Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(35)

As Eve turned on the engine, screamed into reverse, Peabody leaned forward and murmured toward Whitney’s ear, “Lock down your safety, sir. Trust me.”

Sirens blaring, Eve burst out of the garage, barely hesitating to make sure traffic had cleared, and zipped around knotted cars, hit vertical to take the turn north.

“What is this thing?” Whitney demanded.

“It’s a DLE, Commander,” Peabody told him, strapped in, gripping the seat with both hands. “It’s not even on the market yet.”

“When it is, I want one.”

So saying, he yanked out his ’link, made his first contact with Chief Tibble.

Eve blocked him out, zigging, zagging, leaping, and shoving her way through knots of traffic.

Multiple strikes on one of the busiest sectors of the city, the eternal party that was Times Square.

And a dead cop.

Mayhem would be putting it mildly.

She needed the scene secured, needed any potential wits quarantined and interviewed. She needed the dead protected, and the wounded, if any, out of harm’s way.

She’d expected another strike, but to have it hit under twenty-four hours from the first . . . A pattern, an agenda. Maybe a fricking mission.

Killers on a mission didn’t stop until they’d completed it.

“Peabody, tag Yancy, put a fire under his ass. I need those sketches. Get out of the fucking way! Do you hear the sirens?”

She went up, fast, skimmed over a couple of Rapid Cabs that appeared to be playing Chicken on Eighth.

As she’d suspected, when she nipped across Seventh, bulled onto Broadway, mayhem reigned.

A small platoon of uniforms fought to control hundreds. Panicked pedestrians, crazed vehicles, people with cameras and ’links trying to shove in for a better look, shopkeepers, waiters, street thieves—those seeing a bounty of profit in a small window of time.

The noise was amazing.

She stopped the car, flipped up her On Duty light, more to stop some overenthusiastic uniform from having it towed, and pushed clear.

“Commander . . . Sorry.”

She shoved into the melee, leaving Whitney to Peabody, grabbed a megaphone from some hapless uniform. Bellowed into it.

“Get these people back. Now! I want the barricades up. Three uniforms to each DB, now! You.” She grabbed another uniform by the coat sleeve. “Get this area blocked of any vehicular traffic other than official or emergency vehicles.”

“But, Lieutenant—”

“Screw the buts. Do it. And you—” She grabbed another screen, all but heaved it at another uniform. “Privacy screens for the DBs. Why the hell are they still out in the open? Contain this crowd, do your goddamn job, and do it now. Peabody!”

“Sir!”

“I want fifty uniforms, asap. I need some fucking crowd control. Tag Morris. I want him on scene.”

She snagged a thief by the collar of his oversized overcoat, shook him hard enough to have wallets and bags raining onto the ground. “You motherfucker. Show some respect. Get your ass out of here, or I’ll personally see you rotting in a cage for the next twenty.”

Maybe it was panic, or maybe he was pissed his payday got cut short, but he took a swing at her. The move surprised her enough—for God’s sake, the place was swarming with cops—he actually glanced his fist off the side of her jaw.

More in fury than pain, she kneed him hard enough in the balls to flatten him, resisted—barely—kicking him for good measure. “Cuff him, haul his ass in. Now, fuck me, now! Are you cops or morons? Get me any and all security feeds on this area.”

She shoved her way toward the body of Officer Kevin Russo, and the clutch of uniforms surrounding it.

“Give me room, move back. Give me his name.”

“Officer Kevin Russo.” Jacobs fought back tears. “I was with him. He’s my partner. I—”

“Stay. The rest of you clear this crowd. Secure the goddamn scene. Backup’s coming. Officer?”

“Jacobs. Sheridon Jacobs. We’d just come back from lunch break, sir. We were . . .” She took a hard breath, tried to steady herself. “We were moving toward a known street thief, and a woman went down—his mark went down. Hard and fast. I thought she’d fainted or had a medical issue. Then . . . it was a kid next. On an airboard. Kevin rushed toward him, shouting for people to take cover, to get down. And he went down, sir. I saw the strike take him, in the head. I—I moved to assist, and everything went crazy. I’m sorry, sir, it all went crazy, and I—we—couldn’t control it. There weren’t enough of us to control it.”

“Which way was he facing?”

“Sir?”

“Pull it together, Jacobs. Which way was your partner facing when he was hit?”

“South, I think, south. It was so fast, Lieutenant, it all happened so fast. People dropping, people running, screaming, knocking each other over, trampling on them, on the bodies. I called for assistance, but it was a stampede.”

“Okay. Stand by.” Eve started to call for her field kit when Peabody pushed it into her hand.

“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: