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"There you go," he said softly. "We wouldn't want you to catch your death of cold, would we, Joey?"
Joey snickered. Vince clapped him on the shoulder and the men began to laugh. They were still laughing as they sauntered from the room.
* * *
Crisis-time in New York wasn't like crisis-time in Pakistan or Afghanistan or any of the other endless stretches of no-man's-land Conor had encountered.
On an opponent's soil, a man working on his own was a man without access to necessary resources.
Conor stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and squeezed them until he could feel his nails digging into his palms.
He was on his own turf. That was the good news. The bad was that a man who wasn't working on his own could end up in the middle of a three-ring circus, which was what this was rapidly becoming.
Miranda had been snatched more than a day ago and the Winthrop library was jammed with bodies. Cops, FBI agents, city officials, Hank Levy and Dave Scotti... and for all he knew, there were more to come.
The door opened and a pair of detectives from the local squad strolled in, self-important in dark suits that didn't quite fit over their bellies. They went straight to Hoyt Winthrop, who
was standing alongside Eva, his arm around her shoulders with a look that said "I am a worried Daddy" on his aristocratic face.
It was all Conor could do to keep from heading across the room and punching out his lights.
But it wouldn't do any good. Oh, he'd settle that score, but now wasn't the time. The son of a bitch wouldn't get away with what he'd done to Miranda. Now, though, the only thing that mattered was finding her—finding her before de Lasserre did what the photo he'd sent her in Paris suggested.
Jesus. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about the dead cats, either. Conor patted down his pockets, cursed himself for not having a cigarette and for being such an ass.
Why had he left her? Why?
Hank Levy was a good man, so was Scotti, but he should never have left her alone.
If only he knew where to start looking. They had the Mercedes impounded. Hank had managed to get a partial reading from the license plate and the computer at the Department of Motor Vehicles had done the rest, but so what? The Mercedes had been stolen; the owner knew nothing. And despite a nationwide alert, nobody had reported spotting the car.
Conor felt his pockets again, cursed under his breath and began pacing the room. The damned circus was getting bigger. Another pair of uniforms had just marched in, followed by the precinct captain, and here came the mayor himself, surrounded by his retinue of ass-kissers.
"Hoyt," the mayor said in the deep tones that had won him the election, "all the city's resources are at your disposal."
Hoyt offered his hand along with a grave smile.
"Thank you, Your Honor. Eva and I are very grateful, aren't we, dearest?"
Eva, pale and regal and plastered to her husband's side, nodded brokenly as she drew a lace handkerchief from her pocket.
"Yes," she whispered, "oh, we must find my poor baby!"
Enough, Conor thought grimly. He pulled his phone from his pocket, moved into the hall, and punched in a number. A second later, Harry Thurston snapped a crisp 'hello' in his ear.
"Harry, I've had enough of this crap."
"Calm down, Conor."
"Don't tell me to calm down! You should see what's going on here, goddammit. It's a fucking joke."
"You know that what you're seeing is nothing but surface glitter. Beneath all of it, we're hard at work."
"There's nothing new?"
"Nothing. De Lasserre disappeared after he left for Charles de Gaulle airport yesterday."
"There's no record of him anywhere?"
