“Tourists in the Theater District: buses from out of town and intermission drinks!”
“Ex-actly. Either he lives or works in Times Square, likes plays . . . or was planning another attack there when he picked up the trace.”
“What’s the hit?”
“As soon as Archer and I figured that out—”
“Archer?”
“Juliette. The intern.”
“Oh.” The wheelchair woman with the beautiful eyes—and God-given nails. Referring to her by last name had confused Sachs.
Traffic cleared and she was cruising again.
“As soon as we figured out it was the Theater District I called COC.”
In the Community Observation Center of the NYPD, based in a cavernous, windowless room at One PP, dozens of officers scanned monitors fed by two hundred thousand CCTVs around the city. There were too many screens to monitor the entire city for a suspect, and algorithms weren’t helpful when you had no facial recognition points on your unsub—just “tall and skinny and probably wearing a baseball cap and carrying a backpack.”
But, Rhyme explained, with the evidence pointing to a fairly small area, highly concentrated with security cameras, an officer had focused on the Times Square district and spotted someone who profiled as Unsub 40 ten minutes ago.
“Where exactly?”
“Broadway and Forty-Two, going north. They lost him in a store at Four-Five Street, west. May have gone out the back entrance. Cameras’re sporadic west of Broadway. Haven’t picked him up again.”
Sachs skidded around a gas tanker changing lanes unexpectedly and righted the Torino. O-kayyy. The adrenaline bled out.
Rhyme was continuing, “Mel called Midtown North. Half-dozen bodies are on their way to the intersection. ESU too.” Rhyme was unable to deploy troops, but Mel Cooper, a detective, had the authority to do so, even if his specialty was forensic science. “And Pulaski’s on his way to Twelve and Forty-Four with a team.”
The MTN team would sweep west with Sachs; Ron Pulaski’s would head east, a pincer movement.
“From the evidence—any other idea where he might be headed? Specifically?”
No response.
He was talking to somebody else. Probably Cooper.
No, Sachs heard a woman’s voice. Juliette Archer.
Then there was a pause.
Sachs asked, “Rhyme?”
“What?”
“I was asking, anything from the evidence to narrow down where he is or where he’s headed?”
“Some things we haven’t been able to place. The broken glass, the glazing compound. Paper towels. That could be from anywhere. The humus is from Queens, or originated in Queens.” She wondered about the emphasis on the word. He continued, “We’ve got fertilizer and herbicides, too, but you don’t see rolling pastures on Broadway in Midtown. I don’t mind speculating but I’m not guessing. No, we’ll have to leave it up to a manhunt at this point.”
“Keep looking,” she said. “I’ll call you when I’m on scene.”
Sachs disconnected before he could respond and then veered off the highway and sped west onto surface streets.
Intersections . . . damn intersections.
Slamming down clutch and brake, squinting against the blue flashing light on the dash.
Sachs would hit the horn with one hand, downshift with the other, then grab the wheel rim again with both.
Clear right, clear left. Go! Go!
This process repeated a half-dozen times and only twice did the frantic Manhattan traffic drive her onto the curb, though three times or possibly four she came within inches of de-fendering a car gridlocked in her path.
Forty miles per hour wasn’t racing, not to Amelia Sachs, though it seemed so as she made her way, as best she could, through central Manhattan.
Interesting, she reflected as she hit a clear stretch. Unsub 40 was hanging out in her father’s beat. Herman Sachs had walked the streets of Times Square for years, concentrating mostly on the Deuce, 42nd Street, long before it morphed into the Disney theme park it was today. Fact was, Sachs missed the hood’s porn, skin-game, honky-tonk days, as she suspected her father would have too.
Her mobile buzzed.
Manual transmission, phone? She chose the Samsung over fourth gear and let the transmission complain. “Sachs.”
“Amelia. It’s Bobby Killow. Patrol. MTN. Captain Rhyme gave me your number. About your unsub.”
“I remember you, Bobby.”
Killow had been a cherubic, energetic young patrol officer in Midtown North whom she’d worked with occasionally back in her pre-detective days. He was probably much the same now, though the “young” wouldn’t apply as seamlessly. “What’ve you got?”
“I’m on Four-Six, been canvassing. A few people think they’ve seen him here. Last five minutes.”
Piercing the heart of the Theater District, 46th Street ran from river to river.
“Where exactly?”
“Few doors west of Broadway. Ducked into a souvenir store. Was looking suspicious, the wit said. Staring out the windows, like he was thinking he was being tailed. The clerk’s words. When it seemed safe or clear or something—the clerk again—he stepped outside and vanished west.”
