Hostage Taker (40 page)

Six days later

I
t was a perfect winter day, where the snow fell but did not stick more than enough to coat the grass and trees with a crisp sugary layer of white that was starkly beautiful. Beyond the stretch of trees that was Riverside Park, the Hudson River was glistening like ice under cloud-filled skies.

A car pulled up in front of the marble townhouse at the corner of Riverside and 107th Street.

After saying something to the driver, Mace got out—followed by a black-and-tan five-year-old German shepherd. The dog bounded down the walk, up the stairs, and past two stone lions before sitting at the door.

“I brought you a present,” Mace said when Eve opened the door at 350 Riverside Drive.

“Come in. The rest of them are already here.” She knelt to hug the dancing, overexcited dog. “I’m surprised you’re giving him up. You got tired of babysitting?”

“Nah,” Mace chuckled. “We kept each other busy. Even got therapy training.”

“No way.” García had entered the room. “You are
not
giving me no therapy dog. I am not a dog person.”

Mace shot García a look of annoyance. “That one statement probably sums up the whole reason we don’t get along. Get over yourself already, Frankie. The dog is Eve’s.” He caught her eye. “Nothing like taking care of someone else to help you stay grounded. Plus, he’ll help you remember the good times, not the bad.”

Zev’s former home, now hers.

Zev’s former dog, now hers.

“Zev loved him,” Eve said, burying her face in Bach’s fur.

Mace hung the dog leash on a wall hook—strategically placed for that purpose. “This place ain’t bad. Even got its own tunnel, huh?”

Eli and Haddox joined them. They’d all come to help Eve clear out and pack up Zev’s things. She hadn’t asked—but they’d insisted it wasn’t the sort of job she ought to do alone.

“Can I ask you something?” Mace said.

“Sure.” Eve gave a final pat to Bach’s head.

“You gonna keep the house or sell it?”

The question gripped Eve’s heart with an icy vise. “It’s definitely too much house for me. What am I going to do with eleven bathrooms?”

“Do you know how much eleven bathrooms gets you in today’s market?” Eli rolled tape onto cardboard, creating the lower half of a box. “You could retire to some tropical island. ’Cept you oughtta take the Steinway. It plays a mean chopsticks.”

“I’d miss the snow.” Eve raised her face to the chandelier above them. It was like a jewel, studded with dozens of brilliant diamond lights. Beautiful—but not her own.

She saw the antique bench and mirror. The Persian rug Zev had brought home from Iran. The silk paintings and jade statues from China and Korea and Japan. She still regarded this as Zev’s home. No words in a last will and testament were going to change that. Maybe it was legally hers—but she couldn’t imagine herself here, watching movies and unloading groceries, paying bills and shoveling the sidewalk.

“You know,” Haddox said, “if you wanted to make it your own, all you’d need is a new coat of paint.”

“Too much history.” She gestured to the box Eli was filling with Zev’s eighteen different chess sets. But she was thinking of Zev’s final moments. He’d lost his life by the banks of the Hudson, not far away.

Haddox shrugged. “Some paint and your own stuff. It’s enough for a fresh start.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why is everything with you about a fresh start?”

“ ’Cause that’s what keeps us going, luv. Why we get up every morning. Every new day is the perfect do-over.”

“I dunno. Most days I feel stuck in the same rut. Like Bill Murray in
Groundhog Day,
” Eli said, shaking his head.

“What would John say about that?” Haddox teased.

“No clue. We’re on a break.”

“I thought you liked John,” Eve said.

“I did. But he got mad when I ignored his calls. And his family? You have no idea the number of obligations these people expect. Four family events—a wake, two Christmas parties, and a dinner—this week alone. Too much for me.”

“Too many expectations,” Haddox agreed.

García was busy looking around. “You know, I’m not going back to the hospital. But I’d come here to work. If you wanted to do something with it, that is.”

“This place?” Mace frowned for a split second; then his face broke into a grin. “You know what—I see what you mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Eve felt like they were moving forward and making plans, while she stayed mired in the past.

“Zev used it as a CIA outpost for over a decade, right?” García jabbed his finger against the security panel in the front hall. “Why not make it the center for your own work? Either in the FBI—or not.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Eve said honestly.

“That’s ’cause you don’t color inside the lines,” Mace told her. “Maybe you did once—but now you don’t. Not anymore.”

“Not sure I’ve colored since I was ten.” Eve ripped a long stretch of tape off the roll and sealed up a box.

“I hear it’s like riding a bike,” Haddox told her. “Think about it. Maybe over dinner.”

She tossed him a new roll of tape. “You want a dinner date, ask Olivia Foley from Forensics. From the way she looks at you, I’m pretty sure she’d say yes.”

“Which is why I don’t ask. Where’s the challenge?”

After the guys
left, she curled up on the sofa. Bach settled in beside her like he owned the place. Just outside her door, the city was teeming with activity. Taxi drivers blared their horns. Punk teenagers yelled obscenities. Dogs barked.

That was what she loved about this city: how she could be alone, but never lonely.

