Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (40 page)

61

Vail gave Uzi the contact info for Isamu and waited for a lead. It came nineteen minutes later.

“We’ve got a double hit,” Uzi said. “You can log into the system on your phone and follow along with me.” He gave her instructions and talked while she entered the information. “Prisco came out of the subway station on Christopher Street and got on a bus at Greenwich and West 10th. Based on that bus’s route, he’s headed north.”

“Greenwich and West 10th,” she said to Robby.

He accelerated hard, according to Russo’s directions.

“Okay, I’m logged in.”

“I’ve tagged his signal with a yellow dot. See it?”

“Got it.”

“Don’t freak out when it winks out—’cause it will. Remember, we’re triangulating his position. Assuming he stays in range, I’ll get you something.”

“Coming up on 10th,” Robby said.

Russo squinted ahead at the dimly lit landscape. “Anything?”

“Kind of hard,” Vail said. “I’m watching the signal on my phone and trying to keep an eye on the street at the same time.” She glanced down. “Looks like he just passed 12th.”

“We’re right behind him, couple blocks away.”

“Lost him,” Vail said.

Uzi made some noise—tapping keys. “Give me a sec. You know you’re making me miss my meeting. Knox is not happy. Neither is Earl Tasset,” he said, referring to the CIA director.

“Thought you didn’t like Tasset.”

“I don’t. I didn’t say I cared, I just said he wasn’t happy. Okay, I’m triangulating. Looks like he’s on Gansevoort Street. Not sure I pronounced that right.”

“You got it right,” Russo said. “Meatpacking district. Whoa. Meatpacking district’s where Fedor Prisco worked.”

Vail lifted her brow. “Maybe that means something. Maybe not. What else is there?”

“Chelsea, the convention center, and the High Line.”

“The High Line,” Robby said. “I read about that place. The old elevated railroad line that they turned into an above-ground park.”

Vail glanced at her BlackBerry. “That’s my bet.”

Russo leaned forward in his seat. “Why do you think he’d go up there?”

“Fewer cameras.”

Russo nodded. “And dark.”

“Harder to track too.” Vail consulted her phone again. “Remember, he doesn’t know we’ve repurposed that sensor he’s wearing. More importantly, he doesn’t know Aaron Uziel’s on the case.”

“Oh,” Uzi said through the speaker. “The pressure!”

“Take us there,” Russo said.

Vail pulled up a map of the High Line. “Drop me at the entrance, on Gansevoort, at Washington. And then … Robby, get over to the end, at—” she scrolled on her BlackBerry—“West 30th.”

“We’re coming up on Gansevoort,” Robby said as the tires rumbled on the cobblestone streetscape.

“Uzi, I’m not getting anything on his position. You?”

“He’s winking in and out, probably right on the edge of our range. If we don’t completely lose him, I’ll do my best to keep you up-to-date. Last fix I got is that he was right where you are, at that intersection.”

Vail scrolled more on her screen. “The park’s like a mile and a half long. Robby, if we run toward each other we can box him in.”

“Except there are a few stairway exits along the way,” Russo said.

“Then let’s increase our odds in case he stays off the grid. After Robby gets off at West 30th, go to 23rd. You’ll be halfway between us. Get in the shadows and wait for one of us—or Prisco—to come your way.”

“We’re here.” Robby stopped the car and Vail got out.

She made her way up the long metal staircase at the end of the steel-girdered elevated platform, where foliage flowed over the edge.

“Uzi, you still with me?” she asked as she ran up the three levels of steps.

“Here.”

“Can you multitask and ask Isamu at the command center to get as many undercovers over to our area as they can spare? We need some support, but if Prisco sees a bunch of unis, he’ll freak. And he’s armed.”

“On it.”

Vail hit the top level and entered the park. Before her was a walkway maybe thirty feet wide with meticulously pruned trees, bushes, and flowers planted in a center median and along its periphery. It was lit strategically with knee-high downlight fixtures every several feet.

This is gorgeous. Why do I always find these places when I’m hot on the trail of a serial killer?

Ahead was a flat-faced ten-story building, constructed over the High Line.
Very cool. But finding Prisco on this thing is gonna be more difficult than I thought.
The center median obscured her view of the other side of the pathway, the lighting was dramatic but poor for making out faces, and there weren’t many people out this time of night. That made it easier for her to pick Prisco out—but also easier for him to be aware of her presence. And he knew what she looked like.

