A Kate Page novel

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Is Mort there? I need to speak to him, now.”

“He’s got someone in his office.”

“Can you just get him on the line, Sally—please!”

“I will, dear, just as soon as he’s free.”

“No! I need to talk to him now!”

“Whoa, what’s going—”

“I’m sorry, Sally. Just, please, get Mort. It’s an emergency.”

Annie heard a few muffled voices, then the line clicked.

“Annie, what’s going on?” Mort Frederick asked.

“Do you have an inventory issue, and did you ask Dan to personally make an interbranch transfer to you first thing this morning?”

“What the hell? No! Of course not.”

“Mort, swear to me.”

“I swear! What is this?”

“Are you aware of any secret security exercises, anything involving cash transfers?”

“Hell, no! Annie, what’s going on? Where’s Danny— Is he there?”

“No!”

“What’s this all about?”

“Mort—” Annie’s voice broke “—Dan just walked out of the branch with a bag filled with two hundred and fifty thousand!”

“He what?” Mort cursed under his breath.

“What do I do?”

“Annie, call the police!”

9

Roseoak Park, New York

FBI special agent Nick Varner held out his ID to the NYPD officer whose patrol car blocked the entrance to the bank’s parking lot.

Marked NYPD units from the 111th Precinct dotted the lot and the area surrounding the SkyNational Trust branch. A heavy-duty response, Varner thought, but then this was Roseoak, middle-class neighbor to upper middle-class Douglaston, with its winding hilly streets and waterfront mansions on Little Neck Bay. The entire region was an appealing, sleepy corner of Queens where not much happened, and residents here wanted it that way.

“Yeah, take it over there, pal,” the officer said.

Varner parked his Bureau car, collected his notebook, his recorder and organized his thoughts. He knew the drill. He was thirty-nine and had put in twelve years with the FBI that had included a tour at headquarters in Washington, DC, assignments in Los Angeles, Phoenix and, for the past seven years, the New York Field Office in Manhattan, where he’d been a member of several task forces. Now he was pulling double duty, assigned to Violent Crimes and the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

He sized up the building. Typical suburban detached box. All the blinds had been drawn. A sign had been posted at the front doors. Printed by hand in block letters, it said the branch was closed. It directed customers to the nearest branch and ATMs in the area.

Varner went to the rear entrance and showed his ID to the uniformed officer there. She nodded and handed him some tissue-paper shoe covers. Varner tugged them on and entered.

The lobby was active.

Investigators with the NYPD’s Crime Scene Unit were just setting up to go into the vault and start processing it. Two others were talking to a guy in a suit who Varner took to be a bank security chief.

“Nicholas Alfonso Varner. Well, I’ll be damned.”

Varner found himself shaking hands with a familiar big-chested man in his fifties, a badge hanging from his chain: NYPD detective Marv Tilden. They’d worked together during the final years of the Joint Bank Robbery Task Force before the NYPD pulled out. They’d spent enough long hours as partners for Tilden to know Varner’s middle name was Alfonso, and that a few generations back, Varner’s family had come to America from Italy. Officials at Ellis Island had changed their name from Varnisanino to Varner.

“Morning, Marvin,” Varner said. “You must be close to hanging it up.”

“One more lousy winter, then we move to Nevada. Hey, you’re alone? You feds never come alone—and you got here pretty fast.”

“Traffic was kind to me, and the others are on their way. What do we know?”

“Not a lot. We’ve barely started.”

“What can you tell me?”

Tilden described how Dan Fulton, the branch manager, came to work alone talking up an emergency branch transfer. “Then he violates security procedures, fills a bag with cash and disappears. No GPS, dye packs, transmitters or bait bills.”

“The tally?”

“They’re still calculating, but it looks like two hundred and fifty thousand, which would just about clean them out of cash inventory.”

“What’ve we done so far?”

