Judge & Jury - James Patterson [57]
Black, helmeted figures began to creep into the wide-angled camera view. The Bronco was four rows from feeding into the tunnel entrance. I could see the police teams narrowing in, arms drawn. The Bronco’s windows were tinted black. If someone in there was looking out, they had to see the assault force coming.
The Bronco inched up to the first row. A police car suddenly sped up, blocking the entrance to the tunnel.
SWAT personnel were all over the place, crouched low, closing in.
I could see exactly what was happening. The Bronco was surrounded by at least twenty heavily armed policemen.
The Bronco’s front doors swung open. I stepped closer to the screen. “Be him,” I said, balling my fists. “Be him.”
People were coming out of the Bronco, hands in the air. A male dressed all in black. Then a woman, wearing a floppy hat. A small boy. The boy was crying; he grabbed the woman.
“Son of a bitch!” I heard someone say over the radio. The picture didn’t need any words or captions, though.
It was the wrong car. We’d lost Dominic Cavello.
Chapter 70
I STAYED IN THE COURTHOUSE security room until the EMS people wouldn’t let me be there any longer. A couple of young med techs did their best to treat me, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I saw the videotape. The tape of the man in the elevator—the one who had sprung Cavello.
I watched it at least a dozen times.
He was medium height, not especially well built. I couldn’t really tell if he was young or old. I looked for any distinguishing marks. He had a beard, which I figured for a fake. Short dark hair, glasses. But this guy knew precisely what he was doing. He never hesitated, not for a second. He was a pro, not just some hired gun. He caught us off guard, even with New York’s finest and two dozen FBI agents all around the courthouse.
“Can you zoom in on the face for me?” I asked the security tech manning the video machine.
“Right.” A touch of a button, and the camera panned in.
I stood up, moving myself closer to the screen. The film got grainy. It narrowed in to a close-up of the steely, professional eyes as the killer himself stepped on the elevator. Steady and businesslike, efficient. I burned those eyes into my mind. The security tech slowly advanced the film, frame by frame. Suddenly there were gunshots. The two marshals went down.
“Get this over the wires to the NYPD and the crisis control room,” Mike Doud directed the techie. “I want this picture out to every bridge and tunnel and every cop on the street.”
“It’s a waste of time,” I said, sagging back against the table. “He doesn’t look like that anymore.”
Doud snapped at me, obviously frustrated. “You got a better idea?”
“I might. Compare it to the film from Cavello’s first trial. Go day by day if you have to. Eliminate the beard and the glasses. I’ll bet he was there.”
The medical people were literally dragging me away now. They had a van waiting. I looked up at the face on the screen one last time. I wanted to make sure I recognized it when I saw him again.
I was sure I was looking at the man who blew up the juror bus and murdered all those people.
Chapter 71
WHEN THE CALL CAME IN I was in the back of an EMS van, rushing me to Bellevue Hospital.
I was stripped to my waist and had an IV in my arm and EKG sensors attached to my chest. The sirens were blaring as we zigzagged through traffic up the lower East Side. I asked for the cell phone in my jacket.
“I just heard,” Andie said. Her voice was cracking with disbelief and sadness. “Oh, God, Nick, I just saw it at a coffee shop. It’s all over the news.”
“I’m sorry, Andie.” But I was more than sorry. How many times could I say those words to her?
“Goddamnit, Nick, every cop in New York was down there.”
“I know.” I sucked in a breath. One of the EMS people tried to take away the phone, but