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“You believe Willow Mackie is a willing participant in the killings.”
“Here’s some off-the-record until I clear it.” Eve waited for Nadine’s nod. “I think she’s the shooter, and I believe—bullshit,” she corrected. “I know she has a secondary hit list of her own. For whatever reason, his own physical or emotional state, or the fact he’s a twisted, vengeful lunatic, I think Mackie’s given his daughter the green.”
“Why the unconnected strikes—two people at the ice rink, four at Times Square? Cover?”
“It looks that way.” But Eve thought it was more, even more callous than that. “We believe the suspects have additional targets, and will move on them quickly. If they follow pattern, they’ll choose a public area, somewhere the target routinely goes or lives or works. And they will take more lives.”
“You want me to get their faces out there. When am I cleared for it?”
“Now. Their names and faces, as soon as you can. The other details, I need twenty minutes. The off-the-record stays that way until I clear it. That gives you a leg up on the rest of the media. That leg up comes with a price.”
“Name it.”
“Put up Susann Mackie, Peabody. I want this face, too. I want Mackie to see it every time he turns to the screen. I want him to hear her name, to revisit her life and death.”
“You want to break him.”
Eyes flat, Eve set the empty mug down. “I will break him. One more. The lawyer Mackie hired—he’s a potential target, but I’ve got no name. You could dig there, too.”
“I’ll put some people on it.”
“You hit anyone with these initials—JR or MJ—you let me know
right away. Right away, Nadine.”
“Done. How are you going to break her?”
“I’m working on it. We have to move.”
“So do I.”
“Swank digs, Nadine,” Eve commented.
Nadine smiled. “Thanks. I wanted swank, and they’re going to be swankier when I’m done.”
As Eve turned to go, Nadine snatched up her ’link. Eve heard her say: “Put me through to Lloyd now. I don’t give a hot fuck what he’s doing. I said now!”
When they stepped into the elevator again, Eve took a breath. “Peabody, have the witnesses to Susann Mackie’s accident brought in. None of their initials were on the list, but we won’t risk it. And I want Zoe Younger in Interview. We’ll see what Baxter and Trueheart got from her, but I need this round.”
She checked the time. And she wondered where Mackie and his murderous offspring would be when they saw their own faces on screen.
—
They were in the converted loft Mackie had rented shortly before Thanksgiving, where he’d begun moving during the kickoff of the holiday season.
He’d bought some furniture—cheap, serviceable—and though it stung to pay rent on two apartments, he felt it worth the expense. Just as it stung to leave some money in his old bank account, under a name he no longer used.
He hoped to be able to clear out that account, but if not, again, it was worth the expense.
If things went well—Plan A—he and Will would be on their way to Alaska within the week, where they could live off the land quietly and remotely.
Where they could hunt, where they could build a home, a life.
Zoe would sic the dogs on them, of course. He wouldn’t blame her for it. But they’d leave no scent, no trail, and for a few months, Will would be William Black, age sixteen, the son of John Black, a retired insurance adjuster from New Mexico. A widower who was homeschooling his only son.
They’d move again, inside Alaska, and become father and daughter again. And, as they did here in the loft, they would keep to themselves. He’d find peace in Alaska. He believed it, had to believe it. No more night terrors, night sweats. He’d ease himself off the funk, off the booze. His hands would stop shaking, his mind and eyesight would clear.
Susann and the son he’d longed for would be avenged. Justice well served by the daughter who gave him pride and purpose. And one day, when Will was old enough, he could leave her, secure in the knowledge that his only child could make her own way.