“Like I said, we’re just getting started. We’ve alerted the Real Time Crime Center, put out a BOLO for Fulton’s car, a 2015 blue Taurus SEL. We’re calling on traffic to put people at toll plazas, but that’s a resource matter—we can’t cover them all. We’re checking to see if the car has anything we can maybe get a signal on, like a GPS. And we’ve got people heading to his house. Whit Tallbreck, SkyNational’s security guy, is just getting his legal department’s blessing to volunteer the cameras, and he’s got people pulling Fulton’s file. We already ran him and nothing lights up.”

“What’d you think, Marv? Duress, drugs, debt—he just flip out?”

“Any of the above. Look—” Tilden nodded to a desk in a far corner “—my partner, Betsy Mendelson, is talking to one of the two tellers who were here when it happened. I’m about to interview the other one. Why don’t you join me, be like old times?”

* * *

Annie Trippe sat alone in the lunchroom at the back of the bank.

She was holding a mug of hot tea to keep from shaking. When she wasn’t dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she traced the words World’s Best Mom on her mug between glances at the staff bulletin board next to the fridge. It was feathered with notes, selfies from vacations and a group shot from the tug-of-war for charity.

Dan Fulton was smiling with his arm around her.

Looking at it, Annie’s lower lip started to tremble.

“Hello again,” Tilden said as he entered the room. He held out an arm toward another man Annie hadn’t met yet. “This is Nick Varner with the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about what happened.”

Chairs scraped as the two men sat opposite Annie at the table. They flipped through their notebooks to clear pages, logged the time and copied Annie’s information from her driver’s license before starting their recorders.

“Can you start by giving us a time line and step-by-step account of your actions?”

Annie steeled herself then related details of the morning; how she and Jo Ballinger arrived, followed branch opening procedures and what had transpired when Fulton got in. Varner and Tilden took notes, nodded, asked occasional questions.

“Everything was by the book and routine until Dan arrived.”

“And you say he seemed a little off center?” Tilden asked.

“Anxious, distracted, troubled even.”

They made a note.

“And he insisted you violate policy with the transfer directive that he’d created on his computer and demanded you sign it after reading it carefully?” Varner asked.

Annie nodded.

“Did you read it?” Varner asked.

“No. It was a policy violation and I refused to sign it.”

“Where’s this directive?” Varner asked.

“Still on his desk in his office, I think.”

“Did your people look at it, Marv?” Varner asked.

Tilden’s chair scraped as he stood and left the room. A short time later he returned wearing latex gloves, a file folder in one hand and the transfer directive in the other. He looked grim as he laid the printed form on the table for them. Annie went still as she read the note Dan had scrawled on the signature line: Family held hostage at home! Strapped bombs on us!

She suddenly felt sick, but before she could say anything, Tilden reached for his phone.

“We need ESU on the Fulton house ASAP!”

10

Roseoak Park, New York

It’s almost over. Stay calm.

Dan’s scalp was prickling as he drove back toward his house.

The bag with cash sat on the passenger floor. He’d done exactly what they’d forced him to do. He’d walked into his own branch and robbed it.

Now this nightmare can end. They’ve got to release Lori and Billy. You just need to get home.

He’d expected further instructions when he’d gotten back in the car, but Dan had heard nothing from Vic since he’d left the bank.

“Hello?” Dan said aloud. “I’ve got your money.”

Nothing but silence, making him worry their communication system had malfunctioned. He gently pressed the arm of his glasses to his ear.

“Are you there? Look, I did what you wanted. I’ve got your money. You’ve got to release my wife and son, now!”

Silence.

As the shaded boulevards of Roseoak rolled past, Dan’s mind raced with images of what had happened and scenarios of what may be playing out. He pictured Annie at the bank, how he’d shocked her, how he’d hated seeing her grappling with unthinkable events.

I know she’ll come through.

Annie was smart, and she was strong. He trusted and believed she’d know what to do.

She’ll find my message. She has to.

In the bank he’d been careful not to lower his head, pulling the directive close to his chest so it was out of the camera’s view as he wrote. He imagined Annie and Jo finding it, making calls, showing it to police, and people jumping into action to help.

Maybe that’s why no one is answering, he thought hopefully.

