Chapter 94
Thomlinson had a pretty good idea where Shewster was headed. What he wished he knew was whether he had called anyone on the way. And if he had, what’d they talk about?
The laptop had him turning right at the FDR. He had apparently come to a stop a half block south. That’d put him between East Sixty-first and East Sixty-second. Why two blocks from the loft?
Thomlinson turned at the FDR, spotting the limo behind one of those trucks similar to the ones the city sends out to repair faulty streetlights. They were parked on the right side of the street approximately one hundred feet from the corner, in front of a single-story commercial structure, its security gate down, as was the case for the row of similar structures on either side of the street. The limo’s engine was idling. It didn’t appear anyone had gotten out. Thomlinson pulled in on the left, put the vehicle in park, and watched. Could Shewster be on the phone? He wasn’t driving. If he needed to place a call, that wouldn’t require him to pull over. Why had he? And why two blocks away?
Shewster’s car continued to idle. Thomlinson continued to watch. He unpocketed his phone, intent on calling Driscoll, but the cherry picker atop the utility truck made him look up. Standing on the roof of the single-story structure was a man in dark clothing. Sharpshooter? From this distance? Thomlinson doubted it. He wasn’t holding a rifle. In fact, he wasn’t holding anything. That’s when he spotted the tripod to the man’s right. What appeared to be mounted on it caused Thomlinson to draw his weapon, bolt from the Yukon, and charge down the street hollering like a madman. This action prompted three reactions: the driver of the utility vehicle bolted away from the curb, Shewster’s chauffeur did the same, and the man on the roof disappeared.
When Thomlinson rounded the corner on East Sixty-first, the only person he happened upon was a locksmith who was closing his shop, toolbox in hand. Despite the fact that Thomlinson was breathing heavily, wearing a disheveled suit, and had appeared out of nowhere brandishing a gun, the locksmith was quite accommodating-after he’d recovered from a rapid pulse, a surge of adrenaline, and a thunderous heartbeat. When color finally returned to the locksmith’s face, the detective gained access to the shopkeeper’s roof. A bit of high-stepping from roof to roof brought him to within inches of what had caused the ruckus.
Thomlinson had come across a variety of weapons during the course of his crime-fighting career. But there were always surprises. And not having served in the military, today was the first time he’d ever seen an Mk19 automatic grenade launcher.
Chapter 95
Margaret and Driscoll had helped each other shoulder a fair amount of stress over the years. Both on the job and off. Here was a man who had only now buried his wife after losing her six years ago. Margaret was heartbroken when he confided to her that sitting beside his comatose wife was tantamount to kneeling before her open casket. My God, a six-year wake! How he managed to get out of bed in the morning was beyond her. She realized she wasn’t helping matters by dragging her own demons into their on-again, off-again relationship. Through it all, they had discovered their connection was similar to that reportedly experienced by twins, where unexplainable and extraordinary bonds exist. Ironic, considering their current case.
That’s why the second he said hello to whomever had just called, she knew he’d been invited into a nightmare.
“You okay?” she asked as he ended the call. “You look like you’re about to be hanged. Who was on the phone?”
“My sister.”
“What’s happened?”
“She’s been abducted.”
“Abducted? By whom?”
Driscoll pointed to the loft.
“The twins?”
“They’re holding her hostage.”
“Jesus Christ! What’d she say to you on the phone?”
“That he’s holding a gun to her head.” His eyes targeted the second-story window, then sought Margaret’s. “She asked me the oddest question, even for her. She wanted to know if I would be the one getting them to the airport.”
The Lieutenant’s phone sounded again.
“Yes?” he blurted, his heart pounding.
“Lieutenant? That you?”
Chapter 96
Driscoll’s caller was Thomlinson. The sight of color returning to the Lieutenant’s face had Margaret somewhat relieved.
In his conversation with the detective, the perplexity involving the helicopter was quickly resolved as Driscoll was apprised of Angus’s demands to set it in motion this afternoon and of Shewster’s promise to comply. With that being said, Thomlinson offered a more precise version of what Shewster’s afternoon looked like. So far. “What I wanna know,” said Thomlinson, “is how Shewster, within fifteen…twenty minutes tops, had an automatic grenade-launcher set up within two blocks of the loft. Granted, the crowd of power players this guy’s got in his pocket would fill the Super Bowl, but a freakin’ military assault weapon and a cherry picker? C’mon! Merlin the Magician couldn’t pull that off.”
“Merlin didn’t have speed dial on his Rolodex. Where are you now?”
“Outside Shewster’s hotel.”
“He’s probably contemplating Plan B. Any further word from Danny?”
“Zip.”
“You don’t know it yet, Cedric, but I owe you a very personal debt of gratitude.” Before Driscoll could explain, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of gunfire.
It came from the loft.
Chapter 97
In kaleidoscope fashion, a slide show of images flooded Driscoll’s brain. Catapulted haphazardly through time, he witnessed blood washing over Colette’s hand, obscuring all but a glint of gold that was the curve of her wedding band; he watched his mother leap into the path of the oncoming commuter train; he listened to his daughter crying out to him while her mangled body was encased in the metal of their family van. Hearses materialized, only to vanish like the edges of a dream. As his family plot beckoned, he heard the sound of a woman’s voice.
With his sight suddenly returning, he discovered Margaret was holding his cell phone to her ear. Her voice, a faint whisper grew in intensity.
“Okay. Your brother made his point. It’s loaded and it works. Just bring her to the window so we know he didn’t shoot her, then hand Angus the phone.”
Driscoll glanced up to see the look of total bewilderment on his sister’s face. Retrieving the cell phone, he spoke to Angus calmly and clearly. “The chopper is sitting at the heliport, just south of us, at East Thirty-fourth Street. We’re waiting for Mr. Shewster to arrange clearance for the departure of a corporate jet from JFK.”
“What’s the hold-up?” Angus asked.
It was the first time the Lieutenant had heard him speak. His voice was not as Driscoll had imagined. “There’s no hold-up. Ever since 9/11 federal regulations requi-”
“We’re leaving the freakin’ country. Not coming in. He’s got twenty minutes.”
The line went dead and his sister disappeared from sight, as though she were on wheels.
“Any truth to that?” asked Margaret.
Driscoll’s expression didn’t make known Shewster’s attempt to lob a grenade, but Margaret clearly understood there’d be no plane. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Get on the horn to every utility that operates in Manhattan. Within the next five minutes, I want a team of eight men with jackhammers tearing into the asphalt under the highway, toward Fifty-ninth. The loft has no window facing south. I don’t want the twins to see them. Then dispatch a team from Special Operations Division. No slackers. Let’s move!”
“Yessir!”
Driscoll approached Lieutenant Ted McKeever, the SWAT team commander.
“How ya holdin’ up, John?” McKeever asked.
“I’ll feel a lot better when she’s sitting inside a patrol car. He’s given us twenty minutes. Any of your shooters get a bearing on him?”