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“Dallas,” Peabody said, gesturing.
Looking up, looking out, Eve saw that she was on every jumbo screen, coat flapping in the wind, face grim. The news ticker under her larger-than-life image, along with the dead cop at her feet, on the screen of One Times Square read:
LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, ON SCENE AT TIMES SQUARE MASSACRE.
“For fuck’s sake, kill that feed. Kill it!”
“I’m dealing with it.” Whitney, his ’link at his ear, stared at the screens. “Do what you need to do. I’m dealing with it.”
“He’s ID’d by his partner,” she told Peabody. “COD is pretty damn obvious. Get TOD. Make sure he gets a privacy curtain.”
With her kit in hand, she crouched by the teenager Officer Kevin Russo had tried to shield.
She knew at a glance he was no more than seventeen, and would never see eighteen.
“Victim is mixed-race male, ID’d as Nathaniel Foster Jarvits, age seventeen. Today. Happy goddamn birthday. TOD, thirteen-twenty-one. ME will determine COD, but on-scene observation indicates laser strike, mid-back. Nearly the same hit as Ellissa Wyman.” She paused. “Peabody, call the parents.”
“Dallas, TOD on Officer Russo is thirteen-twenty-one as well.”
Eve looked up, infuriated to see her own face still flashing on all the screens. No more respect than the street thief, she thought, then rose and moved to the next.
She didn’t look up at the screens again, didn’t rail that she still had to raise her voice to get her findings on record. Quick glances showed her extra uniforms were swarming in, barricades were going up, and arrests were being made—loudly—as some refused to move back or to stop their attempts to record the horror.
She’d worked her way to what Jacobs reported was the first victim when Whitney crouched beside her.
“Feed’s killed, but we can’t stop the media from playing it on bulletins.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your scene is now secured. This victim was with a friend who’s been treated for shock, and can be interviewed. The minor was airboarding with five friends. They are all secured for interview. One other victim was unaccompanied at the time of the assault. And we have a survivor.”
Her head whipped up. “A survivor?”
“Female. Office worker, but works downtown, doesn’t usually come up around here. The strike hit her mid-body, left side. She’d been transported by medicals, is going into surgery. It’s fifty-fifty, best.”
“That’s better odds than the other four. He won’t like not making five for five. That’ll piss him off. Sir, I need her under 24/7 protection—”
“Already done, Lieutenant. I’m a cop, not a moron.”
“Apologies, Commander.”
“No need. You pulled this together as quickly as anyone could.” He looked back toward the curtained body of their fellow officer. “I don’t think his partner’s misremembering. Officer Russo gave his life protecting and serving.”
“He may have been the target.” She kept talking even when Whitney’s eyes went hard. “Or the fourth vic, the advertising exec on his way to a lunch meeting. Not the kid—at least, it doesn’t play right now. The first vic was a tourist. But Officer Russo? He was assigned this beat, he could be expected to be here at this time and place. The exec does work in the area, so maybe. None of the others, Commander. All the others were random hits. It’s the cop, that’s my lean. The cop who’s connected. I’m going to find out why and how. They don’t take one of ours and walk away. They don’t take some harmless kid on his damn birthday and walk away.”
She pushed to her feet. “Commander Whitney, I need to know every
thing there is to know about Officer Russo—personally and on the job. Everything. You could help with that. You could push that forward.”
“Consider it pushed.” His face stone, he looked toward the privacy curtain again, toward the uniforms ranged around it like an honor guard. “No, they don’t take one of ours, not like this, and walk away.” He, too, got to his feet. “Whatever you need, manpower, OT, it’s yours.”
“To start? I don’t have time for a media conference.”
“I’ll cover you.”
“I need Mira on tap.”
“Done.”