Maybe police had raced to his house and rescued Billy and Lori. Maybe they’d arrested Vic and the others. Would it happen that fast? He had no way of knowing. They’d taken his cell phone, and it would be too dangerous to call, anyway.

Still, Dan couldn’t convince himself that he was off the hook. He grew anxious about what he’d done at the bank.

Maybe I shouldn’t have left the note. Maybe they know, maybe they saw and—

“You did good,” Vic said.

“I’ve got your money! Now release my family!”

“We’re not done, Dan. I need you to pull into the Empire Coastal Mall up ahead.”

“Why?”

“Do it, right now!”

Empire was one of the state’s largest malls, and the marquee for the north entrance towered just ahead of the traffic light. Dan got in the turning lane.

“Go to zone fourteen. Park near the lamppost with green flags.”

Fourteen was the outermost zone, far from the congested parking lanes closer to the mall. Not many people had parked here. A few abandoned shopping carts kept a lonely vigil. After Dan parked, Vic told him to turn his car off, leave the keys and grab the duffel bag filled with cash.

“See that green Chevy in the lane directly across from you? It’s unlocked, the key’s inside. Get in.”

Dan remained frozen where he stood.

Alone in the lot with the heavy bag, he considered running into the mall for help. For the hundredth time this morning he wondered if he should end it here. There was always a chance they’d been bluffing the whole time. Maybe they never intended to kill anyone. Maybe the bombs weren’t real. But could he risk it? What if it backfired? Could he live with himself if they killed Lori and Billy because he screwed up?

“Get in the Chevy now, Dan!”

Reaching the car, he opened the front passenger door, dropped the bag on the floor, then walked around and got in behind the wheel.

He noticed the faint hint of men’s cologne and cigarettes. The car’s interior appeared to have been cleaned, as if all traces of the previous user were hastily obliterated. There were gouges and scratches around the ignition switch, some wires were hanging down. A single key had been inserted into the switch.

It’s a stolen car!

Dan’s fear suddenly deepened—Vic and his crew were not planning to end this soon. This meant they wanted something more.

“Start the car, Dan.”

“No. Please... I—I’ve got your money! Just take it, release my family and leave us alone.”

“Start. The. Damn. Car. Now!”

Dan hesitated.

“Don’t test us, Dan!”

The Chevy’s motor came to life.

“That was smart. Now drive back to the street, get on to the Cross Island Parkway north to the Throgs Neck Bridge.”

“Why?”

“We’re not done, yet.”

“Yes, we are! I’ve got your money, and I’m driving home to give it to you!”

“Get on the parkway now!”

“No. I’ve got your money! You’re going to take it and release my family!”

A long moment of silence passed before Dan wheeled back to the street, but he didn’t head to the Cross Island Parkway. Instead, he headed home.

“Where’re Lori and Billy? I want to talk to them!”

“You’re disobeying us, Dan. There’ll be consequences.”

“You already killed them, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Put them on, or I swear I’ll ram this car into a bus!”

Still nothing from Vic.

Sweating, gasping for air, Dan searched the streets, the strip malls, the corner store, the retirement home, the gas station and the houses as he passed by. People were just going about their daily lives while he was barely hanging on to his, helpless to do anything.

Suddenly his vest vibrated, and his entire body contracted. He gripped the wheel as hard as he could, preparing for the explosion, to be blown to pieces, thinking of Lori, of Billy.

Nothing happened, but the vibration continued.

Like a ringing phone.

He moved a trembling hand from the wheel and felt around the vest until he noticed the spot where a phone had been sewn in.

He was still alive. Nothing had happened. The phone kept humming.

Then it stopped.

“Do we have your attention, Dan?”

“Yes.”

“That was a little test. The next time you feel that vibration, you’ll know your life is about to end. Now, unless you’d like to feel that right away, you’re going to do as we say and get your ass north on the Cross Island Parkway to Throgs Neck.”

Dan’s body was numb as he turned and made his way to Northern Boulevard, merging with the northbound traffic on the expressway. As the parkway hugged the western shore of Little Neck Bay, he searched the expanse of water for answers while praying for his wife and son.

