Gone by Morning Read online

  The press office was on the first floor, a desk-filled room where light streamed in through tall windows. TV monitors along one wall played multiple news stations. The phones were already ringing, reporters calling. Before coming to City Hall, Emily had worked at an online local news site, first as an intern and then as a reporter. When the site went bankrupt, she landed a job in public affairs at Con Edison. For two years, she’d spent much of her time explaining power outages to angry callers and standing under a sweltering tent, handing out logo swag at street fairs. She’d been lucky to eventually land a job as deputy press secretary at City Hall. It had been excellent timing for her—she’d been soul-searching about how she could use her journalism and communications degrees to do more good in the world.

  Now, the worst kind of emergency had come, and she needed to behave like a leader. When terrible things happened, she had to consciously choose between taking responsibility and expecting someone else to take care of her. The latter was not an option if she wanted a career in politics.

  “Emily,” Martha said, “you have the mayor’s schedule?”

  Emily sat at her desk. “Everything’s canceled. Decks cleared for the press conference.”

  Roger Merritt entered the room, grabbing a piece of candy from a bowl on the receptionist’s desk before heading their way. He leaned back against the empty desk of a staffer who’d taken a leave of absence to work for the campaign. Roger looked more like a politician than the mayor. Tall, with a bronze golf tan, he had a full head of silver hair that gleamed preternaturally for a man in his fifties. Emily had googled him when she’d first come to City Hall. He was “old money,” born rich. Based on Emily’s observation, that seemed to bestow a full head of hair on men way past middle age, unless they were English royalty.

  Roger was a powerful lobbyist, although he was mostly referred to as a “political strategist” if his name came up. He was with Mayor Sullivan as often as the most senior staff and wielded more power. He’d helped the mayor get elected to progressively more powerful positions since Sullivan began his career as a community board member in Queens. Roger made money from clients who used him to get access to the mayor. If Mayor Sullivan became president, all the people in this room, including Emily, would likely go with him to the White House. And Roger would know all of them, access worth millions instead of hundreds of thousands. It would also mean world-size power. If there was one thing Emily had learned in her stint as a reporter and now working at City Hall, it was that money and power went hand in hand.

  “We’re getting flack about the mayor being out of town when the attack happened,” Roger said to Martha.

  Martha looked askance at Roger. “So much for trying to build a relationship with the press corps.”

  She said it with snark, but then looked to one of the flat-screen TVs. Tears pooled in her eyes. Emily followed Martha’s gaze to a video of stunned parents at the middle school.

  Emily swallowed hard, wishing she could unsee the look on their faces. She spoke to Roger. “The mayor was back here in three hours. He never lost contact.”

  Martha looked from Emily to Roger, all business again. “We’ll make sure the media knows that.”

  Emily turned to pick up her phone. “The mayor will speak at five PM Eastern,” she told a reporter who had a thick French accent.

  Reporters were calling from all over the world, and her job was to say nothing quotable at this point. People didn’t realize how much of a press officer’s job it was to make sure City Hall wasn’t quoted … until they wanted to be. Martha spoke to Max, a deputy press secretary like Emily. “I need you to work with Operations to set up the press conference at NYU hospital.”

  “Got it,” Max said from the desk next to Emily’s.

  “Emily, call the press officers for Transit, NYPD, and FDNY and tell them to refer all inquiries directly to City Hall. We need centralized messaging.”

  Emily normally covered the uniformed services, NYPD and FDNY, and Max covered transit and transportation issues. So, this meant they were working as a team on the subway attack. Max seemed enthusiastic about that. He was a nice-looking guy, a state senator’s son with dark hair and long-lashed blue eyes, but Emily didn’t want to mix business and pleasure. And he’d fallen squarely in the friend zone as she’d gotten to know him.

  Martha looked down at her phone and then back up at them. “Meeting in the COW, five minutes.”

