the wonders I will show you—
of what I’m going to do to you
!”

Kate undid her seat belt, repositioned her body and began kicking at the rear windshield.

“Beautiful,” Zurrn said as he reached for something. “Flutter away, Kate. You know—” Zurrn strained, now gripping something that looked like a large electric razor “—in time, you’ll come to love me.”

He quickly lifted himself, extended his reach and pressed the device against Kate’s neck. It crackled, instantly overwhelming her neuromuscular system, disorienting her until she collapsed.

71

New York City

A
t that moment, in a loft in the Midtown neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, a distinct alarm sounded on one of Erich’s computers.

The trip wire! Kate’s in trouble. Her phone suddenly went dead.

Immediately he rushed to his desk and began entering commands, taking him to the surveillance security cameras of the store across the street that also captured the entrance to Kate’s building. Erich had breached the feed. With rapid stop-action, he reversed footage until Kate emerged, stepping into a vehicle.

Holy cow, that has to be him!

Erich made a screen grab photo of the suspect, then the vehicle, an older Chevy Impala, the kind used as unmarked cars by the NYPD.

I knew he’d try something.

In his gut, Erich had feared Zurrn would come for Kate.

Her increasingly high profile, her public anger toward Zurrn, had concerned Erich. He’d secretly cloned Kate’s phone and replaced it unnoticed when she’d dropped her bag in the restaurant after her
Today
show appearance. He’d installed in Kate’s phone new ultrasecret “infect” software developed for the NSA and CIA. The software instantly infiltrated and tracked any phone that attempted to hack or destroy a protected phone, in this case: Kate’s. The software first defeated, without detection, any security installed on the intruder’s phone, then infected it with a stealth tracking program. The instant Zurrn killed Kate’s phone, he’d triggered Erich’s trip wire alarm, allowing him to instantly pinpoint Zurrn’s phone and track his location without his knowledge.

“Gotcha!” Erich said aloud to his computers.

With a few key strokes he was looking at a geo-map showing the location, direction and speed of Zurrn’s vehicle.

Erich called 911.

* * *

The emergency operator passed Erich’s call to the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center at One Police Plaza in Lower Manhattan.

Immediately, crime analysts at the center, working at rows of computers before a large two-story array of flat video panels known as the data wall, used every high-tech resource they had. They tapped into large displays of detailed city maps and live feeds of surveillance cameras throughout the city.

Within ninety seconds of Erich’s call they’d located Zurrn’s car.

“He’s leaving 125th and is starting southbound on FDR Drive,” one analyst told the responding team.

“Keep this off the air!” Lieutenant Walt Mercer, the center’s duty commander, had taken charge of the unfolding situation. “Get all available unmarked units into position. No lights, no sirens!”

The analysts used one of the center’s geocode maps to locate on-duty unmarked units in precincts along FDR south, the 25th, the 23rd, the 19th and 17th.

Dispatchers made urgent cell-phone calls and sent encrypted messages to detectives and officers whose units were closest. Several unmarked cruisers began roaring toward the expressway.

* * *

In the Upper East Side, Detective Vinnie Cerito, of the 19th Precinct, had completed a burglary beef at a clothing store near E 63rd Street and 1st Avenue.

He was working alone. Ruiz, his temporary partner, had booked off with a toothache. Cerito didn’t care. It was better when he was alone because he was on edge. It’d been a month since he’d returned to duty from stress leave.

Maybe it’s too early after what happened to Quinn. But I couldn’t take another minute sitting at home watching TV, picking at the scab of my life.

Cerito had believed that being an NYPD detective was the best a cop could ask for. He and Quinn had lived the job, they’d put in the time. They’d climbed a million stairs, knocked on a million doors, dealt with every terrified, arrogant, snotty, idiotic citizen and criminal that dwelled here, only to see the courts let evildoers go; only to see that no one cared and good cops ended up like Quinn: shot in the head.

It was a night like this five months ago. They pull over an SUV wanted in a domestic and—bam—the driver shoots Quinn in the head. He dies on the street in Cerito’s arms. The suspect gets away, leaving Cerito to question everything.

To hell with it.
Cerito had to keep going, had to push it aside tonight.

Now, he considered picking up some Chinese takeout when he got a message on his phone.

A dangerous homicide suspect abducted a woman after posing as a detective, is driving a black 2012 Chevy Impala, southbound on FDR. Take a position on the eastbound on-ramp to the 59th Street Bridge and await further instructions. No siren, no lights.

Cerito wheeled his Ford to the bridge, three blocks away, his stomach churning as he bit back on his rising anger. This call tore at his wound.

Whoever this A-hole is, he better pray he doesn’t come my way.

* * *

Kate lay on the backseat, every muscle vibrating.

The initial pain of her body stiffening was wearing off, but she was still quivering.

Watching lights streak by, she struggled to grasp what had transpired...Detective Morello had come to drive her to the hospital...no, not Morello...not a detective... Zurrn!

Fear billowed in her.

He’d shocked her with a stun gun...she remembered...she was in Zurrn’s car now, sensing they were still in the city speeding along an expressway, but she didn’t know where.

Oh, God, think. Think!

She considered sitting up and looking but rejected the idea.

