Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (41 page)

63

But, of course, they did not. Prisco timed it perfectly or he got lucky, because the tram was waiting when he arrived and he immediately boarded.

That, however, played right into their plans. That was not the problem.

The problem was that the tram, a three quarter mile span that traveled nearly 20 miles per hour at a height of 250 feet above the East River, was not run by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. It was owned by the State of New York and operated by a private company on behalf of another corporation, which was a state public benefit entity.

In other words, bureaucracy. Getting something done quickly because of an urgent police matter took time—more than it should have. The tram was an underappreciated mode of transport in a metropolis already crisscrossed with mass transit. Its sole function was to go back and forth to the sparsely populated—by city standards—Roosevelt Island. It was not considered a high-value target, and as such it had escaped emergency planning from a law enforcement perspective.

It should have been a simple task to cut power to the span. But it was past midnight and the brass at One Police Plaza was trying to reach those who could authorize, and then implement, a full shutdown. The power had gone off only twice, several years ago, during an outage. Renovations were made, focusing on providing water and blankets to commuters trapped inside the car and on ensuring uninterrupted electricity with diesel backup—the opposite of what they were now trying to achieve.

“I had a shot of him entering the tram,” Uzi said, “But he put something over the camera. Doesn’t matter, I’ve got him triangulated, and he’s tracking over the East River. Should be hitting the other side in about a minute. Isamu’s confirmed units are waiting.”

As Russo navigated the surface streets, he leaned back toward Vail’s phone. “Keep us posted.”

“There’s no other way onto the island?” Robby asked.

Russo shook his head. “We could take the subway, but by the time we got to a station and waited for the F train, we’d have made it across and back on the tram two or three times. And the Queensboro Bridge completely bypasses the island, goes right over it.”

“What about ways
off
the island?”

“The F train, back into the city. And the Roosevelt Island bridge, into Queens.”

Russo called Central again and told them to get patrol cars over to the Queens end of the bridge, at 36th Avenue, and to keep them dark so Prisco would not see them. He also ordered all subway stations on the island locked down.

“So what’s on Roosevelt Island?” Robby asked. “Why would he go there?”

Russo slowed along Second Avenue and hung a quick right on East 60th Street. He pulled to the curb in front of the tram. “There are very few cameras, especially on the waterfront. And there are docks along the West Road. If he’s got a boat stashed away or if he knows of one he can steal, we could lose him.”

They got out of the car and ran along the wrought iron fence and gray paver walkway, then up the three flights to the station’s entrance. After going through the turnstile, they entered the small transit platform—twin receiving ports for the tram cars, one on the left and the other on the right. Large glass doors that slid apart to permit admittance to the cabin when it was docked were mounted in fire engine red metal frames—which also happened to be the station’s color theme.

Vail phoned Slater. “Find anything? Other properties?”

“Zip.”

“Keep looking, there’s gotta be something. Check under his parents’ names.” She clicked back to Uzi’s call.

“He’s almost there, Karen. Seconds till he arrives.”

The returning tram was approaching on the left when Russo’s phone rang.

“What?” Russo kicked the metal crosspiece, then said, “Yeah, I’m holding.” He twisted the handset away from his mouth. “Cabin’s empty. He’s not on it.”

Uzi’s voice blurted from Vail’s phone. “Impossible. I’m positive he’s—Oh shit. Unless he took off the duty belt, which holds the sensor.”

“He’s onto us,” Vail said.

Russo rested his head on the metal bar of the glass window. “We lost him.”

64

They headed back down the stairs toward the car.

“If he’s not on the tram,” Russo said, “where is he and where’s he headed?”

“How would he know?” Robby said. “He kept the belt on this whole time. Suddenly he takes it off?”

“Yeah,” Russo said, bringing the phone back to his mouth. “You’ve gotta be kidding … A lot of good that’ll do. Imbecile …” He disconnected the call.

“Some idiot at the DAS command center used the radio to tell ESU where they’d located him and mentioned the belt sensor.”

“Would Prisco know what that means?”

“He’s smart,” Vail said. “I’m sure he knew he carried the DAS sensor. He wouldn’t have known it was possible to repurpose the detector to make it transmit. But he’s a careful SOB. He did what he’s done his entire life: he took the safe way out, dumped the belt, and changed his plan.”

“To what?” Robby asked.

Russo’s phone rang again.

“Yeah,” Vail said, “that’s the question.”

They arrived at their vehicle and got back in. A moment later, Russo hung up. “Mayor wants to go public with Prisco’s photo, said it’ll help in case he’s able to avoid the cameras.

“Don’t recommend that,” Vail said, “not yet.”

“Tough. Commissioner’s on board. Gonna happen.”

“Right now,” Robby said, “I think we have to focus on things we can control. The key question is, Why was he headed to Roosevelt Island?”

Vail considered that a minute. “Let’s assume he really was going there and it wasn’t just a ruse to make us think that’s what his intentions were. He probably figured he could make his way along the riverfront from the southerly area of the island where the tram let him off, north to the bridge, where he’d cross over into Queens. Not much in the way of cameras there, right?”

