Apprentice in Death (11 page)

“Have you run any face-recognition?”

“Not yet, I wanted to tweak a little.”

“Run now, tweak later. Filter the run on the adult with military or police training. Let's see what pops.”

“Hang on.” Yancy swiveled to another screen, started the program, added the filters. “You should see the full-body. Even if we don't release these, it'll give you a clear sense of build, on both.”

He brought up the next sketches, showing the adult male—broad-shouldered, long-legged. He struck her, again, as someone who'd lost weight, maybe some muscle tone. Not a weak sister, she mused, but due to illness or stress. A little hollow-eyed.

The minor suspect was definitely a more delicate build, but compact rather than gangly. Tough and . . .

“Kid's fit—there's a springy look there.”

“Springy,” Yancy repeated. “Yeah, yeah, that's a good word for it. I think— Wow, we got a hit already. I don't think it's going to . . .”

He trailed off as the ID image popped on screen. Then let out a deep breath, said, “Hot, holy fuck, Dallas.”

Eyes on the ID shot, Eve gripped Yancy's arm. Hard. “Hold it down,” she murmured.

“He's a cop,” Yancy said under his breath. “He's a goddamn cop.”

“Was,” Eve corrected.

Reginald Mackie, age fifty-four, retired after twenty years on the NYPSD—the last eleven of them in Tactical. Prior to joining the force, he'd been U.S. Army—a weapons expert.

He'd been Lowenbaum's.

“Send me everything, now. And don't talk to anybody—anybody—Yancy, about this until I clear it.”

She didn't sprint away, though she wanted to. Cops observed, and the primary in this investigation running through Central would lead many to the correct conclusion. She had a hot lead.

But she moved fast, yanking out her 'link as she went. “Lowenbaum. My office, asap.”

“I've got a—”

“Drop it. Whatever it is, drop it, and move.”

She cut him off without waiting for an assent, contacted Whitney next. “Sir, I need a conference room, and your presence, and Mira's, as quickly as possible.”

“I'm on my way back from the notification.” He studied her face, and she saw realization come into his eyes. “Twenty minutes. I'll take care of the room and Mira.”

She risked the sprint on the glides—it wouldn't be the first time she'd bulled her way up or down them—and contacted Feeney next.

“I need you, Roarke, and McNab if you can spare him.”

She didn't have to explain, not to Feeney. He only nodded. “Give us ten.”

“My bullpen if you make it in under ten. Conference room—you'll need to check the log for which one—if it's longer.”

She clicked off again, stepped into her own bullpen. “Whatever you're
doing, stop. I want everyone who isn't about to close the case of the decade to prep for a full briefing and op.”

“Yancy hit.” Peabody pushed to her feet. “How sure are we?”

“I'm going with a hundred on that. Lowenbaum's on his way, the commander is booking a conference room. We roll there as soon as it's ready. And we keep this right here for now.”

“Fuck me.” Face grim, Baxter clenched his fists. “It's a cop.”

“I'll have more data shortly. Close out whatever you've got—and if you can't, explain why, my office, in five. Peabody, with me.”

Swinging off her coat, Eve strode to her office. “Computer, background data, in full, on Tactical Officer Reginald Mackie, on screen.”

Acknowledged. Working . . .

“Close the door,” she ordered Peabody, then began reading.

“Enlisted, U.S. Army, in 2029, pulled out in 2039, as a sergeant. Trained sniper, instructor. Started on the job six months later, moved to Tactical in '49. Retired last year, spring. Last CO—Lowenbaum.”

She paced as she read. Without asking, Peabody programmed coffee, passed a mug to her.

“Married Zoe Younger, 2045, one offspring, female, Willow, age fifteen. Computer, ID photo and data on Willow Mackie.”

When it came up, Eve studied it with cool, flat eyes. The hair, a bit longer than the sketch, but it was as in the bag as Reginald's.

“She's the one with him,” Eve said. “That's confirmed. Divorced—Reginald Mackie, that is, 2052. Start running the ex-wife, Peabody. I want her current status, address. Who has custody of the kid.”

“I'm on it.”