Better to remain quiet, let him think that she was still unconscious.

It gave her the advantage of surprise.

She looked at the plastic dividing shield. The sliding portion for the gap remained open.

Get ready! Wait for the right time and get ready!

* * *

At the center, analysts updated Lieutenant Mercer that the suspect had left FDR for 63rd.

“Where’s everybody?” Mercer glared at the center’s geocode map. “We need to get people into position to box him!”

They continued tracking the suspect’s vehicle entering the on-ramp for the 59th Street Bridge to Queens. But not enough units were in place to choke the ramp for a proper takedown, not with a hostage situation.

“What about that one?” Mercer pointed to a unit on the map. “Bring him into play.”

* * *

At that moment, Cerito’s cell phone rang. It was a dispatcher from the Real Time Crime Center, confirming that he was now live in the hot zone.

“Target vehicle to pass you in seconds, five...four...three...”

Cerito had been idling on a shoulder. When Zurrn’s dark Chevy Impala passed him he slid the transmission into Drive.

“Got a visual! I’m on him!”

“You are to follow unseen and await further orders.”

* * *

Mercer was satisfied. Now they could execute a proper takedown.

The center had alerted the 114th and 108th precincts in Queens. Mercer instructed them to seal the bridge’s off-ramp with all available units, marked, unmarked, so that the suspect would have no place to go. The unmarked unit following him would help box him. With enough manpower they could swarm the target car and reduce the risk to the hostage and the traffic.

That way we keep it off the bridge.

It would all be over in about three minutes.

* * *

One car was between Zurrn and Cerito as they proceeded along the approach for the upper level. Two narrow eastbound lanes bordered by concrete barriers flowed under the intricate webbing of arched steel trusses. They were in the right lane.

Cerito adjusted his grip on the wheel.

No way is this guy getting outta this!

* * *

In Zurrn’s car Kate knew from the steelwork rolling by that they were on one of the major bridges.

Zurrn would be concentrating on driving.

This is my chance!

She whispered a prayer, took a breath, sprang up, shot her hands through the divider’s open gap and clawed at Zurrn’s face. Startled, he swerved, scraping against the barrier as he fought with her. Horns sounded, the car behind Zurrn veered around him into the left lane.

* * *

Cerito was now directly behind them.

Witnessing the struggle, Cerito accelerated until he was flanking Zurrn. Cerito hit his lights and siren, flagging Zurrn to stop. Zurrn’s response was to crank his wheel left, slamming his Chevy against the side of Cerito’s Ford, jolting him and detonating the cop’s rage.

“You freakin’ motherfu—!”

Something inside Cerito exploded—for Quinn, for all of Cerito’s bitterness and pent-up anger. Adrenaline surged through him. He mashed the pedal to the floor, pushing the Ford half a length ahead of Zurrn, then he cut him off, forcing the Chevy into the concrete barrier.

* * *

Kate fell back into the seat.

Metal crunched, sparks cascaded as Cerito’s fury, and the Ford’s momentum forced the Chevy to jounce up the concrete barrier.

Kate screamed.

The sky, city lights and the East River flashed in a surreal montage as the Chevy sailed over the barrier. Her stomach lurched as she rolled and the car hung in the air for a sickening second before dropping upside down twenty feet, crashing onto the pavement of the single outer roadway of the lower deck, landing on its roof in the path of a VW Jetta.

The impact hurled Kate against the roof, her eyes frantic as the oncoming Jetta braked, skidded and slammed into the Chevy’s rear quarter, plowing it through the steel wire fence, over the edge until the car’s front half teetered in the air over the East River 130 feet below.

Metal crumpled as the car seesawed at the precipice.

The collision knocked Kate’s head, jarring her teeth. Blood flowed from her injuries. Dazed, she tried to escape but was locked inside.

Zurrn was unconscious, his bloodied face buried in a deployed air bag.

Horns were blaring, people were shouting, calling for Kate.

“Don’t move!” a man’s voice boomed. “We’ll get you out!”

* * *

A crowd gathered. Cerito had climbed to the lower level and radioed for help. Amid the chaos, construction workers emerged with tools, a rope. Working fast while others helped hold the car, one man used a special hammer to break open the rear windshield. They got a rope around Kate and under her arms.

“Climb out!”

As she clambered, something clamped onto her ankle.

Zurrn had seized her. Metal creaked loudly because his sudden movements had tipped the car’s balance and it began slipping.

“We can’t hold it!” the men felt the car’s rear half rising.

“Come on! It’s starting to fall!”

Kate kicked Zurrn’s head, shook herself free and scrambled through the broken windshield as the Chevy, with Zurrn inside, plummeted nose first into the East River.

The construction workers pulled Kate to the bridge and safety. There, she joined the others staring in disbelief at Zurrn’s car, headlights glowing, then fading in the water as it sank.

Amid the noise and confusion, Kate trembled through her blood and tears as she watched the lights of the police and news choppers and the emergency boats. On the bridge, witnesses shared images and video they’d captured of the crash and plunge.

Sirens wailed. Traffic was frozen. Police had closed the bridge.

Someone had draped a blanket around Kate and was talking to her, but she couldn’t hear them. Her ears rang with one thought:

It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.