Russo nodded. “Assuming he wasn’t going to try to grab a boat along the way, and assuming that he wasn’t going to force his way into an apartment building on the island and hole up for a few days, then slip away.”

“I get your point. We’ve gotta make a few assumptions. But right now neither of those options are still on the table because he didn’t go to the island.”

“So then where’s he headed?” Russo asked.

“The possibilities are endless. But these are revenge killings, so there’s only one logical place he’d go. Somewhere he was happy, where he lived in harmony before everything went to hell. Astoria, his old neighborhood.”

Vail told Uzi she needed to make another call, then dialed Proschetta.

“How’s it going?” Proschetta asked. “I don’t have clearance anymore, no one’ll tell me shit.”

“We lost him, but I think I may know where he’s headed. You remember where Prisco and his family lived before they moved to Ellis Island?”

“More or less. I remember the street, not the address. Why?”

“I think Prisco’s got a hidden place where he keeps his trophies. And I’m betting it’s in the house where he used to live.”

“I’ll look it up. Got a copy of all my old unsolved case files.”

“Text me the address. And copy Jenkins and Slater.”

“I’m heading toward downtown Astoria,” Russo said as he turned over the engine.

“By the time we get there,” Vail said, checking her seatbelt, “we should have an address. Hope I’m right.” She called Slater—but Johnson answered. “Leslie, we lost him. I still think he’s headed your way.”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Good. Isidore Proschetta’s gonna text you guys an address, the place Prisco lived before they moved to Ellis Island. That’s gotta be where his stash is. There may be someone else living there, but he’s got a way in they don’t know about, or he sublets a room under another name. Look for a hidden place, a crawlspace, an area underneath a staircase, a small storage area, or a concealed room behind a boiler in the basement.”

“Okay.”

“Even an alcove that was originally bricked up where he’s built a way in through a hidden panel. His stuff’s gonna be there. That’s where he’s headed. It’ll be big enough for him to hide out. I wish I could give you more detail, but—”

“I know what to look for. And I just got the address. We’re headed over.”

“If there are other people living there, get ’em the hell out. Their lives are in danger. Prisco can’t have anyone who can identify him. Media’s going live with his photo any minute. If the people who live there know him or sublet to him, they’ll be the first ones he takes out.”

Vail hung up, then grabbed the rubber handle above the backdoor as the car swerved. “Russo, the way you’re driving I feel like I’m on a real cab ride.” Her phone vibrated: Uzi.

“You still headed toward Astoria?” he asked.

“Yeah. Best guess.”

“No need to guess. I reviewed some security tapes on the Queensboro Bridge. He crossed over five minutes ago, driving what looks like a stolen sedan. I texted the plate and registration to Isamu.”

“You’re brilliant.”

“Aw, you’re just being kind,” Uzi said. “But you should be kind more often.”

“Go to hell.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Vail’s shoulder squished up against the car door and the vehicle tilted sharply as Russo exited onto Northern Boulevard.

“Straight shot for about a mile,” Russo said, “then we’ll hang a left onto 45th. Prisco can’t take a chance on drawing attention to himself by speeding, so we should be able to make up some time here.” With that, he accelerated, taking the car up to 70 miles per hour.

“He knows there are cameras around here,” Vail told Uzi, “so I expect him to dump the sedan. Call me if you get another hit.”

They sped along the wide Northern Boulevard, then Russo braked hard and squealed his tires as he turned onto 45th, which was relatively devoid of cars during the early morning hours.

The text from Proschetta arrived. Vail gave the address to Russo, who nodded.

“I know where that is.”

Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed again. “What do you got, Leslie?”

“Found his old place, a townhouse. We evacuated the old couple. They sublet the basement to some middle-aged guy. They said he’s very quiet and respectful. Doesn’t sleep there, just uses it for ‘storage.’”

“I think he’s en route, could be there any minute.”

“We’re good, lights are out and we got plenty of unmarked cars on the surrounding streets.”

“Did the couple ID him?”

“Yeah, and I put them under protective custody with a couple of unis. Searched the place, concentrating on the areas you suggested. Found a hidden room, like you said, in the basement. Shitload of stuff from all his crime scenes going back to the beginning. Earrings, photos of the vics—and closeups of his X drawings on the necks. And—get this, a fake passport and a go-bag with about ten grand in Canadian dollars. His escape plan.”

“He’s a narcissist, Leslie. He thinks he’s smarter than us cops, so he doesn’t expect to get caught. He doesn’t consider it an ‘escape plan.’”

“Then why the fake passport?”

“He prides himself on thinking ahead,” Vail said. “So that would be his ‘contingency’ plan.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you, or he, wants to call it, I’m thinking you’re right—he’s headed here to pick this shit up, then cross over into Canada.”

“You see a book in there? It’s called
How Humans Die
.”

“Now there’s one that missed my reading list,” Johnson said. “There’s a lot of stuff—wait, yeah. Got it. How’d you know?”

“Open it up, you see any markings inside? Handwriting or—”

“How about fingerprints?”

“Be there in three,” Russo said.

“Fingerprints?”