She ducked down and tried to scan the pathway on the other side of the median, peeking through the thinly pruned tree branches.

As she jogged along the cement path and passed beneath the building, things started to fall into place: Prisco had undoubtedly dropped that letter off at her house a dozen years ago, so he had likely been following her career, keeping tabs on her to some extent.

More importantly, as a cop, he had access to precincts, records, impounds, and property rooms. The book taken from Detective Berger’s mailbox before she was officially assigned the case was thus an easy haul for him: Prisco could have just walked into the precinct and snagged it without anyone questioning it. And the missing DD-5, stolen from the file by Victor Danzig, was probably engineered by Prisco behind the scenes. It was likely Prisco who paid the law firm to have Danzig go into Property and lift the DD-5. Clean and neat: there’d be no trail back to him.

Anyone questioning it would have gone after Danzig, just as we did. And if we had found him, it would’ve done us no good, because Danzig had no clue about Prisco’s involvement.

Vail craned her neck and peered into the darkness: a man was approaching, jogging by. Her right hand covertly reached for her Glock … and he passed, too tall and thirty pounds heavier.

Her mind drifted back to the analysis of Prisco’s actions. With things coming together, she wanted to maintain the freeform train of thought before she lost it.

Why would he bother to take the hardcover from Property only to put it back in his sanctuary, if the sanctuary was partially being curated as a fail-safe to implicate Dmitri? There had to be something inside the book that could implicate him.

There could’ve been forensics on it from a prior crime scene. Or he’d made notes inside and if it was found, it’d ruin his cover story of Dmitri being the offender. His handwriting would be matched back to him.

Instead, he bought another used copy and planted that one beneath the floorboards. But Berger’s DD-5 had included a description of “old and worn,” whereas the one she and Russo had found on Ellis Island was newer. If Berger had taken the usual route of most detectives, and listed it on his report as merely “a book,” without noting its condition and title—or if Vail had not read carefully, she never would have drawn the line between the dots.

Perhaps when Prisco saw the DD-5 and realized the detail Berger had included in his description, he went out and bought another one. Cheap insurance—especially considering he had no way of knowing that Vail had made a copy of the file before the original report was removed.

Prisco was one calculating son of a bitch.

And that’s probably why he’s survived for thirty-four years right under the nose of one of the most elite police forces in the world.

Vail hit redial and Uzi answered immediately. “Anything? I can’t watch my phone and search the park at the same time.”

“Still dark. As soon as I get a hit, I’ll call you.”

“Fine. Later.” She hung up and jogged on, beneath another high-rise, and cursed—because the pathway widened and there was more foliage to hide behind.

The night was warm and humid—a typical July day in the city—and she had to keep rubbing her sweaty palm on her pants to maintain a decent grip on her phone.

A handful of people were at the railing on the other side, looking out at the Hudson. Others were seated on wood-slatted chairs sipping wine and enjoying the view.

Vail crossed to the other side, closer to the river, and saw railroad tracks embedded in the aggregate concrete; she didn’t know if they were the originals, but the nod to the park’s history was a nice touch. She approached another building and stopped; there seemed to be a stairway leading down to street level.

She consulted the map on her phone.
Probably West 15th.
She looked out over the railing at the city nightscape below.
Maybe this was a stupid idea. Prisco could’ve gotten off at any of these stairs—if he was even up here at all.

She jogged past a bunch of people lounging on what looked like a sundeck—wood chaise-type benches, in shorts with iPods in their laps and wires dangling from their ears. A group of others waded barefoot in a shallow pool of water that ran parallel to the path.

Coming up on her right, in a well-lit area of the park, a People’s Pops vendor was selling yellow plum blueberry ices that looked refreshing—and given the heat, enticing. But she ran by it.

Two minutes later, having passed a town square-type amphitheater sitting area with large windows that looked out over the avenue below, she was back in a poorly illuminated stretch of the High Line.

Fifty yards on, she saw a woman bent over a body lying on the concrete. A phone was pressed against her cheek and she was rubbernecking her head in all directions.

“What happened?” Vail yelled as she approached.

“I think he was attacked. He collapsed, started convulsing.”