She had expected to return to her own apartment. But she was surprised to find herself comfortable here with Bach. There were good memories here. And for the first time since Zev’s death, she found them a solace and not a torment. Running her fingers across the keys of the baby grand, she felt surprisingly content. Was this—finally—the fifth stage of grief?

Acceptance.

Her phone beeped.

A message from the Irishman.

Speaking of fresh starts: You know I’m a sucker for a good pizza. How about tomorrow night?

Forty-seven blocks uptown,
in an Irish section of the Bronx, Corey Haddox pulled up a stool at the Dead Rabbit and ordered a pint of Guinness. For the first time since leaving Dublin, he was in luck: the bartender knew his stout. Which was to say, the bloke knew a thing or two about timing.

He filled the glass in one continuous pour and let it rest for 119 seconds.

Just shy of two minutes.

Exactly the right amount to let the head rise just proud of the rim.

Haddox’s phone beeped. Eve had responded.
Can’t plan that far in advance. Let’s stick to your 8:18 rule.

It was all in the timing. He’d thought he had it right—but Eve was tricky. And this was one case where, he admitted, bits and bytes didn’t do the conversation justice. All context was missing: The lift of her chin, the expression in her eyes, the thousands of ways she managed to communicate while saying nothing at all.

Mere words on a screen couldn’t capture the half of it.

Then seven seconds later, she surprised him.
Better make it tonight. I’m starving.

He smiled before he lifted his drink and savored his first sip—long and slow, a mix of bitter and sweet.

T
he idea for this novel came to me shortly after Saint Patrick’s Cathedral began its massive renovation project—and I first saw the Cathedral buried in scaffolding. Observing the chaos and upheaval, I began to think:
what if?
But while this landmark is real, my story is fictional: I’ve incorporated rumor and myth, legend and imagination, to create a blend of fact and fiction in keeping with the spirit of this historic treasure. Likewise, while some characters may share official titles with religious and city leaders, they are entirely my own creation and not based on any real individual.

It was the year 1809 when the notorious forger, thief, and master-of-disguise Eugène François Vidocq—a man no prison had managed to hold—walked into the offices of Monsieur Henry, the head of the French Prefecture. Tired of living life on the lam, Vidocq made an astonishing offer: He would deliver up France’s most wanted thieves and smugglers in exchange for a clean slate.

The unique arrangement worked so well that Monsieur Henry had an epiphany: sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief. He would give Vidocq a clean slate, but only if he took a permanent job with the police. It was a compelling offer: a chance to spend his life stalking criminals rather than wasting it in jail or on the run. So Vidocq took the only true option presented and went on to use his considerable talents in a very different manner, developing an innovative approach to police work. Vidocq rose to become head of the Sûreté—and when he handpicked those men who would staff his most elite units, he turned not to the best men on the force, but to the streets. He assembled a crack team of criminals just like himself. Their successes were legendary—even if questions about whether they were truly law-abiding dogged Vidocq for all of his career.

Many have studied him.

A number have followed him.

And—just maybe—a select few continue his legacy.

In memory of Jake—who loved a good story.

And to Craig—for believing I could write one.

N
o writer ever succeeds in publishing a book without significant help from family, friends, and dedicated professionals. I want to give special thanks to those who helped me most with this one.

Thanks to Kate Miciak, my editor, who has an unfailing instinct for story. To Anne Hawkins, my agent, who reads, suggests, and believes. Together, you both understand exactly what I need as a writer—and I’m grateful for your enthusiasm and support.

I’m grateful to everyone at Random House, including Libby McGuire, Julia Maguire, Lindsey Kennedy, Maggie Oberrender, Nancy Delia, my copy editor Amy Brosey, Victoria Wong, and all the other people whose contributions have made this book a reality. Special thanks to cartographer David Lindroth and cover designer Carlos Beltrán.

Both the FBI and St. Patrick’s Cathedral are formidable institutions—ones that I’ve slightly reframed and reorganized in the interest of telling a better story. I hope those who helped me with the research behind this novel will forgive me for the liberties I took: Charles Muldoon, Jacqueline Delaney, Evelyn Vera, and all those I had the privilege to meet as part of New York’s FBI Citizens Academy; and Bob Grant and countless others at St. Patrick’s Cathedral who answered my questions with patience and good humor. For additional reference sources, I’m indebted to Thomas G. Young, author of
St. Patrick’s Cathedral
and
A New World Rising
, and Gary Noesner, author of
Stalling for Time: My Life as an FBI Hostage Negotiator
.

To David Hale Smith, for starting me on the journey.

Thanks to Mark Longaker, Natalie Meir, Cecilia McAveney, and always, to MacKenzie Cadenhead.

To Maddie, whose imagination inspires me.

Finally, heartfelt thanks to Craig, my partner in all things.

S
TEFANIE
P
INTOFF
is the Edgar Award–winning author of three novels. Her writing has also won the Washington Irving Book Prize and earned nominations for the Anthony, Macavity, and Agatha awards. Pintoff’s novels have been published around the world, including the United Kingdom, Italy, and Japan. She lives on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where she is at work on the next Eve Rossi thriller.