  At mezzanine level above the rotunda’s floating staircases, the COW—short for Committee of the Whole—was where City Council committees had met in the nineteenth century. But it had been a mayoral conference room for as long as anyone could remember. A round table sat at its center, and dignitary portraits in gilt frames lined the walls. The mayor and Roger were in a heated discussion at the far side of the room next to a marble fireplace.

  At six foot seven inches, Mayor Sullivan had the limbs of a daddy longlegs. He had a generous smile of bright white teeth and charisma that shaped his awkwardness into approachability. When he spoke to people, even for a moment, he made them feel they had one hundred and ten percent of his attention. None of that was on display now as he cursed at Roger, the governor’s name threaded like pearls on a string of profanity.

  “He’s just afraid you’ll do a Giuliani on him,” Roger told the mayor, eyes flashing.

  The mayor whisper-shouted, “This is a City issue, goddammit.”

  Emily sat in the second row of chairs surrounding the conference table, the deputy mayors and agency commissioners taking seats at the table. New York politics were tricky. She’d been in elementary school when Giuliani was mayor, but she’d later learned how he’d overshadowed Governor Pataki after 9/11. The governor had been left looking like he was photobombing in every shot, trying to get attention at the expense of the victims.

  The FBI, Homeland Security, MTA, and the federal Department of Transportation began announcing themselves on a speakerphone as they came on the conference line.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” the mayor said as he sat down at the table.

  An NYPD chief in uniform stood and spoke from the second row near Emily. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Chief Fred Reilly. I will be embedded at City Hall for the duration of this crisis.”

  Emily had worked with Chief Reilly before and found him competent and approachable.

  “We’ve reviewed the video feed,” he continued. “One man planted the bombs. It looks like he acted alone. He placed the first bomb in a subway garbage pail at Thirty-Fourth Street, and the other was in a suicide vest. The bomber is dead, pending identification.”

  Mayor Sullivan leaned forward. “So, the threat is over?”

  “We believe so. We’ve inspected every subway station in Manhattan. We’ll have the whole system done by the end of the afternoon.”

  A tinny voice spoke up from the speaker. “Mr. Mayor, this is ASAC Gendell from the FBI. There was no uptick in terror cell chatter prior to the attack. No one has claimed responsibility. ISIS generally waits to make sure the killer is dead before taking credit. So, it’s too early to say definitively, but we believe he was a lone wolf, potentially ISIS inspired, of course. We’ll remain on high alert, but we believe the danger is over.”

  “Is there any word on who he was?” Mayor Sullivan asked.

  “Not yet,” Chief Reilly said. “But I can guarantee you this. The NYPD has dozens of cameras in the subway stations and all over Herald Square and Times Square, plus private security cameras in the commercial establishments. By the end of the day, we’ll not only know who he was but where he lived, where he went to school, and where he got his molars pulled.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  KATHLEEN HADN’T HEARD from Emily, but she guessed she’d been at work by the time of the first nine-thirty explosion. It spoke well of the young woman that she wasn’t checking her social media at a time like this. Still, Kathleen would feel better when she knew for sure that everything was okay.

  K
athleen drank Earl Grey tea as she watched the news, knowing her binge watching was a ridiculous compulsion. In times of greatest powerlessness and danger—meaning every time there was a major terrorist attack or mass shooting—Kathleen obsessed about learning everything she could: how things had unfolded, even how people had died or survived. It was as if knowing the details made her less powerless, preparing her to survive when it was her turn.

  Deep down, she believed she was going to have a turn. It didn’t matter that she lived a quiet life that minimized the risk of premature death. Given her life history, she sometimes felt as if she were a haunting spirit who mistakenly thought she was alive. Like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, one day she would find out that her improbable life had all been a delusion. She’d really died or gone irreversibly insane a long time ago, at a time when any bookie would have placed odds on her life ending badly. Yet the reality was that she’d kept living, and living well, for many years now. It had been a close call for her today. But it was getting a little late for a premature death.