“Married Susann Prinz, 2059. Widowed—and there it is, I'd bet my ass—2059. November 2059. Married March, widowed November. Computer: How did Susann Prinz die?”

Accessing . . . Prinz, Susann, age thirty-two at time of death, was killed when struck by a vehicle as she crossed East Sixty-Fourth between Fifth and Madison Avenues. According to the accident report and witnesses, Prinz ran out between parked vehicles, and was struck when the oncoming vehicle was unable to stop. No charges were filed against the driver, Brian T. Fine, age sixty-two. Do you wish the full incident report and all follow-up data?

“Yeah, lock that in, but give me the name of the officer or officers who responded to the scene.”

First-on-scene, and the officer of record, was Officer Kevin Russo, badge number—

“Hold that. That's enough. Was Prinz pregnant?”

Prinz was sixteen weeks pregnant at time of death.

“Her doctor? Her—what is it—obstetrician?”

One moment . . . accessing . . . Her obstetrician of record was Dr. Brent Michaelson.

“Pause run,” she said at the knock on the door, and went to open it herself. “Lowenbaum. I need everything you can tell me on Reginald Mackie.”

“What?” Shock, an instant denial registered on his face. “No. Come on, Dallas.”

Deliberately, she shut the door behind him. “You knew he was off—you'd have seen it. Think back.”

“Well, Christ.” He took a moment, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Listen, Mac was wound tight, but a lot of Tacticals are. He was a good, solid cop. I worked with him for a dozen years. His wife died—an accident. They hadn't been married a year, and she was pregnant, and he . . .”

Eve waited until Lowenbaum added it up, fast. “Ah, fuck it. Fuck. This is about Susann. It has to be about Susann. He has another kid, a girl, about fourteen, fifteen.”

“Willow, fifteen, ID'd as the second suspect. I'm going to fill you in, and you're going to fill us in. And you're going to pick your best men—I want officers who can keep the lid shut—and prepare for a takedown.”

“A lot of my best men worked with Mac. Susann's cousin's on the job, a friend of mine. That's how they met.”

A former cop, Eve thought, with twenty in, would have a lot of friends and connections on the job.

“Pick carefully. And remember he's responsible for seven deaths, and one of them was a cop. A twenty-three-year-old uniform whose last act was trying to shield another victim. Mackie gets wind we've ID'd him, he'll either rabbit or he'll go the last-stand route.”

“He won't rabbit.” Pale, Lowenbaum scrubbed at his face again, pressed his fingers hard against his eyes. “Give me a few minutes to settle into this, order my thoughts. I know him as well as anybody, I'd say.”

“And the kid? Do you know the kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know Will, a little anyway. She idolizes him. She's been in some trouble here and there—school shit—and her mother remarried, had another kid. It's split custody with Will. Let me organize this in my head. We have to stop him, and I'd like him to be alive after we do. Let me think.”

“Think here. Peabody, find our conference room.”

“It's A.”

“Let's take what we've got, move this there. I need you in ten, Lowenbaum, organized or not.”

“Ten's good.”

Within five, Eve was putting her board together, putting her thoughts together, putting the outline of an op together.

When her detectives and uniforms began to file in, she glanced back at Uniform Carmichael.

“Uniform Carmichael, I need the following people brought in for protective custody. Brian T. Fine, Zoe Younger, Lincoln Stuben, Zach Younger Stuben, age seven, Marta Beck. Peabody will give you home and work addresses. If these individuals don't cooperate, arrest them for impeding a police investigation. Send out whatever people you need, and get those individuals into Central as soon as possible. You'll be fully briefed subsequently. Peabody, get him those addresses—home and employment. No chatter, Carmichael. Absolutely none.”

“No chatter, LT. Absolutely none.”

Eve went back to her board as Feeney came in with Roarke and McNab, as Lowenbaum—no longer pale—followed.

“Grab chairs, grab coffee if you need it. We start as soon as the commander and Mira are in the room.”

Roarke moved to her, spoke quietly. “It's one of yours?” At her nod, he simply looked into her eyes, didn't touch her as he wanted. “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

She heard Mira's heels—
brisk, brisk, brisk
. “Maybe you can see if there's any of that flower tea crap Mira drinks in this AutoChef. This is going to take a while. You didn't order in a bunch of food, did you?”

