“They have a Harbor Unit,” Buxton said. “The harbormaster is deploying everything that floats. They’ve also coordinated with the Massachusetts Port Authority. Massport has its own police, who work in conjunction with state patrol. They’ve been looped into the EOC to keep an eye on the marine terminals and everything else near the water.”
“What about air support?” Nina said.
Buxton glanced at his notes. “BPD doesn’t have helicopters. They rely on the Massachusetts State Police air fleet.” He looked back at Nina. “Another reason for the EOC. We’re coordinating air support there.”
“Does the BPD have drones?” Breck asked.
“They’ll be circulating over the area around the clock, and they also have a substantial net of cameras all over downtown, especially at historic landmarks along the Trail.” He allowed a rare smile. “Boston is sealed up tighter than a frog’s ass. We’re going to catch this guy.”
Her supervisor’s enthusiasm was contagious. For the first time since the case began, Nina felt hopeful. “What are our orders when we land?”
“We’ll meet up with our local field agents at the EOC.”
She had no intention of sitting in a room full of video monitors watching the takedown. “I want to go out with the plainclothes BPD cops on the Trail.”
“Thanks to that viral video, you’re famous, Agent Guerrera,” Buxton said, shaking his head. “You’d blow the whole operation.”
She’d come prepared. “I packed an oversize hoodie. I’ll wear my Jackie-O sunglasses. No one will know who I am.”
She noticed Wade giving her an assessing look and shot him a hard stare. He’d better not try to sideline her.
“Actually,” Wade said slowly, “I think Guerrera could be useful in the field. She can pair up with a local plainclothes detective, and they would look totally natural strolling the Trail like a couple of tourists.”
“I want to go out too,” Kent said. “Nobody knows who I am. I could take a different spot on the Trail.”
“Fine.” Buxton raised his hands in mock surrender. “All of you can team up with a local and take a position.”
The door to the cockpit opened and the copilot stepped into the main cabin. “Excuse me, sir, you have an urgent call from Public Affairs.” He held a satellite phone out to Buxton.
Silence gathered around them as he held the device to his ear. “Buxton.”
His face grew tense. “How long ago?” He nodded. “Let the EOC in Boston know about this. Tell them we’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.”
Buxton handed the phone back to the copilot and turned to them. “The crew from MIT just posted the solution online,” he said. “Every damn Scooby east of the Mississippi and north of the Mason-Dixon is heading to the Freedom Trail.”
Chapter 19
Three hours later
The Freedom Trail, Boston, Massachusetts
Nina had to crane her neck to meet Detective Joe Delaney’s eyes. “How long have you been in Narcotics?”
“’Bout four years,” he replied in a Boston accent as thick as his ginger beard.
She had trouble picturing the big Irish cop in uniform. His red hair fell past his shoulders in a shaggy ponytail, and his beard reached the middle of his broad chest.
“Must have thrown your razor in the trash the day you got your assignment.”
He might have smiled. Hard to tell through the forest of whiskers.
“Don’t like shaving,” he said. “That’s true enough.”
They’d walked the Trail together, pretending to be a couple enjoying the sights, for the past two hours. Her hoodie compromised her peripheral vision somewhat, but she was certain no one had escaped their notice.
They fell into conversation as they strolled. Delaney was a talker and filled her in on the city’s secrets as only a cop could. They ambled toward Faneuil Hall, renowned for its bustling shops and eateries.
It was early, but restaurants were already in food-prep mode. “Something smells good,” she said.
Delaney scented the air like a bloodhound. “That’ll be the famous Boston baked beans. They start early and slow cook them all day.” He glanced down at her. “But you need to be careful if you’re not used to eating them. They can make you fat.”
She smoothed a hand over her flat belly. “Between the running and the workouts, I stay pretty lean.”
“No,” Delaney said. “They make you fat. F-a-r-t. Fat.”
She grinned. “Is that what passes for humor in Boston?”
“It’s actually true either way,” he said, chuckling. “Beans are pure carbs.”
It sounded like he said pure cabs.
“Remember when we were introduced, and I asked about your current assignment? You told me you were a knack. I thought maybe it was BPD jargon for some specialty unit I hadn’t heard of. Took me a few seconds to realize you meant you were a narc.”
He sent her a wry grin. “Is that what passes for humor in the FBI?”
Touché.
They walked between a bistro and a café toward the outskirts surrounding Faneuil Hall. The streets were becoming crowded, and Nina spotted people darting between pedestrians and jostling sightseers, their heads swiveling in every direction.
“Scoobies,” she muttered.
“Come again?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “The internet has brought out wannabe detectives. Everyone’s after the reward money or the bragging rights.”
“Ah, the Scooby-Doo gang.” He gave her an understanding nod. “They’ll end up getting themselves hurt or screwing up the investigation.”
She scanned the sights around her again. Was the Cipher here? Had he already come and gone? Was another girl fighting for her life at this very moment? Her hands bunched into fists. She knew all too well what he would be doing if they didn’t find a way to stop him.
Delaney tapped the side of his head where his mic was hidden under a mass of hair. “I’m getting nothing. You?”
“Nothing on our end either. I’m sure the EOC will hear about it first if anything happens.”
They turned to start back toward the end of the Trail.
“I usually like to see a city worker dedicated to the job, but not today,” Delaney said.
She followed his gaze. A Latino man in a neon yellow Public Works vest was grasping a city trash can a block away from the Trail. She frowned. “I thought you guys requested no trash removal today.”
“We did.” Delaney started toward the worker. “This guy obviously didn’t get the memo.”
Buxton had asked the police commissioner to ensure every trash receptacle within three city blocks of the Freedom Trail remained untouched. The unsub had established a pattern of using dumpsters to deliver clues or dispose of bodies in the past. If he did it today, he would be on camera and under surveillance.
She had to jog to keep up with Delaney’s ground-eating strides as they crossed the street.
“Yo,” Delaney called out to the man. “Leave the garbage can alone.”
Nina remained quiet. Delaney was in the awkward position of trying to intervene while maintaining his cover. She let him take the lead.