“I . . . well.”
“What was that?”
That had been a scooter driver, as oblivious as those in Rome, zipping out into her lane to see who would win the contest between a Ford Torino and a tinny Vespa knockoff.
Sachs had controlled the skid rather well, though she nearly ended up under a garbage truck. Then, tires spinning, on the way again.
“Bobby, descrip of the perp?”
“Dark-blue or black windbreaker, no logo, jeans, baseball cap in red or green—that’s witnesses for you. Dark backpack.”
“K. I’m there in five.”
In fact, it took her three. She skidded to a stop at Broadway and 46th beside three Midtown North cruisers. Nodded to Bobby Killow. Yep, angelic as ever. She knew several of the octet of officers standing nearby too and greeted them.
Already the vultures were gathering: the tourists with mobile phones shooting away.
Hum of hers. Ron Pulaski was calling.
“’Lo, Ron. Where are you? In position?”
“Right, Amelia.” The young officer explained he was with a team of four patrol and six Emergency Service officers. They were at 46th Street, near the Hudson River.
“We’re at Broadway. Sweep east, toward us. We’ll move west.” She gave the description of the suspect and added that it was possible he lived or worked here. If so, his unique appearance meant neighbors or shopkeepers or waiters would most likely recognize him.
“If he’s here because he was stalking a victim, well, that’s something else. We’ll just hope we can stumble over him before it’s too late.”
They disconnected and Sachs briefed the officers in front of her. She explained that they couldn’t be sure who the unsub’s target was, other than someone using or near an “embedded” product, which he would sabotage from his smartphone or tablet.
Sachs continued, “We don’t know if he’s got a firearm. But he’s used a hammer in the past.”
“He’s the escalator killer, right?”
“That’s right.”
“What other kinds of products would he be targeting?”
She told them about Abe Benkoff’s stove. And recalled the lengthy list of products Todd Williams had downloaded for him, those with DataWise5000s in their hearts. “Could be appliances, water heaters, kitchen things, heavy equipment, tools, maybe vehicles. Medical equipment too. But he’s going for showy, to get attention. If you see something that could take off an arm or scald or crush you to death, assume it’s got a controller in it and our unsub’s about to push the button.”
“Jesus,” one of the officers whispered. “Your wife and kids’re in the kitchen baking cookies? And the stove could blow up?”
“That’s it. Let’s get started.”
As they began to sweep west, one officer muttered, “Wonder why he picked this area.”
The answer was obvious to Sachs. Here were hundreds of stores, restaurants and entertainment venues, all presided over by towering high-definition video billboards, bullying or enticing passersby and tourists to spend, spend, spend . . .
For anyone whose agenda was assaulting consumerism, Times Square was the best hunting ground in the world.
CHAPTER 32
Canvassing.
The officers with Sachs divided into two teams, each taking a different side of the street, and were moving west.
Nothing fancy about the technique, simply asking if anyone had seen a tall thin man in a baseball cap, dark jacket and jeans, carrying a backpack. Their progress was slow. The sidewalk dense with pedestrians and vendors.
And, of course, they were watching their backs.
On the lookout for anything that might turn on them. Could he rig this car’s engine to explode or catch fire? Could he command that garbage truck to lurch forward? What about the city infrastructure—a million volts and tons of superheated steam coursed inches below their feet.
Products were everywhere.
Distracting.
Sachs herself had no hits but one of the officers radioed and said he’d had a maybe—about ten minutes earlier a man fitting the unsub’s description had been standing at the edge of the sidewalk, looking down at his tablet. Between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. He’d done nothing other than that; the witness—the owner of a Theater District souvenir shop—had noted him simply because of his unusual appearance.
“Any idea where he went?”
“No, ma’am,” the officer said.
Looking around in frustration.
“Maybe that’s a target zone. Assemble there.”
In a few minutes, they’d gathered where the unsub had been spotted and continued searching. No one else had seen him. So they continued their progress west. Slowly. Looking in restaurants, shops, cars and trucks, theaters—front and stage doors. Nothing.
Ron Pulaski called from the west end of 46th Street and reported no sightings. He and his officers were continuing east. The two search teams were about a half mile from each other now.