“No.”

“Good. Don't. This is the sort of thing you're better off going into hungry.”

She already had Mackie's ID photo—along with Yancy's sketch. Willow Mackie's beside it on the board. And the room full of cops muttered and mumbled around it.

Then Whitney stepped in—with Chief Tibble—and the room silenced.

“Lieutenant,” Tibble said, and moved to a chair. “You have the room.”

“Yes, sir. Everybody, take a seat, listen
up.”

Eve turned to the board.

“Our suspects are Reginald Mackie, age fifty-four, former Tactical officer, NYPSD.” She expected the mutters, rode over them. “And his daughter, Willow Mackie, age fifteen. We've identified these suspects through an eyewitness working with Detective Yancy. In addition to the physical identification, Mackie fits the profile. He was Army, weapons specialist and instructor, and for the last dozen years was part of our own Tactical unit.”

She paused, focused on the image of an attractive woman. “While Willow Mackie was produced with his first wife, that relationship ended in divorce several years ago, and in joint custody of the minor child. Zoe Younger subsequently remarried and has a second offspring. Younger, her husband, and younger child are now being taken into protective custody. I believe the impetus for the recent strikes stems from the death of Mackie's second wife, Susann Prinz Mackie, shown here, and the fetus she carried. They died in a traffic accident in November of 2059.
The full incident report is available, but to sum up: Mrs. Mackie ran out into the street into oncoming traffic and was struck and killed. Accident reconstruction as well as eight eyewitnesses confirmed the driver, Brian T. Fine, was not at fault. Mr. Fine is also being brought into protective custody.

“Mrs. Mackie's doctor—whose offices are roughly a block from the accident scene—was Brent Michaelson, a victim in the strikes on Wollman Rink in Central Park yesterday. The first-on-scene at Susann Prinz Mackie's accident, and the officer in charge, was Kevin Russo, who was killed in the line of duty at Times Square this afternoon.”

Eve stopped, looked at Mira. “Dr. Mira, would you concur Reginald Mackie is targeting individuals connected in some way to his wife's death?”

“I'll familiarize myself with all the data as soon as possible, but yes. The evidence clearly shows the suspect is targeting specific people through this connection. The others are a kind of cover. He has reached a point where these lives mean nothing. And to have involved his teenage daughter . . . I would say he believes this is not only revenge but justice.

“He is showing her, firsthand, his definition of justice.”

“I think it's more than involving her, showing her. In each incident one of the victims was also a teenager. Serial killers most usually have a type. I believe Ellissa Wyman and Nathaniel Jarvits are Willow Mackie's type. Not just a cover for her. I don't believe Mackie himself would target a child or anyone near his daughter's age.”

“You believe this teenage girl is the killer?” Whitney demanded.

“Sir, Mackie's time, due to divorce, with his first child is halved,” Eve pointed out. “He lost the potential of a child. I don't see him targeting the young.”

“Psychologically that may be sound enough.” Whitney glanced toward Mira.

“Yes. It's possible.”

“But the skill required here is more than considerable.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Lowenbaum, do you know if Mackie has trained or instructed his daughter in weaponry?”

“Yes. In fact, I've seen her on the range, dropped by one of her competitions.”

“Competitions?”

“Target and combat simulation competitions. Nonlethal weaponry. Mac took her to the range regularly, and entered her in competitions. He was proud of how well she did.”

“Willow Mackie has the training and the skill?” Eve prompted.

“I wouldn't have said she was good enough to . . . I haven't seen Willow in a couple of years, only saw her on the range with Mac a few times, and at the one competition. She was good,” he admitted, blew out a breath. “She was better than good, and Mac was very proud of her abilities and interest.

“But these strikes? It takes better than good.”

A couple years of practice, Eve thought, can hone a skill. “What can you tell us about their relationship?”

“They were always pretty tight. In fact, a couple years back she pushed to live with him full-time. He was considering it, especially after he married Susann, then after the accident, he wasn't in any shape to raise a teenage girl on his own.”

“What was his state of mind?”

