Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(40)

He’d been Lowenbaum’s.

“Send me everything, now. And don’t talk to anybody—anybody—Yancy, about this until I clear it.”

She didn’t sprint away, though she wanted to. Cops observed, and the primary in this investigation running through Central would lead many to the correct conclusion. She had a hot lead.

But she moved fast, yanking out her ’link as she went. “Lowenbaum. My office, asap.”

“I’ve got a—”

“Drop it. Whatever it is, drop it, and move.”

She cut him off without waiting for an assent, contacted Whitney next. “Sir, I need a conference room, and your presence, and Mira’s, as quickly as possible.”

“I’m on my way back from the notification.” He studied her face, and she saw realization come into his eyes. “Twenty minutes. I’ll take care of the room and Mira.”

She risked the sprint on the glides—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d bulled her way up or down them—and contacted Feeney next.

“I need you, Roarke, and McNab if you can spare him.”

She didn’t have to explain, not to Feeney. He only nodded. “Give us ten.”

“My bullpen if you make it in under ten. Conference room—you’ll need to check the log for which one—if it’s longer.”

She clicked off again, stepped into her own bullpen. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. I want everyone who isn’t about to close the case of the decade to prep for a full briefing and op.”

“Yancy hit.” Peabody pushed to her feet. “How sure are we?”

“I’m going with a hundred on that. Lowenbaum’s on his way, the commander is booking a conference room. We roll there as soon as it’s ready. And we keep this right here for now.”

“Fuck me.” Face grim, Baxter clenched his fists. “It’s a cop.”

“I’ll have more data shortly. Close out whatever you’ve got—and if you can’t, explain why, my office, in five. Peabody, with me.”

Swinging off her coat, Eve strode to her office. “Computer, background data, in full, on Tactical Officer Reginald Mackie, on screen.”


Acknowledged. Working . . .

“Close the door,” she ordered Peabody, then began reading.

“Enlisted, U.S. Army, in 2029, pulled out in 2039, as a sergeant. Trained sniper, instructor. Started on the job six months later, moved to Tactical in ’49. Retired last year, spring. Last CO—Lowenbaum.”

She paced as she read. Without asking, Peabody programmed coffee, passed a mug to her.

“Married Zoe Younger, 2045, one offspring, female, Willow, age fifteen. Computer, ID photo and data on Willow Mackie.”

When it came up, Eve studied it with cool, flat eyes. The hair, a bit longer than the sketch, but it was as in the bag as Reginald’s.

“She’s the one with him,” Eve said. “That’s confirmed. Divorced—Reginald Mackie, that is, 2052. Start running the ex-wife, Peabody. I want her current status, address. Who has custody of the kid.”

“I’m on it.”

“Married Susann Prinz, 2059. Widowed—and there it is, I’d bet my ass—2059. November 2059. Married March, widowed November. Computer: How did Susann Prinz die?”


Accessing . . . Prinz, Susann, age thirty-two at time of death, was killed when struck by a vehicle as she crossed East Sixty-Fourth between Fifth and Madison Avenues. According to the accident report and witnesses, Prinz ran out between parked vehicles, and was struck when the oncoming vehicle was unable to stop. No charges were filed against the driver, Brian T. Fine, age sixty-two. Do you wish the full incident report and all follow-up data?

“Yeah, lock that in, but give me the name of the officer or officers who responded to the scene.”


First-on-scene, and the officer of record, was Officer Kevin Russo, badge number—

“Hold that. That’s enough. Was Prinz pregnant?”


Prinz was sixteen weeks pregnant at time of death.

“Her doctor? Her—what is it—obstetrician?”


One moment . . . accessing . . . Her obstetrician of record was Dr. Brent Michaelson.

“Pause run,” she said at the knock on the door, and went to open it herself. “Lowenbaum. I need everything you can tell me on Reginald Mackie.”

“What?” Shock, an instant denial registered on his face. “No. Come on, Dallas.”

Deliberately, she shut the door behind him. “You knew he was off—you’d have seen it. Think back.”

“Well, Christ.” He took a moment, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Listen, Mac was wound tight, but a lot of Tacticals are. He was a good, solid cop. I worked with him for a dozen years. His wife died—an accident. They hadn’t been married a year, and she was pregnant, and he . . .”

Eve waited until Lowenbaum added it up, fast. “Ah, fuck it. Fuck. This is about Susann. It has to be about Susann. He has another kid, a girl, about fourteen, fifteen.”

“Willow, fifteen, ID’d as the second suspect. I’m going to fill you in, and you’re going to fill us in. And you’re going to pick your best men—I want officers who can keep the lid shut—and prepare for a takedown.”