Eventually, he had a usable face. It wouldn’t be enough to convict the man, but it might be enough to find him.
He fed the enhanced image into his test databases. Nominally, he still worked for Pellucid, fixing the most difficult problems and sitting through board meetings via videoconferencing. But he’d kept it up to have access to the test databases, including a copy of the FBI’s Next Generation Identification system. Another trolled Facebook and downloaded images. He didn’t know how legal that was, but since he hadn’t created it, that wasn’t his current problem.
While the software compared the face he’d captured from the tray with the existing images, he watched Maeve sleep. Deep and even breathing. The monitors showed her heart was beating regularly, oxygen saturation at ninety-seven (scarlet, slate) percent. All indicators green. She was doing well. For someone who had been shot in his place.
He set his laptop on the edge of the bed, took her cool hand, and brushed strands of silver hair off her brow. A few hours ago, she’d been active and warm, laughing and kissing him in the steam tunnel. If she hadn’t been near him, she would be home, safe and sound.
When they first got to the hospital, Vivian had lectured him. She’d told him this wasn’t his fault. Crazy people did crazy things. He wasn’t responsible for Maeve’s shooting. Logically, her words made sense, but in his heart he knew a woman he cared for had been shot, that she suffered, that she had months of recovery ahead, because of him. And that he would do whatever it took to find out why.
Images flashed across the laptop. Partial matches. Nothing to get excited about. The picture had been far from perfect, and the drone pilot might not be in any databases. Most people weren’t, after all. He needed a solid match for the police to care. They’d have to reconstruct the work he’d done on their own, of course, but he could give them a place to start.
A quiet ping. Gently, he set Maeve’s hand atop the thin blanket and picked up the laptop. A match.
After a few minutes of reading, he left the room. He waved to the uniformed policemen outside of the hospital room door as he left. It had to be boring duty, but he was grateful they were there to watch over Maeve.
Once he was out of earshot, he called Mr. Rossi. His bodyguards, Dirk and Parker, stayed close. Vivian had gone home a few hours before to rest up before going out with Wright in his sub at the crack of dawn. Mr. Rossi answered on the first ring.
“Sorry to wake you,” Joe said.
“I haven’t been to bed yet. Is Maeve all right?”
“The doctors say she’s going to be fine. She’s out of surgery and sleeping.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“Is it safe there?” Mr. Rossi asked.
“Two cops at her door, two bodyguards at the end of the hall. But that’s not why I’m calling.” Joe heard rustling sounds.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Rossi said.
“I procured footage from the gala—”
“Procured how?” Mr. Rossi asked.
“Blue Dreams was live-streaming the drone, and there’s a backup.”
“That sounds legal enough.”
“I was able to get an ID from the footage. Long process. Mostly legal, although technically I’m not allowed to run names through the FBI database for private use.”
“That’s more than a technicality. You—”
“The man who put that gun on the drone, presumably also the man who fired it, is called the Avenger of Blood.”
Parker looked up and down the hall as if expecting the Avenger of Blood to be there. Which he might.
“I can’t imagine that’s on his birth certificate,” Mr. Rossi said dryly.
“His real name isn’t in the database. What’s known is he is a hired killer. To date, he’s killed thirty-four people, two in the United States.”
“That sounds unfortunate.” Ever unflappable, Mr. Rossi.
“Either the royal family thinks I tried to kill Prince Timgad, and they’re going to keep trying to avenge that insult by killing me, or someone else has targeted me.”
“I recommend you change your security arrangements,” Mr. Rossi said. “Return to your house and stay there until further notice.”
His world had just gotten smaller for the foreseeable future. He understood the logic of it, but he still needed to be able to search for the man who had shot Maeve. No matter what, Maeve was safest if he stayed away from her. “Agreed.”
“I can arrange for your bodyguards to follow you, and request additional protection from the NYPD.”
“Will they take the guards from Maeve’s hospital room?”
“If they do, I’ll send additional guards myself,” Mr. Rossi said. “Put Parker on the line.”
“Before I go, can I ask you to send this information along via secure channels?”
“Consider it done.”
Joe handed the phone to Parker.
“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Tesla,” Parker said before lifting the phone to his ear. “I hope that’s clear.”
“Sure,” he said.
But it was his fault. And they all knew it.
Chapter 20
It was still early when Vivian walked from one end of the floating dock to the other. The dock was in a giant cave hollowed out of Manhattan schist. A long time ago, hopefully a really long time ago, sewage had flowed into this cave from various pipes. Once enough was gathered together, the sewage was pumped out into the ocean via a single giant pipe. Now seawater filled that pipe and one end was open to the ocean. It was possible to drive a personal submarine through it.
Tesla swore he’d had the stone cleaned and the long-unused sewage pipes behind her closed up, but she gave them a suspicious look anyway. Just her luck something would break and she would drown in a river of sewage. No glory there.
Still, she had to admit it was pretty nice in here. Golden LEDs placed strategically throughout the room illuminated a rounded ceiling, like a huge egg, with a metal hatch that looked like it belonged on a ship. The egg was half full of brackish water and smelled like a hot day at the seashore. Tesla had told her something about how it circulated so it didn’t stagnate, but she hadn’t paid attention.
A round bubble surfaced in the middle of the room. Wright’s sub, bright and early and only an hour later than he’d scheduled. For someone like Wright, that was practically on time.
His sub was identical to Tesla’s — same bubble cockpit, same science skids — except this one was green instead of yellow. Even the sight of it spiked her blood pressure. And she’d thought she’d hated submarines before the crash.
Wright’s sub had its name stenciled across one side. It was called, appropriately, The Green Meanie. Wright wasn’t her first choice as a submarine pilot. She’d never trusted him. But she’d come to accompany him because Tesla was confined to his house until they figured out who had hired an assassin to kill him. If he’d been the original target of the submarine ramming, he couldn’t go out in the ocean.
Wright had made it clear it was a one-time offer. Since she and Tesla worried something, or someone, would disturb crucial evidence that supported their version of events before they documented it, someone had to go now. And that someone was her.
Wright waved. “Ahoy, traveler!”
Nautical nonsense. She waved back and walked out onto the floating dock Tesla had installed in this large brick room. The dock had fat yellow fenders tied to it. No chance of scratching The Green Meanie. Too bad.