  Still, when really bad things happened, she always found herself Velcroed to cable news. And in recent years, she’d added a computer to the mix, so she could check the latest unconfirmed information on Twitter and see bystander videos too.

  Kathleen forced herself to get up and away from the TV. Her apartment was spacious for one within a nondescript building of thirty rent-stabilized apartments. She’d combined two apartments, taking down walls and opening up the space. When she’d retired, she hadn’t abandoned comfort. She had enough money saved for moderate comforts for the rest of her life. But she’d never wanted the attention of wealth. Most of the tenants in the building didn’t even know she owned the building.

  She had once been a tenant in a run-down version of a building like this on the Lower East Side, one that had since been gut renovated, apartment by apartment, as the rent-stabilized tenants were forced out or died. She’d seen ads for apartments there, renting now for five thousand dollars or more, on a block that was once known for its open-air heroin and cocaine markets. When she’d lived there, addicts in Alphabet City used to joke that Avenue C stood for coke and Avenue D for dope. Her days as a tenant, always behind on the rent, felt like another life completely. She was grateful she’d been able to leave that life behind like the bad dream it was.

  Unfortunately, she’d left her most cherished things behind too. She’d never completely forgiven herself for that. Or gotten over it.

  Kathleen returned to the TV as the news anchor resumed talking after a commercial break. “This just in. We have some video of the bomber right before he placed one of the bombs into a garbage bin on the subway platform at Thirty-Fourth Street. The NYPD has not yet identified him. If you recognize him, you can call the number at the bottom of the screen: 212-555-8980. The NYPD asks that you not call 911; 911 must remain open for emergencies.”

  The video was grainy, but Kathleen stepped closer to the TV, as she knew a million people were doing right now. She studied the young man—a ten-second video loop played repeatedly. He strode from the bottom of the subway stairs onto a crowded platform. A group of preteens with blurred faces stood nearby among the commuters. The man walked to the garbage, looked around, put a backpack in the bin, and walked away. No one turned to look at him.

  Kathleen wondered how soon afterward the explosion had happened. Was she seeing the dead on-screen too? The man looked toward the camera and she studied him; young, white, maybe still a teenager. He seemed fit and had a short haircut, but she didn’t think he was military.

  She didn’t recognize him. Not that she’d expected she would.

  * * *

  The sun dipped behind the trees of Inwood Hill Park outside Kathleen’s window, throwing the living room into shadow. Her doorbell rang. She asked who it was and heard Emily’s name through the door. A weight of worry lifted off her. In the doorway, Emily’s eyes were sunken in. Skye was fast asleep in her stroller, a thumb in her mouth.

  Emily appeared exhausted. She smiled sadly at Kathleen, the way people did at funerals and after terror attacks. She seemed relieved, as if she’d worried about Kathleen too.

  Emily put down her shopping bag from the fruit store on Broadway and hugged Kathleen. “I’m going to take your phone number,” Emily said. “It’s ridiculous that I couldn’t check on you to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” Kathleen said. “You didn’t have to worry about me.”

  “I just stopped by to make sure you got home okay. You mentioned you had an appointment downtown.”

  They talked, standing in Kathleen’s doorway, not sitting-down, hanging-out friends. If they’d been the same age, that barrier would have broken down more easily.

  “I was on the train. Too close,” Kathleen said. “I had to walk home from Forty-Second Street.”

  “Wow, you were close. Were you there?”

  “I heard it, but I didn’t see anything, thank goodness.”

  “That’s a long walk. How do you feel?”

  “I feel like my gym workouts paid off. It wasn’t a bad walk, physically. It took about five hours. Do you know anything about who he was?”

  “Not yet,” Emily said. “There’s no match on his fingerprints, so that means he didn’t have a criminal record. We think he might have been a boogaloo boi—you know, the ones in the Hawaiian shirts. It was over eighty degrees. He looked innocent enough, like he’d just come off a cruise ship. We don’t know his motive.”