“Let me go back a little. I've known Mac for a long time. The last four years as his LT. He keeps his head—or did. He didn't like his ex's husband, but most of that came off as just the usual sort of resentment. He spent as much time with Willow as he could manage—the job can interfere, but he made her a priority. I know she started getting in some trouble at school, and his ex wanted her to go to a therapist. She didn't want to, and Mac backed the kid.”

“Dr. Mira, could you find out if Willow Mackie did indeed see a
therapist? You saw a change in him after the accident,” Eve said to Lowenbaum.

“Yeah, no question there. It shattered him. I ordered him to take hardship leave because he wasn't steady. Who would be? I heard some talk about him seeing a lawyer, trying to go after the driver, but he wasn't talking to me much.”

“Pissed at you?”

“Yeah, maybe. Some. We need to talk to Vince Patroni, from my unit. They were closest. Mac wasn't the same when he came back on the roll. He'd lost weight, was too often distracted. And angry under it. He never came in drunk, but I know he hit the bottle hard off duty for a while. But that stopped. Still, he wasn't solid. He was shaky and he was pissed. He was coming up on his twenty, so I talked to him about either turning in his papers or a reassignment.”

“Did you push it?”

“Didn't have to. He said he'd already decided to take his twenty and be done. Have more time with his daughter, maybe travel some. I tagged him a couple of times after that, to see if he wanted to have a brew, grab a meal, but he put me off. I let it go.”

“I need Patroni brought in.”

“I'll get him.”

“If they were close, he may feel some loyalty.”

“I'll get him,” Lowenbaum repeated, “I'll make certain he doesn't contact Mac.”

Eve nodded. “It's highly possible the suspects have other connections to and communications with the NYPSD. It's imperative we keep this information inside this room. Any indication we have a suspect or are looking for Mackie may cause him to go under. Or it may force him into a confrontation. He's killed or encouraged his daughter to kill a police officer. He won't hesitate to do so again, even knowing the result may be his own termination.”

“It's highly possible that's his end goal,” Mira pointed out. “He has nothing to live for once this mission is completed or aborted. If he plans to protect his daughter, the best way to do so is his own death. The killings would be blamed solely on him, and as a minor, she could claim coercion, emotional instability.”

“Which is why we need to take them quickly, smoothly, and soon. The suspect has an apartment on the sixth floor of a residential building on East Twenty-Fourth. Captain Feeney, I need an EDD team to determine if both suspects are in that apartment. A cop with that much experience would know what to look for.”

“We can get around that. Don't happen to own that building, do you?” Feeney said to Roarke.

“No,” Roarke responded, already checking on his PPC. “But I do own one across the street that might be helpful.”

“Lowenbaum, I need a unit. Again, he'll know what to look for.”

“And we know how to get around that.”

“Reineke, Jenkinson, Santiago, Carmichael, you're on takedown. Baxter, Trueheart, you're on data and interviews. Trueheart will soften the mother up,” Eve added before Baxter could object. “We're going to need her cooperation. Baxter, you're going to sit hard on Patroni, put the fear of God into him, if necessary. Fuck his loyalty, if any, to Reginald Mackie. I want three officers, soft clothes, to check out the minor suspect's school.”

“School would be over for the day, Lieutenant,” Peabody told her.

“There may be staff still there, after-school shit going on. We may be able to determine if she has any particular hangout. If we can take her outside the apartment, we take her. We're not just taking down serial killers, we're taking down a veteran police officer and his teenage daughter. We need it clean.

“We need a warrant to search the mother's residence, get into the kid's room there.”

“Consider it done,” Whitney told her.

“Peabody and I will handle that search before or after the takedown, depending on timing. The mother's residence is on First. Anyone not on takedown, get started now.”

“One moment.” Tibble rose, tall and lean and, under the control, Eve noted, furious. “I'd like to add to Lieutenant Dallas's statement. Reginald Mackie served the city and its people for twenty years. But he has broken his oath, his faith, his duty. He is responsible for the death of another police officer and six other citizens, one a minor. He has done this for his own purposes, and has disgraced himself, has made his own child an accessory at best, a killer at worst. Knock him down, take him out, bring him in. I would prefer he still be breathing at the end of this operation, but I want no other good cops killed today. Serve and protect, not just the citizenry, but each other. Lieutenant Dallas, good work. Commander, we have work of our own to do to support those who are going out into harm's way.”