11

Throgs Neck Bridge, New York

Not knowing what had happened to Lori and Billy tore Dan up as his Chevy Impala ascended the approach to Throgs Neck Bridge, which connected Queens with the Bronx. One of the three northbound lanes was under construction, blocked with orange cones. He got into the middle lane and watched his speed.

He looked at New Rochelle’s skyline in the distance, then up at the bridge tower rising above him. Sections of the deck clicked under his wheels with regular cadence, like time ticking away on a clock.

Ticking down on us.

Dan dragged the back of his hand across his sweaty face, thinking of Lori and Billy in their vests, feeling the bulk of his own, his fear and anger broiling with a desire to tear it off, to fight back. He looked out at the East River more than one hundred and fifty feet below and begged God to help him, to keep Lori and Billy alive so he could find some way out of this.

He knew Lori would never give up. She’d protect Billy with her life. In his heart he knew that she was a fighter, a survivor, that despite what had happened to her in California, she’d overcome the odds. In the years since they’d moved to New York, Dan had watched over her and stood by her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

The worst is behind us.

That’s what he’d always told her. The worst is behind us, not you. Because what had happened to Lori, happened to him. It’s how he felt about everything in their marriage.

Lean on me. Let me take this on with you.

Lori had done well. She’d had good days and bad days, but mostly good ones.

The worst is behind us.

At least it was. Until this.

Dan felt panic rising to the surface as he took in the sweep of the bridge, the water and the sky.

God, please, keep them alive!

The toll plaza was just ahead, but Dan didn’t have a pass. As he slowed and guided his car into a cash lane, his pulse raced with a mixture of dread and hope.

License plate readers!

He remembered a report in the Daily News that police had installed license plate recognition technology at most toll plazas. They were using cameras that read license plates and checked them instantly against databases with hot lists of wanted plates.

Dan studied the gates. Did they have plate readers here?

As he crawled ahead in his line, he fumbled in his wallet for money.

“Don’t try anything here,” Vic said into his ear. “We’re watching you, and you know what will happen.”

Dan let out a slow breath. The thought of them detonating his vest here sent a chill up his spine. It would end any chance to save Lori and Billy. And innocent people would die.

He was now one car from the booth. Gripping a folded ten-dollar bill in his hand, he prayed that his plates would come up as stolen, alerting police, helping them get closer.

Thud!

Dan’s head snapped back. His car had been rear-ended.

After taking a moment to assess that he wasn’t hurt, he got out.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” A woman in her twenties came toward him gripping a cell phone, her face reddening. She stared at Dan, then at the area where her Toyota was pressed against the bumper of his Impala.

“Sir,” the toll officer said. “I’m going to need you to drive through.”

Dan noticed a baby in the rear of the woman’s car, strapped in its car seat.

“Get back in your car!” Vic ordered Dan.

“I guess, do you want my insurance and stuff?” The woman was now in tears. “It was my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Horns were sounding behind them.

“People—” the toll officer had stepped from his booth “—return to your cars. We need to keep this line moving. You can sort this out after going through the gate. Just move over to the right shoulder.”

“Get in your car, Dan!” Vic said. “We’ll kill everybody—you, her and her baby!”

“I don’t see any damage,” Dan said to the woman, wanting to get everyone out of danger as quickly as possible.

“Really? Are you sure? Let me pull my car back a bit, so you can have a better look.”

“Ma’am, do not back up,” the toll officer interrupted.

“I think we’re okay,” Dan said.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve been having the worst morning!”

Dan handed the toll officer his cash.

“Keep the change,” he said, getting back in his car.

The officer returned to his booth, and the bar lifted for Dan to pass through.

“Good,” Vic said. “Now get on the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey.”

Dan accelerated and merged with the traffic, his heart hammering.

“I’m cooperating, okay? You can see I won’t make trouble. Will you please let me talk to my family again?”

Vic didn’t respond.

12

Manhattan, New York

Newslead was located in one of the city’s largest skyscrapers, a modern glass structure rising over Penn Station in the Hudson Yards area of Manhattan.

