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The trembling of Mackie’s hands increased. Red splotches came and went on his face.
“I figure you said run. ‘Get to Alaska. Live a little.’ Then you’re the sacrifice, the distraction. She can come back in a couple years, finish the mission: Marta Beck, Marian Jacoby, Jonah Rothstein, Brian Fine, Alyce Ellison. But, hey, that’s a teenager, isn’t it? Defiant, rebellious. She disobeyed Daddy. Now eighteen more people are dead.”
Eve opened a file, spread out the photos. “Eighteen people who did nothing but go to a concert.”
She watched his gaze skim over the photos, back and forth.
“Their bad luck this time. Bad luck they were in the same place at the same time as Rothstein. He’s a lawyer,” she told Pratt. “Like you. Mackie hired him to try to sue the driver who hit his jaywalking wife, and the cop who gauged the scene correctly. Just a lawyer, like you, doing his job, like you. But he couldn’t get Mackie what he wanted, so he was supposed to die.”
“My client denies—”
“But she missed.” Eve watched Mackie’s shielded eyes jerk up. “That’s her oops. Got so excited, I guess, and missed the target.”
“Will never misses.”
Eve leaned forward. “How would you know? Have you ever seen her aim at a human being?”
“I said she never misses. Where’s his picture?” He shoved at the dead. “Where is it?”
“Who chose the collaterals? Did you let her pick? You picked the main target, so did you let her pick the rest?”
“Where is Rothstein’s picture?”
“I said she missed.”
“You’re lying. Will can pick the left ear off a rabbit at a half mile.”
“Mr. Mackie,” Pratt began, laying a hand on his arm.
Mackie shook him off. “I want to see his picture on this table.”
“It was crowded. Night, late, crowded.”
“I trained her.” Not just his hands shook now, but his arms, his shoulders. “She wouldn’t take the shot unless she was sure.”
“Maybe it’s different when you’re not there to give her the green. You were there, giving her the green for the ice rink, for Times Square.”
“It’s no different, not for her. She doesn’t miss.”
“But you were there before, giving her the green, to kill Dr. Michaelson, to kill Officer Russo. Yes or no.”
“Don’t answer that,” Pratt insisted.
“Yes! Yes, but it doesn’t matter.” Insult, this time clearly for the stain on his daughter’s skill, raged through his voice. “She’s the best I’ve ever seen. Better than I ever was. She wouldn’t have missed Rothstein.”
“You’re telling me a fifteen-year-old girl made the strikes that killed Michaelson and two others on Wollman Rink. Killed four people including Officer Kevin Russo in Times Square?”
“Do you think I could make those strikes with these hands? With these eyes?”
“She made them for you?”
“For us. Susann would’ve been more of a mother to her, a real mother to her. We were going to be a family. They destroyed that. They destroyed my family! They don’t deserve to live.”
“You and your daughter, Willow Mackie, conspired to kill the people on this list.” Eve took a printout from the file. “And however many others you deemed necessary in your attempt to cover up your connection to these targets.”
“This Interview is over.” Pratt got to his feet.
“She’s my eyes! She’s my hands! It’s not murder. It’s justice. Justice for my wife, my son.”