Eve let out a breath when Tibble walked out with Whitney. “He is pissed.”

“So am I.” Lowenbaum pushed to his feet. “I never saw it. You asked me, dead on, who I knew who could make these strikes. Mackie never blipped on my screen.”

“Let me ask you now: Could he have executed these strikes?”

“Possibly. He wouldn't have been high on my list, but possibly. The thing is, he's been off my screen for close to a year. I never pushed to see how he was doing. If I had, I might have had a better sense where his head was at.”

“You said you tagged him.”

“I didn't push.”

“Were you pals?”

“No, not really. But we were comrades. I was his supervising officer when he broke.”

“And you did what you could for him. Don't go there, Lowenbaum. If you have to go there, save it for later. Get me a SWAT team, one that knows how to take a suspect of this caliber alive, and can keep a lid on it.”

On a brisk nod, he left the room.

“Feeney.”

“Just hold it, your man's working on something.”

“I've got something,” Roarke corrected, “again that might be useful. Can I use the screen there?” Without waiting, he rose, walked over, and interfaced his PPC with the room comp.

“Your suspect's building,” he began, when the image came on. “We'll draw in on his apartment. It's apartment 612, according to my data.”

“Okay.”

“And my building, just diagonal from the target. We have an unoccupied apartment—actually three altogether, but this one on the seventh floor provides a good location to set up. We could do a heat sensor search from there, and potentially set up ears at least, depending on the target's shielding.”

“Do that,” Eve said.

“How about we add this?” Feeney scratched his chin. “People move in, move out. We use a small moving van. We get McNab here, maybe another boy to cart in some boxes, or furniture, and our equipment moves in without sending up any flags.”

“How soon can you have it set up?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty.”

“Roll it. Baxter, Trueheart, start compiling data, and check with Uniform Carmichael. Start the interview process as soon as we've got some of these people in the house. See if you can get the name of the lawyer Mackie talked to. We need to bring him in. He may be a target.”

“Protecting a lawyer.” Baxter shook his head. “What the hell. Come on, partner, let's get this started.”

With only her takedown team in the room, Eve turned to the screen. “Okay, here's how I see it going.”

Within thirty minutes, as data continued to stream in, Eve had her team in a police van, outfitted not only with body armor, but helmets. Which meant she had to do the same. While the coat took care of the body armor, the helmet bugged the crap out of her.

But a head shot would do worse.

Inside the van, on screen, she watched the feed Feeney sent her. She watched McNab and Callendar, looking every bit like a happy couple moving into a new place, haul boxes into Roarke's building.

“No heat source in suspect's apartment,” Feeney told her. “We're running that from the van for now. They're not in there.”

“When you're ready, McNab and Callendar can run that from inside, and you move off.”

“Your man has a garage about a block away. We'll go in there, sit awhile. Lowenbaum's team is moving into position. One of them will use the apartment, two on the roof, and another two in another empty apartment in Roarke's building. See the window of the suspect's apartment?”

“Yeah, yeah. Privacy screened. I'm going to hit the mother's place now. Jenkinson, you're in charge here till I get back—sit tight. Peabody, I want constant reports. Roarke, you're with me. I'll be heading east, then south, on foot. I can be back here inside five minutes, so I need to know the first sighting on either suspect.”

She stepped out of the van, moved fast. The suspects could be back any minute—or not for hours. Any data she could dig up might pinpoint their next target. Even now they might be holed up in some hotel room, some flop, some empty office space, preparing to strike again.

Nothing fell out of the sky now as the ugly day headed toward a bitter evening. Streetlights shimmered on, cutting the gloom with chilly white pools of light. As she walked, she studied faces. Pedestrians
hurrying home, or to meet up for drinks, to get in more shopping. Others huddled at a cart that smelled of soy dogs and really terrible coffee.

They could walk here, she thought, father and daughter, back to the apartment, out to grab a slice. They
would
have walked here at some point, from the townhouse to the apartment.