The High Line is one of New York City’s most inspired public parks. It’s the brainchild of two men who saw an unused elevated railroad spur and helped convert it into a mile-and-a-half-long aerial garden that winds above the city from Gansevoort Street in the meatpacking district to Hudson Yards on 34th Street.
I radioed Danny Corcoran. “The drop is on the High Line at Twenty-Third. We need to block off the closest exits so the perp can’t get back down to street level. Kylie and I have this one covered. Get a team to cut him off at Twentieth and another at Twenty-Sixth.”
“Box him in,” Corcoran said. “I’m on it.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Get a bird up there. We need eyes in the sky.”
I turned to Kylie. “Take the stairs. I’ll meet you up top.”
I ran toward the elevator. It was the slowest way to get where I wanted to go, but I had to make sure that the money that had just gone up wasn’t already on the way down.
It wasn’t. The elevator was empty, and I got on. Kylie was waiting for me at the top. Even though I was in full-blown cop-in-pursuit mode, I couldn’t help but be dazzled by the beautiful greenway floating above Manhattan’s west side. It was a triumph of urban development that attracted five million tourists a year. I took Kylie by the hand, and we pretended to be two of them.
“Start walking north,” the voice on the judge’s phone ordered.
His Honor, who was only fifty yards away, saw us, nodded, and started walking. We did the same, walking at his pace, pretending to admire the vegetation as we went.
“Red Leader,” Danny said over the radio. “Aviation is on the way, and backup is in place. Do you want them to close in?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Judge is headed north. Keep a tight lock on the exit at Twenty-Sixth. Backup at Twentieth can start moving uptown.”
The judge was almost at 25th Street when the voice came back. “There’s a bench up ahead. When you get there, I want you to set your little shopping bag on it, and keep walking.”
Not only could Kylie and I see the judge from a safe distance, but we could also look at my iPhone and see exactly what his pocket cam was seeing. There was a beautifully crafted teak bench nestled in front of a thick patch of greenery. The judge slowed down as he approached the bench, lowered the bag with the extortion money onto the seat, and then kept walking.
I radioed Danny, gave him the exact drop location, and told him to position his remaining backup team on the avenue directly below us.
“Do you see anybody?” Kylie asked.
I looked around. Not many people. And those who were there were strolling, oblivious to the mini–shopping bag sitting on a bench, tucked into a quiet nook, surrounded by nature.
“Nobody,” I said, looking left, right, north, and south.
What I didn’t do was look up. So I didn’t see the quadcopter as it stealthily moved in on its target. I didn’t hear the buzz of the tiny rotors slicing through the air until it was too late.
The drone swooped down from the sky and hovered over the bench. Within seconds, a grappling hook that was suspended from the landing gear latched onto the handles of the Starbucks bag, lifted it up, and banked west.
“Aviation!” I yelled, keying my radio. “Red Leader on the High Line. Where are you? We need air support, and we need it now!”
“Zach, what’s going on?” It was Danny Corcoran.
“We got sucker punched,” I said as I watched a hundred thousand dollars of district attorney Mick Wilson’s money fly low over the Hudson River and make its way uptown.
CHAPTER 35
Ordinary mortals watching all that cash disappear into thin air might shake their fists at the sky and give up.
Not cops. Especially not me or Kylie.
We ran after it. Instinctively we both headed toward the 26th Street exit. It wasn’t where our car was, but it was the fastest way to the ground.
By the time we got there, Judge Rafferty was surrounded by six cops: Danny Corcoran; his partner, Tommy Fischer; and four uniforms.
“I’ve got the chopper pilot on the radio,” Corcoran said. “He’s tracking the drone. It looked like a flyspeck at first, but he finally got his camera locked in on it.”
“We’re going after it,” I said. “You and Tommy get the judge out of here fast.”
“I’m fine, Detective,” Rafferty said. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not worried about you, Your Honor. I’m worried about your picture being all over the internet in the next five minutes.” I swept my hand in an arc around the growing crowd that had come to take in the beauty of the High Line and got the extra added bonus of being in the middle of a police action. Most of their cell phone cameras were still pointed skyward, but some of them started to advance on the cluster of cops at the top of the stairs.
“We need wheels,” Kylie yelled. “Who’s got an RMP?”
One of the uniforms reached into his pocket and pulled out a key fob. Contrary to what you see in the movies, cops don’t bolt from their cars and leave their motors running. The vehicle is their responsibility, so when it’s unattended, most of them lock it.
He tossed Kylie the keys, clearly not happy about giving up his ride. “And who are you?” He grinned. “Get the name, share the blame, Detective.”
“Kylie MacDonald, Red unit. I’ve got a decoy cop cab parked at Twenty-Three and Ten. It’s all yours”—she read the name on his uniform—“Officer Pendleton.” She gave him her keys, and the two of us flew down the stairs.
Within seconds we were tear-assing up Tenth Avenue. I got the chopper pilot on the radio. “Aviation, this is Red Leader. What’s the twenty on that drone?”
“The UAV—unmanned aerial vehicle,” he said, correcting me, “is about eight hundred feet over Thirtieth and Ninth and headed east. He’s only poking along at about twenty miles an hour. My kid has one that goes faster.”
“This one is carrying a hundred thousand dollars in cash,” I said.
“That wouldn’t slow my kid down, but…Red Leader, do not—repeat, do not—turn onto Thirtieth. There’s an eighteen-wheeler backing into a loading dock. He’s jamming up the whole street. Head east on Thirty-Fourth.”
Kylie slowed down just enough to hang a hard right onto Thirty-Fourth. It’s a wide, busy crosstown thoroughfare, four lanes with two-way traffic. But at least it was moving. Cars, trucks, buses, and pedestrians all got out of our way as she barreled down the street, lights flashing, siren wailing, creating a center lane of her own.
“UAV is descending,” the pilot said. “That will cut his speed dramatically. He’s at Thirty-First and Seventh Avenue. I have you in the RMP at Thirty-Fourth crossing Eighth.”
By the time he finished his sentence, Kylie had whizzed past an accordion-fold articulated bus, and we were halfway to Seventh.
“Red Leader, the UAV is at three hundred feet and dropping,” the pilot said. “Looks like he’s going to set it down. The avenue is crowded. I may lose him. You’re going to need eyes on the ground.”
I radioed Central, told them the drone was hovering over Penn Station, and asked for every cop in the area to start looking up. “It’s carrying a hundred thousand dollars of department funds,” I added. “Arrest anyone who touches it.”
“Turn right, turn right,” our eyes in the sky said.
The traffic in front of us was stopped for a red light, so Kylie yanked the car to the left and hopped over the double yellow line into the westbound lane. Then she blasted a couple of whoop-whoops on the siren, made a sharp right across two lanes of eastbound traffic, and skidded onto Seventh Avenue.
I bent down low in the front seat and looked up through the canyon of skyscrapers. Nothing. “Aviation, I still don’t have a visual,” I yelled into the mic. “Where is he?”
“He’s at your twelve o’clock headed straight toward you over Penn Station and still descending. He’s at fifty feet, forty, thirty, and…camera lost him. He’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“He dipped under the canopy at Thirty-Second and Seventh—the one over the entrance to Penn Station that cuts through to Madison Square Garden. Stop your car. Right there by that taxi rank.”