As Vail arrived, she saw it was Russo. And he was having some kind of epileptic seizure.
Crap.

She called Uzi.

“Still noth—”

“Have Isamu dispatch an ambulance to the High Line—” She turned to the woman. “Where are we?”

“Twentieth St—”

“West 20th Street.”

Wait a minute. It’s not a seizure.

Russo moaned and stopped twitching.

“Cancel the bus,” Vail told Uzi as she patted down Russo’s body. “You were Tasered.” She held up the hooks that had been clinging to his shirt.

“Bastard.” Russo sat up. “I drew down and ID’d myself, told him not to move, but it was dark and I didn’t see the Taser until—”

“Uzi, Prisco was here less than a minute ago.”

“Got a hit,” Uzi said. “West 20th approaching Seventh Avenue.”

She helped Russo up. “You okay?”

“Fine. But when it hit me, I lost all control over my body. My Glock …” He started spreading the leaves of the bushes in the nearby planter. “You see it?”

Vail separated the reeds with her free hand. “Assuming nobody took it, it’s gotta be here.”

“I can’t leave without it.”

And in the meantime, Prisco is getting away.

“Just turned left,” Uzi said, “heading up 6th.”

“Got it,” Russo said, lifting it out of the brush.

Vail turned toward the brightly illuminated Empire State Building in the distance. “Can Isamu use the DAS to pull him up on camera?”

“Texting him now.”

Robby came jogging up behind them. “See him?”

“Yeah, he Tasered me,” Russo said.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Robby said, sucking in oxygen. “He could’ve killed you.”

Russo narrowed his eyes. “He’s the lucky one. I was a split second from pulling the trigger, putting us all out of our misery.”

“He’s moving too fast,” Uzi said. “Gotta be in a car. A taxi?”

Shit. That would not be good.

“Lost him again,” Uzi said. “Possible he went down into the subway at 23rd.”

Robby and Vail locked eyes—and a second later, they were headed down the stairs, Russo close behind.

62

Vail flagged down a cab and Robby stood in front of the vehicle while Russo commandeered it. The Iraqi driver complained loudly, but Russo gave him a response that would’ve made any New Yorker proud: “Call your fuckin’ congressman.”

“No lights, no siren,” Russo said as he steered toward their suspect’s last known location. “Forgot how long it takes to get around this city, even at night.”

Robby, in the front passenger seat, pushed open the Plexiglas divider as far as it would go.

“Uzi,” Vail said, putting him on speaker. “Talk to me.”

“Not getting any pings. But Isamu’s patched me through and given me an eye into their network. I can see what their cameras see, but I can’t control anything. I’ve got input, no output.”

“There’s probably a joke in there somewhere.”

“Got something. Still heading north on 6th, at 33rd. And now 35th. He’s either in a cab or on the subway. Switching to visual … but I’m not seeing anything on street cameras. No taxis moving in that direction. Wait, got one but it’s well behind his location. Gotta be the subway.”

“And that’s a problem,” Russo said.

“Why?” Vail asked. “We can use the station’s platform cameras. For that matter, what about the cameras in the cars?”

“That’s the problem. Not all stations have cameras. And there aren’t any cameras in the cars.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Makes too much sense. That’s why they’re not there.”

Sarcasm. Ah, New York.

Vail consulted her phone and pulled up the subway map. “Okay, let’s parallel him, get us to 6th and West 36th, then keep heading north/northeast. Looks like he’s on the B-D-F-M line. If he doesn’t get off or change trains, he could end up in Queens, Brooklyn, or upper Manhattan.”

“So he could really go anywhere,” Robby said, “if we lose him.”

“Pretty much. Unless we catch his image on a camera. And for that, we have to get lucky as far as which station he’s in. Or hope he gets off.”

Russo accelerated, then turned right on 30th. “Be at 6th and West 36th in a minute.” He hit a yellow light, but leaned on the horn and the accelerator and blew through the intersection.

“Any unmarked cars in the area?” Robby asked.

“Already en route,” Uzi said. “Whoa, wait a minute. His signal’s gone stationary at 6th and 50th.”