  “Those poor children who were killed … and their parents,” Kathleen said, tearing up. She took a deep breath, steadying her voice. She wasn’t on crying terms with Emily.

  Emily took a breath too.

  Kathleen asked, “How was the subway coming home?”

  “They’re running on a limited schedule. I had to take the One.”

  “You must be hungry,” Kathleen said. “Do you want to come in? I was about to order.”

  “No, no. Thanks. I have to put the baby to bed. And dozens of emails came in while I was on the train.”

  * * *

  Shortly after nine, Kathleen unloaded a plastic container of Chinese food and a cardboard box of rice at a tray table in the living room, where she already had a plate and silverware laid out. Lacking the patience for Rachel Maddow to get to the point, Kathleen switched the channel from MSNBC to CNN.

  “We now know the bomber was named Jackson Mattingly,” said the anchor. “He was twenty years old. The police still have no information about his motive. There was apparently no manifesto or social media posting to warn of the attack. We will bring you more information as it arrives.”

  Her phone buzzed. A photo of Sharon appeared, her name under it. It had been a long time since Kathleen had heard from her old friend, and she guessed Sharon was calling to check on her. Kathleen picked up.

  “Hey. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “I could be better, Kat,” Sharon replied.

  Only old friends called her Kat, a lifelong nickname she’d outgrown in recent years.

  “You weren’t there?” Kathleen asked, her voice hushing with concern.

  “No, no. But I need to speak to you. In person. Can I come over now?”

  “O-kay,” Kathleen stretched out the word, mystified. But she had no job to wake up for in the morning. She didn’t mind an unexpected visit. “I’ll be here.”

  Keeping herself busy while waiting for Sharon, she sat at the computer in her office alcove, half listening to a panel of celebrity psychologists and ex-FBI agents on the TV in the living room.

  “At this point,” a former FBI agent said, “Homeland Security is trying to ascertain whether he had any accomplices. And, as always, they’re looking for the flash and the boom.” He motioned as if creating two silos for the flash and boom with the knife edge of his hands. “The agents are going to ask themselves whether there were signs of the killer’s desire and capability to do this, and whether they failed to interdict it before
the flash became a boom.”

  Kathleen looked back to watch him talk momentarily, then swiveled to her PC. It was the psychologist’s turn now to say the same things shrinks said every time there was a mass killing. She listened while she opened her small-business program and began paying bills for the building electronically.

  She finished up an hour later and wondered what was taking Sharon so long. She was never the type to be late. Even when she was young, Sharon had been dependable, never any trouble if she booked a job. She’d been one of Kathleen’s favorites.

  They’d met when Sharon was still in college. She was an international student from Eastern Europe, although she lacked even a hint of an accent. Sharon had started tricking to make ends meet. She was ripe to be picked off by a pimp, but she’d run into one of Kathleen’s employees at a club. The woman who introduced Sharon to Kathleen hadn’t stayed with Kathleen long, but Sharon had been a keeper. No drugs. No personality conflicts. A hard worker. Loyal.

  She was a lot like Kathleen in those ways. Kathleen had found it impossible to get a regular job after prison. She’d tried to get office jobs. And retail. But she couldn’t get past the box you checked on the employment application that asked whether you’d ever been convicted of a crime. And a female convicted felon was greeted with even more skepticism than a male felon. The idea of a female criminal was so far from the experience of most people that female ex-cons were as alien as a new gender. And hers wasn’t just any crime. Homicide wasn’t exactly on an employer’s checklist of desired experience.

  So, Kathleen’s first job out of prison had been as a “spa” receptionist. Her boss was a friend from prison, and she covered for Kathleen with her parole officer, who never knew she worked at an escort service. Kathleen had used her time in prison to get clean, five years clean by the time she came out. That earned her some leeway with her PO, and it made her a trustworthy addition to her former cell mate’s business. Thankfully, Kathleen’s parole officer didn’t ask too many questions about the job. He knew what an impossible bind a felony conviction put you in.