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Just as I came to this conclusion, I reached a stand marked CITI BIKE. A woman was sliding one of the blue unisex bikes popular with commuters and tourists into one of the slots. Before the locking mechanism could click into place, I shouted, “Excuse me! I’m sorry!” as I grabbed her bike and hopped onto it. It was a little low for me as well. But I stood on the pedals and started pumping for everything I was worth. I called over my shoulder to the woman, “I’ll return it, I promise!”
I had to dodge two men who tried to gallantly stop me. I didn’t even bother yelling Police or NYPD. I just threaded the needle between the men trying to grab me, and found myself about a block behind Jeffrey Cedar.
I fell into a rhythm on the bike and realized once again how much riding with Mary Catherine had helped my stamina as well as my leg strength. I started to close in on Cedar. Now we were almost to the Hudson and it looked like he was turning south.
He cut across West Street without even looking for oncoming traffic. The man was desperate. And I had no idea where this idiot was headed.
I put my head down and pumped the pedals hard.
Chapter 72
There were a lot more pedestrians here. Mostly tourists looking at the waterfront. That didn’t help me in any way. Now I could only see Jeffrey Cedar every time his head bobbed up from a pedal stroke. But he was definitely riding south as hard as he could.
Eventually he slowed his pace, and again I closed the distance between us. Once I had to slam on the brakes and throw the bike into a slide to avoid hitting a woman with a double baby stroller. For all my effort and a scrape on my ankle, all I got was a dirty look from her.
Now the crowd had thinned, but I don’t think Jeffrey Cedar had any idea I was behind him. He had definitely slowed down and was sitting comfortably on his bike seat instead of pumping the pedals from a standing position.
We weren’t too far from Rockefeller Park. I couldn’t think of any place near there that would be of use to Cedar. If he really wanted to escape, he needed to be headed to the Staten Island Ferry or finding some other way off Manhattan. The Holland Tunnel was north of us, but he’d need a vehicle to get through that.
My heart and legs were burning. I had no idea where this asshole was going, or if he even had a plan. Billy Van Fleet had run, even though he wasn’t guilty. I couldn’t let those circumstances repeat with Cedar.
I was surprised how quickly I’d caught up to him, and I was beginning to contemplate a wild leap from my bike to his when he must’ve sensed me closing in. He dared a quick peek over his left shoulder, then he swerved right. Hard. Now we found ourselves in the grassy picnic area of Rockefeller Park.
It wasn’t that busy on a weekday, though I still heard squeals and shouts as Cedar cut between people lounging on the lawn.
He risked another look over his shoulder, but it was poor timing. He struck a giant man wearing a red Nebraska Cornhuskers shirt. They both went down onto the thick grass. The man in the red shirt snarled as he tried to rise to his feet. He was older than Cedar but looked like he could rip the attorney in half. Cedar popped up onto his feet, though, and abandoned the bike, setting off toward the water. But the Cornhusker reached out and somehow managed to grab Cedar’s foot as he was fleeing.
I successfully turned my bike sideways and skidded to a halt just in front of them.
Cedar kicked the man with his other foot and freed himself. He bolted toward the seawall.
I started running after him. The sun was bright in the cloudless sky, and no breeze came off the water. I realized right then that the heat was going to get to me quickly. I still had my phone but hoped one of the patrol cars I’d asked for earlier would show up. There really isn’t a cop around when you need one.
Cedar was running along the low seawall and had a good stride. I saw one of the smaller tour boats, about forty feet, cruising parallel with the wall. I couldn’t imagine what they were looking at around here, but I could hear the guide’s voice over a tinny loudspeaker.
Cedar took one more look at me over his shoulder. He must’ve realized at that point that I wasn’t going to give up. I sure hoped he would. But, of course, he didn’t.
Instead, he sprinted hard and leapt off the seawall. I slowed my run and watched as he timed his jump perfectly. He landed on the rear section of the tour boat. He was on the deck behind a gaggle of elderly women, who all shrieked when he landed.
I watched as Cedar wobbled for a moment with his arms outstretched. He scrambled for a handhold at the stern of the boat but, when he didn’t find one, started to lose his balance.
I stood at the seawall along with a couple of other pedestrians who had stopped to watch the show, feeling helpless as we watched in horror as Cedar bobbed and slid on the rear deck…then tumbled over the stern.
I already had my phone out, ready to call a rescue boat, when I saw the position of his landing—almost directly behind the stern. The anguished sound of his screams will be etched in my memory forever as I, and everyone nearby, witnessed Jeffrey Cedar get dragged underwater and chopped to bits by the boat’s propellers.
Ten seconds later, it was all over. The captain of the boat had raced to cut the engines when he realized what was happening, but it was already too late. A red film spread across the surface of the water like something out of a horror movie.
I was frozen, staring at the gruesome scene. So was everyone else. Aside from a couple of people crying on the boat, no one nearby made a sound.
I had to sit on the low seawall for a moment. Everything caught up to me at once. The stress of the last weeks. The exhaustion of chasing a murder suspect. The grisly murders of at least six young women here in New York. The concern over whether Hollis would improve. And now the macabre scene in front of me.
There was nothing more anyone could do except wait for the cavalry, the first responders activated by dozens of eyewitness calls to 911. And try to keep from vomiting, and embarrassing myself and the NYPD.
Chapter 73
While I had been chasing down Jeffrey Cedar, his receptionist had been brought by patrol car to Manhattan North Homicide. Her name was Olivia Green, and I paid her a visit in the interview room where she’d been waiting with her attorney—conveniently, one of Cedar’s former colleagues.
Judging by the look of shock on her face, she was struggling to absorb the disturbing events of the day. Not only had her former boss struck and then fled from a detective, but she herself was being held in custody.
