Marcus clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “No you’re not.”
Butler nodded. “I was trying to be polite.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
The detective looked him squarely in the eyes. “Would you like to make a confession?”
“Are you a priest?”
“Do I look like a priest?”
“If you’re not a priest, I have nothing to confess.”
Before Butler could respond, static came over the dusty intercom speaker at the top of the two-way mirror, close to the ceiling. The next sound to come through the intercom was the voice of Michael Barnes: “You sure about this?”
Fenton looked puzzled, but Butler recognized the acoustic reconstruction instantly. He’d heard it twice already. The detective turned back toward the mirror and glanced where he knew Victoria was standing. This was one of those rare moments when someone does exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. He nodded with heartfelt gratitude.
The detective lieutenant held Deputy Inspector Nataro’s pocket recorder next to the intercom microphone as the reconstructed conversation continued to play.
FENTON: Yes, I’m sure. Skylar is too valuable. She’s already made more progress with Eddie in days than the others made in years.
Marcus Fenton’s face tightened as he now recognized the conversation.
BARNES: Will you want to know the details?
FENTON: Nothing in his residence. Make it look like an accident.
BARNES: He takes the subway.
The click of the “Off” button could be heard over the intercom as Victoria stopped the playback. She stood so close to the two-way mirror, watching Fenton, that her breath steamed the glass.
Butler studied the doctor across the table, enjoying every second. If the NYPD ever made a Mastercard commercial, this was a moment that could fairly be described as priceless.
“I want to speak to my lawyer.” Fenton’s voice quivered. He was clearly rattled.
“I figured as much.” Butler stood up from the table. “You’re free to go. Transportation will be arranged for you.”
Surprised, the senior doctor immediately got to his feet and moved toward the door. He paused. “You’ll never be able to use it, you know.”
“We just did.”
Fenton steamed. “In a court of law.”
“That may be. But now you know we know. And you will never be able to forget it.” He held the door open for Fenton as the doctor stormed out of the room.
CHAPTER 87
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 12:07 a.m.
Max Garber had followed Agent Raines’s instructions to the letter, focusing his analysts’ efforts on the area’s five major train stations: Penn, Grand Central, Hoboken, Newark, and Secaucus Junction. All were reachable by subway. Penn and Grand Central were the obvious choices, but for that reason alone, Garber knew not to overlook the other three. The two fugitives had managed surprisingly well thus far to elude capture, and while part of their success could be attributed to luck, not all of it could. The doctor and patient were making smart choices. And the smart choice in this instance would be to avoid the two most obvious ones.
Garber split up his analysts into five equal teams, each assigned to one of the stations. They played catch up, reviewing surveillance footage from the last two hours—a guesstimate as to the earliest time the doctor and patient could have reached one of the train stations—to the present. Making full use of Homeland’s facial-recognition system, they methodically studied every train passenger’s face they could. Anyone with a rating of 70 percent or higher received closer, human inspection. It was this small percentage of “possibles” that required the analysts’ complete attention. And was why most of them were looking bleary eyed and chugging as many Red Bull and Rockstar and 5-Hour Energy drinks as they could get their hands on.
In each of the train stations, a majority of travelers wore either Yankees or Mets paraphernalia. This was, after all, baseball season. And the Mets were playing their National League East rivals the following afternoon. Whether going to the game or not, every legitimate fan was required to wear their colors. And in New York, the Yankees and Mets had a lot of fans. Max Garber was a fan of the latter. Later, if he wasn’t in the office, he’d be watching the game. If he was still in the office, which was looking increasingly likely, he’d sneak glimpses of the game on his phone.
Passing through the five analyst teams, Garber took note of the ones focused on Grand Central and Secaucus Junction, because those stations seemed to have the highest concentrations of Mets fans passing through their terminals. A quick search of train routes revealed why: those two stations had the most express trains to Philadelphia, site of the following day’s matchup. The problem was that all five analyst teams had already completed their searches of the available footage, and none had come up with a single actionable lead.
Garber scratched his head. He dreaded the thought of reporting no progress to Agent Raines. So what to do now? In part because he didn’t have any other ideas, and in part because his gut was telling him that somebody missed something, he randomly reassigned each team a different train station. Each was going to review the same footage another team had pored over. Garber wanted to be sure.
The government is known for redundancy. It’s expensive and inefficient, but, every now and then, critical. This was one of those rare times that justified all the wasted taxpayer dollars. Because the second team to review the footage from Secaucus Junction needed less than fifteen minutes to spot the fugitives standing near the cattail sculpture in the station’s main concourse. The time was 10:09, just over two hours earlier. Skylar Drummond and Edward Parks were both dressed in Mets jerseys and caps, which was probably why they were missed the first time. Max Garber was once again impressed with a choice the fugitives had made. He quickly called Agent Raines to inform him of their findings as all five analyst teams attempted to track Skylar and Eddie’s progress through the train station.
The agent’s question was simple and direct. “Where were they headed?”
“We’re working on it now, but currently have no conclusive evidence. I can only make an educated guess.”
“I’m listening.”
“Both were wearing New York Mets jerseys and caps.”
“They play the Phillies tomorrow, don’t they?”
“They do. An express train for Philadelphia left Secaucus six minutes after the last time we spotted them.”
“When is that train due to arrive?”
Garber checked the clock at the lower-right corner of his monitor. “In seventeen minutes.”
In the time it took the analyst to hang up the phone, Agent Raines had already clicked off, speed-dialed the main Homeland switchboard, and asked to be connected to the Philadelphia office.
Raines had no idea that another party located in Alexandria, Virginia, would be listening to the call, just as they had been listening to his conversation with his favorite analyst.
CHAPTER 88
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 12:12 a.m.
That particular phone call to Agent Raines regarding the fugitive sighting in Secaucus Junction had triggered a flurry of activity inside the American Heritage Foundation. Jason Greers listened to the call and quickly related the information to his superior. Bob Stenson promptly placed his second phone call of the day to Senator Corbin Davis, who was entertaining the last of the four hundred guests who had attended a fund-raiser in his honor. The senator excused himself from his well-heeled donors and stepped outside the garish home of his third-largest campaign contributor to listen to a set of detailed instructions. Davis then dialed Homeland Security Director Arthur Merrell and proceeded to give one of the country’s three most powerful law-enforcement officers explicit orders as to how and where the fugitives should be apprehended, and, perhaps even more importantly, who should be allowed to come in contact with them and the echo box once they were in custody.
Merrell managed to overlook the disrespect he was being shown, because of his rising curiosity. “Senator, just what the hell is this thing these two are in possession of?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”