be careful of press leaks. You speak only to me. No one else. And John, one other thing.â
âSir?â
âStay clear of the FBI.â
âYes, sir.â
On the elevator ride to the Command Center on the fourteenth floor, Driscollâs thoughts were of Walters. He was a clearheaded professional, not a loudmouthed buffoon like Santangelo. For that, Driscoll was grateful. And while Driscollâs thoughts were of Walters, although she didnât know why, Margaretâs thoughts were of Driscoll. A brave and unwavering Driscoll. Hell, heâs a married man, for Godâs sake . Margaret bit down hard on her lower lip.
Chapter 14
Margaret had interviewed Mr. Thornwood and his two granddaughters, the customers in the video store where the McCabe woman was last seen alive. The interviews had added nothing to the investigation. Ms. Clairborne was right: Thornwood and his girls hadnât even seen Deirdre McCabe. There were no records of any shoplifting on the part of the OTs, and the local precinct, the 68, had had only two radio runs in the area of the video store that night. One drunk-and-disorderly, and one single-car automobile accident involving an elderly woman who took a turn too sharply and clipped a parked car. Thomlinson had run the storeâs account holdersâ list for criminal records. Nothing active. Thomas Whiting, seventy-two, had been arrested in 1984 for stock fraud, and Alice Hathaway, now forty-five, had been busted for prostitution when she was twenty-three.
Driscoll mulled over these ârevelationsâ as he put up with bumper-to-bumper traffic on East Broadway. He and Thomlinson were headed for the Medical Examinerâs office on First Avenue. Because of a water main break on Allen Street, all traffic had been diverted onto Canal. Driscoll placed the emergency flasher atop the cruiser, turned on the siren, and veered the Chevy north on Centre Street, leaving behind a string of cars and taxicabs.
The NYPD was now galvanized. The total resources of the department were at Driscollâs disposal. Cedric Thomlinson was to be Driscollâs house mouse, the lead detective who would speak with Driscollâs authority and coordinate the efforts of the additional police personnel. In spite of what each member of the Task Force thought of Thomlinson, they knew he was acting on direct orders from the Lieutenant, and therefore, so were they. In his new capacity, Thomlinson had already been in contact with Telephone Control, the NYPDâs own internal telephone equipment server, and asked that ten additional phone lines be installed inside the Command Center. He would soon be calling TARU to secure the electronic equipment that might be needed. That electronic equipment would include such items as listening devices, telephone taps, trap-and-trace units, and videotape equipment. Thomlinson would also oversee the forceâs telephone tip line. The tip line was a separate phone line the public was encouraged to call with information that may be relevant to the case. The number was furnished to the news media and to the publishers of the daily newspapers, and was included at the close of every broadcast or newspaper article about the case. It usually prompted a number of crank calls and dead ends, but each call was assigned to a detective, and it became his or her responsibility to track down the lead.
As the Lieutenant continued north on Centre Street, he glanced over at Thomlinson and could tell his friendâs anxieties were getting the best of him. He knew that Thomlinson was craving a drink. Driscoll watched as his newly ordained house mouse reached in his vest pocket and produced a Macanudo. That was always a sign. When he wanted to drink, Thomlinson would settle for the taste of tobacco over the taste of booze. Driscoll noted how anxiously he peeled away the cigarâs cellophane wrapper, pressed the Chevyâs cigarette lighter, and waited patiently for it to
âSir?â
âStay clear of the FBI.â
âYes, sir.â
On the elevator ride to the Command Center on the fourteenth floor, Driscollâs thoughts were of Walters. He was a clearheaded professional, not a loudmouthed buffoon like Santangelo. For that, Driscoll was grateful. And while Driscollâs thoughts were of Walters, although she didnât know why, Margaretâs thoughts were of Driscoll. A brave and unwavering Driscoll. Hell, heâs a married man, for Godâs sake . Margaret bit down hard on her lower lip.
Chapter 14
Margaret had interviewed Mr. Thornwood and his two granddaughters, the customers in the video store where the McCabe woman was last seen alive. The interviews had added nothing to the investigation. Ms. Clairborne was right: Thornwood and his girls hadnât even seen Deirdre McCabe. There were no records of any shoplifting on the part of the OTs, and the local precinct, the 68, had had only two radio runs in the area of the video store that night. One drunk-and-disorderly, and one single-car automobile accident involving an elderly woman who took a turn too sharply and clipped a parked car. Thomlinson had run the storeâs account holdersâ list for criminal records. Nothing active. Thomas Whiting, seventy-two, had been arrested in 1984 for stock fraud, and Alice Hathaway, now forty-five, had been busted for prostitution when she was twenty-three.
Driscoll mulled over these ârevelationsâ as he put up with bumper-to-bumper traffic on East Broadway. He and Thomlinson were headed for the Medical Examinerâs office on First Avenue. Because of a water main break on Allen Street, all traffic had been diverted onto Canal. Driscoll placed the emergency flasher atop the cruiser, turned on the siren, and veered the Chevy north on Centre Street, leaving behind a string of cars and taxicabs.
The NYPD was now galvanized. The total resources of the department were at Driscollâs disposal. Cedric Thomlinson was to be Driscollâs house mouse, the lead detective who would speak with Driscollâs authority and coordinate the efforts of the additional police personnel. In spite of what each member of the Task Force thought of Thomlinson, they knew he was acting on direct orders from the Lieutenant, and therefore, so were they. In his new capacity, Thomlinson had already been in contact with Telephone Control, the NYPDâs own internal telephone equipment server, and asked that ten additional phone lines be installed inside the Command Center. He would soon be calling TARU to secure the electronic equipment that might be needed. That electronic equipment would include such items as listening devices, telephone taps, trap-and-trace units, and videotape equipment. Thomlinson would also oversee the forceâs telephone tip line. The tip line was a separate phone line the public was encouraged to call with information that may be relevant to the case. The number was furnished to the news media and to the publishers of the daily newspapers, and was included at the close of every broadcast or newspaper article about the case. It usually prompted a number of crank calls and dead ends, but each call was assigned to a detective, and it became his or her responsibility to track down the lead.
As the Lieutenant continued north on Centre Street, he glanced over at Thomlinson and could tell his friendâs anxieties were getting the best of him. He knew that Thomlinson was craving a drink. Driscoll watched as his newly ordained house mouse reached in his vest pocket and produced a Macanudo. That was always a sign. When he wanted to drink, Thomlinson would settle for the taste of tobacco over the taste of booze. Driscoll noted how anxiously he peeled away the cigarâs cellophane wrapper, pressed the Chevyâs cigarette lighter, and waited patiently for it to
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