“Fiftieth?” Russo cursed, then accelerated past 55 miles per hour. “That’s the Rockefeller Center station. Gotta have eyes in there.” He pulled out his phone and handed it to Robby. “Press star-9 and put it on speaker. When it was answered, he said, “Central, this is Russo in a civilian car. Hades suspect Niklaus Prisco at the Rockefeller Center subway station, possibly on the train. Get Transit unis over there. Suspect is a police officer, armed, and extremely dangerous.”

“And he’s got a radio,” Vail said.

“Right,” Russo said. “Central, suspect has a police radio. Assume he’s listening in. Get as many unis into the stations along that route as you can. We need him to see the cops and get off so we can get eyes on him.”

“What about stopping trains and searching them?” Vail asked.

“And contact MTA,” Russo yelled toward the phone. “Shut down all trains temporarily on the B-D-F-M line. Search the cars.”

“Roger that,” Central replied, then disconnected the call.

“Not gonna help,” Robby said, “is it? I can’t imagine things moving that fast in New York City.”

“Probably not, not as fast as we need it to.”

“He’s on the move again,” Uzi said. “Just hung a right and appears to be—yup, he’s gotta be underground because he’s cutting through what would be a body of water in Central Park. Looks like he’s following the path of the F train.”

“Awesome,” Vail said. “Still on the subway, heading into Queens.” She pulled up her contacts and started dialing. A moment later, Joe Slater answered. “Where are you?”

“Niklaus Prisco’s house in Astoria. Jenkins and Johnson are with me. We’re looking through his stuff, trying to find something that might give us some friggin’ idea where he’s headed.”

“Nothing, right?”

“Nothing. Place looks completely normal.”

“You probably won’t find anything. He’s smart and he’s been doing this—successfully—for a long time. He’s not going to make any stupid mistakes. And keeping shit in your house that could indicate you’re a serial killer is not the kind of thing that makes you stay in the game very long.”

“So, what, we’re wasting our time?”

“Keep at it,” Vail said. “It’s always possible you’ll find something he didn’t think of. It’ll be subtle. Call me back if you find anything, even if you’re not sure. We’re in pursuit. He’s headed your way—or at least toward Queens.”

Vail hung up and immediately considered what she had just said.
He’s headed toward Queens. Why? He’d know we’d be combing his house, so he’s not going there. And we already found his lair. Or did we? A lair is a place of residence, and while he lived on Ellis Island a long time, he moved thirty years ago.

She called Slater back. “Joe—humor me. See if there are any public records of Prisco owning other property in Queens. Or anywhere else in New York State.” He said he would keep her apprised and after signing off, she explained her thought process to Russo and Robby.

“You think he’s got another place where he stashes his trophies.” Robby turned around and caught Vail’s look through the Plexiglas. “What? You taught me stuff before I got into the DEA. I was paying attention.”

“Lost his signal,” Uzi said. “Checking cameras.”

“What if,” Vail said, “the stuff we found on Ellis Island was there for us to find. Think about it. All of it was designed to point us to his stepbrother. There were photos of each victim, taken at the point of death. But otherwise, very little. What if he’s got some other place where he stores his keepsakes? That could be where he’s headed.”

“If that’s true,” Russo said, “then there’s no way that property’s in his name.”

“I agree. It’s worth checking out, but he’s too smart for that. So then where does he keep his stuff?”

“Coming up on 53rd,” Russo said. “But I’m not gonna be able to follow the train unless I get on the Queensboro Bridge. So we gotta be damn sure he’s crossing into Queens.”

“Found him,” Uzi said. His voice was even, measured. “No signal but I got a facial recognition hit.”

“We haven’t got facial recognition online in that part of the city,” Russo said.

“Using my own algorithms. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Of course.
Vail grinned. “Where is he?”

“Got him coming out of the Lexington Avenue subway station, headed south.”

Russo accelerated hard, driving them all back into their seats. “Uzi, tell Isamu to get all units—”

“Already texted him.”

Vail pushed herself forward and grabbed the seat to steady herself. The cab’s worn shocks were bottoming out on the potholes and uneven asphalt patches, tossing the three of them from side to side and causing Robby to strike his head on the roof.

“Uzi, can you still see him?”

“Climbing the stairs to the Roosevelt Island tram.”

“Roosevelt Island?”
What the hell?
“Call MTA, shut down the power after he’s on board, when his car is halfway along the cable.”

“Fuckin’ A.” Russo slapped the steering wheel. “We got you, you son of a bitch!”