Moving closer to Eighth Avenue, Sachs could see a theater and across from that a large construction site. An irritating noise shot toward them on the wind—a power tool’s whine. As she approached, it grew very loud, a shriek that stung her ears. She’d thought the sound was coming from the jobsite—a high-rise. There were dozens of workers welding and hammering the steel skeleton into place. But curiously, no, the sound was coming through two large open doors. It was the backstage area of a theater, a workshop where a carpenter was cutting wood, presumably to assemble a set for an upcoming play. Thank goodness the workman was wearing earmuffs—the sort that she wore when she went shooting. The huge scream of the circular saw could ruin unprotected eardrums. When the worker stopped cutting, she or one of the search team would ask if he’d spotted the suspect.
For the moment, though, Sachs and the officers with her walked through the gap in the six-foot plywood fence surrounding the construction site. The building going up was a thirty- or forty-story-high structure. Much of the steelwork and rough flooring had been done but few walls were in. The ground was typically congested with heavy equipment and stations for tools and supplies. Making her way farther inside, Sachs asked a scrawny worker, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, for the manager or foreman. He ambled off.
A moment later a big man in a hard hat waddled up. He was obviously displeased.
“Hello,” she said, nodding to the worker, who exuded an air of seniority. She showed her badge.
Rather than responding to her, he frowned and turned to another, younger worker, not the one who’d fetched him. “You call ’em? I didn’t say call ’em yet.”
“I didn’t call nobody, Boss.”
“Who called?” the man—Boss—shouted, looking over workers nearby and scratching his large belly, encased within a seriously stressed plaid shirt. Hairs protruded from the gaps between buttons.
Sachs could make a reasonable deduction. “Someone was going to call the police?”
“Yeah but,” he said, looking around for a culprit.
His assistant said to Sachs, as he nodded to Boss, “Iggy, he’s Iggy, wanted to make sure there was a reason, you know. Not a false alarm. The company don’t like cops, sorry, like officers on a jobsite. Looks bad, you know.”
“What did you think the problem was? Why would anybody have called?”
Iggy was mentally back with them now. “Trespass. Looks like some guy snuck in. We aren’t sure. Just wanted to check. Before we called. We woulda. Just, we wanted to check. Didn’t want to waste nobody’s time.”
“Was he very tall, very thin? In a dark windbreaker and jeans? Baseball cap?”
“Dunno. You looking for him? Why?”
With edgy impatience, Sachs said, “Could you find out if that’s who it was?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Yeah, you guess it was him. Or yeah you guess you can find out.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sachs stared. “This man is wanted in connection with a homicide, Iggy. Could you . . . ?” A gesture with her open palm, impatient.
Iggy shouted, “Yo, Cly!”
Another worker walked up, hiding a cigarette behind his back. This one was lit.
“Yeah?”
“That asshole you saw walking around?”
Sachs repeated the description.
“That’s him.” His eyes swiveled momentarily to his boss. He was sheepish. “I didn’t call, Iggy. You didn’t want nobody to call. I didn’t call.”
Shit. Sachs pulled her radio off her belt and summoned her team and Pulaski’s to the site ASAP.
“Any idea where he went?” she asked Cly.
“Coulda been up. He was near the west elevator.” Gesturing at the soaring steelwork of the building.
“Are there people there to spot him?” Sachs asked. She couldn’t see any workers from the ground.
“We’re doing the ironwork,” the foreman said, meaning, she supposed, obviously there’d be people there.
“Call them and find out if he’s been spotted.”
Iggy ordered his second- or third-in-command to do so. The man hopped to the task, making calls on his walkie-talkie.
Sachs asked the foreman, “How else could he have gotten out of the site?” The walls were eight-foot plywood, topped with razor wire.
Iggy rubbed his hard hat as if scratching his head. “Entrances on Forty-Seventh. Or here, but this one, the main one, probably he would’ve been spotted. And nobody did or they woulda told me.”
She sent two officers in the direction of the 47th Street entrance. And said to Boss Iggy, “Oh, and tell your men not to use the elevators.”
“They can’t walk down—”
“He could have sabotaged them.”
His eyes went wide. “Jesus. For real?”
Iggy’s adjutant ended a transmission and said, “He mighta been up there, one of the lower floors. Tall guy. Nobody was sure he was working for a sub or whatever.”
This seemed like the most likely target. The elevator cars were flimsy and mounted on the outside of a scaffolding track. It wouldn’t take much, she guessed, for a DataWise controller to shut down the automatic brakes. Workers would slam to the ground at a hundred miles an hour.
Iggy called out, “Freeze the elevators. All of them. And tell the guys up there not to use them until they’ve been checked.”
