He didn’t hesitate. “Go. Keep the line open.”
Juliet dropped the phone into her pocket and left poor Juan where he was. She took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, then ducked through a fire door. No more open, elegant stairs. They were metal now, functional. She moved quickly, quietly, not wanting to draw any attention to herself, have neighbors poking their heads out of their doors or calling down to Juan to find out what was going on.
When she reached her floor, she let the fire door shut soundlessly behind her. The hall was empty. She headed for her apartment, passing the elevator, which was jammed open, keeping it on her floor. The killer’s escape route, she thought. He’d take the elevator down to the lobby or the basement or up to the roof, depending on how much time he had—whether the body in the lobby had been discovered and the police were there or on the way.
Bobby Tatro was a loner. He was arrogant, sadistic and self-absorbed. If he was responsible for Juan’s murder, Juliet would be surprised if he had an accomplice.
But Tatro couldn’t have kidnapped whoever Brooker and his team had rescued on his own. He’d had help.
Juliet’s heart jumped when she saw Wendy’s backpack wedged in her apartment door, keeping it slightly ajar. She didn’t risk telling Rivera, still listening in, and have Tatro or whoever was inside hear her.
The sound of water dripping….
“Open the door, Wendy.” It was a man’s voice, sickeningly cajoling, “I forgive you. It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”
Wendy… Juliet felt as if her heart had just been ripped out. Her niece was in the apartment, at the mercy of this bastard. Juliet didn’t recognize the voice. It could be Tatro—it could be anyone. But she knew she had to tunnel her thoughts, zero in on the situation and her options.
The bedroom, the bedroom closet and the bathroom all had doors. But only the bedroom door locked. That likely put the intruder in the hall, talking to Wendy through the bedroom door, trying to lure her out to him. Tatro would toy with her, have a little sadistic fun for himself, let her believe she was safe from him before he burst in on her.
Juliet stepped over Wendy’s backpack, pushing her apartment door open wider, and landed in water.
The fish tanks.
Wendy’s tote bag was acting as a dam for a flood of water flowing from her living room and two smashed tanks. Gold and bright blue and purple fish flapped helplessly or lay unmoving on the floor, amid blue gravel and a little ship’s wheel she used as a prop.
Orchids and spider plants were upended, loose potting soil soaking up some of the gallons of aquarium water and turning to mud.
“Wendy, Wendy.” The intruder was obviously unaware that someone had entered the apartment. “I can’t wait forever.”
Juliet had no idea if Rivera could hear what was going on—if he knew Juan’s killer was in her apartment with her niece and had relayed the information to Cip and NYPD.
Juliet heard sudden pounding on the bedroom door, and, using the noise to cover the sound of her movement, she charged down the hall and pointed her gun at a dark-haired man in cargo pants. His back was to her as he gave the door a hard kick.
Juliet didn’t waste any time. “Freeze! Federal marshal! Hands in the air. Now. Do it now!”
He went still.
Juliet saw a K-bar in his right hand—the assault-type knife he must have used to kill Juan. “Drop the knife and put your hands up. I’m not saying it again. I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The knife clattered to the floor. “I guess you’ve got me, pretty marshal.” He raised both his hands above his head. “For now.”
Tatro. Eyes and gun on him, Juliet called through the bedroom door. “Wendy, are you okay?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded strong but very young—and frightened. “I’m by myself.”
Juliet didn’t let herself feel any relief. “Hands flat against the wall, Tatro. Then your forehead. Touch the wall with your forehead. Do it!”
He glanced back at her with a cocky smile, a dark curl dropping over his right eye. “I know the drill, blondie.”
But he complied, spreading his legs without her having to order him to do so. With one hand, Juliet got her cuffs, then approached him, her Glock still trained on him. “Right hand behind your back. Keep your left hand and your forehead against the wall.”
“I’ve got a headache—”
“Do it.”
Sighing as if she were imposing on him, he put his right hand behind his back. Juliet placed her right foot next to his right foot. If he tried anything, she’d knee him in the back of the leg, and he’d go down.
She cuffed his wrist and gripped the cool metal with her left hand while holstering her gun with her right. If he moved a muscle, she’d yank upwards on the cuffs until he felt the pain. “Left hand behind your back.”
“My head—”