Unfortunately, Lutz could only make out two of the four identifiers on the license plate: 5E. He quickly punched the letter and number into his phone; he would later transmit them to Barnes, with the full knowledge that without at least one more digit, those two were practically useless, because they led to 1,296 license-plate possibilities. There was barely enough time to narrow it down from thirteen cabs, much less thirteen hundred.
Lutz quickly ducked into a Popeyes and waited in line as Homeland Security agents and NYPD officers rapidly expanded their perimeter around the station. The other customers all turned toward the street to see what the commotion was about. The agents and officers paid no attention to him or the other customers, or to the particular cab containing Skylar and Eddie, among the hundreds of others in view. It was just one of many other yellow metal fish swimming toward Midtown. Lutz may have only had half of the cab’s license plate, but it was still more than they had.
CHAPTER 55
Deputy Inspector Nataro’s Office, Sixth Precinct, May 27, 5:03 p.m.
Detective McHenry had just finished giving his fictionalized account of the suspects’ escape to his superiors and DHS Agent Raines inside the deputy inspector’s office. Butler knew the agent wasn’t buying a word of it, but he had no intention of offering any more than he was asked to.
Raines looked amused. “Is that it?”
“That’s all I can tell you.” Butler glanced calmly at Nataro and Daniels. Poker players at a table, except that they were all standing. Nobody was giving away anything.
“And this recording they played for you. You believe it’s legitimate?”
“I do.” Butler had to restrain himself from clarifying that what they had heard was not a recording.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she risked a great deal to bring it to me.”
“Skylar Drummond isn’t the only one who risked a lot today.” Agent Raines paused, allowing the threat to sink in. “What I don’t understand is why you helped them flee.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Butler’s voice didn’t waver. He was a better liar than Victoria was.
“No?”
“What I did was hear evidence I thought my superior officers should also hear, but as I was bringing in my witnesses to this station, you idiots had to issue federal warrants and scare them off.” Butler eyed Victoria and Anthony, just to make sure they were all clear on the story. “Agent Raines, some asshole out there single-handedly paralyzed the city for the last three days, and killed an NYU professor who had a great future ahead of him. This investigation may not be your primary concern, but it is mine. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it.”
The agent studied him for a moment, then spoke with clear disdain. “By all means, Detective, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your investigation.”
Raines watched McHenry through the window as he left the station. “Where do you think he’s going?”
“No idea,” Lieutenant Daniels lied. She knew exactly where he was going.
DHS Agent Raines surprised her by asking, “May I see your phone?”
“Excuse me?” She had heard him clearly, and knew exactly why he was asking, but didn’t want him to know that.
“I want McHenry’s number. It’s the last number that called you.”
She did not hand him her phone. She scrolled through her most recent calls and read him Butler’s number. Agent Raines entered the digits into his phone and hit “Send.”
CHAPTER 56
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 27, 5:09 p.m.
In less than a second, the numeric text message arrived on a screen inside 633 Third Avenue, home of the New York State office of the Department of Homeland Security. The office, a secure beehive, was even more active than usual because of the recent subway event. In the seventy-two hours since the attack occurred, every last bit of security-camera footage from the area had been pored over frame by frame. Every witness statement had been reviewed. The personal information of every individual identified as having been in the area was checked against the DHS’s vast database, which was now integrated with the other intelligence-agency systems. Of the 347 personnel housed in the New York office, over two hundred had been assigned to the subway investigation. So far, they had collectively come up with a grand total of nothing, which explained the tension hanging over the rows of analysts’ cubicles. And the candy wrappers around the floor.
Max Garber was like many of the other analysts housed in the dozens of six-by-six partitioned work areas: he was Ivy League–educated (Penn), in his early thirties, and begrudgingly wore the uniform of a lightly starched white-collar shirt and tie because it was required for the job, just like the background checks and the random drug testing. He knew he could be making a lot more money in Boston or Northern California, but nowhere else would he have the access to systems and data that he did here.
For someone who thought of his workstation as a “data cockpit,” DHS was the mother ship. Particularly for someone like him, who had lost his father in 9/11.
He had become Agent Raines’s analyst of choice eleven months ago, when Garber had stayed up for three straight days data mining credit-card purchases in the Brooklyn area, looking for suspects in a newly discovered Islamic fundamentalist cell. Garber’s work not only resulted in the capture of two suspects, but also uncovered a sophisticated offshore financing operation that had funneled more than $27 million to ISIS.
In his current investigation, he was focusing on a promising connection with a Farsi-speaking British citizen who’d happened to be on the subway platform when Jacob Hendrix was killed. Raines’s text message containing Butler’s cell number now appeared on his screen. Garber texted back: Whose #?
Raines’s answer appeared immediately: NYPD Det. Priority 1.
Garber sat up in his chair and minimized the window of what he’d been working on. Goodbye, Mr. Farsi-speaking Brit. Hello, Detective whoever-you-are. Priority 1 was not a designation Agent Raines used often. It meant urgent. Right now. Drop everything. And a priority-1 instruction that involved tapping the phone of a New York City Police detective meant all kinds of higher-ups were going to get involved, because of obvious legal and jurisdictional issues. They would need a lot of information at their fingertips to make immediate decisions. Garber wasted no time. He texted Raines, On it, and went to work. Within fifteen minutes, they would know exactly where the detective was, and every word he spoke into his phone for as long as they cared to listen.
Which put them fifteen minutes behind the American Heritage Foundation.
CHAPTER 57
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 27, 5:16 p.m.
Jason Greers looked over Daryl Trotter’s shoulder as they watched the world’s best reality television show on several different screens. From three different angles, Detective McHenry could be seen driving out of the Sixth Precinct garage, where he had only recently parked his car. The American Heritage Foundation had been tapped into the detective’s phone from the moment they learned of the federal arrest warrant being issued. Unlike official government agencies, the Foundation needed no approval or justification. There was no oversight and no review. The terrifying reality was that there wasn’t a satellite view or surveillance angle or phone number or online account they couldn’t access faster than anyone else. “Where’s he going?”
Daryl answered like it should have been obvious. “Pine Hill, New Jersey.”
Jason was puzzled. He didn’t have a clue. “What’s in Pine Hill?”
Daryl typed in a set of longitude and latitude numbers that zoomed his satellite view to a ramshackle farmhouse built in 1931. “The home of Dr. Marcus Fenton.”
Jason nodded. Of course. “McHenry’s got no jurisdiction or admissible evidence.”
“Precisely why he’s going there now. Because he still can.” One of Daryl Trotter’s skills was to think like the players involved in any situation. “He wants to make Fenton sweat.”
“Think it’ll work?”
Daryl turned to face Jason. “Only if we want it to.”