“Yeah,” Johnson said. “Looks like he used blood.”

“The victims’ blood.”
That’s why he wanted the book back. It wasn’t that he was afraid we’d find him because of what he wrote inside, it’s because he wanted the book. It meant something to him.
“Sit tight, Leslie. This is all gonna come to a head in a few minutes.” The second Vail disconnected the call, her phone buzzed. She answered on speaker. “Give us some good news, Uzi.”

“He’s on foot, nearing someplace called the Bohemian Beer Garden.”

“I know it,” Russo said. “Been there over a hundred years.” He hung a left at the next street. “Huge courtyard in the back with tables and big screen TVs. Fun place to watch a Mets game.”

Vail found it on her Google Earth map, then told Uzi to hold for a second while she texted Johnson:

something spooked him, mustve seen one of

the unmarked cars. headed away from you. we

r in pursuit

Russo dialed his phone while driving, not bothering to hand it off to Robby. “Suspect’s on foot, headed past the Bohemian Beer Garden on 24th Avenue.”

“Uh, he turned left on 31st,” Uzi said through Vail’s BlackBerry speaker. “Found him on a post office camera.”

Russo updated Prisco’s location, then hung up.

“How far away are we?” Vail asked as she again consulted her map.

“Be there in a minute.”

She zoomed in and scrolled. “Drop me and Robby at the subway station and continue on. See if you can spot him on the street.”

Russo tossed her a quick glance. “What?”

“Playing a hunch. Stay in contact with Uzi.” She texted Russo’s number to Uzi and told him to call Russo with updates. She also instructed Uzi to let her know if he saw Prisco passing the subway.

Russo pulled up to the curb beneath the green elevated tracks that ran above 31st Street. He off-loaded Vail and Robby in front of a large painted mural, which ironically included a depiction of the Statue of Liberty.

They pulled their handguns and surveyed the stairways that started on the sidewalk and rose two flights to the raised subway platform.

Vail nodded at Robby’s pistol. “You okay with that thing in your left hand?”

Robby waved his cast dismissively. “I’m ambidextrous.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am now. I’ll be fine. It’s the cop, not the gun, right?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

“One stairwell on the west side of the street and one on the east,” Robby said. “Two of us.”

“I’ll take east, you go west.”

“Still have something against the West Coast, eh?”

For a fleeting second Vail flashed on her escapades in California and thought about smiling—but she could not. As Robby started across the street, she walked beneath a black-and-white sign that read:

She climbed the stairs, passed the yellow step at the top of the landing, and continued up to the next level. As she hit the platform, she turned left and—

An intense jolt of electricity shot through her body, convulsing her muscles. As soon as her Glock hit the pavement, the pulse stopped.

But by then it was too late. Niklaus Prisco had his own pistol pressed against her temple and his arm wrapped around her torso—and he was pulling her toward the green metal column of the station’s partial roof.

“Federal agent. Drop your weapon!”

It was Robby, standing on the opposite side of the platform, twenty-five feet of track between them, his SIG Pro .40 aimed in their direction.

“Or what,” Prisco said, tilting his head. “You’ll shoot? Do I have to point out how stupid that is, Special Agent Roberto Hernandez?” He snorted. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I know who you are. And I know why you’re on this trip. I know everything. I know everything about you. And
you
know very little about me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Robby said.

Vail tried to wriggle away, but Prisco had a good grip on her. The pistol’s barrel did not move from its point against her skull. “This is not a very nice greeting, Niklaus. I thought I deserved better.”

“Oh, come on. I could’ve killed you by now. Have some gratitude.”

“Forgive me,” Vail said. “I lost my gratitude when I dropped my Glock.”

“I suppose you did. You know, when I saw you coming down the street, I thought, ‘Shit!’ I was hoping for a clean getaway. But maybe this worked out for the best.”

“Let her go,” Robby said, “and we can talk. Tell me what you want. Maybe I can make it happen for you.”

Prisco slowly turned toward Robby. “Are you still here, Agent Hernandez? Really, what good do you think you’re doing just standing there? You can’t possibly run across the tracks. And you’ve got a cast on your shooting hand.”

“I’m a lefty. And a damn good shot.”

“You know,” he said with a laugh, “I imagine you feel kind of impotent about now. Like—let me see … like a beautiful woman’s seducing you, pushing her breasts against your face, and you feel the excitement building, and—and—you’re powerless to act. You can’t get it up. You’re left unfulfilled, frustrated. Embarrassed.

“That’s what’s going on right here, right now. You’ve got a great big, powerful weapon in your hand. The bullets are ready to explode from the chamber. But … tsk, tsk, tsk … you can’t shoot. Because you are right-handed, Agent Hernandez. I can tell by the way you’re holding that SIG that it’s not your natural side. And you desperately want to take the shot, to put a bullet between my eyes. But again, you can’t. Because you know you’re just as likely to hit Karen as you are me. Such a shame.” He turned his back on Robby, yanking Vail to the side.

She looked down the tracks and in the extreme distance she could make out a single headlight, poking out of the darkness. “You’re a coward, Niklaus.”