“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.”
“A lot of my best men worked with Mac. Susann’s cousin’s on the job, a friend of mine. That’s how they met.”
A former cop, Eve thought, with twenty in, would have a lot of friends and connections on the job.
“Pick carefully. And remember he’s responsible for seven deaths, and one of them was a cop. A twenty-three-year-old uniform whose last act was trying to shield another victim. Mackie gets wind we’ve ID’d him, he’ll either rabbit or he’ll go the last-stand route.”
“He won’t rabbit.” Pale, Lowenbaum scrubbed at his face again, pressed his fingers hard against his eyes. “Give me a few minutes to settle into this, order my thoughts. I know him as well as anybody, I’d say.”