Tenants in the recently renovated building included the head offices of a TV network, a cosmetics chain, a fashion house, a brokerage firm and an advertising agency.

Kate swiped her ID through one of the main floor security turnstiles and joined the flow of workers to the banks of elevators. She stepped out at Newslead’s world headquarters on the fortieth floor. Each time she walked through reception she was inspired. The walls displayed enlarged news photos captured by Newslead photographers of history’s most dramatic moments from the past half century.

Those powerful images stood as testament to the fact that even though Kate’s industry faced challenging times, Newslead remained a formidable force as one of the globe’s largest news operations.

It operated a bureau in every major US city and some one hundred fifty bureaus in one hundred countries around the world, supplying a continual flow of fast, accurate information to thousands of newspapers, radio, TV, corporate and online subscribers everywhere.

Its track record for reporting excellence had earned it countless awards, including twenty Pulitzers. It was highly regarded by its chief rivals across the country, including the Associated Press, Bloomberg, Reuters, the World Press Alliance and the new Signal Point Newswire. It also competed with those organizations globally, along with Agence France-Presse, Deutsche Presse-Agentur, China’s Xinhua News Agency and Russia’s Interfax News Agency.

Corporate offices took up half of the fortieth floor, and the newsroom occupied the rest with a grid of low-walled cubicles. Above them were flat-screen monitors tuned to 24/7 news networks around the world.

Kate looked fondly at the glass enclosure tucked in one corner—the scanner room, or what some called “the torture chamber.” It was where a news assistant, usually a journalism intern desperate to pay their dues, was assigned to listen to more than a dozen emergency radio scanners.

Kate, like most seasoned reporters, knew that scanners were the lifeblood of any news organization.

Students were trained on how to listen, decipher and translate the stream of coded transmissions and squawking cross talk blaring from the radios of police, fire, paramedic and other emergency services. They knew how to pluck a key piece of data that signaled a breaking story, how to detect the hint of stress in a dispatcher’s voice or the significance of a partial transmission, and how to follow it up instantly before alerting the news desk. Scanners were sacred. They alerted you to the first cries for help, pulling you into a story that could stop the heart of a city.

Or break it.

Kate had spent long hours listening to scanners. She smiled at the softened sound of chaos from the torture chamber as she walked through the newsroom, which was bordered by the glass-walled offices of senior editors. On her way to her desk she paid silent respect to those that were still empty, a cruel reminder that staff had been let go in recent years as the business struggled to stem the flow of revenue losses.

The plain truth was that people were now relying on other online sources for information. While much of it was inaccurate and lacked the quality of a credible, professional news organization, it came free, which seemed to be more important these days.

As Kate settled into her desk, she took stock of the newsroom with some apprehension. She’d sensed tension in the air. Some reporters and editors were huddled in small groups. A few people appeared concerned.

Kate did a quick survey of the suspended TVs. Nothing seemed to be breaking. Then a shadow crossed her computer monitor.

“There you are.” Reeka Beck had approached her from behind, head bowed over her phone as she typed.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“Fine.” A message popped up in Kate’s inbox—it was from Reeka. As discussed earlier, we’d like a story out of the security conference at the Grand Hyatt this afternoon. I suggest you get in touch with Professor Randall Rees-Goodman, who’s attending from Georgetown University. Reeka tapped Kate’s screen with her pen. “I just sent you his information. He’s an expert on current threats in the geopolitical context.”

“I know, but like I said before, I really think Hugh’s better for this. And besides, Chuck cleared me to enterprise. I need to put in some time following up some leads I’m working on.”

Reeka’s thumbs move furiously over her keyboard as she dispatched another text from her phone, then she lifted her head. She blinked and smiled her perfect smile at Kate.

“This is the assignment I’ve given you. Are you refusing it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you.”

Kate cursed to herself as Reeka pivoted on her heel and walked away. Reeka was a young, rising star of an editor at Newslead, but she was so curt and officious with reporters that it bordered on rudeness. Every conversation with her was nearly a confrontation.